Now it was the Scoti who were outnumbered – and unarmoured, fatigued, many among them already wounded. As the marines advanced, the legionaries did too, from behind. The chief shouted and beckoned. His followers rallied around, formed a primitive shield-wall, started chanting their death-songs. They would not perish easily.
Gratillonius at its centre, the Ysan line made contact. Everything became delirium, as always, except that the marines and the legionaries worked in coordinated units. Gratillonius could see his target man over the heads of others, but in the chaos that man had got elsewhere and was hewing away at Romans. ‘Ha-a-a! Ha-a-a!’ Clang and bang, tramp and stamp, thrust and parry, Gratillonius pushed inwards.
A last, violent gust of wind went over the headland. A raven flew upon it.
Gratillonius was never sure afterwards what had happened. He remembered a woman, titanic and hideous, lame, swarthy, sooty, a cast in her left eye, who wielded a sickle that mowed men like wheat. But that could not be right, could it? Surely the truth was just that somehow the Scoti battled their way through the onslaught, heaped casualties in windrows, won back to the trailhead and thence to the sea. Gratillonius had taken a blow on the head which, helmet or no, left him slightly stunned for a while. He must have suffered an illusion. That others had had the same was not uncommon in combat.
In the end, after they had done what they could for their own injured and cut the throats of whatever foes lay crippled, he and his troop stood at the brink, looking down. They saw the galley beating along the point on
oars. The coracles trailed after. ‘That remnant is not in simple retreat,’ Gratillonius deemed. ‘They still aim to give reinforcement below Cape Rach. Well, we’ll see about that.’
He almost regretted the killing. If Rome had civilized Hivernia, long ago when that was possible, what soldiers for her its sons would be!
6
Hulls rolled, pitched, yawed, shuddered. Spray sheeted over the bows. Yet close in to land the seas were no longer too heavy to row against, with the currachs in the galley’s pathbreaking wake. The reefs farther out took most of their rage. It would have been mortally perilous to venture there. Niall had another reason as well for staying near the cliffs. ‘The shortest way is the swiftest,’ he explained to Breccan. ‘The sooner we reach our people at the harbour, the fewer of them will die.’
The boy hugged cloak around shoulders. Legs braced and hands clutching rail, they were standing together on the foredeck. Bailing was not immediately needful – a boon, when the crew were dwindled and so exhausted that turns taken on the benches were brief indeed. ‘Can we truly help them?’ Breccan wondered.
‘We can, if the Mórrigu be with us still.’ Awe tinged Niall’s voice. He had seen the Mother of the Slain at work on the battlefield. ‘This game is not played out, darling. I think that not all the players are human.’ His gaze brooded over the waves. ‘What we’ll do is engage the enemy yonder while those of our men ashore who’ve lost their boats – the which they’ll have had no chance to make fast – come aboard. Thereafter we’ll stand out,
escorting what currachs are left. With more men, this ship can get about readily again. The currachs may want towlines from us to escape the maze of rocks we must thread; or if any get wrecked, we can try to rescue the crews.’
‘Will not the Ysans pursue? I’ve heard tell of their war fleet, and they know these waters as we do not.’
Those ships are elsewhere, my heart. Otherwise they would have attacked us before ever we could make any landings. For the masters of Ys knew we were coming. It can have been none but their she-druids that caused us to be blown here.’ Niall’s fist smote the rail. ‘May each be raped by a demon, and may the whelps he gets on them tear them apart in the birthing.’
Breccan looked troubled. ‘Father, always you told me to honour a worthy foe. And they’ve been bonny fighters here. They have.’
‘They set on us with their magical tricks when we meant them no hurt whatsoever.’ Niall sighed. ‘Ah, but Ys is fair and wonderful. Let us escape, and I’ll forgive the folk if not their rulers.’ A smile crossed his lips. ‘Why, someday I’d like to come back, in peace. Behold. Let your eyes revel.’
They had rounded the point and were about to pass the city at a distance of several hundred yards. High and high the walls gleamed, and the towers beyond; it was as if the voyagers had truly crossed Ocean and come to Tír innan Oac. The very rowers stared and marvelled as they toiled.
Breccan shaded his brow from the spray. ‘Father, something is different. See, there on top. The little sheds are gone, and – what
are
those things?’
‘You’ve the eyesight of youth,’ Niall said. ‘Let me try –Cromb Cróche!’ ripped from him. ‘Those are killing machines! Helm over, Uail! Get us away!’
The air had gone quiet and cold. Waves ran noisily, but
not so much as to smother the deep drone and thud which sounded from either side of the sea gate. Boulders the size of half a man came flying, tumbling, arching over with a horrible deliberation. Six-foot shafts, their iron heads murderously barbed, flew straight between them.
A splash erupted alongside. The galley rolled on her beam ends. Aft, Niall saw a direct hit on a currach. And it was no longer there, merely bits of it afloat, and two men who threshed about for a small span until they went under.
‘Row!’ Niall bellowed. ‘Pull out of range before they target us!’
Two bolts smote the larboard planks. Their points protruded into the hull. Their shafts dragged, waggled, got in the way of oars. Another pierced a currach, which filled and drifted useless. Men of the third boat drew close and tried to save those who clung to the wreckage. A ballista stone sank it.
‘We cannot help,’ Niall groaned. ‘We’d only die ourselves.’ Nor did any chance remain of giving aid at Scot’s Landing. The galley must now get so far from Ys that her crew would have all they could do to keep her off the skerries. By the time she could labour around to the south shore, that battle would be over.
‘Manandan, I offer You a bull, white with red ears and mighty horns, for every lad of mine who comes home,’ Niall cried. Surely some could win back to such vessels as had not floated away, and thereupon ride it out, maintain sea room, finally steer for Ériu. Oh, let it be so!
Niall drew sword and shook it at the city. A sunset ray broke through clouds to glimmer along the iron, and to make brilliant the armour of the Ysan artillerymen. Tears mingled with salt water beneath the eyes of the King.
‘Father, don’t weep,’ Breccan said. ‘We did well –’
A bolt took him in the stomach, cast him down into the
bilge, and pinned him there. His blood spurted forth. For a moment he struggled, flailing arms and legs, like an impaled beetle. He choked off a scream. Then he mastered himself and forced a smile.
Niall reached him, knelt, and tried to pull the bolt free. It was driven in too hard for even his strength. Useless, anyway. Breccan was sped. ‘Father,’ he gasped, ‘was I worthy?’
‘You were that, you were, you were.’ Niall hugged him and, again and again, kissed the face that was like Ethniu’s.
Soon Breccan lay quiet, save that the ship made limbs and head flop. His blood and shit sloshed about in the bilgewater.
Niall rose. He clambered back on to the foredeck. Three splashes in the waves, followed by no more, showed that he had drawn beyond reach.
He raised the sword he had dropped when Breccan was hit. He lifted it by the blade, in both hands, letting the edge cut his right palm till red flowed down the steel. None was in his countenance, which was as white as the eyeballs of his dead boy. Looking towards the beautiful city he said, low and evenly:
‘Ys, I curse you. May the sea that you call yourself the queen of rob your King of what he loves the most, and may what he loves afterwards turn on him and rend him. May your sea then take yourself back to it, under the wrath of your Gods. And may I, O strange and terrible Gods, may I be he who brings this doom upon you. For my revenge I will pay whatever the price may be. It is spoken.’
Trailed by the last of its currachs, the ship went in among the rocks. Three boats got away from Cape Rach to join them, but one was presently ripped open and the men drowned. Darkness fell. The survivors found anchorage of a sort. In the morning they started home.
1
Ys jubilated. That evening the Fire Fountain was kindled in the Forum. Its jets and cascades of flame would make luminous the next six nights, for which the Nine had promised fine weather – part of the celebrations, both solemn and sportive, that would give thanks for victory.
In certain houses happiness was absent. Among them were those which had lost a man in battle. Some other people had their different misgivings.
At sunrise Gratillonius left the palace. He did not seek the gate for its ceremonious unlocking; the waves were still running too high. Instead he went alone, in a hooded cloak, unrecognized by such few persons as were abroad this early, to the Forum. Oil to the fountain was turned off just as he came on to the plaza; a little smoke lent acridity to remnant mists.
Mounting the west stairs of the former temple of Mars, he heard the voice of Eucherius the Christian pastor quaver out of a bronze door left ajar. He frowned and halted. Evidently the daily Mass was not over yet. He recognized the blessing that followed Communion, having caught snatches of Christian liturgy throughout his life. A coughing spell interrupted it. Well, then, they’d soon be done in there. It would be bad manners to enter just now. Gratillonius composed himself.
Half a dozen worshippers came out. The catechumens, who did not number very many more, had already heard the part of the service that was permitted them and gone
off. These, the baptized, were four women and two men, of humble station and getting along in years. They didn’t notice him. When they had passed by, he went into the vestibule. At the inner door he looked beyond, into the sanctuary, where Eucherius and old deacon Prudentius were occupied. Softly, he hailed.
‘Oh – the King!’ The small grey man was astonished. They had been introduced, but as hastily as Gratillonius felt was halfway polite. He had had too much pressing business. Eucherius left Prudentius to put away the portable tabernacle of the Host, which in Ys was little more than a wooden box in the usual turret shape. The chorepiscopus trotted forward to take his visitor by the forearm. ‘Dare I hope – ?’ His shy smile faded out. ‘No, I fear not. Not yet. Were you waiting outside? You would have been warmer in this room. It’s open to everybody.’
‘I don’t belong,’ Gratillonius answered. ‘But I thought I should give you a sign that I respect your faith.’
The pastor sighed. ‘You wish I would respect yours. Well, I do. From everything I have heard, it is an upright creed. I am sorry –I should not be, but I am – that I may not concede you more than this.’
‘I’ve come on a matter touching yours.’
‘I can guess what. You are indeed a virtuous man. Let us go talk.’ Eucherius led the way through the corridor around the sanctuary to his quarters. There he offered bread, cheese, and water; he had nothing better. Gratillonius partook sparingly.
‘Eight of my soldiers died yesterday,’ he said. ‘Seven were Christian. Their legion and funeral society are away off in Britannia. It behoves me as their commander to see that they get the kind of burial they wanted. When I inquired, I learned that no Christians are ever laid in Ysan soil.’
Eucherius expressed sympathy before he nodded.
True. Any burials near the city have long been forbidden, since men decided the necropolis should spread over no more valuable land. Not that the faithful could well rest there. And pagan sea funerals –’ He grimaced, as if in actual pain. ‘Ah, poor souls! Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. They mean well, too, but –but even Queen Bodilis, who has been so benevolent to me – My son, you have at least seen the outer world. How can you partake in these gruesome rites?’
‘It’s not forbidden me as a Mithraist. The Lord Ahura-Mazda created many beings less than Him but greater than men. Besides, I don’t agree the Ysan practices are bad. They sacrifice no humans, like the Germans.’ Gratil-lonius drew aside from the combat in the Wood. ‘Nor do they sanction those obscene things that get done in the name of Cybele.’ Irritation roughened his tone. ‘Enough of that. Graves are allowed inland. Some farmers and shepherds, who’d rather keep their dead close by, bury them on their own property. Why doesn’t your church maintain a plot?’
‘None has been granted us. We have nothing but this building. I doubt anybody would sell us an ell of ground to consecrate, supposing I could raise the money. They would be superstitiously afraid of offending their Gods.’
‘I see. What do you do then?’
‘There is a churchyard outside Audiarna, the Roman town at the southeast border. It’s not too far, about a day’s journey by wagon. I have an arrangement with a carter, and with my fellow minister yonder.’ Another fit of coughing racked the thin frame. Concerned, Gratillonius noticed how bloody was the sputum. Eucherius gave him a sad smile and murmured, ‘Forgive me. I should not detain you, who must have much else to do. Send one of your soldiers who is a brother in Christ, and between us he and I will take care of everything.’
‘Thank you.’ Gratillonius rose, hesitated, and added, ‘If you have any needs in future, ask. I don’t think you’ll find me unwilling to help.’
‘Save where it comes to propagating the Faith?’ replied Eucherius gently. ‘Regardless, yours is a noble spirit. Do you mind if I pray to my God that He watch over you and someday enlighten you? As for – charitable works or the like – oh, Bodilis may have some ideas.’ His eyes burned fever-brilliant in the gloom. ‘Give her my love.’
2
Soren Cartagi sent an urgent message to the royal palace. The King should promptly meet with the Nine, as well as with Lir Captain and the Speaker for Taranis. ‘No surprise,’ Gratillonius snapped. He set the hour of noon and dispatched the courier to inform everybody named. At the time, he escorted Dahilis to the basilica. Twenty-two legionaries followed them. Some limped, some displayed bandages. Eight more lay dead, and two were an honour guard on the last journey of their seven Christian comrades.