Two small boys about eight or nine years old, white-robed novices of the bards chosen for their innocence and beauty, brought forward the great golden bowl. They had golden torques about their throats, and belts embroidered with gold cinctured their white robes. As a ray of moonlight lanced through the leaves of the oak tree, a twiglet of mistletoe—cut by a priest hidden in the branches—fluttered downwards. Eilan caught it and dropped it into the bowl.
She murmured the words of blessing, and bracing herself against the bitterness, drank the liquid down. The voices of the Druids rose in invocation; the pressure of expectation from the people beat against her awareness. The liquid burned in her belly; she wondered if she had got the dosage wrong, then remembered that she had felt this way before. It came to her then that each time poisoned her a little, and that she would die as Lhiannon had died, though perhaps not as soon.
But the world was already dimming around her; she was scarcely aware of falling backward into the seeress’s chair, or the jolting as they carried it to the top of the mound.
Caillean eyed the figure slumped in the high seat above her with more than usual concern. As always, the intensity of the chanting was pushing her towards trance as well. But there was a tension in the pulsing energies around her that she did not understand. She turned and saw Eilan’s father among the white-robed Druids in the circle. Ardanos had said nothing. Had he even known that Bendeigid was going to be there?
Eilan twitched in the high seat and Caillean reached for the back to steady it. It was forbidden to touch the High Priestess when she was entranced, but they must be prepared to catch her if she fell.
“Goddess,” she prayed, “take care of her—I do not care what happens to me!” It seemed to her then that Eilan stilled; from the corner of her eye she could see one white hand dangling over the edge of the chair, slender as a child’s. How could it wield such power?
“Lady of the Cauldron!” cried the people. “Silver Wheel! Great Queen! Come to us! Great Goddess, speak to us now!”
Caillean felt the wood of the chair quiver beneath her hand. Eilan’s fingers were curling, and to Caillean’s fascinated gaze the pale flesh seemed to glow. It is true, she thought then, the Goddess is here. Slowly, the figure in the high seat straightened, stretching as if to accommodate a mass greater than the slight figure of the woman sitting there. Caillean felt a little chill run down her spine.
“Behold, oh ye people, the Lady of Life has come. Let the Oracle speak! Let the Goddess declare forth the will of the Immortals!” Ardanos cried.
“Goddess! Deliver us from those who would enslave us!” came another voice. Bendeigid stepped forward. “Lead us to victory!”
They sounded like ravens, crying for blood and death. Eilan alone stood between the Forest House and a people shrieking for war. Did they even know what would happen to this country, between the Romans and their foreign auxiliaries, if it should come to open fighting? Despite her hatred for the Romans, Caillean wondered how any sane man or woman—or even a Goddess—could loose war on this countryside. Had Bendeigid so soon forgotten their home in flames, forgotten the deaths of his wife and little daughter?
Goddess, she thought, You have given the peace of this countryside into Elian’s hands; let her do Your will even if it may seem it is the will of the Romans as well…
The figure in the chair quivered, and thrust the veil back suddenly, surveying the throng with a face as cold and dispassionate as one of the statues the Romans made.
“This is the shortest night,” she said softly, and the murmuring people stilled to hear. “But from this moment onward, the forces of light will be declining. Oh ye whose pride it is to learn all secrets of earth and heaven”—she indicated the circle of Druids with a disdainful hand—“can you not read the signs in the world around you? The tribes have seen their day and now grow ever weaker; thus it will be one day with the Empire of the Romans as well. All things reach their peak and thereafter must decline.”
“But is there no hope then?” asked Bendeigid. “In time, even the sun is reborn!”
“That is true,” said the still, calm voice from above him. “But not until the darkest day has passed. Put away your swords and hang up your shields, children of Don. Let the Roman eagles tear at each other while you till your fields, and be patient, for Time will surely avenge your wrongs! I have read in the mystic scrolls of the Heavens; and I tell you, the name of Rome is not written there.”
A sigh of mingled relief and disappointment swept through the crowd.
Ardanos and one of the other priests were whispering. Caillean realized this was the only chance she might have to do what Eilan had asked.
“What, then, of the old wisdom? How shall Your worship be preserved in a changing world?”
Ardanos and Bendeigid both glared at her, but the question had been asked, and already the Goddess was turning, and Caillean trembled, utterly certain at that moment that what looked down at her was not Eilan at all.
“Is it you, daughter of the elder race, who would truly question Me?” came the soft answer. There was a pause, as the attention of the Goddess appeared to go inward; then She laughed. “Ah, it is this one also who asks. She could ask more than that of Me, but she is afraid. Such a silly child not to understand that My will is for you all to be free.” She shrugged Her shoulders gently. “But you are children, all of you”—her gaze lifted to fix Ardanos, who flushed and looked away—“and I will not destroy your illusions now. You are not strong enough to bear too much reality…”
She extended one arm, turning the hand and flexing its fingers as if to enjoy the movement. “The flesh is sweet.” She laughed softly. “I do not wonder that you cling to it. But as for Me, what do you suppose your puny efforts can do to help or harm? I have been here from the beginning and so long as the sun shines or the waters flow, I will remain. I am…” There was a terrible truth in that simple statement of being, and Caillean trembled.
“But our lives flow away like the waters and are gone—” Caillean said then. “How shall we pass what You have taught us to those who come after?”
The Goddess looked from her to Ardanos and back again.
“You already know the answer. In ages past your soul has sworn the oath, and so has hers. Let one of you go forth,” She cried. “Let one go forth to the Summer Country, there on the shores of the lake to establish a House of Maidens. There shall I be served, side by side with the priests of the Nazarene. So shall My wisdom survive the days that are coming!”
Almost at once the body of the priestess, which had been tight as a strung bow, was released; the arrow had flown, the message had been given. Eilan slumped back in the chair, and Caillean and Miellyn moved quickly to steady her. She was twitching and muttering, coming out of the trance.
Ardanos stood with head bowed, pondering the meaning of this Oracle and how he could use it. Countermand it he could not—nor would he, a pious man, wish to gainsay the direct word of the Goddess—but it was his privilege to interpret it. After a moment his head came up. He looked directly at Caillean, and it seemed to her that he smiled.
“The Goddess has spoken. Now let it be so. And this house shall be founded by the servant of the Goddess; it is you, Caillean, who will go forth to found the House of Maidens on the Tor.”
Caillean stared back at him. There was triumph in his pale eyes. To Ardanos, this decision of the Goddess was a fortuitous opportunity to achieve something he had long desired, to part her from Eilan.
He picked up the sprig of mistletoe and shook water over the limp body of the Priestess, and all other sound was lost in a mocking jangle of silver bells.
“For someone who has been out of harness for a few years, you seem to be keeping busy!” Gaius grinned at his father across the rolled parchments and stacked wax tablets that littered the table. Outside, a cold February wind was rattling branches that were just beginning to swell with sap. Indoors, the hypocaust warmed the tiled floors and charcoal burning in iron brazier
s fought the drafts. “I hope young Brutus appreciates all you are doing for him.”
“He appreciates my experience,” said Macellius, “and I appreciate his news. He’s very well connected, you know, related to half the ancient families of Rome. His father is an old friend of your patron Malleus, by the way.”
“Ah.” Gaius took another drink of hot spiced wine, beginning to understand. “And what does our Legate think of the Emperor’s current policies?”
“Frankly, his letters from Rome have him terrified. His term as Commander finishes at the end of this year, and he’s wondering how to get out of going home again! As members of the equestrian order, you and I have one advantage: we’re not required by law to reside in Rome. The Eternal City has been extremely unhealthy for senators this year, I am told.”
“Like Flavius Clemens?” Gaius asked grimly. No wonder the senators were uneasy. If Domitian’s own cousin had been executed, what were the rest of them going to do? “Did you ever hear anything more about what he was charged with?”
“The official accusation was atheism. But according to the rumors, the man was a Christian who refused to burn incense to the Emperor.”
“I’m sure our Dominus et Deus was highly insulted!”
Macellius smiled sourly. “The gods know those Christians are an exasperating lot, and when the government isn’t persecuting them they persecute each other. If Nero had only tried setting their different factions against each other in the arena he could have saved a fortune in lions—but the kind of adoration Domitian is demanding goes beyond all propriety!”
Gaius nodded. He had heard enough about Father Petros’s preaching from Julia to be aware of the Christian fascination with martyrdom, and of their sectarian strife, though Julia referred to it as purging the Church of the ungodly. But in the larger scheme of things the Christians were a minor problem. Far more serious was the megalomania of the Emperor.
“Is he going the way of Nero, or Caligula?” he asked.
“He hasn’t tried to deify his horse yet, if that’s what you mean,” his father replied. “In many ways he has been a very effective Emperor; that’s why he’s so dangerous. What will Rome have to fall back on when the next crazy Emperor comes along if Domitian is allowed to destroy what remains of the senatorial class?”
Gaius looked at his father carefully. “You’re really worried about this, aren’t you?”
“It doesn’t matter so much about me,” said Macellius, turning his equestrian ring back and forth on his hand. “But most of your career is still ahead of you. With this Emperor, what chance is there for you?”
“Father…something’s going on, isn’t it? What have they asked you to do?”
Macellius sighed and looked around the room with its painted walls and racks of scrolls as if he were afraid it might be about to vanish. “There is a…plan…” he said carefully, “to end the Flavian dynasty. When Domitian has been dealt with, the senators will elect a new Emperor. For the plan to work, the Provinces must support it. The new Governor is Domitian’s man, but most of the legionary Legates are from the same kinds of families as Brutus—”
“And so they want us to support them,” Gaius said baldly. “What do they imagine the tribes will be doing while we are engaged in this Imperial housecleaning?”
“If we promise them some concessions, they will support us…Queen Brigitta’s daughters will be coming to us soon, and Valerius is helping me to find appropriate foster parents to raise them. Romans and Britons are bound to become allies in the end. This way it may come a little sooner, that is all.”
Gaius whistled soundlessly. This was sedition on a grand scale! He gulped down the last of his wine. When he looked up again, his father was watching him.
“Stranger things have happened,” Macellius said quietly. “Depending on how things go, there might be quite an interesting future for a Roman of the Silure royal line!”
Gaius rode home with his head reeling from more than the mulled wine. He had humored Julia long enough. It was now perfectly clear to him that he must adopt his son by Eilan formally. But when he arrived home, he found Julia could speak of nothing but her latest visit to the hermit, Father Petros.
“And he says that it is certain from Holy Writ—and from all the other prophecies—that the world will end with the passing away of this generation,” she told him, her eyes glowing. “With the coming of every dawn we should think that it may not be the sun, but the world beginning to burn. And then we shall be reunited with our loved ones. Did you know that?”
He shook his head, amazed that she, who had received a good Roman education, could believe such stuff. But then, women were credulous, which was probably why they could not serve in public office. He wondered if the Christians were trading on the current anxieties about the Emperor.
“Are you going to become a follower of the Nazarene—that prophet of slaves and renegade Jews?” he asked sharply.
“I do not see how any thinking person can possibly do anything else,” Julia replied coolly.
Well, Gaius thought, I am obviously not a thinking person—at least not of her kind. He only said, “And what will Licinius say?”
“He will not like it,” Julia said sadly. “But this is the only thing I have been sure of since…since the children died.” Her eyes filled with tears.
That makes no sense, he thought, but did not say it aloud; making sense did not seem to have comforted her very much. And indeed she looked happier than he had seen her since Secunda’s death. The image of his daughter drowned was still behind his eyes night and day. Logical or not, he almost envied her.
“Well, do as you will,” he said resignedly. “I will not try to stop you.”
She looked at him with something almost like disappointment, then brightened. “If you had any sense of what was right, you would become a Nazarene as well.”
“My dear Julia, you have told me many times I have no sense of what is right,” he said sharply. She stared at the floor and he knew there was something else. “What is it?”
“I do not want to say this before the children,” she stammered. Gaius laughed, took her arm and led her into another room.
“Well, what is it that you cannot say before our children, Julia?”
Again she cast her eyes on the ground. “Father Petros says that…as the end of the world is so near…” she stammered, “it is better if all married women—and men—take an oath of chastity.”
At this, Gaius threw back his head and did laugh. “You do realize that, as the law now stands, refusing to sleep with your husband is grounds for divorce?”
Julia, although obviously troubled, was ready for the question. “In the Kingdom of Heaven,” she quoted, “there is neither marriage nor giving in marriage.”
“That settles it,” said Gaius, laughing again. “I do not care for your Heaven, at least not that portion of it over which Father Petros rules.”
He added, knowing it would hurt her, “Take all the oaths you like, my dear. Considering that for the past year or so you have been about as much use in bed as a stick of wood, I can’t imagine how you think it would make any difference to me.”
Her eyes were wide with surprise. “Then you will make no difficulty?”
“None, Julia; but it is only fair to tell you that if you are no longer bound by our wedding vows, I will not hold myself bound by them either.”
He realized that he was spoiling the scene she had resolved to play; he should, he supposed, have raged or pleaded.
“I would never consider asking you to take such a vow,” she said, and then, spitefully, added, “I doubt if you would be able to keep it if you did. Do you think I do not know why you bought that pretty slave girl last year? God knows she is little enough use in the kitchen! With so many sins already upon your soul—”
But Gaius had had enough. He would not discuss the state of his soul—whatever she might mean by that—with her.
“For my own soul I will be myself responsi
ble,” he told her and went into his office, where he found a bed already made up for him. So she had counted on his willingness to sleep alone, whatever else he might say.
Gaius thought briefly of celebrating his freedom by summoning the slave girl, but he discovered he had no wish to do so. He wanted something more than the compliance of a woman who had no choice in the matter. His mind went to Eilan. Now at least Julia could make no objection if he wished to adopt Gawen. How would he break the news to her?
Finally he was free to seek Eilan out once more. But the face of the Fury he had seen at the Midsummer festival came between him and his memories, and it was the face of the girl he had met at the hermit’s the year before that went with him into sleep at last.
TWENTY-SEVEN
In the middle of February the storms gave way to a period of fair, clear weather, brisk but sunny. In sheltered spots early fruit trees began to put forth buds and the branches grew red with returning sap. The hills were melodious with the bleating of new lambs, and the marshes resounded with the calls of returning swans.
Eilan looked at the blue sky and realized that the time had come to keep her word to Macellius. She was waiting in the garden when Senara answered her summons.
“It is a fair day,” Senara said, clearly wondering why Eilan had called her away from her duties.
“It is that,” Eilan agreed, “a fair bright day for performing an unwelcome duty. But you are the only one I can ask.”
“And what is that?”
“Brigitta’s daughters have been here for a year now, and it is time to send them to the Romans as I promised. They have kept their word regarding Brigitta, and I trust them to deal kindly with the children. But it must be done quietly, lest all the old enmity be awakened again. You are old enough to take them to Deva, and you know the Latin tongue enough to ask your way to the house of Macellius Severus. Will you take them there?”