Roma Mater

by Poul Anderson

  ‘Tell me anyhow.’

  She lifted her eyes. A bit of mischief danced forth. ‘If you will do likewise, good my husband!’

  He laughed. ‘Agreed. Not that we can say much in an hour, or two. How old are you, Dahilis?’

  ‘Seventeen winters. My father was King Hoel, my mother Tambilis. Queen Bodilis was her daughter too, my older half-sister, by King Wulfgar. But mother died in my fifteenth year and … and the Sign came to me.’

  And Colconor, then reigning, took her.

  ‘There is, is scarce anything else, my lord,’ Dahilis said, ‘but I think I shall be glad you are King. Pray won’t you speak of your own life?’

  When ever was a man loth to parade his exploits before a lovely girl? thought Gratillonius. Nevertheless he kept the tale laconic. Her eyes widened and widened. To her, Rome must be as glamorous as Ys was to him. And he travelled on affairs of Rome …

  When her clothing fell to the floor, he saw that above the cleft of her breasts was a tiny red crescent, its horns to the left, like a birthmark. She noticed his attention drawn to it from other sights, touched it, and said diffidently: This? ’Tis the Sign. Ever when a Gallicena dies, it appears on one of the vestals. That consecrates her a priestess. I know not why Belisama chose me out of all the rest – but oh, this night I thank Her that She did.’

  And afterwards she snuggled close to him and murmured drowsily, ‘Yea, I do thank Her, truly I do thank Her, that She made me a Queen of yours. Never erenow have I known what glory She may bestow.’

  His lips brushed along the summery odour of her hair. ‘And I thank Her too,’ he said.

  VIII

  1

  ‘It were well that we talked together, unheard, you and I,’ said Quinipilis. ‘Would it please you to walk the wall? Then I could also show you somewhat of this your newly-won city.’

  Gratillonius looked more closely than hitherto at the eldest of the Gallicenae. With five-and-sixty winters behind her, she still bore herself tall. A once opulent figure had become stout, her hands were gnarled by the ageing that had made her gait rocking and painful, her visage was furrowed and most teeth gone; but underneath abundant white hair, gathered in a Psyche knot, grey eyes gleamed wholly alive, while good bones and arched nose held a ghost of her youthful comeliness. She was simply clad and leaned on a staff whose ferrule was plain iron. Her house was unostentatious, requiring just a pair of domestics, for she used only a part of it. Yet he felt he had never encountered anyone else more truly like a queen.

  And her note borne to him at his palace, written by herself in excellent Latin, had less requested his presence than summoned him. He believed he could not well decline. His few days in Ys had overwhelmed him more than they had taught him. He badly needed advice. Still, not knowing what she wanted, he had come in some uneasiness.

  ‘Is that what my lady intended?’ he asked.

  Quinipilis brayed a laugh. ‘Oh, ho! Did you fear me dragging you from lovely Dahilis to soothe my lust? Me, barren, crippled, my face like forty leagues of bad road?’ She patted his arm. Her palm was warm and dry. ‘Nay, I gave up that three reigns agone. King Hoel and I were good friends, no more. As I hope you and I shall be, Gratillonius.’

  ‘As you were not with Colconor,’ he ventured.

  Her mood darkened. ‘Never. Oh, he had me, again and again, for well he knew how I abhorred it from him. However, that was less bad than what he made the rest of the Sisterhood suffer. He had the animal cunning to sense it would be dangerous to goad me overmuch. And indeed, at the last–’ She shook her head. ‘No matter. ’Tis behind us, thanks be unto you. We should take counsel for the morrow, foremost concerning that Sisterhood.’

  ‘I will be grateful, my lady.’

  ‘Then let us begone. A mummy like me does best to use the morning, for she is weary by afternoon.’

  ‘Could we not spare you, stay here and talk Latin?’ asked Gratillonius in that language. ‘I’m told all educated Ysans know it, more or less, but don’t suppose your slaves do.’

  ‘Servants, boy. Temesa and her husband are free, and well rewarded,’ Quinipilis replied sharply in her mother tongue. He was already able to follow it fairly well, though his speech stumbled. ‘We have no slavery or serfdom in Ys. Too much have we seen of what they have done to Rome.’

  ‘I’ve heard of Ysans capturing and selling folk.’

  ‘Aye, abroad, among the barbarians. Ys lives mainly by her ships. Most are fishing craft and merchantmen. A few are raiders. But do stop spilling my scanty time and come along. I’d fain point out this and that, and see how you respond. ’Twill tell me things about you. And I want to make you practise Ysan.’ She grinned. ‘Besides what you’ve been cooing at Dahilis.’

  Gratillonius felt himself redden. He helped her on with her cloak and resumed his own. Otherwise he wore the shirt, decorated jacket, breeches, and low shoes that were everyday male garb in the city. They were of fine material but of colours more subdued and cut more simple than was usual among the well-to-do here. As King he could have carried a sword, but was content with the knife at belt which was all that unauthorized persons were allowed to have on the streets. He did not care to be conspicuous this day. Best might be if he went unrecognized – though that was unlikely, when his companion was one whom everybody must know.

  They left the house. Like its neighbours, it was of rectangular outline. Dry-laid sandstone blocks and red tile roof glowed mellow beneath rays of a sun that was as yet not far above the eastern towers. It gave directly on the street, and the flower garden behind it was minute, for even this wealthy district was crowded. Most homes nearby were larger, rising two or three storeys, smoothly stuccoed, figured with inlays or frescos. What those showed might be scenes but were often ideals: spirals, Greek keys, geometric arrangements. The effect was brilliant in the clear, cool air, as if jewels had tumbled out of a great coffer.

  Not being a commercial thoroughfare, the street was narrow, nonetheless paved and clean. Ys required the hauling away of rubbish. Upon inquiry Gratillonius had learned that the sewers did not drain into the sea, which would have angered Lir, but into tanks of fuller’s earth in chambers excavated below the city. From time to time these were emptied and the muck carted inland, where farmers were glad to have it for their fields.

  Most people he saw as he walked were menials, in vivid liveries, on errands to and from markets and the like. The rich who dwelt hereabouts were already off to their businesses, while their wives were indoors managing the households. He met an occasional artisan carrying tools for some task, and flocks of children too small to attend any of the various schools, and sometimes an elderly person or a leisured youth. Where leaded windows stood open, he glimpsed a few pets – a songbird, a cat, a ferret. Ys lacked room for larger creatures, except draught animals admitted only on to major routes.

  To him, folk generally looked happy. Well, he thought, why should they not? The city-state is at peace, safe, less prosperous than formerly but in no dire want, seemingly well governed. True, for years it lay in the shadow of Colconor, but the harm he could do was limited, and now I have plucked him out of the world.

  ‘Yours seems a nation the Gods have favoured,’ he said.

  ‘They’ve sent us our share of grief,’ Quinipilis answered, a bit harshly.

  ‘Whence came Ys? I’ve heard tell it stems from Carthage of old, but little else. ‘Tis a puzzle to me how Ys could flourish this long a while and remain obscure abroad.’

  ‘Bodilis can best recount the history. She’s the scholar among us. Seek her out.’ Quinipilis paused before she added: ‘Seek them all out, and soon. Aye, liefest would you lie with Dahilis only: that’s graven upon you. And we are seldom jealous of each other, and … the yoke of Colconor united us. However, we brook not scorn. If naught else, that would through us dishonour the Goddess.’

  ‘I, I will do my best, my lady. But I’ve so much to learn, so much to do – ’

  She smiled at him. ‘Verily, if you be the man of
duty I suppose.’ A chuckle. ‘Feel no pity for yourself. They may not be equally well-favoured, but nine wives with incomes of their own should fulfil the daydreams of the friskiest young fellow. Well, eight, though I trust you’ll reckon me a helpmate. That had better suffice, you know.’

  He sensed an underlying meaning. ‘Nay, I do not know.’

  She turned grave, almost motherly. ‘You are the King; the Father is in you. We are the Queens; the Mother is in us. Never will your manhood fail with any of these your wives. But never will you have your way with any woman else.’

  He stopped short. ‘What?’

  ‘That is the law of Belisama, Who is present at every act of procreation.’ Her voice went steely. ‘Colconor tried, and could not, and that is one thing which made a monster of him, though he did find tricks whereby his whores in Old Town might: give him pleasures of a low sort.’ Again the tone softened. ‘I think you will be too proud for that.’

  ‘It … it is not a wish for – Nay. A man is more than … a penis. But, I have heard that only daughters – ’

  Compassion spoke. ‘Aye. We bear no sons. Ever. This too is the law of Belisama; for we are Hers.’ Quinipilis squeezed Gratillonius’s hand. ‘Surely it is honourable to father Queens.’

  Stunned, he accompanied her in silence when she walked on. ‘You shall, my dear, you shall,’ she said presently. ‘Those of us who are of childbearing age will open their wombs for their liberator as they would not for Colconor, no matter how that maddened him. The Goddess gave unto Her first priestess in Ys the secret of an herb which bars conception –’

  Mithras lives, he thought. Mithras will not leave me bound for ever by a heathen spell. When my task here is done, He will free me, and I will go home and beget me sons to bear the name.

  He squared his shoulders and rallied his spirit. If nothing else, he had Dahilis, he had Dahilis.

  Cheer mounted as he passed through more and more of the city, its variousness and plenitude.

  The street climbed gently in this eastern end of town, unlike the steep downwardness of its western half. Near the end he could look over roofs to Elven Gardens; arbours, topiaries, early-blooming flowers. Adjoining, the temple of Belisama was like a miniature Athenian Parthenon – he had seen a drawing in a book – although its marble was not painted but left pure. That was somewhat northwards; southwards lifted the dome of his palace.

  The street gave on Lir Way, the principal east-west avenue, and suddenly he was in a millrace of traffic, walkers, riders, porters, oxcarts, mulecarts, donkeycarts, a clattering, a chattering, creaking, calling, whistling, singing, laughing, swearing, dickering, hoping – city folk, farmers and herders out of the hinterland, fishermen, merchant sailors, traders, now and then a party of Osismii or Veneti trying not to be yokels, one party of Redones trying to be Romans, bound for the marketplaces or on other business … Few actual transactions went on in this vicinity. It was full of blocky apartment buildings, with statues at intervals to lend stateliness, heroes, animals, chimeras, each with a hint of something neither Greek nor Roman.

  Lir Way debouched on the pomoerium, the space kept clear under the city wall for defensive purposes. Beyond that paved ring, and High Gate standing open, Aquilonian Way ran out broad past the amphitheatre, bent southwards to climb the heights, turned east again and sought the distant hills. Immediately in front of the pomoerium, two large edifices flanked the avenue, Warriors’ House on the left as a barrack for marines, Dragon House on the right as quarters and conference rooms for their officers. Gratillonius gave Quinipilis his arm when they crossed to the wall and went up the staircase on the north side of the gate.

  The tower there was generally called the Gaul. Its bulk, battlemented and severe, reminded Gratillonius of the milecastle at Borcovicium and its kind. This, though, was not mortared in their fashion, but of closely fitted, dry-laid granite blocks, their edges rounded off by the weathers of many a lifetime. And so was the entire wall around Ys. He wondered why.

  Sentinels recognized Quinipilis, realized who Gratillonius could be, and slanted their pikes, crashing the butts downwards, in salute. She waved back cheerily. They wore studded skirts like his men, but helmets were peaked, shoulderpieces and greaves flared, cuirasses loricated and engraved with spirals, shields oval, swordblades of laurel leaf shape, cloth never red but blue or grey, insignia abstract – a foreignness Gratillonius found faintly disturbing, as he did not that of Scoti or Picti or Saxons, because this was more subtle.

  Quinipilis led a southward course, over the arch above the gate, past that twin tower called the Roman, on around the half-circle of this end. ‘I’ve heard your state has had no army since Caesar made it his protectorate,’ Gratillonius remarked.

  ‘Nor do we, nor did we ever,’ Quinipilis snorted. ‘Why should our men squander their best years in drill, or we pay a pack of flea-bitten mercenaries? Nay, what you see is a cadre of professionals, marines, who double as peacekeepers at home. Besides them, every sailor has training for combat afloat or ashore.’

  ‘Suffices that, in times like these?’

  ‘Aye. Not for an empire, but then, we’ve no wish to rule over outlanders. Have you Romans not had enough woes with your Gauls and Jews of yore, your Goths and Vandals today?’ He was surprised that she knew of such rebellions, and a touch disconcerted. His task was to keep the Ysans loyal to Rome – to Maximus – and to that end, much history was preferably ignored. True, our ships afar may at times meet peril, but no oftener than yours. And as for our defences, what need we fear when the Gallicenae command the weather?’

  Once more he halted in startlement. ‘My lady, can that be? I mean, well, surely you have the love of your Gods, but the Gods do not always answer human prayers.’

  Likewise stopping on the walkway, Quinipilis laughed; it made him recall hearing wolves. ‘You misheard me, boy. I said we command the weather. Oh, we abuse our power not, lest the Three take it from us. We call upon it only in the worst need. But no few reaver fleets were wrecked among the skerries, until the barbarians learned to leave us be. Landward, you can see, is merely a narrow arc of wall to hold, should attack come from that side; and our sea lanes will stay open for supply. Not that we’ve had many threats on land either. Caesar himself, flush from his crushing of the Veneti, knew better than to dare an outright conquest of Ys.’

  Gratillonius stood for a spell, silent in the breeze that blew tangy off Ocean. A merlon lay sun-warmed under his hand. When he had on a previous circuit leaned over and glanced down through the crenel beside, he had seen the frieze that ran around the wall. A mosaic of coloured stones, it showed sacrificial processions, mythical battles, visions out of the deeps that glittered quicksilver to worldedge.

  His glance shot to and fro. Bleak and windswept, the headlands enclosed Ys, Point Vanis reaching away on the north, Cape Rach on the south extending more than two miles westward. At the far end of the latter, beyond its clustered necropolis, he saw the pharos tower. Rocks stood rugged out of the waves, reefs lurked just below, surf burst white and green.

  The promontories were of the same dark-red granite as the wall. However, he had learned that Ys stood between them on a downward-sloping shelf of sandstone. Its softness was easily quarried – those caves underneath had yielded much building material as they were enlarged – but it was just as easily gnawed by great tides and murderous currents. Indeed Ys had need to stay friends with Lir.

  Well, had it not done so? Did wonder not nestle within its rampart? From this elevation, the city was speckled with silver, sunlight off rainwater in multitudinous rooftop catchbasins. He had been told that these drained into bottomless tanks below ground, set in fine sand within clay cisterns. Water passed through the filtering material to central wells, whence people drew it. In this wet climate there was never a lack. Nonetheless, beyond the Gaul and Warriors’ House another water storage place rose high, a tower into which the canal discharged through a culvert. There ox-driven Archimedean screws raised the fluid, whereafter pi
pes delivered it to the homes of the rich and to public troughs, fountains, baths. He had heard that the canal ran from a spring in the hills, sacred to Belisama, its shrine tended by virgin daughters and granddaughters of the Gallicenae.

  He recalled his wandering mind to its surroundings. Turrets at the wall did not match the height of numerous buildings in the middle and lower town. Those soared from levels of stone to upper storeys of wood, flamboyantly ornamented, taller than the Emperors had ever permitted in Rome. If the climb was wearisome to a lodging on a tenth or fifteenth floor – one dwelt in Ys! Gulls winged white between those pinnacles; tops sheened many-hued, tile, patinaed copper, painted gilt.

  A faint drumming came up to Gratillonius, the blended noise of wheels, feet, hoofs, machines, pulsebeat of the living city.

  ‘Shall we go on?’ Quinipilis suggested.

  Where the arc straightened out to run almost due west, Cape Rach thrust a mass inwards that had been too large to chisel away. The architects had taken advantage of this; they need not build a causeway as they must on the northern side. Flanked by those towers called the Brothers, Aurochs Gate opened on Taranis Way, which ran northward to intersect Lir Way at the Forum and thence onward to Northbridge Gate and its defending Sisters. Down on the left, the plaza of Goose Fair bustled with countryfolk bringing their products to market. Savouriness drifted in smoke from foodstalls, merchants cried their wares from booths.

  ‘You’ve a livelier commerce than aught I’ve seen elsewhere, even in Londinium,’ Gratillonius observed.

  Quinipilis shrugged. ‘’Twas better aforetime, when the Roman peace kept traders safe and Roman money was honest. But we still cope.’

  ‘Roman money? You strike not your own?’

  ‘Nay, what sense in that? Formerly Roman currency was taken everywhere. Now, if we made coins for ourselves, they must either be good, and vanish into hoards like your solidi, or else be as worthless as your nummi. Gold, silver, and bronze circulate within the city but seldom leave it. For most dealings we’re back to barter.’