Gratillonius didn’t ask his questions aloud. The men were already oppressed by what they saw. In camp they didn’t sing or crack jokes, they sat wistfully talking about their homes. The centurion heartened them somewhat with a speech on the marvels awaiting them at Ys, but he
was hampered by the fact that he didn’t know just what those were.
The more they marched, the grimmer it was. The road ran near the coast. Saxon raiders had been coming yearly out of the sea, in ever greater fleets whose crews would go ravaging far inland. The Duke of the Armorican Tract could do little to check them. His forces were depleted, and the shore forts had never been as tightly interlinked as those of Britannia. If a detachment was not simply too small to fight a barbarian swarm, it was seldom fast enough to catch them before they had wrought their havoc and were off elsewhere. They took care to demolish message towers, so that Roman signals of fire by night and smoke by day were no longer visible at any very useful distance; it looked to Gratillonius as if the army had given up attempts at rebuilding.
Otherwise the Saxons were as insensate as wildfire. They slaughtered men, ravished women, made quarry of children. Having clumsily sacked, they burnt. Were a place too poor to rob, they kindled it anyway, for sheer love of destruction. Gratillonius came upon ash heaps that had been houses, buildings of brick and stone rooflessly agape, towns where a few who fled had returned to squat in the ruins and tell their tales of horror, defensive walls broken and never repaired, orchards chopped down, fields charred, harbours empty of their fishing boats. He glimpsed livestock skeletons, strewn human bones which nobody had come back to bury, wandering beggars who had once had homes, three or four women who had gone mad and went about unkempt, ragged, and gibbering. Wild dogs were more dangerous than wolves. One rainy day at the remnant of a manor house, he saw a peacock dying of chill and starvation, its tail dragged down in the mud, and wondered why the sight moved him so.
Scoti out of Hivernia had been arriving too. They were
fewer in number than the Saxons, not as wantonly cruel, and their leather coracles could hold less loot than German galleys. They did their share of damage, though, especially by carrying off able-bodied young captives for slaves.
Not every stronghold had fallen, not every farm stood abandoned. A measure of civilized life went on, however wanly. The land itself was beautiful, wide beaches, long hills and dales whose grass rippled and trees soughed in the wind off the sea. Birds filled heaven, gulls, gannets, cormorants, ducks, geese, swans, cranes, herons, a hundred smaller sorts and the eagle high above them. Fish flashed in every stream, bats and swifts darted about at dusk while frogs croaked in chorus, lizards basked on sunny rocks. Squirrels streaked like meteors, hares bounded off, deer browsed in the distance. At least wildlife was coming back.
At Ingena Gratillonius planned to turn south of west, inland, towards Vorgium. There he would collect fresh supplies and have the men put their equipment in top form before the last leg of their journey. The military commander, a grizzled Italian, counselled him against it.
‘Yonder’s only a husk, scarcely a village, after what the Saxons did to it – Osismiis, that was once the finest city in Armorica, after Ys,’ he said. Gratillonius felt a slight shock at hearing how the Roman name had fallen out of use, even for this man. ‘A few Mauretanians stationed there yet, but they don’t keep proper stores, they rely on outside supply mostly. No, I’d say you should head south from here to Condate Redonum. It’s about your last chance to restock, if you’re bound west. I suppose you’ve business among the Veneti?’
‘Farther north,’ Gratillonius evaded.
‘Well, then, first proceed to Fanum Martis. Don’t bother exchanging courtesies with the garrison, they’re a
lot of scruffy Egyptians. It’s a detour, but you’ll make better speed, because you’ll have trunk roads to there and then down to Redonum. Thence it’s secondaries, but gravelled and well kept up, because the Osismii and sometimes the Ysans use it for their wagons. A good deal is through wildwood, but you should have no trouble; I scarcely think Bacaudae will jump Roman regulars. At the coast you’ll come to Garomagus – m-m, the ruins of Garomagus – and from there another good secondary road will take you down to the maritime station near Ys. That’s ruined too, been ruined for a long time. However, I hear the Ysans maintain the roads through their hinterland, and they should certainly allow you passage, if that’s the way you’re going.’
A thrill passed through Gratillonius. ‘I’ve heard tell about Ys,’ he said carelessly. ‘Things hard to believe. What’s it like in truth?’
The commander frowned. ‘Who knows, any more? A city-state on the west coast. I’ve never been there, but people say its towers are the eighth wonder of the world.’
‘Surely you know more, sir.’
The commander scratched his head. ‘Well, let me think. I’ve heard it began as a Carthaginian colony, back before the Celts arrived. The colonists interbred first with the Old Folk, those who’re said to have raised the great stones, and afterwards with the Osismii. They grew prosperous on trade. Julius Caesar made a foederate of Ys, but relations were never close and the last Imperial resident departed, oh, one or two hundred years ago, I guess. Ys no longer even pays tribute. Lately the Duke asked it to cooperate in the defence of Armorica. I hear the answer he got – in polite words, no doubt – was that by patrolling its own waters Ys was doing the best possible service to Rome. He hasn’t the manpower to enforce anything on the city; it’s well protected by its wall and
there’d be no way to close its sea lanes. Besides, maybe the Ysans are right. I don’t know. I told you I’ve not been there myself.’
‘Few seem to. Odd. I should think curiosity alone –’
The commander pressed lips together. ‘I should too, now you say it. But that isn’t the case. I never wondered much about Ys either, even when I was young and lively. You see practically no mention of it in any records. I’ve read Caesar and Tacitus and Plinius and – and many more – and nowhere have I found a word about Ys, not in the
Gallic War
itself, though native tradition insists Caesar paid a visit in person.’ He sighed. ‘Christ and all angels help us, there’s something damnably strange about Ys. They have a grisly kind of royal sacrifice, and nine witch-queens who go out on a desert island and work black magic, and – Well, I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve troubles aplenty as is.’
Gratillonius did not pursue matters.
At sunrise he led his men onward. After two days they came to Fanum Martis, where the tower dedicated to the war God loomed huge and empty above houses, many of which were also deserted.
There they swung south. In that direction they found ample traces of former habitation. Armorica had once been thriving and well populated, except for the heavily forested interior; but little remained. Land rolled gently, taken over by grass, brambles, young trees. Often the travellers spied megalithic monuments. Gauls said Gods, or elves, or wizards, or the Old Folk had raised those gaunt menhirs, solitary or in cromlech circles, those massive dolmens and passage chambers. Once the party made camp by one of the latter. Gratillonius took a torch inside and came upon relics of a family who had sheltered there – a well-off family, whose glassware gleamed while furniture decayed and silver corroded on the earth. He
wondered what had happened to them. Thieves had not dared enter this haunted place afterwards. Gratillonius left the things where they were, out of respect for the dead, and did not mention them.
None of his followers had volunteered to accompany him, though he knew they would have done so if asked. Gratillonius was not himself afraid. He didn’t think Ahriman would deign to employ mere spooks, and in any event they must flee from the light of Ahura-Mazda which Mithras bore. He could not understand why otherwise rational people had all those vague superstitions about Ys.
Next morning the soldiers rose at first light as usual, paid their various devotions, got a meagre breakfast, struck camp, and marched. They reached Condate Redonum before noon.
This riparian city too had withdrawn behind fortress walls; but those were unbreached, the houses within unplundered, if dirty and dilapidated. More life flowed over the cobbles, between buildings and across the forum, than Gratillonius had seen for some time. After passing through areas where folk tended to be dark-haired, here he found them again generally fair, as well as robust and rather tall.
Most were local Redones, but quite a few were Osismii come from the west to market. Gratillonius observed the latter with special interest; their country bordered on Ys. The men ran to sweeping moustaches and hair in long braids. Their clothing was of good stuff and frequently fur-trimmed. They carried themselves boldly. Gratillonius recalled that the honestiores had never taken root among them, nor had there ever been many curials to grind between the millstones.
In contrast, the garrison appalled him. It was mainly of Frankish laeti. They were big men, armoured in conical
helmets and leather reinforced with iron rings. Sword and francisca, the dreaded throwing-axe, were their principal weapons; shields were small and round, garishly painted. They swaggered about pushing others out of the way, daring anybody to defy them.
Gratillonius sought the military prefect at headquarters. That Iberian could only say, ‘I’m sorry. I’ll see to it that you get what you need, of course, but in this confusion it may take a little time, and meanwhile I urge you to camp well away from town. Our people have got used to the Franks, if not exactly liking them, but your men could too easily get into a fight. You see, it happens they’re holding one of their festivals tonight.’
‘Hm-m. Drunk and rowdy.’
To say the least. They’re heathen, did you know? They’ll swill themselves into madness and believe they’re inspired by Mercurius – Wotan, they call Him, chief of their Gods.’ The officer grimaced. ‘It won’t be as bad as the quarter days. Then they go out in the country and make human sacrifices. True, that does take them out of town. Redonum won’t be safe tonight. But what can we do?’
Gratillonius thought furiously that he knew very well what
he
could do. Still, he must not lose men in the chastising of Franks … who were allies against barbarians from outside … His mission lay before him, in glorious Ys.
Next day his troop marched westward.
At midnight the Nine left the House of the Goddess and set forth. They bore no lanterns, for the moon was nearly full and the sky clear. Their weather spell had seen to that. But there was a wind, whistling and cold from the east, over the island and away across Ocean. This too was the will of the Nine, for it was such a wind as rode with the souls of many among the dead. The Gallicenae would need every unseen power they could raise to strengthen them in that which they were about to do.
Sena was small, flat, treeless. Moonlight lay hoar on harsh grass, darkling on rocks, ashimmer on tide pools and the kelp strewn around them. It frosted the manes of waves as they rolled and tumbled, it made white fountains where they crashed on outlying reefs and rocks, it glimmered off the coats of seals that swam along as if following the procession. It drowned most stars; those that were left seemed to flicker in the wind.
The women walked slowly, silent save when a cloak flapped or a pebble gritted underfoot. The wind spoke for them. Forsquilis led. She stared before her, blind and deaf in trance. Vindilis and Bodilis guided her by either arm. They were those who could hold themselves steadiest when next to such a vessel of strangeness. The other six followed in file. Quinipilis was in front, as befitted the oldest, the presiding one. Fennalis came after, and then her daughter Lanarvilis, then Innilis, then Maldunilis. Last was Dahilis, who crowded a little as if the bulk ahead could somehow shield her from the terrors that prowled about. A covered firepot she carried glowed out of airholes like red spider eyes.
It seemed long, but was not, until the Queens reached the Stones. Those two pillars, rough-hewn and raised by the Old Folk, stood close together near the middle of the island. The beak of the Bird, the more pointed head of the Beast – vague resemblances – were some two man-heights aloft. Vindilis and Bodilis helped Forsquilis in between them. They engulfed her in shadow; hardly any of her was now to be seen other than the manyfold linen windings of her headdress, phantom-wan. She laid her palms against the rock and stood motionless except for quickened breath.
The rest ranged themselves in a circle, Quinipilis facing the seeress. The aged woman lifted her arms and countenance on high. ‘Ishtar-Isis-Belisama, have mercy on us,’ she called in a voice still strong. ‘Taranis, embolden us. Lir, harden us. All Gods else, we invoke You in the name of the Three, and cry unto You for the deliverance of Ys.’
Her prayer used the ancestral speech because of its sacredness and potency, but thereafter she returned to the vernacular: ‘Forsquilis, Forsquilis, how go you, what find you?’
The priestess between the Stones answered like a sleepwalker: ‘I go as an owl. The treetops beneath my wings are a net wherein the moon touches buds and new leaves with argent. It is lonely being a spirit out of the flesh. The stars are more far away than ever we knew; the cold of those vastnesses comes seeping down over the world, through and through me.
‘I see a glade. Dew sparkles on grass around a camp where a fire burns low. Metal gleams on its guardians. I glide downward. The forest is haunted tonight. Do I glimpse the antlers of Cernunnos as He walks amidst His trees?
They are soldiers, yon men, earthlings only, naught in them of fate. Am I misled? Did the Gods not hear us or
heed us? Oh, surely these men are bound hither and surely that is a sign unto us. Yet – Bewildered, I flutter to and fro in the air.’
Suddenly her voice came alive: ‘A man steps forth from darkness. Was it him that I espied under the boughs? Sleepless, he has walked down a game trail to sit by a spring and love the sky. Sleepless – he knows not why – but I know him! Now when he is drawn this near, his destiny has reached out of the future and touched him.