“I think that our British friend has put his finger on a real problem,” said Malleus. “Surely that is why our fathers fought so hard to keep foreign cults like that of Cybele and Dionysos from taking root in Rome. Even the temple of Isis was burned.”
“If we include all the peoples of the world in our Empire,” Tacitus countered, “then we must also include their gods. I would never deny that, for I think that there is more honor, more purity of morals, and more of what we would call piety in the hall of any German chieftain than in most of the mansions of Rome. There is no harm in that, so long as the rituals that preserve the State are given first priority.”
“That seems to be what the deified Augustus had in mind when he allowed his cult to spread through the Empire,” Malleus replied. There was a short silence.
“Dominus et Deus…” someone said softly, and Gaius remembered hearing that was how the Emperor liked to be addressed these days. “He goes too far! Will we return to the days when Caligula trotted out his favorite horse for everyone to worship?”
Gaius looked around and realized in some surprise that the man who had spoken was Flavius Clemens, some kind of cousin of the Emperor.
“Pieta`s is the essence of reverence and obligation between men and the gods, not adulation for a mortal!” Senecio exclaimed. “Even Augustus insisted that ‘Roma’ be coupled with his name. We do not worship the man, but his genius, the god within him. To believe that a mere human has the wisdom and power to govern an Empire like this one would be impiety indeed.”
“Well, in the Provinces the cult works as a force for unity,” Gaius observed brightly in the even more uncomfortable silence that followed. “When nobody knows what the Emperor is like personally, all they can do is to worship the idea of a Divine Ruler. Whatever their personal religion, everyone can come together to burn incense to the Emperor.”
“Everyone except the Christians,” someone observed, and, except for Flavius Clemens, they all laughed.
“Well, there’s no need to persecute them and make more martyrs,” Tacitus pointed out. “Their appeal is mostly to slaves and women. And they have so many factions, they can be depended upon to destroy each other if we only leave them alone!”
Sweets and cheese were served then, and the conversation passed to other things. These were all civilized men, after all, not likely to be swayed by religious enthusiasm. But Gaius could not help wondering if piety, duty, and mutual obligation were enough to nourish the human soul. Perhaps people were driven to cults such as that of Isis or the Christos by the aridity of the State religion, or perhaps the bloody rituals of the Coliseum had become the real religion of Rome.
The other thing he was beginning to realize was that among the thinking men of the city—the men whose company he was increasingly coming to value—there was a growing opposition to the Emperor. These connections would not bring him the patronage he needed to advance in his career. If it came to a choice between ambition and honor, which would he choose?
Shortly after Gaius’s arrival, the Imperial Procurator’s staff of busy freedmen went to work to digest the content of the report from Licinius that he had carried and analyze its implications for the Emperor. Yet the city fathers retained enough authority so that this information must be delivered to them eventually, and Gaius discovered that the influence of his new friends was sufficient to win him an invitation to address the Senate and meet the Emperor afterward.
On the morning he was to appear, Gaius had himself shaved with special care—though he sometimes thought that the bearded Ardanos and Bendeigid were less barbarian than he was himself, he did not think he could explain that to the assembled conscript fathers.
It was very early when he arrived at the Senate and was given a seat beneath a statue of the deified Augustus, who stood on his pedestal looking as cold and cross as Gaius felt. The senators entered by ones and twos, talking softly, followed by the secretaries with their piles of wax tablets, ready to record the debates and decisions of the day. This, reflected Gaius, was where the lords of the world decided the fates of nations. On this marble floor they had debated the defense against Hannibal and the invasion of Britannia. The river of time flowed strongly in this chamber; in comparison, even the pride of the Caesars was only a ripple on the stream.
Just as the opening invocations were beginning the Emperor arrived, resplendent in a purple toga sewn all over with golden stars that made Gaius blink. He had heard of the toga picta, but had thought it was only worn by a general presiding over his triumph. It was rather disturbing to see it worn here, and he wondered if Domitian wanted to be seen as a conqueror, or was simply fond of finery. This was the first time Gaius had seen his Emperor at such close hand. The youngest son of the great Vespasian had the bull neck and well-muscled shoulders of a soldier, but Gaius read petulance in the twist of his mouth and suspicion in his eyes.
It was almost time for the noon recess before Gaius was beckoned forward to read Licinius’s report on the finances of Britannia. There were a few questions, mostly on the subject of resources, and one from Clodius Malleus that allowed Gaius to mention the part he had played in controlling the latest rebellion. Despite some recent tutoring in oratory, he felt he must have bored them, but at the end of his speech, they voted him a perfunctory round of applause and—as Licinius had foreseen—confirmed that for the next year a reasonable percentage of the tax money they had collected might be retained in Britain. Since this was why Licinius had sent him in the first place, Gaius was hardly surprised.
The meeting with Domitian afterwards was brief. On his way to another engagement, the Emperor was already removing the gorgeous toga, but he stopped long enough to give Gaius a careless word of thanks.
“You’ve been in the army?” he asked.
“As a tribune with the Second Legion. I had the privilege of serving under you in Dacia,” Gaius said carefully.
“Hmm…Well, I suppose we’ll have to find you something to do in the Provinces then,” said the Emperor without much interest, turning away.
“Dominus et Deus,” said Gaius, saluting, and hated himself for saying the words.
On the way home Gaius shared a litter with Clodius Malleus. It was the first time they had been able to talk privately all day.
“And what did you think of the Senate?” the older man asked.
“It made me proud to be a Roman,” Gaius answered truthfully.
“And the Emperor?”
Gaius was silent. After a moment he heard the Senator sigh. “You have seen how things are,” Malleus said softly. “Such patronage as I have to offer must be given carefully, at least for now. But if you are willing to face the risks that this bond might bring you, along with its potential rewards, I would be happy to accept you among my clients. I can arrange for you to serve as Procurator for army supplies in Britannia. Ordinarily it would be somewhere else in the Empire, but I think you would be most useful to us in the land that you know best.”
That collegial “us” made something in Gaius that the Emperor’s lack of interest had chilled awaken to warmth again. The Rome that his father and Licinius had taught him to honor might be dead, but it seemed to Gaius that under the leadership of such men as Malleus and Agricola the spirit of Rome might revive.
“I would be honored,” he said into the silence, and knew that like the decision he had made after Mons Graupius, this choice would determine the course of his life from now on.
TWENTY-FOUR
The priestesses worshipped at the new moon in the Sacred Grove behind the Forest House, following a ritual that men had not invented and were not allowed to see. Caillean watched as the novices filed in to complete the circle, feeling rather like a mother hen counting her chicks, or perhaps, observing the pale glimmer of their gowns in the half-light, cygnets about to become swans.
For a moment there was silence as the circle was completed. She moved into position before the stone cairn that was their altar, Dieda to her left and Miellyn to her righ
t, in the place that was usually her own. But tonight Eilan was sick with cramps and the place of the High Priestess had fallen to Caillean. It felt strange to stand here, and strange not to feel the younger woman’s familiar energy balancing her own.
Dieda lifted her hand, and the silence was broken by a shimmer of silver bells.
“Hail to thee, thou new moon, guiding jewel of gentleness,” sang the maidens, nearly a round dozen, all of them come to the Forest House since Eilan had become High Priestess. The most recent arrivals had been drawn by Dieda’s music. When old Ardanos had schemed to get his two kinswomen into Vernemeton he had wrought better than he knew. Caillean listened to those pure voices offering their praise to heaven and sighed in pure content.
“I am bending to thee my knee,
I am offering thee my love;
I am bending to thee my knee,
I am giving thee my hand
I am lifting to thee mine eye
Oh, new moon of the seasons!”
With each phrase they were bending, then reaching upward in supplication, eyes fixed on the silver sickle above, so that their chanting became a dance. Now they began slowly to move sunwise around the circle, arms uplifted to the sky.
“Hail to thee, thou new moon,
Joyful maiden of my love!
Hail to thee, thou new moon
Joyful maiden of the graces!
Thou art traveling in thy course,
Thou art showing us thy shining face,
O new moon of the seasons!”
Caillean let her gaze unfocus and allowed the rhythm of the chanting to carry her ever deeper into trance. Each time it grew easier. There had been a barren period in her life when nothing seemed to have meaning any more. But thanks to the Goddess, that seemed to be over. With the ending of her blood cycles, the floodgates of her spirit had opened, and with each season she felt ever more strongly the tides of power.
And it is because of you, Eilan, she thought, sending her awareness winging towards the dark bulk of the Forest House beyond the trees. Can you hear how sweetly your daughters are singing now?
Unbidden, her own arms were opening; the girls that circled the altar seemed to move in a haze of light.
“Thou queen-maiden of guidance,
Thou queen-maiden of good fortune,
Thou queen-maiden, my beloved new moon of the seasons!”
Once more the bells shivered sweetly and the singing faded to silence; but it was a charged silence now, pregnant with power. Caillean reached out and felt the shock of completion as the other two grasped her hands; a second shift told her that the maidens had joined hands in a circle around them.
“Know, O my sisters, that the moon power is the Power of women, the light that shines in the darkness, the tides that rule the inner planes. The maiden moon governs all growth and all beginnings, and so it is that we draw on her power for those purposes for which our help has been requested. Sisters, are you willing to lend your energy to the work that we do now?”
There was a murmur of assent from the circle, and Caillean planted her feet more firmly in the cool grass.
“We call upon the Goddess, the Lady of Life, whose garment is the starry heavens; She is the virgin bride, the mother of all living, the wisdom beyond the circles of the world. She is all goddesses, and all the goddesses are one Goddess; in all Her phases, in all our faces, as She shines in the heavens, She shines within us all!” It was as if she sought to breathe against the wind. “Goddess, hear us—” she called.
“Goddess, be near us—” the others echoed her.
“Goddess, hear us now!” The tension was almost unbearable; she could feel it thrilling through the hands braced against her own.
“For the healing of Bethoc, mother of Ambigatos, we raise this power!”
She heard Dieda intone the first note of the healing chord and a quarter of the circle joining her, the sound low and thrilling as a harp string, but deeper, sweeter, louder, continuing on and on. Then came the second note; now half the circle was singing; and the third, as the chord built and was completed on a high note above which Dieda’s voice rose in a clear descant like a lark winging into the sky. It was a principle used by the harpers of Eriu in their magic, but it had been Eilan’s idea to apply it to singing, and Dieda who worked out the technique of it and taught the girls. It was like being inside a harp to stand in the midst of that singing. And gradually, as their voices blended, Caillean began to touch the spirits of the others as well.
I am soaring with wings of light. Caillean could not tell whose thought that had been, nor did it matter, for at this moment when they were linked together she felt the same.
I see rainbows around the moon…in the sunlight…in the waterfall…all the world is shimmering…
Cool water…a fire’s warmth…softness of a duckling’s down…my mother’s arms…
In this melding of sound all the senses were confounded. Only Dieda’s mind remained distinct from the others—critical, and still unsatisfied.
Breathe now, and hold…Tanais is wavering. Wait, wait—Rhian should come in now with the fifth note—that’s better. Now let’s lift it, moving up the scale—stay with me, all of you—maintain the harmony!
The last irregularities disappeared. The women’s joined voices moved upward together to become the Voice of the Goddess. For a time even Dieda’s inner monologue ceased. Caillean felt some tension in the other woman relax as the chord vibrated with inhuman intensity. And though Caillean herself was self-taught, and had no words to describe the rightness of what she heard, she was singer enough to apprehend the ecstasy of a trained musician experiencing perfect harmony.
It took an effort for Caillean to collect herself, to reach out to the energy that was pulsing around her and gather it in, holding in her mind the image of the sick woman they were working for. She could see it now, a mist of power that grew brighter with every breath.
Caillean drew the Power inward, projecting upon it the image until they could all see it, shimmering above the pile of stones. The sound built until it seemed she could bear it no longer. Her arms were rising—all their arms were lifting unbidden as the Power fountained upward in a pillar of light, a surge of pure sound to send strength to the sick woman. And then it was gone. They settled back, breathing as if they had been running, knowing they had succeeded.
They raised the Power twice more that night for healing, and a last time, gently, to replenish some of the energy they had lost. When it was over, a measure of peace had returned even to Dieda’s eyes. And then, with a final murmur of thanks, they filed back to the Forest House for food and bed. But Caillean, tired as she was, went to the separate building where the High Priestess had her chambers to tell Eilan how it had gone.
“You do not have to tell me—” said Eilan as Caillean came into her room. “Even from here I could hear you, I could feel the Power.” The older woman looked lit up from within.
“It’s true, Eilan. This is the work we were meant for! When I was a child serving Lhiannon, this is the kind of thing I dreamed of, but then the Druids penned us up here, and the vision was lost. With all my knowledge, I did not know how to find it again until you showed me the way.”
“You would have found it…” Eilan sat up in bed and forced a smile. She still felt out of sorts and achy, as she often did at this time of the moon. More and more, she had become convinced that in ages past Caillean had been one of the greatest of priestesses. So much of what they were doing now in the Forest House came in spurts of certainty, as if they were not inventing it, but remembering. She supposed that she herself had been a priestess too, but while she had vision, there were times when Caillean was able to summon up an amazing power. “I have often thought that you should have been chosen High Priestess instead of me.”
Caillean gave her a quick glance. “Once, I would have thought so too,” she said. “I do not want it now.”
“Sensible woman! But none the less, if you had to, you could do it.” The
re was more silver now in Caillean’s dark hair, thought Eilan, but otherwise she looked little different from the woman who had delivered Mairi’s child ten years ago.
“Well, I don’t have to do it now,” Caillean said briskly. “Only to get a few decisions out of you! We have had a rather odd request. A strange fellow from that Roman sect they call Christians wants to live in the old hut in the forest. He calls himself a hermit. Shall I say he may stay there or send him away?”
“He may as well,” said Eilan, considering. “I don’t intend to send any more of our women there for punishment, nor, I suppose, do you, and the Ravens have all found new hiding places.” It gave her a pang to think of a stranger living in the place where she had borne and suckled her child, but there was no point in sentimentality.
“Very well,” said Caillean. “And if Ardanos objects I can point to the precedent set when they let Christians build the chapel of the white thorn on the Isle of Apples below the Sacred Well.”
“Have you been there?” Eilan asked.
“Long ago, when I was much younger,” Caillean replied. “The Summer Country is a strange land, all marsh and lake and meadow. If there’s any rain at all, the Tor turns to an island. Mist lies on the land sometimes so that you think the next turning will bring you to the Otherworld; and then a flare of sunlight cuts through the clouds and you see the holy Tor with its ring of stones.”
Listening to Caillean, Eilan felt as if she could almost see it. Then she was seeing it, in a flash of vision as unexpected as it had been transitory—but Caillean had been in the vision too, gliding through the mists towards the hill in a flat-bottomed boat poled by the little dark men of the hills, with several of the novice priestesses huddled in the stern. But Caillean stood upright, with gold upon her neck and brow.
“Caillean,” she began, and from the widening of the other woman’s eyes, something of what she had seen must have shown in her face, “you will be High Priestess on the Isle of Apples. I have seen it. You will take the women there.”