Gallicenae (12 page)

The soldiers raised a cheer. Riding in front of them, Gratillonius signalled for double-time. Hobnails crashed on paving. Westbound along Aquilonian Way, the men saw ahead to the end of Cape Rach, where the pharos loomed beyond clustered tombs. But soon their road swung north and downward, into the valley. Folk began to spy them and flock forth shouting from homes, farms, orchards nestled in the hills. Sentinels observed afar and sounded their trumpets. Aquilonian Way turned west again at the amphitheater, whose walls barred sight of the sacred grove. Thence the track ran straight between smithies, tanneries, carpenter shops, all the industries required to be where people did not live, until it entered High Gate.

“The King, the King!” Crowds jubilated. Gratillonius’s eyes stung. He swallowed hard. Did they truly love him like this? He recognized an occasional face among those that swirled around, Herun the navy man, Maeloch the fisher, several marines who’d been escorts of his or fighters against the Scoti, a wineseller for whom he had once gotten restitution from a swindling wholesaler in Condate Redonum, a woman whom he had once given a judgment against an abusive husband, lesser Suffetes—the magnates would seek the palace for a more formal reception—“Company dismissed!” he rapped. His men broke formation and flung themselves into the throng, searching for comrades and sweethearts.

Gratillonius rode on. An impromptu guard formed, burly commoners who cleared his way for him, genially if not always gently. The press eased off as he turned from Lir Way into the crookedly rising streets along which the wealthy had their houses. Nobody was forbidden to go there, but most Ysans had a feel for what was becoming, an ancient dignity he had never encountered elsewhere.

At the main entrance to the palace he dismounted, gave his horse over to the excited servants, and strode in his armor through the garden—winter-bare, but trees and shrubs awhisper in the wind—to the modest-sized building. Up its staircase he went, between the sculptured boar and bear, under the gilt eagle on the dome, the creatures of Taranis. Bronze doors, intricately figured, were flung wide for him, and he passed the entryroom and came into the atrium.

There they stood, his Queens and their daughters—and Dahut, next to Quinipilis, O Mithras, how the child had grown, and how solemnly
she stared from under a golden mane! Also present were the men of the Council, attendants hovering in the background. He halted with a military stamp and clang, raised his palm, intoned, “Greetings, my ladies and worthies,” while his heart thuttered and he forced his eyes to swing around, away from the girl who looked so much like Dahilis.

The male grandees didn’t matter. Not yet. But what of the Gallicenae? Bodilis smiled at him in unchanged serenity. Tears shimmered on the thin cheeks of Innilis, who huddled close to expressionlessly saluting Vindilis. Lanarvilis’s ceremonial gesture showed more warmth. Maldunilis squealed in delight; she was very pregnant. The gaze of Forsquilis smoldered out of her Athene countenance above the infant she bore, whose age must be about two months. How Quinipilis had grown old, the hands trembling that clutched the staff on which she leaned, flesh dried away from the knotted, painful bones, though her grin crinkled wicked as ever. Fennalis too seemed less plump than erstwhile, like an apple that has begun to wither. Guilvilis stood timidly to the rear, her own newest babe clutched to her bosom, her older daughter by Gratillonius clinging to her skirt.

Three stepped forward and confronted him: Soren Cartagi, Speaker for Taranis; Hannon Baltisi, Lir Captain; Forsquilis, whom the Nine serving Belisama must have chosen to be their voice today. “Welcome, King, thrice welcome to Ys, your city,” they said together. “May you henceforth long abide in our midst.”

“I thank you,” said Gratillonius out of an unreasonably dry throat. Seeking to lighten the atmosphere: “And so I intend. You seem well prepared for my arrival.”

Forsquilis nodded. Her glance caught his. He nodded back. On the previous three nights, when his band made camp for lack of other accommodation, a great owl had ghosted by.

“How have you and the city fared?” he asked.

Soren shrugged. “There’s little to tell, save that—No matter now, no large matter at all.”

“What mean you?” Gratillonius demanded.

“Ah, we’d not spoil this hour,” Hannon said. He was seldom that cordial. “It can wait. You’re the one with the real news, whatever it be.”

“News indeed,” Gratillonius drew breath. “Too much for telling at once. When I do, I think you’ll agree my journey’s borne fruit we had need of, knowledge, though some of it bitter on the tongue. Bodilis, I did visit Ausonius.” She grew radiant. “As for the rest of what I have to convey, it will require much time and thought of us. Best we wait until tomorrow or the day after.”

Soren opened his mouth as if to protest, but Forsquilis cut him off. “We understand,” she said. “With no immediate danger, ’twould be foolish to rush into complexities. Come, let’s proceed to the banquet we’ve prepared for our King.”

3

When the others departed after the festivities, she stayed.

In his secret self, Gratillonius had hoped for that. After celibate months, the Bull ramped through his blood. A phantom went there as well, memory of failure in Treverorum, fear of new punishment for his sin. Forsquilis was both the most passionate and the most artful of the Nine.

In a candlelit bedchamber, he invested a few moments of extravagant admiration, bent over the cradle of little Nemeta. (After all, he had been unable to keep from hugging Dahut.) The mother ended that herself, pouncing and clutching, purring and mewing.

They well-nigh ripped the clothes off each other. Her beauty flamed at him. He never knew whether he cast her down or she pulled him down. He entered her with a roar, and her hips surged beneath him like the sea.

After the second time they were satisfied to lie talking while strength regathered itself. He half sat, propped on pillows against the headboard that was usual on Ysan beds. She lay curled in the curve of his left arm, her hair spilling amber-brown across his chest. The odor of her was warm and wild.

“Ah,” she crooned, “I’ve missed you, Grallon.”

“And I you.” His free hand strayed over her breasts. Milkful, they jutted proudly from her slenderness. How golden the light was upon that white skin.

“I’m sure you did,” she answered, “especially after—” The words turned into a laugh. Appalled, he felt her fingers on his lips. “Nay, we need speak naught of that. Stallions will be stallions, for which I thank our Lady of the Lovetime.”

“Is there aught you don’t know, you witch?” he gusted in his relief.

She sobered. “Much. The politics of men and their Gods—” Her look sought a shuttered window… and the night wind beyond? “You have returned a sadder man than you went, my darling. Why?”

Strangely, it was not strange to blurt to this cat-female, as if she were a man or wise Bodilis: “Maximus, Emperor Maximus, I misjudged him. He lives not for Rome but for power, and for power not only over bodies but souls.”

From him stumbled the story of what he had seen and endured. Forsquilis held him close.

“So you see Ys is in danger,” he ended.
“You
are, your whole Sisterhood. He means to destroy what he calls witchcraft, rip it out by the roots and cast it on the fire.”

“And you’re to do his weeding for him, eh?” she said low, again looking elsewhere.

“I won’t. I am the King of Ys, as… I finally, truly discovered on this faring…. But I cannot rise against Rome!” he yelled.

That roused Nemeta, who began to cry. Forsquilis flowed from the bed, took up the babe, soothed and nursed her, the eidolon of young motherhood, while she asked coolly, “What then do you propose to do?”

“I know not.” Gratillonius smote fist into palm. “I’ve thought and thought. I suppose we have two or three years’ grace. Maximus must secure his frontier along the Rhenus and make a lasting settlement with Valentinianus—aye, still more with Theodosius in Constantinople.”

“And meanwhile,” she said, smiling down at her child, “much can happen.”

He nodded violently. “’Tis my hope. Already Ys is central to the defense of Armorica. If we can weave such a net of alliances that we are vital, with so many powerful friends in the Empire that he must keep his hands off us—”

“I was thinking of what might happen to Magnus Maximus,” she said.

A shiver went through him.

Forsquilis straightened and gave him a level regard. Her tone turned brisk. “Well, these things can await the morrow. We’ve a third celebration to carry out, I trust, you and I. It should be soon, for you’ll need a good night’s sleep.”

Her words roused fresh lust and gladness. “Oh, we can lie abed late.”

She shook her head. “Nay, that would not be meet. You must be up betimes, O King. Too long has your duty been undone.”

“What’s this?”

“Ah, no large task. ’Tis only that postponing it further would dishonor Taranis.” The Queen frowned. “Hm, I’d forgotten, we never told you. Well, soon after you departed, a challenger arrived at the Wood. We’ve perforce housed him there, fed him, supplied him with harlots and amusements and whatever else befits one who might become King, these past months. High time to end the farce.”

Gratillonius sat upright. His muscles tautened. “A fight to the death?”

Forsquilis laughed anew. “Nay, merely a chore, albeit a sacral one. This is a pitiful shrimp of an Osismiian. Clear ’tis, he heard the King would be long away, and knew what a challenger is entitled to, and came to take advantage, with the intent of sneaking off ere you returned. But I divined as much and warned Soren, who ordered a surreptitious watch kept on him. When news of your advent blossomed today, he tried to flee, but was promptly seized. Tomorrow morning you’ll kill him and there’s an end of the business, aside from the rites that follow.”

She tenderly laid her babe, now drowsy, back in the cradle; turned about; glided toward the bed, arms wide. “I believe you are ready now,” she whispered. “Come, let’s make love. A long, long love.”

4

Rain blew up during the night. By dawn its chill drizzle engulfed sky, sea, hills. At the Wood of the King, it dripped off bare oak branches and runneled down trunks and made soggy last year’s leaves on the
earth. The blood-colored house at the border of the grove was dulled, as if the blood were starting to clot.

There waited Soren in his sacerdotal robes, together with six marines, their horses and hounds. They were the guards over Hornach, who had dared strike the Hammer to the brazen Shield that hung in the yard outside.

His centurion’s battle gear moved easily on Gratillonius’s frame as he mounted the steps to the portico. Grotesque idol-shaped columns grinned at him. Underneath the roof lay shadowiness through which he peered at his opponent. Hornach was not quite the weakling of Forsquilis’s contempt, but he was scrawny; the mail into which they had stuffed him draped limp over knocking knees, the helmet threatened to slide down his nose. Even in this cold, his fear stank.

“Hail!” boomed the seven men and the household staff to the King.

Hornach reached out. “Oh, please,” he croaked, “please, I’ve made a horrible mistake, I’ll surrender, abase myself, do anything—”

“Shall we accompany you, sir?” asked a marine. “Wouldn’t do to make you chase him. Heh!” he snickered.

“Nay, that were unseemly. ’Tis never been done thus,” Soren declared. “We’ll put a leash around his waist for you to hold, my lord.” A snarl: “Unless you, you wretch, can find the manhood to die as Taranis wills.”

“I have an old mother, sir, I’ve been sending her coins from here, she’ll starve without me,” blubbered the Osismian. A trouser leg darkened and clung to the shin; he was dribbling piss.

Gratillonius had expected a straightforward fight against somebody like a Bacauda—had deceived himself into expecting it, he suddenly understood. His gullet thickened. “This is no combat, ’tis butchery,” he got out. “Unworthy of the God. I accept his surrender.”

Hornach went to his knees, weeping, and scrabbled to hug the King’s. His guards yanked him back. “That may not be, lord,” said Soren, shock clear to see beneath his implacability. “This creature issued the challenge. Worse, he did so in falsehood. Strike him down, in the name of the God.”

Gratillonius remembered Priscillianus.

But he was the King of Ys, and here was a rogue who had taken an impudent gamble. “Well,” he said, “let it at least be quick.”

After praying to Taranis, they hitched a cord around the waist of Hornach. Gratillonius led him on his wabbling way through the brush, until they stood alone in a glade. Rain mumbled in the trees around, washed away tears, sought past armor. Dead leaves squashed underfoot. Gratillonius undid the leash, stepped back, drew sword and brought up shield. “Make ready,” he said.

Hornach shuddered, once. His blade jerked forth. It was of the long Germanic sort, and either he had refused a shield—unlikely—or
no one had thought to offer him it or he in his terror to voice the request.

“Have at me,” Gratillonius invited. Do! screamed within him. “You might win, you know. You might become the next King of Ys.” He gagged on his lie.

“Let me go,” Hornach pleaded. “I meant no harm. I never did. Let me go, and the Gods will love you.”

Not the Gods of Ys, Gratillonius thought. In a moment’s confusion: But I in my heart give Them no honor any longer. Why should I do this thing?

Iron answered: Because I will destroy myself, my Kingship, everything that is left me to care about, if I openly flout Their will.

Hornach wailed and half turned to run. Get it over with! thought Gratillonius, and advanced. His opponent twisted around, raised sword, chopped wildly. Gratillonius caught the feeble blow on his shield. The other throat was open to him. He smote.

The trouble then was that Hornach did not die. He flopped on the ground, spouting blood and screams. When Gratillonius bent down to give a mercy stroke, hands tried to wave it off.

Abruptly Gratillonius must vomit.

When he had finished, Hornach lay still.