That he planned one was beyond doubt. Already at Temir he had been in secret talk with men of several different kinds. While his train made its slow way through the countryside, messengers often came speeding with word he did not reveal. Thereafter he was apt to ride off, gazing afar, with none but his guards along and they forbidden to speak to hirn.
Gossip buzzed. It swelled to a tide when Niall entered Qóiqet nUlat without asking leave of any lord therein, sought Mag Slecht, and made blood sacrifice to Cromb Cróche and the twelve lesser idols. Although he wended
back peacefully enough, word of this caused swords to be whetted.
And so in due course he reached the sea, rode down to Clón Tarui, and took lodging at the public hostel there. Day after day he abode, still meeting quietly with men who came and went, but still keeping his own counsel. Since the River Ruirthech that emptied into the bay just south of this place marked the border of the Lagini, the idea arose that Niall had in mind to enforce the Bóru tribute. It had gone unpaid for many years. True, his following here was too small to overcome a whole Fifth of Ériu; but was he making a threat, or was he sending forth scouts and spies to gather knowledge for a campaign in summer? When hints or questions reached him, Niall simply smiled.
The day came at last when he and Breccan had gone hunting, and returned towards eventide. They had started a red deer in the woods northward and chased it down in a breakneck halloo: Breccan’s sling had knocked half a dozen squirrels from their trees; everyone was weary and happy. Through cleared lands they now rode, broad and gently rolling acres of pasture and field, bestowed on the hostelkeeper so that that person might give free guesting to travellers. The small round houses of tenants huddled here and there, wattle-and-daub beneath cones of thatch through which smoke seeped into the wind. It had been a day for rainsqualls and continued blustery, although a low sun struck rays like brass through the wrack that scurried overhead. Horses and hounds plodded in the mire of the road. But when the bay gleamed in sight, and the great oblong of the hostel, whinnies and bellings arose, hoofs and feet pounded, the huntsmen forgot how wet and cold they were and lifted a shout of their own.
Suddenly Niall stiffened on the horseblanket. Out of the brume upon the eastern sea, a pair of sails had
appeared, above a lean hull – a currach, bearing down on Clón Tarui. ‘It’s reckless early in the year they’ve been abroad,’ said a guard.
‘It … is … not, I am thinking,’ Niall answered slowly.
‘Hai!’
He struck heels against his mount. The beast plucked up strength and broke into gallop. Breccan’s alone could keep pace; the warriors fell behind. Niall did not heed. Nor did he stop until on the shore.
By then the currach was near. It was large, two-masted, the leather of it holding a dozen men. Sails rattled down on their yards, oars bit water, and the craft drove up on to the strand. One man leapt forth first. Niall sprang from horseback. They ran to each other and embraced.
‘Ah, welcome, welcome, darling!’ the King cried. ‘It’s grand you are looking – and all the lads home alive, too! How went the quest?’
The newcomer stepped back. He was bony, sinewy, auburn hair and beard slightly grizzled around a face that weather had seamed and bedarkened. Despite that and his drenched garb, he bore himself with an easy arrogance. ‘Bucketing over the sea and trudging over the land,’ he laughed. ‘Yet well worth the trouble. What you thought might come to pass has done so indeed, indeed. The Roman soldiers have hailed Maximus their lord, and he has left for Gallia with the most of them.’
‘Ha-a-ah!’ Niall roared.
‘Slow, dear master, slow. It does not seem they will be stripping their defences bare for this – not soon – and I’ll be giving you some news about the Saxons, also.’
Niall smote fist in palm. ‘Nonetheless – !’
The skipper arrived to pay his respects. Niall greeted him well and spoke of venison at the feast tonight. Meanwhile the thin man’s glance fell on Breccan, who stood aquiver. ‘And might this be your son, my lord?’ he
asked. ‘It’s long since I saw him last, and he a babe in arms.’
‘It is he,’ Niall replied. ‘Breccan, my dear, you will not be remembering, but here is Uail maqq Carbri, a trusty man who has gone on many a mission for me – though never, maybe, one that needed as much boldness and wiliness as this.’
‘Och, it was not that hard, so don’t you be daunting the lad about such things,’ Uail said, cockily rather than modestly. ‘I know my way about over there, and the speech – a bit of the Latin, too. It was mostly to wander as a harmless pedlar, watching, listening, sometimes getting a soul drunk or furious till his tongue ran free. There was no big secret.’
Niall’s look blazed across the waters like the last stormy sun-rays. ‘Maximus withdrawn,’ he breathed. ‘We’d likely not be wise to strike Alba this year, at his heels – not yet – but southwards, Roman will be at war with Roman – ’ Again he bellowed. ‘Ha-a-ah!’
Breccan could hold himself in no longer. And he saw his chance. He seized Niall’s hand. ‘Father,’ he cried, ‘I am going along, am I not? You promised! I shall help you get your revenge!’
Niall swept the slender form to his breast. ‘You shall that!’
He let go, stood for a heartbeat or two, frowned, then shrugged. ‘It seems Medb will have it so,’ he muttered. Straightening, he turned to Uail and the sailors. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘make your boat fast and let’s be off to the hostel. The keeper is the widow Morigel, and a fine table she sets. Afterwards … I will be querying you about everything you have learned.’
Breccan danced and whooped.
1
The chamber in the basilica where the Council of Suffetes met could have held many more than it did this day. It was ornamented only by its stone panelling, but that was superb, mica-sparked granite, veined marble, mottled serpentine, intricate onyx. Large windows admitted ample greenish light. Under the barrel-vaulted ceiling, sound carried extraordinarily well. On either side of a central passage, padded benches in tiers looked down to the farther end. There stood a dais whereon rested a throne. Behind it, the wall curved to form a bay. Against that wall were statues of the Triad, ten feet tall, Taranis on the right, Belisama in the middle, Lir represented on the left by a mosaic slab out of which stared a kraken.
When everyone else was seated, Gratillonius entered, magnificently robed, bearing the Hammer, the Key in view on his breast, but his head encircled by a fillet rather than the royal crown. His legionaries followed in full armour. The crash of hobnails resounded along the passage. At the dais they deployed right and left and came to attention behind it, in front of the towering Gods. Gratillonius mounted the platform and took stance before the throne. Silence thundered down upon the gathering. He raised the Hammer and intoned as he had been taught: ‘In the name of Taranis, peace. May His protection be on us.’
The Nine sat together in blue gowns and white headdresses at the left end of the foremost benches. Vindilis
rose, spread out her arms with palms downward, and responded: ‘In the name of Belisama, peace. May Her blessing be on us.’
By this Gratillonius knew that today she would lead the Gallicenae, speaking for them except when some other had reason to enter the discussion. He wondered why they had elected her instead of, say, wise old Quinipilis. In Vindilis’s hatchet features he read an intensity that might prove troublesome. But the Queens moved in their own ways, which it was not for anyone else to question.
Vindilis reseated herself. At the right end of the interrupted arc, Hannon Baltisi stood up. The grey beard flowed from his furrowed countenance over a robe worked to suggest a heavy sea, white manes on green waves. He was not a priest, for the God Whose worldly affairs he guided had none, unless one reckoned every skipper of Ys. But his it was to say, as Captain, ‘In the name of Lir, peace. May His wrath not be on us,’ and bring the butt of a trident booming down on the floor before he too sat.
Gratillonius handed the Hammer to Eppillus, whom he had designated his Attendant, and stood for several pulsebeats looking the assemblage over. Besides the high priestesses, it numbered thirty-three, all male and all drawn from the thirteen Suffete clans. (He had learned that those corresponded somewhat to the Roman senatorial rank, save that nobody could buy or wheedle or even earn his way into them. Entry was strictly by birth, marriage in the case of a woman, or adoption in the case of a child.) Soren Cartagi was conspicuous among them in the red robe and mitre of his role as Speaker for Taranis. Like Hannon, he represented the corporation of his temple, though he had no ritual part in the proceedings today. He could also, if he chose, argue on behalf of the Great House of Timbermen which was his.
Three men belonged ex officio to the Council – Adruval Tyri, Sea Lord, head of the navy and marines; Cothortin Rosmertai, Lord of Works, who oversaw the day-by-day administration of city business; Iram Eliuni, Lord of Gold, whose treasury function had become almost nominal. The Sea Lord wore ordinary Ysan clothes of good material, his colleagues had decked themselves in togas.
A few more togas were visible among the rest. The majority had selected robes, or else shirt and trousers. Not every garment was sumptuous, for Suffete status did not necessarily mean wealth. The delegates from guilds had themselves been fisher, sailor, wagoner, artisan, labourer, or the like. Even some heads of Great Houses had been poor in their youths. However, most had not, for these firms generally stayed in the same families through many generations.
Thirty-three men. Gratillonius’s gaze searched across them. No two were alike; and yet – The aristocrats of Ys had consciously set barriers to inbreeding. None could marry within his or her clan. Brides from outside were usually made welcome. A couple might adopt a promising youngster from among the commons or the Osismii, in hopes of invigorating the bloodline. Nonetheless, again and again he met the ‘Suffete face’, narrow, high-cheeked, aquiline, a memory in flesh and bone of lost Phoenicia.
Well. Best to start. He remained standing but assumed an easy posture. ‘Greeting,’ he said in Ysan. ‘First will I thank you for your forbearance. This honourable Council meets four times annually, I hear, around equinox and solstice. Thus you’ve but lately completed a session, and have affairs of your own awaiting your attention. Although the King possesses the right to order a special assembly when he sees fit, I have striven to make clear that mine today is for the welfare and safety of Ys, and
not capriciously in future will I call you back. Rather will I hold frequent private conference about our shared concerns as these arise; and ever will you find me heedful of you.’
He smiled. ‘I trust we can finish within a few hours. You know why we are here. ’Twould expedite matters if we, or at least I, used Latin. Else must I slowly mangle my way through your language, which does it no credit. My hope is that soon I shall be in better command of it. Meanwhile, has anybody aught in disfavour of Latin?’
Hannon lifted a hand. Gratillonius recognized him. ‘Myself, no,’ he said in an Armorican seaman’s form of that tongue. There must be some who’ve not wielded it since school days, but if they may talk Ysan, well enough. My lord King, when you’ve trouble understanding something, I suggest you ask for translation. Likewise for whoever don’t follow you very readily.’
‘We need a single interpreter,’ Soren pointed out, ‘or we will be babbling into each other’s mouths.’
‘I propose Queen Bodilis,’ came from Vindilis. ‘She’s both learned and quick-witted. Are you willing, Sister?’
‘That I am,’ replied Bodilis in scholar’s Latin.
Gratillonius regarded her. An attractive woman, he thought, seems to be in her mid-thirties, best years of a woman’s life, my father always told me. The knowledge that he would bed her stirred him – unexpectedly, when Dahilis sat right beside her. Bodilis returned his glance with calm, candour, and a slight smile.
He cleared his throat. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Let me begin by explaining my purposes. I’ve already done that as best I was able, to several among you. But for the rest, it could be that what you heard at second or third remove has suffered in transmission. Afterwards we can discuss everything, and I hope at the end you’ll formally ratify my programme, and then take a share in it.’
Increasingly, he felt sure of himself. This did not seem too different from addressing the soldiers of his century on the day of a mission. He wondered for an instant if, somehow, the fact of cooperation with Bodilis had heartened him. However brave a front he presented, when he first entered this chamber the strangeness of all that was around him had been daunting.
‘I realize you’ve had well-nigh every sort of man for King in Ys,’ he went on. ‘As for myself, you know I am a legionary: Gaius Valerius Gratillonius, centurion, hitherto serving in Britannia. There, last year I helped kick the Scoti and Picti back from the Wall. I’ve heard what pests the Scoti are to you also. I’m a Briton, Belgic, of curial family; and I’ve visited Armorica in the past.
‘Now you should be quite clear about this, that I did not come here with any intention of making myself your King. It happened. Frankly, I’m still not sure just how it happened. But we’ve got the fact of it before us, solid as your headlands. And … it may be through the favour of the Gods. Not many people seem to have liked Colconor.’ That drew a few chuckles. ‘I don’t know if I can be another Hoel, but I mean to try.’
He took up earnestness as he would have taken up his shield: ‘My task was, and is, to be the prefect of Rome in Ys. You haven’t seen my like since time out of mind. Nevertheless, the treaty – the Oath – remains in force. Ys is a foederate of Rome. It has duties towards Rome, which it may be called upon to fulfil. And Rome has duties towards Ys, which I am also here to see fulfilled. To that end, it may prove valuable that I’ve won the powers of your King.
‘Not that I intend to abuse them, nor throw my weight around as prefect. My assignment is simple. There is reason to fear trouble in the Empire. Gallia in particular
may well be in upheaval. I cannot imagine you’d want Ys drawn into that. As far as possible, your city has always kept aloof. My task is to lead you in staying at peace. No more, no less. For that, we cannot sit passive. If Roman Armorica – western Armorica, at least – if it becomes embroiled, Ys can hardly stay out. And Rome, which I serve, will take yet another wound, a wound that could prove hard to staunch.