Roma Mater (50 page)

‘Aye, lord.’ A finger strayed up to touch her gown above the shallow curve of breasts. ‘I woke from sleep, from a flash like fire, and, and –’ She swallowed. He saw tears. ‘I was so afraid.’

A certain pity touched him. He took another swallow, set the cup down, went to stand before her. His left hand he laid on her shoulder, his right he put beneath her receding chin, to raise her face towards his. ‘Be not afraid,’ he said. ‘’Tis the grace of the Goddess.’

‘They … were good to me – but – Oh, why was it me?’ she quavered. ‘Naught do I know.’

‘You’ll learn,’ he said. ‘Belisama must have known what She was doing.’ Inwardly, he wondered. He patted her back. ‘Be of brave heart.’

She half moved to put her arms about him, but withdrew them, a jerky, frightened motion. ‘My lord is kind. O-o-oh …’ She gulped, snuffled, somehow kept from sobbing.

He let her go and sought the wine. It gave him the courage he had been needing. His back to her, he said, ‘Well, ’tis been a hard day for you, Guilvilis. Shall we to our rest?’

‘Aye, lord.’

Still looking away and drinking, he said, after a space: ‘You must understand something. I have had a great sorrow. All Ys has, but … as for myself … take it not amiss – we’ll simply sleep this night, and – for a while to come.’

‘Aye, lord.’

Perhaps the Goddess had shown him a mercy. This mooncalf would make no demands on him, ever.

He finished his wine and turned about. She had
undressed and stood naked at the bedside. There was more paunch than he had seen on most young women, but her complexion was clear, but her buttocks were huge and her legs like tree trunks, down through the ankles to the big feet. Ankles … The crescent above her breasts smouldered red.

She ventured the faintest of smiles. ‘Whatever the King wants,’ she said tonelessly.

‘We’ll sleep,’ he snapped. He went about blowing out the lights as if he were the bride, not the groom. The bed creaked and rustled when she entered it. In the dark he removed his own clothes, left them on the floor, and felt his way.

He lay down and pulled sheet and blanket over him. Wine or no, he feared lying awake through the night. The incense cloyed. He turned on his side. It had been towards her, he suddenly knew – sheer habit. She stirred. He felt her nearby warmth. A scent of clean hair and flesh pierced the sweetness. His hand fell upon hers.

His member awoke. No! he cried, but it swelled and throbbed. No, this isn’t decent! Heat boiled in him. She sensed his restlessness and, herself, turned. He made a motion to keep her off. His palm encountered a breast and closed over its softness. The nipple hardened and nudged.

O Dahilis! The Bull shook horns; Its hoofs tore the earth. Blind though he was, Gratillonius knew how Guilvilis rolled over on to her back and spread her legs. He was not Gratillonius who mourned, he was he who cast himself between her thighs, thrust straight through her maidenhead, heard her cry aloud and took delight, hammered and hammered and hammered. Gratillonius stood aside, at his post of duty, hoping that afterwards the Gods of Ys would allow him to sleep.

3

The funeral barge was fifty feet in length, gold-trimmed black, with a low freeboard and broad flat deck. Stempost and sternpost terminated simply in spirals. A staff amidships bore an evergreen wreath.

When possible, she went out every third day, bearing the dead of Ys from their homes or from Wayfaring House. Often that was not possible, and sometimes their hostellers must lay them to rest in the brine vats. Always, though, in the end, they went to sea.

This morning was bright and calm, sun frosty in the south. Wavelets glittered sapphire and emerald, marble-swirled. They lapped against cliffs, wall, hull. Oars chirked and splashed as the barge passed the gate on an ebbing tide. Gulls dipped and hovered. Seals glided among the reefs.

The dead were laid out shrouded, each on a litter with a stone lashed to the feet. Deckhands went quietly about their work. The loudest noise, and it low, was the ringing of a coxswain’s gong, timing the slow stroke of the rowers. Passengers stood aside or sat on well-secured benches. For the most part they were kinfolk who wanted to say a final goodbye, clad in more subdued fashion than was ordinary. Three were ever on hand: a trumpeter, a drummer, and some one of the Gallicenae.

Upon this faring the whole Nine were aboard, and likewise the King, to follow their Sister. They stayed in a group near the bows, mute, looking inward or else far outward.

The barge travelled no great distance, because the bottom dropped rapidly. When the captain deemed they
were over the deeps, he signalled. The trumpeter blew a long call, the gongbeat died away, the rowers merely held their vessel steady.

The captain made ritual request of the high priestess in charge. This time she was Quinipilis, who because of frail health had not come along in years. Blue-clad, her headdress tall and white, she trod forward, lifted her hands, and spoke with more strength than anyone had awaited. ‘Gods of mystery, Gods of life and death, sea that nourishes Ys, take these our beloved –’

Having finished the invocation, she received a tablet from the captain and read the names aloud. They were in order of death, as were the bodies. At each, sailors lifted that litter and brought it to a chute on the larboard side. ‘Farewell,’ said the high priestess, and the men tilted their burden. A shape slid down. The water leapt a little and closed again.

–‘Without a name.’ Innilis caught her breath and reached after Gratillonius’s hand. He took hers. ‘Farewell.’ Still weak, barely able to go through with the parts that had been hers, she sat down again.

–‘Dahilis.’ He felt his other hand taken, glanced aside, and saw Bodilis. The shape dropped from sight. ‘Farewell.’ The men carried back its bed.

–A trumpet call flew forth over Ocean. The drum marched underneath. There was a silence, save for the waves and mewing gulls. ‘About and home!’ the captain ordered. Oars toiled, the gong resumed, the galley turned landward.

–The declining sun changed the waters to molten gold whose light sank into the wall and the towers of Ys and radiated back. Shadows had begun to lengthen. Their intricacy made sculpture of the brutal headlands, made a weaving of mystical signs, while the city glimmered between like a dream.

When the boat had passed through a now narrowing gateway, it found the harbour basin full of mist and blue shadings. High and high overhead, an albatross caught sunlight on his wings. A murmur stirred in the coolness, traffic noises muted to a single sound, the breathing of a woman about to go to sleep.

The barge docked and passengers got off. On the quay, under a proud, time-crumbled façade, stood a few men in robes of office. Among them were Soren Cartagi, Speaker for Taranis, and Hannon Baltisi, Lir Captain. A touch surprised, Gratillonius accompanied his Gallicenae to meet them.

Soren offered salute. ‘My lord,’ the Suffete said, ‘not hitherto have I had opportunity to bespeak my sorrow.’

By immemorial law, neither he nor Hannon were permitted on the barge until their own final journeys. ‘Aye,’ said the grey skipper, ‘she was dear to everybody, but most to you.’

Soren’s gaze travelled to Lanarvilis, then back to Gratillonius, and held steady. His heavy features gave less away than his voice. ‘You will have memories, King,’ he said. ‘They burn you, but may you later warm your hands at them on cold nights.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Enough. What I – what we here wish to tell you is this. We think the Gods have worked Their will and are at peace with Ys. In a certain measure you’ve bought that, lord. And you
are
a good King. We’ll fight you no more.’

Lanarvilis smiled as though she had foreknown.

Soren lifted a finger. ‘Mind you, lord,’ he said, ‘we may well find you wrongheaded in future and ourselves in opposition to you. We must stand fast for what is right. But ’twill be loyal opposition, for the welfare of Ys.’

Gratillonius took a moment to marshal words. ‘I thank you,’ he said. ‘More than you know, I thank you. We’ll goon together.’

Abruptly he realized that he meant it. Despair was for cowards. He still had work to do, battles to wage, dreams to dream. The life that had been in Dahilis flowed on in Dahut. Her tomorrows, which he must make sure of, were his renewal.

His next Watch would begin on the Birthday of Mithras.

Maeloch awoke. Night engulfed him, save for fugitive red gleams from the banked hearthfire. The single room of his home was full of chill and odours, woodsmoke, salt, kelp, fish, humanity, sea. Again it knocked on his door, a slow one, two, three.

He sat up. His wife Betha stirred beside him. The straw tick rustled. He heard a child of theirs whimper, terrified.

Knock, knock, knock. ‘I come,’ he called.

‘The Summons?’ she breathed.

‘Aye, what else?’ he replied, lips close to her ear. ‘The island’s been hallowed anew, I hear. And ’twas a while in the doing; we’ll have a load this trip.’

He always kept seagoing clothes where he could find them in the dark. Best not to light a torch at these times. You mustn’t linger. Nor did you want to see too well.

‘Who has the Vigil?’ he muttered as he fumbled. ‘Queen Bodilis? Meseems I’ve heard ’tis she. Pray hard, Queen Bodilis.’

The command had gone on down the row of cabins that was Scot’s Landing. Clad, Maeloch gave Betha a quick, rough kiss and went out. The moon was full, the air mild. Light glittered and torrented on small inshore waves, flickered and shimmered across the swells beyond, made flags of the foam on skerries. Only the brightest stars were clear in sight. Orion strode opposite the hulking murk of the cliffs, thence the River of Tiamat flowed across heaven past the North Eye and back into unknownness. Frost glistened on thatched roofs. A breeze wandered from the southeast, winter-cold, not strong, but you could lift sail and get help for your oars on the way to Sena. Well, They
made sure before They called the Ferriers of the Dead.

Among the men gathering by moonlight, Maeloch recognized two fellow captains. Three boatloads, then. So many had not crossed over since the battle in summer.

Fishing smacks were soon launched.
Osprey
and the others lay alongside Ghost Quay. Gangplanks thudded forth. The wind and the sea murmured.

Maeloch spied nothing but moonlight on shingle, cliffs, and waves. He heard nothing but the sounds of the night. Yet he felt a streaming across the planks, and saw how hulls settled down into the water. They would bear a full cargo tonight.

The stars wheeled in their silence.

Osprey
rode no lower. ‘We are ready,’ Maeloch said. His breath smoked white. ‘All hands aboard.’

The three boats stood out. Sails blundered aloft. The trimming was tricky, and oarsmen must keep their benches, but it gave a little more speed for passengers who had waited long. Maeloch walked around issuing low-voiced orders as needed. Otherwise nobody spoke. The companion craft were like swans afloat.

Moonlight sleeked the coats of seals.

– The boats manoeuvred in among reefs whose treachery the moon betrayed, and made fast at Sena dock. The House of the Goddess loomed black, apart from glimmers of lamplight where the high priestess was praying. The island stretched ashen.

Men who had been securing lines came back aboard and stood aside. Maeloch drew back the hood of his leather jacket, to uncover his head, and took stance near the gangplank. The moon shone, the stars gleamed.

As the souls debarked,
Osprey
rocked ever higher in the water.

Maeloch heard them blow past, breaths in the night, bound for he knew not where. ‘I was Dauvinach,’ came
to him barely … ‘I was Catellan … I was Borsus … I was Janatha …’

The sea and the wind sighed.

–‘I was Rael,’ he heard, ‘I was Temesa.’

–A whisper went by without a name.

–‘I was Dahilis.’

–When it was done, the Ferriers of the Dead cast loose and made for their homes.

Turn the page to continue reading from the King of Ys series

1

The child knew only that she was upon the sea. It was enough to overwhelm her with wonder. That this was the Blessing of the Fleet lay outside her understanding as yet, like nearly all those sounds her father made: “—And how would you like to come along, little one?” What spoke to her was the strength of his arms and the laughter rumbling in his breast as he took her up and held her close.

Already fading out of her were the marvelous things that happened at the docks, people in bright robes, deep-chanted words followed by music that sang, chimed, whistled, quivered, twanged, boomed, as the procession went from hull to hull. The gray-bearded man in the lead was frightening to see, with his long pole and its three sharp spikes that he held on high, but behind him came the Mamas—nine of them, though she was too small to have the use of numbers. Some carried green branches that they dipped into pots that others bore, and then sprinkled oil on the prows. The first had a bowl that swung from gold chains and gave off smoke. When the wind shifted and brought the smoke to the child, it smelled sweet. She and her father stood aside, watching. He was very splendid in his own robe, a great sledge hammer at his side, on his breast the Key that usually hung inside his clothes; but she had no words for any of these things.