‘What Ys must do is lend its aid to the cause of peace, of order. Legates and governors elsewhere may wish to take sides in the fight. We need to keep them home. A word here, a bribe there, a show of naval strength yonder – that should suffice. What exactly shall we do? I plan to work that out in concert with the leaders of Ys, and then get it done.
‘That’s all. Later we’ll consider together what else we can undertake, in the better day that I believe lies ahead. But first we must weather the storm that’s brewing. I want your agreement to this, followed by your best efforts – under me, the prefect of Rome and now your King – to carry out the mission. For the welfare of Rome and of Ys!
‘Thank you.’
He folded his arms and waited. After a hush, Soren said, ‘My lady Bodilis, could you put that in Ysan for the benefit of any who may not have caught every word?’
‘I can paraphrase,’ replied the Queen. ‘Meanwhile let each of us be thinking of what this portends.’
She stood and spoke. Gratillonius admired her handling of the matter; she seemed to express things more clearly and compactly than he had himself.
When she finished, a buzzing went along the benches, until Sea Lord Adruval declared bluntly, ‘We can’t navigate in a fog. And foggy you’ve been, O King, when we talked before. What is this menace we’re supposed to prepare against?’
‘I have not said, because I am not party to secrets of
state, nor am I a prophet to read the future,’ Gratillonius answered. ‘What my commander gave me to understand was that great events will soon happen, and they may get violent. I pray it be less bad than the Magnentian War, and the outcome better. But we must wait for word, and hold ourselves ready to act on it.’
Vindilis did not signal request to be recognized. Silence fell immediately upon all others when the spokeswoman of the Gallicenae announced in a steely tone: ‘I can tell you more than that. Gratillonius’s superior, who dispatched him to us, is Magnus Clemens Maximus, Duke of the Britains. The legions in that diocese have hailed him Augustus. They have crossed over to Gallia and are warring for the purple. Gratillonius,’ – her eyes burned at him –’you are not stupid. I suppose he never told you outright, but you must have understood; and you are Maximus’s man.’
The Suffetes gasped. Thundersmitten, the King of Ys cried, ‘How can you know?’
‘By the same means we knew of your coming.’ Vindilis gestured towards the woman on her left. ‘Forsquilis went in a Sending.’
‘What’s this? Priestess, we’ve only your naked word.’
Soren’s ruddy visage darkened. ‘Do you call the Gallicenae liars?’ he shouted. A growl as of shingle under surf lifted around him.
Quinipilis rose, leaned on her staff, raised her free hand for attention. ‘Be not hasty,’ she said in Ysan. ‘Gratillonius is new among us. He means well. And he
is
King and prefect. Give him a chance to learn.’
The centurion wet his lips. ‘I’m certainly willing to listen,’ he said. ‘Do explain.’
‘That were best done in private,’ Vindilis answered, ‘between Forsquilis and yourself.’
‘Well – that is, if the lady agrees –’ Gratillonius’s look
went to the Pallas Athene face of the seeress. No expression relieved the coldness of its lines when she nodded. But Dahilis, even in this moment, flashed him an impish grin and jerked a thumb upwards.
‘Aye, this is no place to reveal a mystery,’ said Bodilis in Ysan. The Power reaches beyond speech. Let us go on with the business of our assembly. At eventide Forsquilis can show the King what she chooses.’
A mollified Soren agreed: ‘Very well. Shall we stipulate that the Empire is again at civil war? Since Maximus could not arrange to rally Armorica behind him as he has the Britannic legions, it is to his advantage that Armorica stay neutral while he campaigns east and south of it. Gratillonius’s orders are to assure this. He may be right about it being best for Ys too, provided we do not provoke resentment in the Imperium, should Maximus fail. Let us discuss it, and then go on to ways and means.’
Gratillonius stood soldierly and helpless while debate began.
2
He could not guess what awaited him at the house of Forsquilis. They walked there in silence, unaccompanied, after the meeting dissolved. Dusk lay blue upon the world; the earliest stars trembled forth. From this high part of the city he could see over the battlemented bowl of night which it had become, to a mercury glimmer in the harbour basin and the vast sheening of Ocean beyond. Right and left gloomed the headlands; out on Cape Rach, fire burned atop the pharos, red, unrestful as a seeking eye. Air was cool, slightly sweetened by a lilac in a stone basin at her doorstep, and wholly quiet.
Lamplight spilled yellow across the paving as a manservant bowed the two inside. ‘Dinner is ready, my lady and lord,’ he said. Savoury odours confirmed it.
Forsquilis glanced at Gratillonius. He saw that her eyes were grey, like those of the Minerva – the Athene whom she so much resembled. No, he thought confusedly, that Goddess wears a helmet and carries a spear and shield. But what Gorgon’s head may this woman bring forth, to turn men into stone?
Her Latin was fluent: ‘I sent a messenger during the day, directing a repast be prepared. Does this please the King?’
He attempted a jest. ‘Can’t you read the answer in my mind?’
Her solemnity reproved him. ‘No, unless by strong magic, which might not work; and without dire need, it would be no decent thing to do.’
Flushing, he gave his cloak to the servant, as she did hers, and they went directly to the triclinium. Atrium and corridor showed bucolic scenes that he suspected she had never bothered to have altered, nor had those who lived here before her, for they looked old. The dining room likewise was antique; but perhaps she found jarring whatever pattern was on the floor, since reed mats covered it. The furnishings were table and chairs, Ysans never having reclined at their meals. On a richly decorated cloth stood costly ware. He wondered if this was on his account and ordinarily Forsquilis ate austerely. Her slenderness suggested it.
He wondered, as well, just why she reverted to her mother tongue while they settled opposite each other: ‘Difficult has today been for you. Shall we now take our ease and refresh ourselves?’
‘You are … considerate,’ he responded, deciding to stay with Latin. Why burden himself needlessly in a taut
situation? ‘I’ll try. Though it has for certain been difficult. Pardon me if I can’t put matters aside at once.’
It was not that the Council had, in the end, denied him support. It was that that had been considered, and finally given, almost as if he, the prefect, were a mere courier – at most, an ambassador: as if Ys were not subordinate to Rome but deciding independently that its interest lay in emerging to some degree from the secrecy it had kept around itself.
For the first time, he saw Forsquilis’s lips curve upwards. Think you ’twas my fault? Well, in a way. But would you not have done the same if you could, for Rome?’
A servant in livery of black and gold brought bowls and towels for the washing of hands. Another poured unwatered wine, a third set forth appetizers, boiled shrimp, pickled eggplant, raw fish, sauce of garum and minced onion. They ate well in Ys who could afford it, not gluttonously but well.
Gratillonius lifted his beaker. Relief swept through him. ‘Right! And there’s no real conflict between us. I admit being, m-m, surprised. It’s hard to believe you’d know what Maximus is doing before I myself have heard. I held back the information about his intentions because, frankly, I wanted the upper hand, if anything untoward happened. But you’d have got it as soon as I received whatever word he sends. He will be good for the Empire, and that means he’ll be good for Ys.’
‘We trust so, we of the Sisterhood. We called on the Three to give us the right king, and you are the one They brought.’
Gratillonius felt a shiver. He was of Rome, a soldier, a civilized and educated man. Maximus had ordered him here for excellent, logical reasons. He must not believe it had really been the work of alien Gods, and witches, and
– He might have dismissed the idea if Forsquilis had raved at him or made mystical passes or done anything but sit there, more and more fair to behold, talking quite evenly – No, not that either. In her tone, in her eyes, there went ghosting something else. He could imagine that she lived on the fringe of the Otherworld.
He snatched after ordinariness. ‘Well, let’s see if we can slack off as you propose. You’ve heard about me, but I know nothing about you. Tell me.’
Her look dwelt long and seriously upon him. ‘Dahilis spoke true,’ she murmured at last. ‘You are a kindly man. You may well prove a second Hoel.’ And then it was as if a shudder of her own went beneath the controlled exterior. ‘Although the omens were obscure,’ she whispered. ‘But we live in such an age of breakup – ’
He
would
not peer into those dim and lawless depths, not yet, not yet. He took a fragrant gulp and a pungent bite. They brought him back to the understandable earth. ‘You were wife to Hoel?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘The Sign came upon me when Quistilis died, a year before he did. I was fourteen. He was gentle. But I was bearing his child when he fell. What Colconor did, that caused me to lose it.’
A red lump on the floor or in the bed or the privy, that might have stirred for a minute, Gratillonius thought. Freezingly: She tells it in such calm, as if it happened to somebody else long ago. Her soul was withdrawn. Will it ever return?
‘May I ask how old you are?’ he said.
‘Twenty winters.’
Dahilis was not much younger … ‘You are wise beyond your years, Forsquilis.’
‘I had nowhere else to go but into the arcane,’ she told him quietly.
– She showed him a little after the meal, during which
they had discussed safe matters. (Not that that was dull; each had endlessness to talk about.) A curtained chamber, dark save for a lamp made out of a cat’s skull, held within its weaving shadows a shelf of scrolls and codices, a female figurine in clay that she said was from ancestral Tyre, inscribed bones, herbs dried and bundled, flints that perhaps had been shaped by the Old Folk as some said or perhaps were thunderstones as others said … ‘These things are not needful in themselves, Gratillonius.’ Her eyes glistened huge in the murk. ‘They are but teachers and helps. As I wait entranced, my spirit fares forth. It is a power that once belonged to every Queen. But in this age when the very Gods are troubled and faltering, it has only come to me. Do you remember an owl, of the great sort called eagle owl, at midnight above a glade in Armorica – ?’
– In the bedroom she said gravely, ‘Let us hallow ourselves, Belisama be with us.’ When she unwound her headdress, he saw that her hair was golden-brown. When she let her gown fall, he saw that she was shapely.
The Bull arose. Fleetingly he remembered Dahilis. But this would be her wish.
All at once Forsquilis laughed aloud and pointed. ‘Oh, but the Goddess has been generous!’
Ugliness stabbed: how could she tell? She had known just Hoel and Colconor, had she not? Maybe, during the reign of the beast King, maybe her Sending had prowled into homes more happy?
No. He would not think further. He could not. The Bull was in him, the Bull was he.
Astonishment followed. With Dahilis he had gone slowly at first, soothing her fears, finding his way towards what pleased her. He had looked for this Athene to be likewise, if she did not simply lie there and accept. But
she was hastily up against him, her hands seeking and urging. When he laid her down and entered her she yowled. In the morning he recalled the changeableness and unknown depths of the sea. His back was clawed red.
1
A light rain turned the world cool and horizonless on the afternoon when Gratillonius came to call on Bodilis. She admitted him herself. ‘Welcome, lord King.’ Her tone and her smile made him believe she meant it.
Entering, he threw back the cowl of his cloak and undid the brooch. Beneath, he wore everyday Ysan garb lately tailored for him. Raindrops sparkled in the auburn curls of the beard he was growing. It still itched sometimes, but he had decided he should show his people every sign he could of his oneness with them. ‘I am sorry –’ he began.
‘O-oh, mother! Is
he
the King?’ An eight-year-old girl darted from a doorway, tawny locks flying about an elven countenance.
‘Now, Semuramat, bow like a proper lady,’ Bodilis said. Although warmth pulsed in her voice, the child obeyed at once, whereafter she stood staring out of enormous eyes.
‘Greeting,’ the man said in Ysan. ‘I am … in truth your new stepfather. For this is your mother, is she not? What is your name?’
‘S-s-semuramat,’ the girl whispered. ‘My lord.’
He saw her tremble. The Queens had kept their daughters away from Colconor as much as possible, which became nearly all the time; but there would have been an aura of hatred and terror. ‘Be not afraid, Semuramat,’ Gratillonius urged. ‘I expect we shall be happy together. Hm. Do you like horses?’ She nodded twice and thrice.
‘Well, suppose you come for a ride on my saddlebow as soon as I have a free hour, and we’ll get to know each other. Afterwards we may perchance look into finding you a pony.’
Bodilis laughed. ‘Don’t overwhelm the poor creature!’
‘I’d fain be the friend of this household,’ he replied earnestly. ‘As I was about to say, I’m sorry to have let seven days go by since the Council, ere sending word I would visit you now if you desired. You may have heard how I’ve been at work, getting to know the city’s defences above all. Three of those days I wasn’t even in town, but riding around the hinterland on inspection. At night I’d fall asleep as if into a well.’ Alone. Not that purely male companionship and concerns were unwelcome, however much he missed Dahilis.
‘Go back to your work, dear,’ Bodilis directed. When Semuramat had pattered off, she explained to Gratillonius, who was hanging his cloak on a peg: ‘My servants are presently out to fetch what’s needful for a worthy supper. I’ve ever made my daughters help in the house. Princesses should have skills too.’
‘And discipline, of a loving sort,’ he approved.