Breccan shaded his brow from the spray. ‘Father, something is different. See, there on top. The little sheds are gone, and – what are those things?’
‘You’ve the eyesight of youth,’ Niall said. ‘Let me try –Cromb Cróche!’ ripped from him. ‘Those are killing machines! Helm over, Uail! Get us away!’
The air had gone quiet and cold. Waves ran noisily, but not so much as to smother the deep drone and thud which sounded from either side of the sea gate. Boulders the size of half a man came flying, tumbling, arching over with a horrible deliberation. Six-foot shafts, their iron heads murderously barbed, flew straight between them.
A splash erupted alongside. The galley rolled on her beam ends. Aft, Niall saw a direct hit on a currach. And it was no longer there, merely bits of it afloat, and two men who threshed about for a small span until they went under.
‘Row!’ Niall bellowed. ‘Pull out of range before they target us!’
Two bolts smote the larboard planks. Their points protruded into the hull. Their shafts dragged, waggled, got in the way of oars. Another pierced a currach, which filled and drifted useless. Men of the third boat drew close and tried to save those who clung to the wreckage. A ballista stone sank it.
‘We cannot help,’ Niall groaned. ‘We’d only die ourselves.’ Nor did any chance remain of giving aid at Scot’s Landing. The galley must now get so far from Ys that her crew would have all they could do to keep her off the skerries. By the time she could labour around to the south shore, that battle would be over.
‘Manandan, I offer You a bull, white with red ears and mighty horns, for every lad of mine who comes home,’ Niall cried. Surely some could win back to such vessels as had not floated away, and thereupon ride it out, maintain sea room, finally steer for Ériu. Oh, let it be so!
Niall drew sword and shook it at the city. A sunset ray broke through clouds to glimmer along the iron, and to make brilliant the armour of the Ysan artillerymen. Tears mingled with salt water beneath the eyes of the King.
‘Father, don’t weep,’ Breccan said. ‘We did well –’
A bolt took him in the stomach, cast him down into the bilge, and pinned him there. His blood spurted forth. For a moment he struggled, flailing arms and legs, like an impaled beetle. He choked off a scream. Then he mastered himself and forced a smile.
Niall reached him, knelt, and tried to pull the bolt free. It was driven in too hard for even his strength. Useless, anyway. Breccan was sped. ‘Father,’ he gasped, ‘was I worthy?’
‘You were that, you were, you were.’ Niall hugged him and, again and again, kissed the face that was like Ethniu’s.
Soon Breccan lay quiet, save that the ship made limbs and head flop. His blood and shit sloshed about in the bilgewater.
Niall rose. He clambered back on to the foredeck. Three splashes in the waves, followed by no more, showed that he had drawn beyond reach.
He raised the sword he had dropped when Breccan was hit. He lifted it by the blade, in both hands, letting the edge cut his right palm till red flowed down the steel. None was in his countenance, which was as white as the eyeballs of his dead boy. Looking towards the beautiful city he said, low and evenly:
‘Ys, I curse you. May the sea that you call yourself the queen of rob your King of what he loves the most, and may what he loves afterwards turn on him and rend him. May your sea then take yourself back to it, under the wrath of your Gods. And may I, O strange and terrible Gods, may I be he who brings this doom upon you. For my revenge I will pay whatever the price may be. It is spoken.’
Trailed by the last of its currachs, the ship went in among the rocks. Three boats got away from Cape Rach to join them, but one was presently ripped open and the men drowned. Darkness fell. The survivors found anchorage of a sort. In the morning they started home.
XVI
1
Ys jubilated. That evening the Fire Fountain was kindled in the Forum. Its jets and cascades of flame would make luminous the next six nights, for which the Nine had promised fine weather – part of the celebrations, both solemn and sportive, that would give thanks for victory.
In certain houses happiness was absent. Among them were those which had lost a man in battle. Some other people had their different misgivings.
At sunrise Gratillonius left the palace. He did not seek the gate for its ceremonious unlocking; the waves were still running too high. Instead he went alone, in a hooded cloak, unrecognized by such few persons as were abroad this early, to the Forum. Oil to the fountain was turned off just as he came on to the plaza; a little smoke lent acridity to remnant mists.
Mounting the west stairs of the former temple of Mars, he heard the voice of Eucherius the Christian pastor quaver out of a bronze door left ajar. He frowned and halted. Evidently the daily Mass was not over yet. He recognized the blessing that followed Communion, having caught snatches of Christian liturgy throughout his life. A coughing spell interrupted it. Well, then, they’d soon be done in there. It would be bad manners to enter just now. Gratillonius composed himself.
Half a dozen worshippers came out. The catechumens, who did not number very many more, had already heard the part of the service that was permitted them and gone off. These, the baptized, were four women and two men, of humble station and getting along in years. They didn’t notice him. When they had passed by, he went into the vestibule. At the inner door he looked beyond, into the sanctuary, where Eucherius and old deacon Prudentius were occupied. Softly, he hailed.
‘Oh – the King!’ The small grey man was astonished. They had been introduced, but as hastily as Gratillonius felt was halfway polite. He had had too much pressing business. Eucherius left Prudentius to put away the portable tabernacle of the Host, which in Ys was little more than a wooden box in the usual turret shape. The chorepiscopus trotted forward to take his visitor by the forearm. ‘Dare I hope – ?’ His shy smile faded out. ‘No, I fear not. Not yet. Were you waiting outside? You would have been warmer in this room. It’s open to everybody.’
‘I don’t belong,’ Gratillonius answered. ‘But I thought I should give you a sign that I respect your faith.’
The pastor sighed. ‘You wish I would respect yours. Well, I do. From everything I have heard, it is an upright creed. I am sorry –I should not be, but I am – that I may not concede you more than this.’
‘I’ve come on a matter touching yours.’
‘I can guess what. You are indeed a virtuous man. Let us go talk.’ Eucherius led the way through the corridor around the sanctuary to his quarters. There he offered bread, cheese, and water; he had nothing better. Gratillonius partook sparingly.
‘Eight of my soldiers died yesterday,’ he said. ‘Seven were Christian. Their legion and funeral society are away off in Britannia. It behoves me as their commander to see that they get the kind of burial they wanted. When I inquired, I learned that no Christians are ever laid in Ysan soil.’
Eucherius expressed sympathy before he nodded. True. Any burials near the city have long been forbidden, since men decided the necropolis should spread over no more valuable land. Not that the faithful could well rest there. And pagan sea funerals –’ He grimaced, as if in actual pain. ‘Ah, poor souls! Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. They mean well, too, but –but even Queen Bodilis, who has been so benevolent to me – My son, you have at least seen the outer world. How can you partake in these gruesome rites?’
‘It’s not forbidden me as a Mithraist. The Lord Ahura-Mazda created many beings less than Him but greater than men. Besides, I don’t agree the Ysan practices are bad. They sacrifice no humans, like the Germans.’ Gratil-lonius drew aside from the combat in the Wood. ‘Nor do they sanction those obscene things that get done in the name of Cybele.’ Irritation roughened his tone. ‘Enough of that. Graves are allowed inland. Some farmers and shepherds, who’d rather keep their dead close by, bury them on their own property. Why doesn’t your church maintain a plot?’
‘None has been granted u
s. We have nothing but this building. I doubt anybody would sell us an ell of ground to consecrate, supposing I could raise the money. They would be superstitiously afraid of offending their Gods.’
‘I see. What do you do then?’
‘There is a churchyard outside Audiarna, the Roman town at the southeast border. It’s not too far, about a day’s journey by wagon. I have an arrangement with a carter, and with my fellow minister yonder.’ Another fit of coughing racked the thin frame. Concerned, Gratillonius noticed how bloody was the sputum. Eucherius gave him a sad smile and murmured, ‘Forgive me. I should not detain you, who must have much else to do. Send one of your soldiers who is a brother in Christ, and between us he and I will take care of everything.’
‘Thank you.’ Gratillonius rose, hesitated, and added, ‘If you have any needs in future, ask. I don’t think you’ll find me unwilling to help.’
‘Save where it comes to propagating the Faith?’ replied Eucherius gently. ‘Regardless, yours is a noble spirit. Do you mind if I pray to my God that He watch over you and someday enlighten you? As for – charitable works or the like – oh, Bodilis may have some ideas.’ His eyes burned fever-brilliant in the gloom. ‘Give her my love.’
2
Soren Cartagi sent an urgent message to the royal palace. The King should promptly meet with the Nine, as well as with Lir Captain and the Speaker for Taranis. ‘No surprise,’ Gratillonius snapped. He set the hour of noon and dispatched the courier to inform everybody named. At the time, he escorted Dahilis to the basilica. Twenty-two legionaries followed them. Some limped, some displayed bandages. Eight more lay dead, and two were an honour guard on the last journey of their seven Christian comrades.
The King wore a robe of splendour; the Key hung out in sight on his breast. He had better cut a potent figure. When he had mounted the dais before the eidolons of the Triad and, having formally opened the session and heard the invocations, gave the Hammer over to his Attendant, he was much too aware that that man was not Eppillus. Recovering himself, he nodded gravely at the eleven faces that looked up into his.
‘Well met, I trust,’ he said. ‘Though belike ’tis matters of import you would bring forth, let us strive to move them expeditiously. We all have many urgent duties, both secular and religious. The Gallicenae should resume their cycle of Vigils, while those in the city attend not only to the Gods, but to the hurt and the bereaved among our folk. My lords, your Great Houses and those who serve them have many calls on your attention in the wake of recent events. As for myself, I must see to public business that has gone neglected, as well as re-establishing communication with our navy and with Roman officials throughout Armorica.’
Hannon Baltisi stirred his rawboned length on the bench. ‘Well may you do that last, O King,’ he growled, ‘as heavily as we’ve paid out for the benefit of Rome. Can you get us any reimbursal of the debt?’
Gratillonius had expected this. Lir Captain was devout to the point of fanaticism. In his days as a shipmaster, he said, he had often encountered the Dread of Lir. He had also seen, spreading through the Empire, a Christianity from which he awaited nothing but evil. ‘Methought we’d talked this out beforehand,’ Gratillonius replied mildly. ‘Ys dare not let barbarians lay waste the civilization which nurtures her also. We had the means to prevent it, and did, at remarkably small cost for the harvest we reaped.’
‘Nonetheless, cost! And never have I agreed that our action was necessary. While Ys remains true to Him, Lir will guard her. Why should we make enemies among tribes with which we could very profitably trade?’
‘We may do that, now that we have chastened them. I know their kind; they respect naught but strength.’ Gratillonius drew breath. ‘If we are to discuss policy, we should have summoned the whole Council of Suffetes.’
‘Nay,’ rumbled Soren. ‘That’s for later; and in honesty I must say I think you, lord King, are more nearly right. But you are wrong in other ways. You have forgotten the primal charge laid upon the King of Ys.’
Gratillonius nodded. ‘He is the high priest and in a sense the Incarnation of Taranis. Aye. But you know that this King is also your prefect.’
‘And he is no Colconor!’ Dahilis cried. Glances turned to her. She reddened, touched her lips, then squared shoulders and gave back a defiant stare.
Gratillonius smiled. Thank you, my dear,’ he said. ‘Let me remind this honourable assembly, ’twas understood when first I mounted your throne that I’d have much on my hands, things too long ignored that must be set aright, new things for which there is an aching need. ’Twas with your consent that I devoted myself to them. What’s happened since shows that you were wise to go along with me.’
‘That’s past,’ Soren declared. ‘The time has come when you should in earnest assume your sacral duties.’
‘Gladly will I, insofar as Mithras allows.’
Teeth flashed in Soren’s beard. His burly form hunched forward. ‘Then why do you refuse to lead the thanksgiving sacrifice today?’
‘I explained that to the priest who asked me yester-even.’ That had been one of those Suffete men who, otherwise occupied with their own everyday affairs, were initiated into certain mysteries and therefore authorized to conduct the rites of Taranis. The Speaker was among them, but tradition decreed that once he had taken that office he no longer acted as a flamen.
‘He should have approached me earlier,’ Gratillonius reproved. ‘Then I would not have committed myself to be elsewhere at the time set. ’Tis a holy commitment which I cannot break, just as it appears the hour for your ceremony is now unchangeable. Well, my presence is not absolutely required. Choose a priest to take my place. As for me, surely the God will think Himself best served by a man who has first honoured the claims of manhood.’
‘And what, pray, mean you by that?’
Here comes the crisis, Gratillonius thought. Beneath his robe he tautened himself like a soldier before battle. He kept his voice calm: You may have noticed that Quintus Junius Eppillus, my deputy, is not here. He fell in defending Ys. As do I, he worshipped Mithras. This day he shall have the burial he deserves.’
Soren scowled. The necropolis was closed lifetimes ago.’
‘He should not lie there in any case, nor be cast to the eels. Such is not the way of Mithras. I’ll leave him on Point Vanis, looking towards the Britannia to which he longed home, but forever guarding this land.’
A gasp went among the Gallicenae, save for Dahilis, who had already been told, and Bodilis, who was clearly perturbed. ‘Nay!’ shrilled Vindilis. ‘Forbidden!’
‘It is not,’ Gratillonius retorted. ‘That’s grazing commons. A headstone will do no harm. Rather, ‘twill recall his bravery on behalf of Ys.’
Hannon bit off word after word: ‘It seems my lord King is misinformed. The necropolis was not closed merely because ’twas encroaching on land needed by the living. ’Twas draining down into the sea. Why think you we haul away our sewage from pits, ‘stead of letting cloacas open in the bay? Corruption of His waters is a mockery of Lir. Men at sea must beg His pardon ere they relieve themselves. Let Ocean have clean ashes of a fallen King; let His fish otherwise have clean, undecayed flesh.’
‘One grave high on a foreland will not –’
‘The precedent!’ Lanarvilis interrupted.
Quinipilis raised her staff and suggested, ‘Could you not lay your friend to rest inland, Gratillonius? I’m sure almost any landowner would allow, aye, believe ’twas lucky and pay honours ever afterwards to the dead man.’
That was the sticking point, precisely because it was reasonable. Gratillonius had picked the gravesite on impulse, out of sentiment, a wish to give good old Eppillus some small compensation for the farm he would never return to. Only later, when he explained to Dahilis why the priest had left with such a scandalized expression, did she remind him of the prohibition. He had quite forgotten it until then.
Now he could not compromise. His authority had been challenged at its foundation; if he failed
to maintain it, he would soon fail as the prefect of Rome.
‘I fear that would be to break a vow I made before my God,’ he stated. ‘Moreover, with due respect, ‘twould be wrong if Eppillus – the memory of Eppillus – became a yokel godling. His soul has earned more. Nay, he shall lie in earth which his blood has hallowed. It will not be a precedent. I will proclaim that this memorial is unique, revering every man who ever gave his life for Ys.’
He folded his arms just beneath the Key. ‘This is my will,’ he told them most quietly. ‘Bethink you, my ladies and lords.’ He made no least gesture at the motionless iron rank of his men.
Not much further was said. Hannon himself had no more desire for a confrontation than did Gratillonius. One by one, the gathering mumbled assent.
Still, success was exhilarating, giddying. Gratillonius wanted to make them happy too, make them again his well-wishers. He raised his palms. ‘Let me give you the glad tidings,’ he said. ‘Queen Dahilis is with child.’
A murmur, not: really surprised, went among the women. Bodilis and Quinipilis, at her sides, embraced her.
Goodwill rushed over Gratillonius. Let bygones be bygones. If Colconor had been wronged, the swine wasn’t worth avenging. Certainly that incident should no longer encumber the King in his politics and his daily relationships.
‘Hear more, O Sisters of hers,’ Gratillonius continued. ‘’Tis true I’ve perforce postponed many of my tasks; but as her time approaches and she is hampered, why, we shall all get to know each other better.’
Vindilis flushed as if struck. Fennalis sneered. Quinipilis frowned and shook her head slightly. Bodilis bit her lip. Lanarvilis and Forsquilis stiffened. Maldunilis and Innilis seemed to accept, and Dahilis was radiant – she had felt so guilty about having him to herself when he was with any woman whatsoever – but he realized in some dismay that somehow he had said the wrong thing, and it could not very well be unsaid.
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