Roma Mater (12 page)

‘The old Roman Gods?’ Cynan asked from his place as today’s standard bearer. ‘Do They still have power … in this place?’

‘Those are not Roman, those Gods the stones bespeak,’ Gratillonius said. ‘They’re only Latin names. Romans used to suppose any Gods they met were the same as their own, but it was never true. You, my friend, must know better, must know Sulis is not really Minerva or – See, the inscription puts Venus first. A mother Goddess? Maybe. If we could read it, the second stone would tell us something very different from the first, about the Gods of Ys.’

‘The demons!’ Budic exclaimed. He raised his arms. ‘Christ Jesus,’ he beseeched, ‘watch over us, drive off the powers of darkness.’

‘Fall in,’ Gratillonius snapped. ‘Forward march.’

Mithras, Lord of Light, ride with us, Your soldiers, he thought as he sprang back on to his horse. He could not make it feel like a prayer. Had he wandered so far, into such foreignness, that the God of his fathers no longer heard him?

Angry at his weakness, he tried to thrust the question away. What was there to fear? Most likely less than anywhere else in the Empire, here where robbers dared not come. However lonesome, the landscape was gauntly beautiful. Ys of the marvels awaited him, and would scarcely deny him obedience. His demands would be modest in any case, simply that Ys remain at peace, and help keep the rest of western Armorica at peace, while Maximus campaigned. The leaders of the city could not fail to see how they too would benefit by an Emperor strong and able.

And afterwards – why that grateful Emperor ought at the very least to bestow senatorial rank on a man who had served him well. Perhaps he would lift the man’s entire kin out of the curial class. And the officer would go on to mighty deeds, power, wealth, undying fame.

With an abrupt shock, Gratillonius realized that he did not know what his ambitions were. Hitherto he had been content to live day by day. When he thought about the future, he hoped for eventual promotion to senior centurion, followed by retirement in a home he would acquire somewhere among his Belgic tribesfolk. There he would have a woodworking shop for pleasure, horses, dogs, a cat to sleep on a sunny windowsill. Of course, he would already have married and begotten sons … Never before
had he imagined the world open to him. Did he truly want it?

A bulk ahead drew his attention. ‘Keep on,’ he ordered, and turned his horse off the road on to a point of land. What he found was the remains of a fortress on the brink of a precipice. Ditched and triple-walled, it was from before the Romans, and long unused. Grass billowed across ridges and mounds that had been earthworks. Yards below, waves foamed and growled; overhead, a gull cruised mewing.

The sight was like an omen of mortality. Gratillonius drew the sign of Mithras, wheeled his mount, and hastened back to the van of his party.

The end of the headland wasn’t far now. He knew this road went to a maritime station the Romans had built, back when they maintained a constant presence; later the Ysans manned it for them. From there, he supposed, the way would turn south till it went down to the bay where the city was. Impatience leapt in him. He wanted to gallop straight across. But that wouldn’t be dignified. Besides, grass and brush might well conceal footing dangerous to a horse. His heels prodded the animal into a trot while he reined in his spirit.

At the bend in the route he diverged for a look down a side path. Under granite of the promontory, above rage of water among rocks and reefs, he saw the ruins of the station. Holes knocked in walls – whether by enemy rams or by storm-driven surf – gaped full of darkness. Rain had washed away the soot of the fire that consumed roof and dock; he glimpsed only a few charred timbers from either, tumbled and bleached like driftwood.

‘This happened years, maybe decades ago,’ he muttered. ‘Ys is supposed to be safe. But already then – ’

Eppillus trod forward to stand by his leader and see. ‘Maybe their Gods are dying too,’ he said. Yet the rusty
voice and the barrel-shaped figure somehow called Gratillonius back to hopefulness. Here was reality, prosaically Roman. Whatever ghosts haunted this country were no more solid than those cloud shadows which the sea wind sent scudding over it.

‘We’ll see,’ the centurion answered. ‘Onward!’

Southbound, he passed a hillock which he suspected covered more wreckage. He scarcely noticed, for tower-tops were coming into view ahead. When he reached the descent, there was Ys.

From this height the road swept to a deep dale, walled on both sides by the land. Thus protected, the northern slopes were fit for more than rough pasture. Orchards and woodlots stood around the red tile and white walls of wealthy homes, the thatch and clay of clustered cottages. Brown plots amidst the greenness showed where gardens would soon be bearing. The southern side of the hollow was less occupied, because it climbed steeply to form another headland. Between those two nesses was the bight which Ys filled. Eastwards the valley ran lengthy, well populated, towards distance-blue hills.

Soldier’s training made Gratillonius first survey the terrain. A branch way plunged directly down to a short bridge between this promontory and the wall around Ys. Another road led from the eastern city gate, inland. An arm of it swung north, and then east under the heights, to a grove of oaks, after which it became a mere trail.

On the near side of the shaw, Gratillonius spied three large wooden buildings around a courtyard giving on that road. Beyond the trees, in a low swale, was an amphitheatre, modest in size but clearly Roman save for – something subtle, some difference he could not identify from this far off. There the highway went south, and then east again out of sight. Elsewhere ran several dirt roads, and a gravelled one out on to the southern cape, which
held a pharos at the tip. From the far hills, down the middle of the valley, cutting through the grove, gleamed a narrow canal.

His gaze sought Ys. Strange, he thought as he caught his breath – part and parcel of the strangeness everywhere around – that he and his father had traded as close as Garomagus, yet not until now had he glimpsed Ys of the hundred towers.

Thus they bespoke it around Armorica. If the count was not really that high, if this was in fact a rather small city, what matter? Ys soared out of the sea.

Its wall formed a rectangle about a mile long, to which were added semicircular ends of a diameter slightly less. The shore arc snugged close between the two forelands, and there the rampart loomed fifteen feet. Westwards its elevation above water would depend on the tides, which Gratillonius knew to be large. He could only wonder how deep those foundations lay. Red-brown, the material must have been quarried from the cliffs. A band of colour below the parapet, a frieze, relieved the murkiness. Twin turrets lifted battlements over each of the three landward entrances. Along the western arc, if he gauged rightly, a fourth pair stood about a hundred and ten degrees apart, to guard the harbour and its marvellous gate.

He could not discern that basin from here, because too many buildings were in the way – towers indeed, high, narrow, reaching for the sky out of the crowd of lesser structures. Mosaics and patternings formed brilliant fantasies up their sides. Glass, gold, even tiled and patinaed copper caught the early afternoon sunlight and flung it back in a dazzle. A slight haziness, borne in from Ocean, made the sight a dream. He could scarcely believe that human beings dwelt yonder, not elves or Gods.

But the first of the Caesars had walked those streets, the first Augustus had ordered those outer defences
erected. Gratillonius had come to reclaim a heritage.

The knowledge thrilled in him. ‘Silence!’ he cried at the amazed swearing of his men. ‘Dress ranks. We’ll enter in Roman style.’

The Ysans had paved this section of the way, since gravel would have washed downwards. Hoofs rang on stone. Gratillonius tightened knees against the hairy warmth of the horse. Weight pulled hard on him, hauling him on towards the sea.

Faintly through the wind he heard a trumpet call, and another and another. Watchmen had glimpsed his soldiers. The land portals stood open and he supposed townsfolk would soon be swarming forth – past the smithies and carpenter shops and other worksteads that stood just outside along the eastbound road – unless an official delegation forced itself in front of the crowd.

But the first human motion he spied was at the oak grove. Several people came from the house. For an instant they paused in the courtyard to stare. Then a man took the lead, loping out while the rest scurried after. Clearly they meant to intercept the newcomers.

Gratillonius thought fast. Amidst what scanty information he had been able to gather, much of it doubtless false, was a story that the King of Ys spent the three days and nights around full moon in a sacred wood, and that at all times he must hold himself prepared to fight any challenger for his crown. Last night had ended the period in this month; but he might have lingered for some reason. If not, those might be priests of importance … and priestesses? Gratillonius identified women among them. Probably he would do best to meet them as they wished, allay whatever fears they had, ask that they accompany him into town.

A rutted track offered a shortcut between this road and
the one that led to the grove. He gestured to his men and turned off, angling downwards.

3

The parties met nearer the shaw than the city. They halted a few feet apart. For a space there was stillness, save for the wind.

The man in front was a Gaul, Gratillonius judged. He was huge, would stand a head above the centurion when they were both on the ground, with a breadth of shoulder and thickness of chest that made him look squat. His paunch simply added to the sense of bear strength. His face was broad, ruddy, veins broken in the flattish nose, a scar zigzagging across the brow ridges that shelved small ice-blue eyes. Hair knotted into a queue, beard abristle to the shaggy breast, were brown, and had not been washed for a long while. His loose-fitting shirt and close-fitting breeches were equally soiled. At his hip he kept a knife, and slung across his back was a sword more than a yard in length. A fine golden chain hung around his neck, but what it bore lay hidden beneath the shirt.

‘Romans,’ he rumbled in Osismian. ‘What the pox brings you mucking around here?’

The centurion replied carefully, as best he was able in the same language: ‘Greeting. I hight Gaius Valerius Gratillonius, come in peace and good will as the new prefect of Rome in Ys. Fain would I meet with your leaders.’

Meanwhile he surveyed those behind. Half a dozen were men of varying ages, in neat and clean versions of the same garb, unarmed, their own hair braided but beards closely trimmed. In form they resembled Osismii,
except for tending to be more slender and dark, but the visages of four were startingly alike, long, narrow, curve-nosed, high-cheeked. Brothers? No, the gap between a grey head and a downy chin was too great.

Nearest the Gaul stood one who differed. He was ponderous of body and countenance. Black beard and receding hair were flecked with white, though he did not seem old. He wore a crimson robe patterned with gold thread, a mitre of the same stuff, a talisman hanging on his bosom that was in the form of a wheel, cast in precious metal and set with jewels. Rings sparkled on both hands. In his right he bore a staff as high as himself, topped by a silver representation of a boar’s head.

The women numbered three. They were in ankle-length gowns with loose sleeves to the wrists, of rich material and subtle hues, ornately belted at the waist. Above hung cloaks whose cowls bedecked their heads. Gratillonius guessed their dishevelled appearance was due to haste, after his sudden advent, rather than to carelessness.

The Gaul’s voice yanked him from his inspection: ‘What? You’d strut in out of nowhere and fart your orders at
me –
you who can talk no better than a frog? Go back before I step on the lot of you.’

‘I think you are drunk,’ Gratillonius said truthfully.

‘Not too full of wine to piss you out, Roman!’ the other bawled.

Gratillonius forced coolness upon himself. ‘Who here is civilized?’ he asked in Latin.

The man in the red robe stepped forward. ‘Sir, we request you to kindly overlook the mood of the King,’ he responded in the same tongue, accented but fairly fluent. ‘His vigil ended at dawn today, but these his Queens sent word for us to wait. I formally attended him to and from the Wood, you see. Only in this past hour was I bidden to come.’

Gratillonius laughed. ‘He was sleeping it off, eh?’

The man shrugged and smiled. ‘After so much time alone with three of his wives –’ He grew serious. ‘Let us indeed go meet with the rest of the Gallicenae and leading Suffetes. This is an extraordinary event. My name is Soren Cartagi, Speaker for Taranis.’

The Gaul turned on him, grabbed him by his garment and shook him. ‘You’d undercut me, plotting in Roman, would you?’ he grated. A fist drew back. ‘Well, I’ve not forgotten all of it. I know when a scheme’s afoot against me. And I know you think Colconor is stupid, but you’ve a nasty surprise coming to you, potgut!’

The male attendants showed horror. A woman hurried forth. ‘Are you possessed, Colconor?’ she demanded. ‘Soren’s person when he speaks for the God is sacred. Let him go ere Taranis blasts you to a cinder!’

The language she used was neither Latin nor Osismian. Melodious, it seemed essentially Celtic, but full of words and constructions Gratillonius had never encountered before. It must be the language of Ys. By listening hard and straining his wits, he got the drift if not the full meaning.

The Gaul released the Speaker, who stumbled back, and rounded on the woman. She stood defiant – tall, lean, her hatchet features haggard but her eyes like great, lustrous pools of darkness. The cowl, fallen down in her hasty movement, revealed a mane of black hair, loosely gathered under a fillet, through the middle of which ran a white streak. Gratillonius sensed implacable hatred as she went on: ‘Five years have we endured you, Colconor, and weary years they were. If now you’d fain bring your doom on yourself, oh, be very welcome.’