Roma Mater
Page 23
‘You didn’t trouble to listen,’ Dahilis said in scorn.
‘I – I think – no, wait –’ After Innilis had tried several times, her Sisters realized that she hoped to utter a word, and indulged her. ‘That’s … not fair to Maldunilis. Did anybody ever seek her out and ask what she thought? I’ve no real understanding of it myself. I don’t. Gratillonius wants us to raise a tempest … against some barbarians who aren’t our enemies … Well, why?’ She sank back in confusion. Vindilis gave her hand a reassuring clasp.
The man saw that matters were getting away from him. He cleared his throat. ‘It may be best to lay everything out in plain sight, no matter how much you already know,’ he said. ‘Forsquilis, will you explain what you have discovered?’
The seeress nodded. All eyes turned her way. Though she remained seated, it was as if she had stood up, tall and prophetic.
‘You remember Gratillonius asked me to make a Sending, widely about,’ she told them. ‘The Empire is at war with itself. Our fleet is off to keep western Armorica at peace. But might barbarians, then, take the chance to strike at Ys? Or might a Roman faction? We needed forewarning.
‘With your consent, I agreed. My spirit flew forth over land and sea, to look and listen. What it found, I have reported to him but not erenow to every one of you. Hark ye.’
The centurion was still unsure what truth lay in her. He believed her sincere; but lunatics as well as charlatans infested the world. Nevertheless he had got his glimpses of the unexplainable; and his duty was to use every possible weapon for Rome. After sleepless nights, he had decided to try this.
If Forsquilis could really send her ghost abroad and understand what it heard, no matter in what language, then it might well be that the Gallicenae had those other powers they claimed.
She was so calm about it! There are no plans against Ys. The Armorican Romans mean to stay quiet. Some resent our show of naval strength, regardless of its being made as a polite hint rather than a threat. More of them, though, find it a godsend, the very excuse they longed for to avoid the risk of taking sides; and they have prevailed on the rest. Barbarians are astir along the denuded eastern frontiers, but that is remote from us.
‘It is in Hivernia that I found fresh grief being prepared for the West. A chieftain – a king, a great king, the master behind last year’s attack on Britannia – means to take advantage of civil war in the Empire and launch an onslaught up the mouth of the Liger – very soon.’
She ceased. Stillness descended while each priestess withdrew into herself.
Then: ‘Oh, wonderful!’ Maldunilis piped. ‘The River Liger, ’tis well south of us, is’t not? Won’t the Scoti sail far around Ys?’
Forsquilis nodded. ‘They’ve abundant respect for us.’
‘’Tis a piratical raid, you told me, not an invasion,’ Lanarvilis said. ‘Is it then any concern of ours?’
‘’Twill be a massive raid.’
Gratillonius regained the word: ‘That’s my fear. Portus Namnetum lies not far upstream, a vital harbour for this entire region. Because of the war, ’twill be poorly defended. If the barbarians take and sack it, as well they may, not only will shipping around Gallia Lugdunensis suffer. The whole Liger valley will lie open to later attacks.’ His forefinger tried to draw a map in the air. ‘Can you not see Armorica, Ys, cut off, and Rome suddenly bleeding from a huge gash of a wound? I ask you to defend the well-being of your children and grandchildren.’
‘Or that of Maximus?’ Fennalis challenged. ‘You’d have us wreak harm on folk who wish us none.’
‘But who intend doing hideous damage elsewhere to those who never harmed them,’ Bodilis retorted.
Quinipilis nodded. ‘We need to kill them where we can as we need to kill foxes in a chickencoop, though the chickencoop happen to be our neighbours’.’
Bodilis laughed. ‘You might have found a metaphor more dignified, dear. But I agree. I cannot believe the Gods of Ys would forbid a strategy of defending civilization itself.’
‘Under our King!’ Dahilis shouted.
‘The Nine alone cannot –’ Lanarvilis began, and broke off. ‘Well, you said you would consult with Soren, Hannon, the leading Suffetes ere anything is decided.’
‘I am aware I must have their support,’ Gratillonius answered. ‘But I cannot speak meaningfully with them unless first I have yours.’
Forsquilis shivered. ‘My Sending has felt cold winds blowing out of the future,’ she mumbled. Aloud: ‘The Gods have granted Ys a proven leader. Let him lead.’
‘We should … give him his chance … this time,’ Vindilis said slowly. A dark fire burned in her. Innilis clung to her hand.
Fennalis made a slight shrug. ‘’Twould be foolish of me to cross my whole Sisterhood. Very well. You may be right.’
‘Pray somebody tell me what ’tis we’re to do!’ Maldunilis begged.
Gratillonius gave her, and all of them, his reply.
2
An eerie thing happened as Niall maqq Echach was leaving Ériu:
His warriors were gathered where Boand’s River met the sea. Tents, which had settled over the hills like a flight of wild geese, were now struck. Grass would soon heal campsites, for the season was well on; it had taken a while after Beltene to finish work and then trek here. Wagons and chariots stood ready to rumble home. Banners lifted above bright spearheads where men surrounded their tuathal kings. The currachs that would bear most of them were still beached, but several ships lay anchored in the shallows. Everyone waited for the Temir King to board his.
Racket and brawling were silenced, clangour was hushed. Rain misted. The cool smells of it came from earth, growth, cattle, smoke out of wide-strewn shielings, the waters that beckoned ahead.
Niall strode forth. The greyness around could not subdue the saffron in his tunic, the woad in his kilt, the gold at his throat, the steel on his spear, least of all the locks that streamed from brow to shoulders. His left fist gripped a shield painted the colour of fresh blood. Behind him came his son Breccan and his guardsmen, hardly less brilliant. Beside him on the right walked his chief poet Laidchenn maqq Barchedo, on the left his chief druid Nemain maqq Aedo.
His ship lay before him. She was a galley of the Saxon kind, clinker-built, open save for small decks fore and aft, seats and thole-pins for rowers along the bulwarks. Oars lay ready across the benches. Down the middle stretched mast, yardarm, and sail, bundled together on two low racks, not to be raised unless a following wind should arise. The stempost lifted proudly, carven and gilt, a Roman skull nailed on top. Black the hull was, rocking and tugging at its stone anchor, eager to be off to war. Cargo filled the bilge, supplies and battle gear laid down on planks.
Niall had come near enough to hear eddies rustle and chuckle, when the thing came to pass. Out of the grey rain flew a raven. It was the largest any man there had ever seen, its wings like twin midnights. Arrow-straight it glided, to land on the upper rim of Niall’s shield and look into his face.
Heavily though that weight struck, the shield never wavered. Not for one step did the King falter. The point of the beak was an inch from the bridge of his nose and could in two pecks take out his eyes; but their blue looked straight into the jet behind that beak, the while he said low, ‘Hail and honour, if this be She Whom I think..’
A gasp and a moan blew through the host. Breccan yelled and stumbled back before he mastered his terror. The guardsmen milled in confusion till their captain spoke a command and got them back at their lord’s heels. Laidchenn raised the chiming rod that proclaimed him a poet, inviolable, before he went on along beside Niall. The knuckles were white where Nemain clutched his staff.
Niall stopped at the water’s edge. ‘I promise You many slain,’ he said, ‘but this You know I have given and will give. Is there anything else that You are requiring?’ The bird did not stir nor blink. ‘Is it that You have a word for me, darling? I listen. Ever have I listened, and when at last You call me, I will not be slow to come.’
Men were casting themselves to the ground, making signs against evil, vowing sacrifices. Niall and his Company stood firm. He did shift the spear to the crook of his right arm, and laid that hand upon the shoulder of his son.
After a time Nemain said softly, ‘This is a wonder and an omen. I am thinking that that was the Mórrigu Herself.’
‘As Medb, She has … favoured me,’ Niall answered. ‘I remember tales of how She has thus appeared to armies before a battle.’
Breccan clenched his fists. ‘What happened to them afterwards?’ he cried. His voice broke in a squeak. At that, a blush drove the pallor from his face, like rage overwhelming fear.
‘Why, some won the day and some fell,’ Laidchenn told him, ‘but always it was a battle from which fateful issue welled.’
Niall regarded Breccan. ‘Her message was for you too,’ he said.
‘Choosing him for undying fame,’ Laidchenn offered.
‘Choosing him, at least,’ Nemain muttered into his beard.
Niall shook himself. ‘Enough of this. Quickly, now, before the lads give way to terror. Sing some heart back into them, poet!’
Laidchenn rang his chimes, took forth his harp, smote the strings. Men roused from their bewilderment when they saw and heard, for he commanded unseen dominions of his own, whence words came forth to blast, blight, or bless. The trained throat spoke from end to end of the hundreds:
‘Well may it be that this means Mighty ones at work, Willing we all gain honour. I invoke victory!’
Niall raised his spear on high. His call rolled out: The Mórrigu is with us! Rejoice!’
The kings who were gathered saw their King run into the water. It sheeted white about his knees. One-handed, he grabbed the ship’s rail and swung himself aboard. There he immediately seized a red cock which lay trussed in the prows. With his sword he cut those bonds, so that the bird fluttered and cawed wildly in his grasp. ‘Manandan maqq Leri, you will be granting us the passage of Your sea, that we may bring You glory!’ He put the victim against the stempost. A sweep of his blade beheaded it. The death struggle laved the Roman skull with blood. ‘Onward!’ he roared to his men.
A cheer lifted, ragged at first, but ever louder and deeper. Weapons flashed free. Standard bearers whipped their poles to and fro until banners were flying as if in a gale. Breccan shuddered in exaltation. Laidchenn and Nemain kissed him on the cheeks, then stood waving farewell as he embarked and the guards followed. Ready-making went swiftly. The anchor came up, the oars bit, the King’s galley stood out to sea.
That was the signal for the rest to start. They swarmed. The fleet was on its way.
Even in this weather, that was a grand sight. The ships were not many, and aside from Niall’s had no more crew than needful. They were meant mainly to carry home loot and captives. But the currachs were everywhere, lean and low, coursing like hounds around horses. Some of those leather hulls could hold only four or so warriors, but in others were better than a dozen. As they got away from land and met real waves, they no longer simply spider-walked; they danced, they skimmed, they soared. Chants of oarsmen went back and forth across unrestfulness, surf-sounds.
Those not at this work were busy getting things shipshape. By the time they were done, the salt was in their nostrils to whip their blood alive. They agreed that the raven had been a marvellous vision, a holy vision, foretelling slaughtered foes, plundered lands, and return to fame. Breccan was so rapt in dreams of it that Uail maqq Carbri, skippering the royal ship, relieved him of duty just to keep him out from underfoot.
Dim on the right, Ériu would be Niall’s guide for the first few days. At eventide, whenever possible, his folk would camp ashore. Given their numbers, they need not fear attack by the Lagini, since it would be clear that they were peacefully passing by. However, wind, fog, seas, or rocks might sometimes force them to lie out overnight. After crossing the channel where it was narrowest, they would use Alba the same way – more or less; there was no sense in anything but a straight dash across the Sabrina firth, and safe campgrounds would be hard to find in Roman country.
At the southwestern tip of Dumnonia the men must either hope for a spell of fair weather or settle in and wait for it. Ahead of them would be days and nights on the open sea, as they steered clear of Armorica and its Ysan she-druids, then turned east for the Liger mouth. True it was that they could be rowing that whole while, watch and watch, or sailing if Manandan was kind. But they must see sky well enough to hold a course. Otherwise –’We might blunder our way to Tír innan Oac,’ Niall had laughed. ‘Likeliest, though, we’d only gladden the gulls and sharks, and they have not any great name for the returning of hospitality.’
The plan was quite sound, he went on to say. Armorican fishermen regularly worked farther out than he proposed to go. Jutish traders and pirates regularly made trips as long, also beyond sight of land, between their homes and Alba. And had not his Milesian ancestors sailed the whole way up from Iberia?
The voyage met no worse trouble than kept men on their mettle – until the first night beyond Dumnonia, in the very Ocean.
Heaven was clear, the moon full, so that vessels need not keep dangerously close together to stay in sight of each other. This was twice good, because they had got the wind for which rowers longed and were under sail. It crooned low and not too cold, when you ran before it; waves whooshed and gently rumbled, gleams and silvery traces swirling over the obsidian of them; ships rocked, surged, talked to themselves in creak of timbers and tackle. Niall, who stood a lookout himself, had finished his turn and was about to go join the crew who slept nested together down the length of the hull. Muffled in a cloak, he took a moment of ease on the foredeck. Starboard, larboard, aft, his fleet came along like leaping dolphins. The eye sockets of the trophy skull gaped towards Rome.
Something caught his gaze. He turned his head upwards. Broad wings slipped by. An eagle owl … at sea?
It swung away and vanished eastwards. Niall said nothing to the other man, who had not seen. That night the King slept ill.
3
In the morning Eppillus took the legionaries out on Redonian Way to the far side of Point Vanis. The whole thirty-two were present. Gratillonius had relieved the honour guard of duty, observing that he would not be at the palace for a while. After his required stay at the Wood, he would be busy in and around Ys, and lodging in Dragon House so he could readily confer with officers of the armed forces.
The Romans tramped smartly off. It was a clear, calm day. Sunlight glared on their metal. A few fleece-ball clouds drifted overhead as lazily as bees droned about wildflower blossoms. On the promontory the grass was thick and intensely green, studded with shrubs and boulders. Under Northbridge, the sea churned and roared among rocks between the headland and the wall of Ys; but everywhere else it reached in sapphire brilliance, its calm broken only where it went white over reefs. Far and far away, a streak of darkness marked Sena. The pharos at the end of Cape Rach, beyond sky-striving Ys, seemed in its loneliness to be calling to the isle of the Nine.
Where Redonian Way bent east, Eppillus barked: ‘Halt! Fall out.’ He turned to face the men. ‘You’ve been wondering what this is for. Well, I didn’t know myself till yesterday when the centurion told me. We’re going to do a little drill, boys, a little war game. That’s how come I ordered you each to bring a baton. Save your real swords. You might be needing ’em.’
‘Eh?’ said Adminius. ‘D’you mean we’re expecting an attack? Why, just last night, down in a ‘ore’ouse, I was talking with a chap back from Condate Redonum, and ’e was telling ‘ow it’s all serene. Maximus is way off south by now, driving the opposition before ‘im.’
Eppillus squirted a jet between his front teeth, to spatter on a breast-high wall of dry-laid stone about ten feet long. A couple more were nea
rby. Already they looked as ancient as a beehive-shaped rock shelter for shepherds in the distance. This wasn’t built against no Roman troops,’ the deputy said. ‘What use in that? It’s to protect archers and slingers from enemy coming up out o’ the water. One thing you’ll do today, my fine fellows, you’ll learn and learn well where the lilies are.’ – as Romans called mantraps of the kind that Ysan labourers had here dug for them, ‘Wouldn’t want a stake up your arse, would you?’
‘Saxons!’ Budic exclaimed.
Cynan shook his head. ‘No such rovers anywhere near,’ he replied. ‘The fishers know. I was talking myself – with Maeloch; you remember Maeloch, Adminius – he and I’ve got to be pretty good friends–’
‘As broody as you both are, I can see that,’ the man from Londinium said with a gap-toothed grin. ‘Wot d’you do, sit around arguing whether Lir or Nodens is ‘arder ter please?’
‘Silence!’ Eppillus rasped. He planted his legs well apart, put hands on broad hips, and glowered at: the troops. ‘Now listen close, you braying jackasses. I don’t want to have to say this twice. Ask your stupid questions today. Later on, each one costs an hour’s pack drill. Got me?
‘Well, then. Maybe once in a while one or two o’ you’s come up for air out o’ his beer and noticed how the centurion’s got work started on land defences. The city could stand off any barbarians that might land, sure; but he don’t aim to let them land and go around scorching the countryside. That’d make a hungry winter for us, wouldn’t it? Did any such thought ever stir in your dim little minds?’
Having captured their full attention, he relaxed his stance and lowered his tone. ‘Ah, the centurion’s a deep one, he is. But I didn’t understand how deep, myself, till yesterday, when he called me in. Brace yourselves, boys. This is uncanny.
‘Somehow, he didn’t say how, he knows there’s a big fleet o’ Scoti at sea. It’s bound for the Liger mouth, to loot and lay waste that whole fine country. The garrisons there are stripped because o’ the war. Gratillonius don’t figure he can allow this, not at the back o’ Maximus Augustus.’ He drew breath, hunched forward, dropped his voice close to a whisper. ‘Well, somehow, and believe me, I didn’t ask how – somehow he knows a great storm’s going to come out o’ this clear blue sky, and blow the Scoti on to the rocks around Ys and drown them!’