– The rocks around Sena made approach so tricky that perhaps no skipper but Maeloch could have accomplished it today. When at last he brought
Osprey
to the wharf, his men slumped exhausted on their benches.
Forsquilis rose. ‘Rest a while,’ she said. ‘We drove relentlessly west. You can go easier eastwards, homewards. Wait here.’
She sprang ashore, no need for a gangplank, and made for the House of the Goddess. Her cloak rippled blue. Gulls dipped, soared, creaked through the salt wind. Out amidst the skerries, where waves crashed and foam burst, were many seals.
– The door stood open, the windows were unshuttered, the room was bright and barren. On the bed lay a form covered by a blanket. The floor had been scrubbed clean. Gratillonius sat in a chair next the bed. In his arms he rocked a newborn girl. Her crying was loud and furious.
Forsquilis entered, darkening some of the light. Gratillonius looked up. Auburn hair and beard seemed doubly vivid against a face drained and congealed, nothing behind it but weariness. ‘I have brought a nurse for her,’ said Forsquilis. ‘Come down to the boat. I will see to all else.’
1
He came awake believing it was Dahilis who roused him. Happiness filled him like sunshine. His heart felt bird-light. Oh, my dear darling!
He opened his eyes. Bodilis withdrew the hand that had been shaking him. Gratillonius remembered. He cried out and sat up in bed.
Dim day entered the chamber through its panes. Bodilis stepped back. She was clad entirely in white, no jewellery, a coif over her hair. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said low. ‘But you must arise. You’ve well-nigh slept the sun through a round.’
He recalled vaguely that Fennalis had given him a potion after he reached the palace. Earlier than that, sailors had borne a wrapped form on a litter from the quay towards Wayfaring House. Earlier than that he had been at sea, a rough passage … His memory was full of jagged gaps where mists and fragments drifted.
‘We cannot delay further,’ Bodilis urged gently. ‘You are the King. The Gods require Their due. And then there is the infant.’
Dahilis’s daughter. ‘How is she?’ grated out of him.
Bodilis smiled a tiny bit. ‘Lustily yelling and kicking, the last I saw. Amazing, in view of –’ the smile died –’the circumstances. But yours is strong blood, and her mother was no weakling. Now do get up, Gratillonius. You have your duties.’
His whole body ached, as if he had spent a night in
combat. His mind moved heavily. His spirit wanted to go away, home to Britannia or off to war or anywhere else. But he was the King. He was the prefect of Rome and a centurion of the Second.
Bodilis guided him to a hot bath. While he lay in it she brought him bread and wine. He had no appetite, but partook and gained strength. A massage afterwards by his burly body servant pummelled some sluggishness out of his muscles. Bodilis stood by as attendants arrayed him in crimson robe and royal finery. ‘Where are we bound?’ he asked.
‘To the temple of Belisama,’ she replied. ‘It was decided to have both sacraments together, inasmuch as the mother is gone and you soon have your Watch to stand.’
‘Both?’
‘First the naming and hallowing of the child.’
He nodded. Dahilis and Innilis had told him about that while they were expecting theirs. ‘I am to do what the mother would have done?’
‘This is custom when a Queen dies in childbed.’
He remembered thoughts he had had while he waited in the House of the Goddess and afterwards aboard ship. ‘Very well.’
Side by side, he and Bodilis went forth. The day was overcast, a silvery grey deepening towards lead as the unseen sun declined. The air lay quiet and raw. His legionaries stood marshalled to escort him. They saluted. ‘Oh, God, sir, I’m sorry,’ Adminius said. His lean features worked. ‘We all are.’
‘Thank you,’ said Gratillonius, and walked on.
‘’Bout face!’ Adminius shouted. ‘For’ard march!’ Hobnails hit paving like a roll of drums.
Traffic stopped when people saw who was coming. Nobody ventured to draw near or even utter a greeting.
Gratillonius and Bodilis moved within a shield-wall of quietness.
‘We know almost nothing of what happened,’ she said softly. Her arm was tucked in his. ‘From what the fishers and the maid Briga and … others here in the city … had to tell, we can guess at some of it. What do you wish to relate?’
In faint surprise, he noticed that talking didn’t hurt. It was merely a task he performed. Most of him was trying to understand what the thing itself meant. He could not yet really realize that he would never see Dahilis again, and that his last sight of her must for ever be – what it had been. ‘When she had not returned by nightfall, I went in search. It took hours to find her. She lay with a broken ankle, in labour, unconscious, nearly frozen to death. I carried her back, but I could not
bring
her back. As soon as she died, I did my best to save the child. Any sin, profanation, blasphemy is mine alone. She was entirely innocent.’
Bodilis’s grasp tightened. ‘We shall purify and dedicate the island over again. As for your deeds, I dare hope – we Sisters have decided we dare believe – the justice of the Gods is satisfied. They need but look into your spirit. And as for the sacrifice They demanded, we believe Dahilis must have made that. It was not what the Nine awaited, and mayhap not what the Three intended, but surely it was an offering precious enough.’
Bitterness seared his gullet. He wanted no part of any such Gods. He refused the load of guilt They would lay on him. Let Mithras be his witness. But he would keep silence, he would duly go through Their rites, for Rome, and because he did not want to wound Bodilis. She must already be inwardly bleeding.
They reached the temple. The soldiers clanked up to form a double line on the stairs. King and high priestess
went on in. ‘The ceremonies will be brief and simple,’ she reassured him. ‘It is not like a Bestowal of the Key. A new Queen is presented to the people, and they make merry, only after the soul of the former Queen has crossed over.’
‘What?’ he asked, startled out of reverie. Before she could dispel his confusion, they were inside.
Vestals were ranked along the aisles. Their clear young voices lifted in a hymn. It chimed through the twilight of the sanctuary. Minor priestesses flanked the altar at the far end. From under her coif Bodilis pulled a gauzy veil across her countenance and went to join her Sisters. They waited behind the altar, beneath the tall strange images of Maiden, Mother, and Hag. Lamps on the marble block threw gleams off a golden basin which rested there. The white vestments everywhere around made the temple ghostly.
Gratillonius paused a moment before he concluded he should advance. He did so at a solemn pace. In front of the altar he halted and stood empty-handed, bareheaded. Neither Hammer nor crown had been laid out for him. Here in the holy place of Belisama, he bore just the Key.
A high priestess came forward to face him across the stone. Veil or no, he recognized Quinipilis. Though she spoke steadily, the youthfulness that had hitherto lingered in her voice was gone. ‘King and father, we are met to consecrate your child. Because her mother has departed, yours is the benison. Let her be brought unto us, and do you give her name and First Sign.’
A senior underpriestess approached carrying the infant, which slept, red and wrinkled and how very small. You would not have thought that anything so small was hard to bring into the world. Quinipilis whispered: ‘Do you know, Gratillonius? Dahilis was Estar.’
He knew, and knew that generally the first-born of a
Queen received the name that she herself had borne as a vestal. But he had known her as Dahilis, and this creature he had cut from her body was all that remained to him of her. Alone with the dead on Sena, he had pondered the question. It had been something to fill the hours.
Quinipilis took the blanket-wrapped babe and held her out. ‘Draw a crescent on her forehead,’ she directed low. ‘Say: “Ishtar-Isis-Belisama, receive this Your servant Estar. Sanctify her, keep her pure, and at the last take her home to Yourself.”’
Gratillonius dipped his right forefinger into the water that glimmered in the basin. He traced an arc on the diminutive brow. His voice rang loud: ‘Ishtar-Isis-Belisama, receive this Your servant Dahut. Sanctify her, keep her pure, and at the last take her home to Yourself.’
The hymn faltered. Breath rustled and hissed among the priestesses. It was overriden by an angry scream from the awakened child. She struggled to get free of her swaddling.
Gratillonius met the unseen stares of the Gallicenae and growled in an undertone, ‘I want her mother uniquely remembered in her. ’Tis lawful, I believe.’
‘Ah, aye,’ answered Quinipilis. ‘Contrary to usage, but … the law is silent … Be you Dahut.’ She returned the babe to the elder, who took it away to soothe.
Gratillonius’s intent was clear. Dahilis had taken her sacral name from the spring of the nymph Ahes, to whom she had had a special devotion. The prefix ‘D’ was an honorific and could be retained. The suffix could not, but ‘-ut’ formed a commemorative ending. Thus did Dahut come to Ys.
The hymn ended. Quinipilis straightened as much as she was able, raised her arms, and cried: ‘Let the divine wedding commence!’ Echoes flew around the hush.
Wedding? Gratillonius stood hammerstruck. Now?
But of course. How could he have forgotten? He must have wanted to forget. When a Queen died, the Sign came immediately upon a vestal. Eight women stood before him; and Forsquilis was on Sena.
He would not! Dahilis was not even buried yet!
The spectral forms came from behind the altar to surround him. Quinipilis stayed where she was. One of the others moved, stumbling a little, next to Gratillonius.
‘Kneel,’ the old priestess commanded.
He could go. They were nothing but women here. Outside waited his Romans. Thus easily could he betray his mission. Gratillonius knelt beside his chosen bride.
As if from far away, he heard a prayer. A new hymn swelled. More orisons followed, but they were mercifully short. He and she were bidden to arise. He obeyed the order to lift her veil. At the same time, his wives threw back theirs. The song soared triumphant.
He had seen the homely, timorous face before, but he could not recollect when or where.
‘Gratillonius, King of Ys, in homage to the Goddess Who dwells in her, and in honour to the womanhood that is hers, receive your Queen Guilvilis –’
2
There was a modest banquet at the palace, which the Gallicenae shared. Directly afterwards the seven each kissed the new Sister and left. Servants requested her benediction and reverentially escorted the pair to a bedchamber swept, garnished, and lighted by many lamps and wax candles. Celebrations would come later, when the spirit of the former Queen had departed. Talk had been scant at the table. Gratillonius said
nothing whatsoever. She sat by her husband, eyes downcast, eating as little and as mechanically as he did. While goodnights went on, Bodilis had drawn Gratillonius aside and whispered in Latin: ‘Be kind to her. Poor child, she never wished for this. Nobody imagined it. The ways of the Goddess are a mystery.’
‘What is her lineage?’ he asked hoarsely.
‘Her father was Hoel, of course. Her mother was Morvanalis – full sister to Fennalis, but that makes her no closer than a cousin to Lanarvilis. Morvanalis died a few years after this girl was born. The child was good-natured but dull. I remember how she suffered the teasing of brighter classmates uncomplainingly, and sought her few friends among menials and animals. Everyone took for granted that when she finished her vestalhood – that would have been next year – she would take vows as a minor priestess, unless some man of humble station offered to marry her for the dowry the Temple provides. Instead – Don’t blame her, Gratillonius. Treat her gently.’ Bodilis’s gaze went deep into him. ‘I believe you have the strength to do that.’
I believe I shall often be drawing on the strength that is in you, he thought.
Incense sweetened the air in the bridal chamber. The flames gave warmth as well as amber light. Beyond the shutters, a night wind lulled. Guilvilis stood in her white gown at the middle of the floor, hands clasped above her loins, head bowed. It was a small head with rather thin, dull-brown hair and a protruding nosetip. Her figure was tall, bosom low, hips and legs heavy; her movements were awkward.
I have to say something, Gratillonius decided. ‘Well.’
She stayed mute. He began to pace, back and forth in front of her, his own hands clenched together behind him.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘fear not. I shan’t hurt you. Indeed, tell me what would please you.’
He could barely hear: ‘I know not, lord.’
His cheeks heated. Without meaning to, he had asked that which it took an experienced woman to answer, and every vestal was a virgin. He cleared his tightening throat. ‘Might you like something in the way of comforts, pleasures, enjoyable tasks, freedom from uncongenial ones? Anything?’
‘I know not, lord.’
‘Um-mf. It seems … nobody told me what your name was before.’
‘Sasai, lord.’ She had not moved an inch from her passive stance.
‘Ah!’ It came back to him. ‘Aye. You were at the Nymphaeum and guided me to the guardhouse when –’
When Dahilis and I went there to ask a blessing on her babe, and that night we made love.
I will
not
hate this person here.
Gratillonius moved to a nacre-inlaid table where stood cups and carafes. He poured wine for himself without adding water. ‘Do you care for drink?’ he asked. ‘Make free.’
She glanced up, and hastily away. ‘Thank you, nay, lord.’
He tossed off the cup in a few draughts that lit fire in his stomach. He’d need help getting to sleep. At least this was not the same room, the same bed where Dahilis and he had taken their joy. ‘How came you to pick the name Guilvilis?’
‘It … oh … Queen Lanarvilis said I could. ’Tis from a hamlet in the hills, she said. The house of Suffete Soren owns p-p-property there.’
‘Hm,’ Gratillonius rubbed his beard, refilled his vessel, drank more slowly. A thawing had begun to spread
through him. ‘I take it … when the Sign appears … you tell somebody, and word goes to the – the rest of the Nine – and they meet with you?’