It was so weak a death struggle that it was almost a surrender. (Belisama, Your will be done.) Gratillonius rolled from the bed, found the floor, bent over her. Again his fingers searched for the pulse in her throat. He couldn’t find it. Eyes rolled back and half shut, blank, her face gaped slackly at him. He laid a palm over a breast and caught the slightest of motions. She was still breathing just a little.
The hand went down to her swollen belly. Did he feel a beating, as if against a door? He wasn’t sure. He was no physician. Yet he remembered slaughtered beasts and slain barbarians. Caesar himself had made Roman law of what was olden practice: in cases like this, one must try to save the child.
Maybe she wouldn’t have wished it, had she known what it was going to cost him. He couldn’t ask her.
Time hounded him, closer even than before. The unborn were quick to follow their mothers into death. He had heard of some that were delivered but became defectives, worse than poor Audris. He could stay here and fight for Dahilis’s life and almost certainly lose; and then her daughter was best left at peace in the dark. Or he could try for the rescue of her blood, not herself. The odds against that looked long also, but not hopeless. As fast as she was going, he must make his decision now.
He took the lantern again and went out, down to his tent, unaware of the wind and the cold.
When he came back, he used the flame to start candles, and thereafter kindled fire. Often he interrupted himself to attend Dahilis. His ministrations had no effect. When he ceased to feel her breathe, he used a bronze mirror he had found in her kit. Of course she had a mirror along, like any woman who wants to please her man.
At first it misted over. Soon that was so little that he crouched holding it in place below her nostrils. When it dried, he flung it clanging across the room.
He would have liked to kiss her farewell, but this was not Dahilis. He dropped a towel over the face. As for that which lay naked, he would not think about what it had been. He hoped he would not think about it. He hoped his farmer and craftsman skills, his rough knowledge of anatomy, would serve. A man could only try.
He had – how long? Three minutes, four, five? No more. Arrayed on the table, which he had dragged to the bedside, lay his small sharp knives.
5
Seas ran high on the morning after solstice, but wind had fallen off and skies were clearing. Dawn was barely a promise when Forsquilis and her companion came down the cliff trail to Ghost Quay and along the path to Scot’s Landing. At Maeloch’s door she smote the wood with her staff, whose iron finial was in the shape of an owl. The knock, knock, knock sounded loud amidst the clash of waves on rocks.
The door opened. The fisherman stood unclad, battle axe at the ready. ‘What the squid-futter –’ he growled, and then saw. The lantern that the other woman bore cast glow across the austere features of the high priestess, hooded in her cloak. Behind them, water gleamed under the first thin light in heaven.
‘Oh! My, my lady Queen!’ He shifted the axe blade to cover his loins. ‘I thought … ’twasn’t the Summons – pirates? My lady Forsquilis!’
‘We have not met,’ she said levelly, ‘but you know me by sight and I you by repute. They call you both the boldest and the most knowing among the fishers. I command you to a faring as momentous as any of yours with the dead – or more, because on this hinges the morrow of Ys.’
‘What?’ Behind his shaggy beard, he gulped. ‘My lady, that’s plain recklessness. Look.’ His free hand gestured at the chopping and leaping.
The eyes beneath the cowl would not let him go. He saw how haggard she was, as if she had been awake this whole night. ‘Go we shall, Maeloch,’ she said, and faster than ever you travelled erenow.’
He thought before he answered: ‘I’ve heard as how Queen Dahilis went out to Vigil yesterday, like none ever did before. And the King at her side. Will you relieve her?’
‘One might say that.’
‘Why … why, I’ll go, be sure I will, if little Queen Dahilis needs help. But the others may balk.’
‘Are they Ferriers or not?’
Maeloch squinted past the lantern at her who bore it. ‘This is Briga, of my household,’ Forsquilis explained. ‘She goes too.’
She was a sturdy, blonde young woman, clearly an Osismian. Such often came to the city and worked a few years, earning dowries for themselves. Sometimes they got married there, or seduced. Briga’s free arm nestled a very new babe against her large bosom. Her countenance declared both fear and a doglike trust in her mistress the witch.
‘Make haste!’ said Forsquilis’s whipcrack voice.
Maeloch mumbled excuses, retreated to get dressed, came forth again to beat on neighbouring doors and bawl men off their pallets. When they saw the Queen, their grumbles quickly ceased, though she stood in place like an eidolon. Enough of them heeded the call to make a crew for Osprey, as they did at a Summons. Most of the regular deckhands lived elsewhere.
The smack lay beached under a roof for the winter; but the Ferriers of the Dead kept gear and supplies always aboard their boats, and were swift to fetch rollers and launch this one. She was off soon after the sun had cleared the Bay of Aquitania. The passage went better than the sailors had feared, though amply difficult. The tide was with them and the wind cold but easy, swinging around widdershins until after a while they could raise the sail to help them at their oars. Sundogs danced in a crystalline heaven. Given such brightness, the helmsman readily kept off reefs.
Briga huddled under the bows, miserably seasick, caring for her infant between trips to the rail. Forsquilis sat nearby, impassive. None ventured to address her. A sailor even forgot her when he pissed over the leeward side a short distance off. His ritual apology to Lir reminded him. ‘Hoy, my lady, I’m sorry!’
She gave him the phantom of a smile. ‘Think you me a vestal?’
He wrung his calloused paws. ‘I should’ve taken the slop bucket aft. But this crossing, we know not why, ’tis got me all muddled … We do head straight back home, don’t we, my lady?’
Forsquilis nodded. ‘I shall abide. The rest of you will return.’
‘Ye – ?’ He looked down at his feet, braced wide upon the pitching deck. ‘But ’tis festival time.’
Her own look went beyond the horizon. ‘There are signs to seek, rites to begin. In another day or two the barge can safely come fetch me.’
He saw that she wanted to be by herself, saluted awkwardly, and went about his duties.
– The rocks around Sena made approach so tricky that perhaps no skipper but Maeloch could have accomplished it today. When at last he brought Osprey to the wharf, his men slumped exhausted on their benches.
Forsquilis rose. ‘Rest a while,’ she said. ‘We drove relentlessly west. You can go easier eastwards, homewards. Wait here.’
She sprang ashore, no need for a gangplank, and made for the House of the Goddess. Her cloak rippled blue. Gulls dipped, soared, creaked through the salt wind. Out amidst the skerries, where waves crashed and foam burst, were many seals.
– The door stood open, the windows were unshuttered, the room was bright and barren. On the bed lay a form covered by a blanket. The floor had been scrubbed clean. Gratillonius sat in a chair next the bed. In his arms he rocked a newborn girl. Her crying was loud and furious.
Forsquilis entered, darkening some of the light. Gratillonius looked up. Auburn hair and beard seemed doubly vivid against a face drained and congealed, nothing behind it but weariness. ‘I have brought a nurse for her,’ said Forsquilis. ‘Come down to the boat. I will see to all else.’
XXVI
1
He came awake believing it was Dahilis who roused him. Happiness filled him like sunshine. His heart felt bird-light. Oh, my dear darling!
He opened his eyes. Bodilis withdrew the hand that had been shaking him. Gratillonius remembered. He cried out and sat up in bed.
Dim day entered the chamber through its panes. Bodilis stepped back. She was clad entirely in white, no
jewellery, a coif over her hair. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said low. ‘But you must arise. You’ve well-nigh slept the sun through a round.’
He recalled vaguely that Fennalis had given him a potion after he reached the palace. Earlier than that, sailors had borne a wrapped form on a litter from the quay towards Wayfaring House. Earlier than that he had been at sea, a rough passage … His memory was full of jagged gaps where mists and fragments drifted.
‘We cannot delay further,’ Bodilis urged gently. ‘You are the King. The Gods require Their due. And then there is the infant.’
Dahilis’s daughter. ‘How is she?’ grated out of him.
Bodilis smiled a tiny bit. ‘Lustily yelling and kicking, the last I saw. Amazing, in view of –’ the smile died –’the circumstances. But yours is strong blood, and her mother was no weakling. Now do get up, Gratillonius. You have your duties.’
His whole body ached, as if he had spent a night in combat. His mind moved heavily. His spirit wanted to go away, home to Britannia or off to war or anywhere else. But he was the King. He was the prefect of Rome and a centurion of the Second.
Bodilis guided him to a hot bath. While he lay in it she brought him bread and wine. He had no appetite, but partook and gained strength. A massage afterwards by his burly body servant pummelled some sluggishness out of his muscles. Bodilis stood by as attendants arrayed him in crimson robe and royal finery. ‘Where are we bound?’ he asked.
‘To the temple of Belisama,’ she replied. ‘It was decided to have both sacraments together, inasmuch as the mother is gone and you soon have your Watch to stand.’
‘Both?’
‘First the naming and hallowing of the child.’
He nodded. Dahilis and Innilis had told him about that while they were expecting theirs. ‘I am to do what the mother would have done?’
‘This is custom when a Queen dies in childbed.’
He remembered thoughts he had had while he waited in the House of the Goddess and afterwards aboard ship. ‘Very well.’
Side by side, he and Bodilis went forth. The day was overcast, a silvery grey deepening towards lead as the unseen sun declined. The air lay quiet and raw. His legionaries stood marshalled to escort him. They saluted. ‘Oh, God, sir, I’m sorry,’ Adminius said. His lean features worked. ‘We all are.’
‘Thank you,’ said Gratillonius, and walked on.
‘’Bout face!’ Adminius shouted. ‘For’ard march!’ Hobnails hit paving like a roll of drums.
Traffic stopped when people saw who was coming. Nobody ventured to draw near or even utter a greeting. Gratillonius and Bodilis moved within a shield-wall of quietness.
‘We know almost nothing of what happened,’ she said softly. Her arm was tucked in his. ‘From what the fishers and the maid Briga and … others here in the city … had to tell, we can guess at some of it. What do you wish to relate?’
In faint surprise, he noticed that talking didn’t hurt. It was merely a task he performed. Most of him was trying to understand what the thing itself meant. He could not yet really realize that he would never see Dahilis again, and that his last sight of her must for ever be – what it had been. ‘When she had not returned by nightfall, I went in search. It took hours to find her. She lay with a broken ankle, in labour, unconscious, nearly frozen to death. I carried her back, but I could not bring her back. As soon as she died, I did my best to save the child. Any sin, profanation, blasphemy is mine alone. She was entirely innocent.’
Bodilis’s grasp tightened. ‘We shall purify and dedicate the island over again. As for your deeds, I dare hope – we Sisters have decided we dare believe – the justice of the Gods is satisfied. They need but look into your spirit. And as for the sacrifice They demanded, we believe Dahilis must have made that. It was not what the Nine awaited, and mayhap not what the Three intended, but surely it was an offering precious enough.’
Bitterness seared his gullet. He wanted no part of any such Gods. He refused the load of guilt They would lay on him. Let Mithras be his witness. But he would keep silence, he would duly go through Their rites, for Rome, and because he did not want to wound Bodilis. She must already be inwardly bleeding.
They reached the temple. The soldiers clanked up to form a double line on the stairs. King and high priestess went on in. ‘The ceremonies will be brief and simple,’ she reassured him. ‘It is not like a Bestowal of the Key. A new Queen is presented to the people, and they make merry, only after the soul of the former Queen has crossed over.’
‘What?’ he asked, startled out of reverie. Before she could dispel his confusion, they were inside.
Vestals were ranked along the aisles. Their clear young voices lifted in a hymn. It chimed through the twilight of the sanctuary. Minor priestesses flanked the altar at the far end. From under her coif Bodilis pulled a gauzy veil across her countenance and went to join her Sisters. They waited behind the altar, beneath the tall strange images of Maiden, Mother, and Hag. Lamps on the marble block threw gleams off a golden basin which rested there. The white vestments everywhere around made the temple ghostly.
Gratillonius paused a moment before he concluded he should advance. He did so at a solemn pace. In front of the altar he halted and stood empty-handed, bareheaded. Neither Hammer nor crown had been laid out for him. Here in the holy place of Belisama, he bore just the Key.
A high priestess came forward to face him across the stone. Veil or no, he recognized Quinipilis. Though she spoke steadily, the youthfulness that had hitherto lingered in her voice was gone. ‘King and father, we are met to consecrate your child. Because her mother has departed, yours is the benison. Let her be brought unto us, and do you give her name and First Sign.’
A senior underpriestess approached carrying the infant, which slept, red and wrinkled and how very small. You would not have thought that anything so small was hard to bring into the world. Quinipilis whispered: ‘Do you know, Gratillonius? Dahilis was Estar.’
He knew, and knew that generally the first-born of a Queen received the name that she herself had borne as a vestal. But he had known her as Dahilis, and this creature he had cut from her body was all that remained to him of her. Alone with the dead on Sena, he had pondered the question. It had been something to fill the hours.
Quinipilis took the blanket-wrapped babe and held her out. ‘Draw a crescent on her forehead,’ she directed low. ‘Say: “Ishtar-Isis-Belisama, receive this Your servant Estar. Sanctify her, keep her pure, and at the last take her home to Yourself.”’
Gratillonius dipped his right forefinger into the water that glimmered in the basin. He traced an arc on the diminutive brow. His voice rang loud: ‘Ishtar-Isis-Belisama, receive this Your servant Dahut. Sanctify her, keep her pure, and at the last take her home to Yourself.’
The hymn faltered. Breath rustled and hissed among the priestesses. It was overriden by an angry scream from the awakened child. She struggled to get free of her swaddling.
Gratillonius met the unseen stares of the Gallicenae and growled in an undertone, ‘I want her mother uniquely remembered in her. ’Tis lawful, I believe.’
‘Ah, aye,’ answered Quinipilis. ‘Contrary to usage, but … the law is silent … Be you Dahut.’ She returned the babe to the elder, who took it away to soothe.
Gratillonius’s intent was clear. Dahilis had taken her sacral name from the spring of the nymph Ahes, to whom she had had a special devotion. The prefix ‘D’ was an honorific and could be retained. The suffix could not, but ‘-ut’ formed a commemorative ending. Thus did Dahut come to Ys.
The hymn ended. Quinipilis straightened as much as she was able, raised her arms, and cried: ‘Let the divine wedding commence!’ Echoes flew around the hush.
Wedding? Gratillonius stood hammerstruck. Now?
But of course. How could he have forgotten? He must have wanted to forget. When a Queen died, the Sign came immediately upon a vestal. Eight women stood before him; and Forsquilis was on Sena.
He would not! Dahilis was n
ot even buried yet!
The spectral forms came from behind the altar to surround him. Quinipilis stayed where she was. One of the others moved, stumbling a little, next to Gratillonius.
‘Kneel,’ the old priestess commanded.
He could go. They were nothing but women here. Outside waited his Romans. Thus easily could he betray his mission. Gratillonius knelt beside his chosen bride.
As if from far away, he heard a prayer. A new hymn swelled. More orisons followed, but they were mercifully short. He and she were bidden to arise. He obeyed the order to lift her veil. At the same time, his wives threw back theirs. The song soared triumphant.
He had seen the homely, timorous face before, but he could not recollect when or where.
‘Gratillonius, King of Ys, in homage to the Goddess Who dwells in her, and in honour to the womanhood that is hers, receive your Queen Guilvilis –’
2
There was a modest banquet at the palace, which the Gallicenae shared. Directly afterwards the seven each kissed the new Sister and left. Servants requested her benediction and reverentially escorted the pair to a bedchamber swept, garnished, and lighted by many lamps and wax candles. Celebrations would come later, when the spirit of the former Queen had departed. Talk had been scant at the table. Gratillonius said nothing whatsoever. She sat by her husband, eyes downcast, eating as little and as mechanically as he did. While goodnights went on, Bodilis had drawn Gratillonius aside and whispered in Latin: ‘Be kind to her. Poor child, she never wished for this. Nobody imagined it. The ways of the Goddess are a mystery.’
‘What is her lineage?’ he asked hoarsely.
‘Her father was Hoel, of course. Her mother was Morvanalis – full sister to Fennalis, but that makes her no closer than a cousin to Lanarvilis. Morvanalis died a few years after this girl was born. The child was good-natured but dull. I remember how she suffered the teasing of brighter classmates uncomplainingly, and sought her few friends among menials and animals. Everyone took for granted that when she finished her vestalhood – that would have been next year – she would take vows as a minor priestess, unless some man of humble station offered to marry her for the dowry the Temple provides. Instead – Don’t blame her, Gratillonius. Treat her gently.’ Bodilis’s gaze went deep into him. ‘I believe you have the strength to do that.’
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