Hence he was elevated to chorepiscopus –’country bishop’, as slang put it – with authority to govern a church, teach, lead services, give Communion and last rites, but not to baptize or consecrate the Bread and Wine.
Reaching the city, he learned the language, but remained lonesome, not so much scorned as ignored, until Bodilis’s desire for knowledge brought him and her together. She tried to get him membership in the Symposium, the gathering of thinkers at Star House, but the vote failed. For his part, he put her in touch with Ausonius, and those two exchanged letters even though the poet had since joined the Imperial court and attained to a consulship.
Eucherius’s own correpondence was perfunctory, confined to his ecclesiastical masters. Beguiling his empty hours was the labour of a treatise on the history and customs of Ys. These had come to fascinate him as greatly as they appalled him; and – who knew? – one day the information might help a stronger man guide this poor benighted people back from the abyss.
Tears stung Budic’s eyes. ‘Father,’ he blurted, ‘you are a soldier too, a legionary of Christ!’
Eucherius sighed. ‘No, hardly.’ He shaped a wan smile. ‘At best, a camp follower, stumblefooted and starveling, always homesick.’
‘I hear it is lovely at Neapolis,’ Bodilis said low to Budic. ‘Hills behind and a bay before, utterly blue; the old Grecian city nestled between; and that Italian light and air about which we can only dream here in our grey North.’
‘We must forsake this world and seek our true home, which is Heaven,’ Eucherius reproached. Another spell of coughing racked him, more cruel than the first. He put a cloth to his mouth. When he laid it down, the phlegm on it was streaked red.
3
Eppillus having given them leave, Cynan and Adminius set off to see a little of Ys and sample its pleasures. For guide they had Herun, a young deckhand in the navy. They had made his acquaintance at Warriors’ House, where the legionaries were quartered together with men of the professional armed service. Those of the latter who were not on duty or standby generally stayed at home, but for the present the Romans had no place else to sleep than the barrack.
While at liberty one wore civil garb, and no steel save a knife whose blade length could not exceed four inches. Adminius thoughtfully tucked a cosh under the tunic he hung on his wiry frame. Cynan was gaudier in the clothes of his native Demetae, fur-trimmed coat, cross-gartered breeches, saffron cloak flapping in the gusty air; from his left shoulder a small harp hung in its carrying case. Herun was attired in Ysan male wise, linen shirt, embroidered jacket open to display a pendant on his breast, snug trousers. The predominant Celtic strain in him showed on big body and freckled face; the beard trimmed close to his jaws and the hair drawn into a horsetail down his neck were coppery.
‘Methought we’d go around by Aurochs Gate and Goose Fair, thence wend north for the Fishtail,’ he said, slowly and carefully so as to be understood. Thus will you pass some things worthy of a look ere we settle down to carouse.’
That sounds well.’ Adminius turned to Cynan and translated into Latin. Meanwhile the three dodged through the traffic on Lir Way and took a street quiet and narrow which wound among the abodes of the wealthy.
‘You’ve seized on to a mickle of our language in the short span you’ve had,’ observed Herun.
Adminius grinned his snaggle-toothed grin. ‘A cockroach scuttling about the docksides of Londinium ‘ad better be quick, if ‘e’d not get stepped on,’ he replied.
‘Mean you that yours was a hard life?’
‘Well, my father’s a ferryman on the River Tamesis. Early on, the count of ‘is brats began to outnumber the count of ‘is earnings. From the time I could walk, I scrabbled for whatever I wanted, over and above my mother’s boiled cabbage. That was a lawless as well as a poor quarter, but on the same account, chances would come now and then. To snatch them, I ‘ad ter be able ter understand men from around ‘alf the world, it seemed. So I got a sharp ear and tongue.’
Herun frowned, labouring to follow. As yet, Adminius perforce spoke haltingly, with a thick and unique accent, using many words that might be common elsewhere in Armorica but were strangers here. It helped that the mariner had encountered some of them on his travels. Patrolling widely around the peninsula, sailing convoy in periods of special danger, Ysan warcraft often put in to rest or resupply. They usually chose small harbours where there were no Imperial officials to encumber transactions.
‘At length you enlisted?’ Herun guessed.
Adminius nodded. ‘I’d made enemies in Londinium. Besides, the legionary’s life is no bad one, ‘speci’lly when you’re good at scrounging and at slipping through cracks in the rules.’
‘What are you gabbling about?’ demanded Cynan.
Adminius returned to his kind of Latin: ‘Aow, nothing but my biography. Don’t fret. You’ll soon be slinging the lingo too.’
Cynan’s dark features stayed fixed in a scowl. ‘Maybe then those warlocks won’t strip my purse – when I’ve learned how to counter their spells.’
‘Now, now, don’t sulk. It was an honest game. The dice just weren’t friendly ter yer. I took my share.’ Adminius jingled his own pouch. Like Rome’s, the Ysan armed services were paid in coin as well as in kind. Most of what he had were sesterces, of depleted worth but preferable to bagsful of nummi. They would serve for such minor dealings as an evening on the town. ‘And I’m not the chap that won’t stand a chum a treat.’
Cynan bridled. ‘I ask no alms.’
Adminius ran fingers through his sandy hair. ‘Mighty near a ‘opeless case, ain’t you? Why’d you come along if not for a bit o’ fun? Consider it a loan. Let the next bout be yours.’ He slapped the other on the back. ‘Barracks too dull for yer, eh? Well, you’ll feel cheerier after you’ve ‘ad a drink and a wench.’
The street passed a walled enclosure, within which rose a domed habitation. Four sentries stood at a grillwork gate: on either side, an Ysan marine and a Roman legionary. Herun saluted in his fashion, Adminius waved at his friends, as they passed by. ‘Is this the royal palace?’ Cynan asked.
‘Got ter be. You know we don’t assign anybody ter anywhere else, so far. You and I’ll be drawing this duty soon.’
‘I understand how the centurion – the prefect – wants men of his on guard. But why not more? And why have natives at all?’
‘Eppillus was explaining that ter me. Gratillonius ain’t just the prefect now, ‘e’s the flinking King. It’d be an insult if ‘e didn’t let ‘em watch over their King. And we wouldn’t like it if ‘e didn’t let us ’elp.’
Cynan pondered. ‘That feels true in me,’ he agreed after a space. ‘He’s a wise one, no?’ Resentment flickered afresh. ‘At least when my turn comes I won’t be cooped up indoors.’
‘Easy, lad, easy. Are you really that eager ter start in again on drill and digging latrines? Never fear. Give ‘im time ter get the lay of the land, and ‘e’ll find plenty for us ter do, ‘e will.’
Terrain began dropping fast. Except for the residential towers, buildings grew less lavish and more old. Ever higher did the rampart rear in view and, under a declining sun, fill the ways with shadow. The last sellers, buyers, brokers, and hawkers were leaving Goose Fair. Its stones boomed beneath hoofs and wheels; echoes rolled hollowly. The Brothers at Aurochs Gate were outlined black athwart heaven.
Herun turned right, through streets that became mere lanes, half-roofed by overhanging upper storeys between which they twisted. Cobblestones lay lumpy underfoot. More people were about than in New Town – sailors, workmen, housewives, fishwives, children in skimpy tunics, individuals less easily recognizable. Their garments might be flamboyant, rough, or sleazy, but were always cheap. They themselves bore marks of toil and sometimes of past sickness. Yet there was no sign of hunger or alley-cat poverty as in Londinium, nor did the quarter smell sourly of refuse and unwashed bodies. Sea air blew through all Ys, tinged with salt and kelp, chill where walls blocked off sunlight. Gulls cruised
white overhead.
The three men halted before a small, rudely cubical structure of rammed earth on a patch of ground defined by four unshaped boundary stones. Between wooden roof and door was inset a solar emblem of polished granite. Despite repairs and replacements which had been made as need arose, the wear of centuries was plain to see. Herun genuflected in reverence.
‘What’s this?’ Cynan asked; his Ysan was sufficient for that.
‘The Shrine of Melqart,’ Herun said. Thus did the founders of the city name Taranis when first they came hither, long and long ago Later He got temples more grand, and now this is only open on solstice days, with but a single man to make sacrifice. Elsewhere in Old Town, and not unlike it, is the Shrine of Ishtar – Belisama – which opens at the equinoxes. We honour our Gods in Ys.’
He conducted his followers onward. Adminius paraphrased his explanation for Cynan. The Demetan traced a sign in the air. ‘Well might they honour their Gods,’ he said low, ‘they who live on the sufferance of Ocean … But you’re a Christian, you don’t understand.’
‘I ain’t that good a Christian,’ Adminius confessed.
Farther on was another reserved space, this for a megalith man-high, lichen-spotted, darkling. ‘Menhir Place,’ Herun said, again bending his knee. The pillar was here before the city. Out in Armorica have I seen works of the Old Folk that Celts have chiselled their glyphs into, and lately Christians likewise. But our forefathers, and we, ventured not to trouble this that was raised to a God unknown.’
Adminius shivered a bit. As if continuing his earlier sentence, he muttered, ‘I know when somewhere is ’aunted … Wish I’d brought my cloak. It’s got futtering cold.’
Beyond the harbour end of Lir Way and the respectable buildings there, the Fishtail began. It was quite a small slum, less mean than any counterpart in the Empire. Nevertheless dwellers went ragged, slinking or truculently swaggering. Beggars wailed, decrepit whores gestured weary invitations, children shrieked mockery, narrow stares out of hard faces followed the strangers. ‘’Tis less grim than you might think,’ Herun said, ‘and the inn we’re bound for is easy on the purse.’
It occupied what had once been a fine home. Plaster was mostly gone from bricks, few good tiles remained among cheap newer ones, mere bits were left of relief sculptures beside the entrance. Within, the former atrium, now the taproom, showed fragments of mosaic in its clay floor. The soot and grease of centuries hid nearly all fresco colour, but a stain going halfway up the walls was unmistakable.
‘Wotever ’appened ‘ere?’ Adminius wondered.
‘Ancient damage done by the sea, I think, before the rampart was raised,’ Herun said. He gestured at a table. Four men sat benched there, drinking. They were weather-beaten, knobby-handed, coarsely clad. ‘Greeting,’ Herun called to them, and they grunted a response. He and his comrades took the opposite end, ten or twelve feet from them. ‘Fishers,’ he whispered. ‘Decent in their way, but given to overweeningness. Best we leave them be.’
Candles added what they could to light that seeped in through thin-scraped membranes stretched across windows. The air was acrid with smoke, heavy with odours from tallow and an adjoining kitchen. A man who must be the landlord sent a boy pattering over to ask what the newcomers wanted. ‘The mead is not bad,’ Herun recommended. ‘Beware the wine.’ He gave their order, and paid when the goblets arrived. ‘Be this round on my reckoning. Hail and haleness.’
A woman emerged from an inner room and made hip-swaying approach. She was comely enough, aside from greasy hair and shabby gown. ‘Why, Herun, dear,’ she warbled through a broad smile, ‘welcome. Where have you been all this time? Who are your friends?’
‘Mayhap you’ve heard the Romans are back amongst us,’ the mariner replied. They came with the new King. Here are two of them, Adminius and Cynan.’
She widened her eyes. ‘Romans! Ooh, how wonderful!’ She sat down opposite them, next to Herun. ‘Be you welcome too, you sightly fellows. If ’tis a romp you’d have, you’ve sought the right place. I am Keban.’
‘Where are the others?’ Herun asked. This is seldom a busy hour for you.’
True.’ She cast a surly glance at the fishermen. ‘They say the catch was poor and they’ve naught to spend on more than a stoup or two. Well, as for the girls, Rael is under the moon; says she feels too badly to do anything. Silis got pregnant and has not yet recovered from having that taken care of. So I’m by myself.’ Suggestively: ‘I long for company.’
‘You shall have some,’ Herun laughed. ‘But first let’s give you the drink you expect.’ He signalled the potboy.
Adminius told Cynan more or less what he had heard. The youth’s nostrils flared. He gripped his cup till knuckles stood white above the wood, drew shaky breath, and said deep in his throat: ‘By the Hooded Three, but I’ve got a need on that march we made! What would they say if I laid her down right on the floor?’
‘They’d say you were a fool, wearing out yer knees when a straw tick goes with the rental. ‘Old it in a bit, lad. You’ll enjoy it the more.’
The door opened and banged shut again. A man strode in with a sailor’s rolling gait. His garb was rough too, and bore a slight smell of fish. Medium tall, he was broad and powerful; his shoulders, chest, and arms might have fitted a bear, his hands were like capstans which had each raised five anchors. Rugged features and green eyes stood within hair and beard whose blackness declared him still fairly young, however much wind and sun and spindrift had turned his skin to leather.
The fishers rose, reseated themselves, and made gestures of invitation. He smiled and waved but steered for the Roman end of the table. ‘’Oo’s that?’ Adminius asked.
‘I know him a little,’ Herun murmured. ‘His name is Maeloch.’
‘Why do they defer to ‘im? I thought you said their sort make way for no one.’
‘He is a Ferrier. A Ferrier of the Dead. No bad wight, no bully, but have a care of his pride.’
‘Mead!’ the man roared in a voice to carry through gales. He reached the table, looked down at Herun, and touched his breast. The navy man did likewise. It was the formal Ysan salutation between equals. ‘Well met,’ Maeloch rumbled genially. ‘Who be these strangers?’
‘You’d not heard?’ Herun replied.
‘Nay, I’ve been at sea this sennight past. Great run of mackerel off Merrow Shoals, if ye can ride out the weather. Now I’ve a raging thirst and a rampant stand.’
‘Your wife–’
‘Ah, Betha nears her time again. Another mouth to feed; but still, I’d not risk harming the sprat by pounding on her.’ Maeloch went to rumple Keban’s hair. She purred and rubbed her cheek against his thigh. He planked himself down beside her. The mead came for the two of them. ‘Hail and haleness, all!’
Goblets lifted, except for Cynan’s. He glowered, and angrily asked Adminius for translation.
Meanwhile Maeloch’s right hand fondled Keban, his left wielded his drink, and he drew from Herun an account of what had happened. It did not quite seem to please him. ‘A new King, aye, that’s long overdue,’ he growled. ‘Colconor was offal. Were it not that no Ysan may, I’d’ve challenged him myself – well, nay, I suppose not; that would’ve meant forsaking my Betha.’ He nodded stiffly at the legionaries. ‘But if this King is a swab for Rome – Well, we can hear ye out, ye twain, after I’ve done my first tupping.’
‘I want her now,’ Cynan exclaimed. ‘Adminius, you said you’d help. Make her price good while I –’ He scrambled to his feet, swung past the table end, and tugged at Keban’s gown. ‘Where do we go?’
Surprised, she could only titter. Maeloch tensed. ‘Hoy, what’s this? Let her be!’
The soldier’s want seems more urgent than yours,’ Herun said hastily. They were many days on their way hither, these guests. Come, drain your cup and let me buy you another.’
‘What, me betread wet decks … after a Roman?’ Maeloch heaved his bulk up like a spyhopping whale. He stepped over the bench. His right
hand closed on Cynan’s tunic and cloak, under the throat, and hauled the Briton around. His left fist drew back. ‘Belay that and begone!’
Cynan whitened. He hissed. His knife came forth. ‘Let me go, you filthy fishmonger!’
Herun and Adminius exchanged glances. They leapt, Ysan to Ysan, Roman to Roman. From behind, each threw a lock on the arms of his man. Neither could have held it long, but their voices prevailed: ‘Stop, easy, easy, are you mad, would you bring the watch down on us, let’s talk, let’s be civilized –’ When they felt thews slacken a little, they released their grasps. The antagonists backed a few steps apart and stood with heads thrust out between shoulders, breath harsh in mouths.
Herun: ‘Maeloch, hold. He’s scarcely more than a boy. Believe me, I know these wights, they’ve not come to oppress or levy on us. Fain would they be our friends. In the names of the Three, peace!’
Adminius: ‘Get yer ‘ead out o’ yer arse, Cynan! If the centurion heard you’d started a brawl over a ‘ore, this early in the game, ‘e’d ‘ave yer flogged till beetles could dance on yer ribs. Sit down. We’ll call for a new round, and maybe toss a coin to see ‘oo goes first.’
Everybody eased – also the fishers at the far end, who had sprung clear and made ready for general turmoil. A much relieved landlord offered a free serving. This brought men together. In the beginning they laughed too loudly and slapped each others’ backs too heartily, but soon they felt fellowship. Maeloch and Cynan could do no less than swap a rueful handclasp in the Ysan manner. Between Herun and Adminius, the full story of the legionaries came forth, from the war at the Wall and onward. It fascinated the fishers, and required more mead for soothing of gullets. If most purses were lean, Herun and Adminius stood ready to buy. The tale reminded Maeloch of a song about a boatman who had lured a shipful of marauding Saxons on to a reef. He sang it for his Roman mates. Not to be outdone, Cynan unlimbered his harp and offered a ballad from his homeland. He did it well. The company shouted for more.
Roma Mater Page 16
