The priestess had spoken the truth. With the coming of the next moon, Eilan was brought to Lhiannon and taught the ceremonious etiquette for attending upon the High Priestess in public, which, in effect, meant every time that Lhiannon went out of her own dwelling in the Forest House. She learned the rituals of robing Lhiannon for the ceremonies, which was more complicated than it looked; for from the beginning of the ritual, not even with a fingertip’s weight could any human being touch the Priestess. She shared with Lhiannon the long ritual seclusion with which the Priestess prepared for the rites, and helped her through the physical collapse that followed.
That was when she learned the price Lhiannon paid for the great reverence in which she was held. For the delivery of the word of the gods there was a heavy reckoning. Vague and forgetful as Lhiannon, in her own person, might sometimes be, when she assumed the ornaments of the Oracle another power came upon her. She had been chosen, Eilan realized, not so much for force of will or wisdom, but because when it was needful, she was able to let her own personality go.
It was then, when the human identity had been put off with her ordinary clothes, that Lhiannon opened herself so that the Goddess might speak through her. And in those moments, she was a great Priestess indeed—almost, Eilan thought, more than human. The price of becoming the vehicle for so great a power was both physical and mental, and Eilan’s respect for the older Priestess grew as she saw Lhiannon pay it without grudging the cost, or at least without complaint.
When Eilan left the Forest House and the woods around for the first time she was accompanying Lhiannon. It was then that she realized how the preceding weeks had changed her. Even the House of Maidens seemed remote and strange. When the newest novices scurried out of her way she scarcely noticed, and only afterwards realized that they had seen in her the same unearthly serenity she associated with Lhiannon.
It was, she supposed, a fairly ordinary Midsummer Festival. She had seen the Games and the market and the lighting of the big sun-fire many times before, but after her months of seclusion in the Forest House, the yammering of so many people was painful, and she shrank from the strong scents of humans and horses. Even the bright cloths the merchants had put up to shade their wares assaulted her senses.
Midsummer was a time when men put forth their strength in competitions, to entertain the gods and the people, and to strengthen the crops as they grew. But as Eilan watched the footraces and the wrestling it was the sweating bodies of the competitors that seemed the most gross and distorted of all. She could not imagine why she had ever wanted to lie with a man.
The winner of the Games was garlanded with summer flowers and escorted to preside over the ceremonies. Remembering what she had learned of the Mysteries, Eilan watched with a new appreciation. In time of need, or in some tribes every seven years, the new Year-King would have watched his predecessor burn, and even now some of the old sacredness attached to him. The Empire had killed or Romanized the heirs of the British princes, but so long as men were willing to offer their lives for the people, they could not eradicate the Sacred Kings, who each year stood surety for those who no longer understood their role.
If there were some great disaster, and a sacrifice were needed during the coming year, despite the Romans’ prohibitions it was on this young man that the blow would fall. And, in recognition of his risk, he alone of all men was allowed to lie with whichever woman took his fancy—even a maiden from the Forest House if it was there that his eye should fall.
Eilan kept close to Lhiannon, watching as the warriors snatched brands from the great bonfire and vied to throw them high to make the crops grow. The people had grown rowdy with drink and the release of the festival. But no one would trouble her while she was with the High Priestess. Even the Year-King had never been known to push his rights that far.
She sat with Caillean and Dieda, glad of the protection of Lhiannon’s presence and the hulking strength of her bodyguard Huw behind them, and hoped that the other priestesses who had come with them to the festival had fared as well.
It was not until several weeks had passed that she learned why her friend Miellyn had come away from the festivities so pale and thoughtful, and why she was so often ill. It was Eilidh who told her, one day when Miellyn was nowhere to be found, but by then everyone in the Forest House was buzzing with the news.
"She is pregnant, Eilan,” Eilidh murmured and shook her head as if she still found it amazing. "By the winner of the Games. Lhiannon was troubled and very cross when she learned of it, and has sent Miellyn to the seclusion of the hut by the white pool to meditate alone for a time.”
"That is not fair!” exclaimed Eilan. "If he chose her, how could she deny him? It would be an impiety.” Had the priests forgotten their own theology?
"The older priestesses are saying she should have kept herself out of his way. There is no shortage of women in this part of Britain, after all. I would have found a way to evade him if he had started looking at me!”
Eilan had to admit that she too would have sought some way to avoid being chosen. But when Miellyn reappeared among them, her loose robes no longer able to hide her rounding body, she had the sense not to say so.
And so the summer rolled on, and time came round to the second anniversary of her arrival at the Forest House.
By the time Eilan had assisted the High Priestess at half a dozen festivals, she had lost all enthusiasm for becoming the Oracle herself, but she knew that her desires would make no difference if she should be chosen by the Druids. She could not help knowing that the priests came to Lhiannon before each ritual, to help, they said, to prepare her. But once, when a half-closed door swung open, she saw the older woman slumped in trance as Ardanos droned into her ear.
She watched with extra interest that night when the Goddess was called down upon Her Priestess, wincing as Lhiannon twitched and muttered, garbling some answers while others came clear. It was like watching a horse fighting a tight rein, as if something within the Priestess struggled against the power that flowed through her.
They have bound her, she realized in horror as she sat by Lhiannon’s bedside that night when all was done. They set spells upon her so that she could say only those words that accorded with their will!
Perhaps that was why, despite the ritual, there were times when the Goddess did not come, and Lhiannon’s answers arose from her own wisdom, or perhaps the words that the priests had taught her. It seemed to Eilan that those times were the most exhausting of all. And even when the trance was a true one, the Oracle could answer only those questions that were put to her; as time passed, Eilan began to suspect that the Druids controlled who was allowed to question her as well. A few genuine Oracles were indeed delivered; but only, Eilan discovered, in matters of small moment. And these, if they came from the Goddess, generally made little difference either to those who asked or those who heard.
Eilan’s first reaction had been to protest, but to whom? Caillean was away, carrying a message from Lhiannon to the new queen of one of the tribes, and Miellyn too concerned about the coming child for Eilan to trouble her. By the time there was anyone she could have told, it had come to her that Caillean and Dieda, at least, must know already. It would explain some of their arguments, and the somewhat exasperated tenderness with which Caillean cared for Lhiannon.
And the High Priestess, above all, must understand what was being done to her. Lhiannon had chosen to come to the Forest House, and to remain in the power of the priesthood. If they were making her their mouthpiece, surely it was with her own consent and will.
It was in this state that matters stood when Eilan accompanied Lhiannon to the Beltane festival almost three years after she had been given to the temple.
ELEVEN
Gaius had not been in the Ordovici lands for almost two years when the third Beltane since he lost Eilan arrived. His father had not spoken again of the proposed marriage with the daughter of Licinius, but had seconded him to the Governor’s staff. He had spent the past
two seasons marching across Alba with Agricola, engaged in what they fondly hoped was a pacification of the lowland tribes. Raiders like those who had killed Bendeigid’s family were bad enough but it was the still free tribes of the North who threatened the Empire’s hold on Britannia. For a serving officer of the Roman army, grief was an indulgence. Gaius did his duty, and if the sight of some girl’s bright hair and grave eyes set his old wounds to aching he took care not to weep where anyone could see.
He succeeded so well that when the campaign in Caledonia came to a temporary halt he was rewarded by being sent to escort a party of wounded men back to the Legion’s permanent quarters in Deva while the remainder of the Twentieth labored on a new fortress in the Caledonian highlands. So it was that he found himself in the South again, trotting down the road to the Hill of the Maidens with a centurion at his side and a detachment of regulars tramping along behind.
"We need a man we can trust to keep an eye on the festival, and you’re the only one available just now who can speak the language well enough to pass. You’ll have to face it sometime, lad,” his father had told him when he protested. "Best get it over with.” But not until Gaius saw the bare crown of the hillfort rising from the sea of forest and heard the lowing of the assembled cattle did he realize just how hard it would be. He reined in, staring, and the centurion barked an order to halt the men.
"Looks peaceful enough,” said the centurion. "Wherever you go, market fairs are pretty much the same. They can get ugly, though, when you mix religion in.” The soldier laughed. Gaius had already found that the man was a garrulous soul who required a minimum of response from his audience. "I spent my first three years with the Legions in Egypt. A god for every day of the week, they had, and each one with his own festival. Had some pretty messy riots sometimes when two processions collided in the center of town.”
"Oh?” Gaius asked politely, though he did not really care that much whether the man had served in Egypt or at the end of the world. This was the gate through which they had entered the festival grounds three years ago. He remembered how little Senara had jigged down the road ahead of them, laughing.
As before, he was wearing native clothing, for his assignment was to watch out for sedition at the festival, but that happy family with whom he had last come this way was no more. "What was Egypt like?” he said quickly, trying to wall the memory away.
"Oh, like everywhere else,” the centurion said and yawned. "Great temples and dreadfully rich kings, and equally great poverty in the marketplace. It was warm though,” he added and shivered. "I wouldn’t mind a little of their sun right now; it’s too cold and rainy here in Britannia.”
Gaius looked up at the overcast sky. The man was right; he had not noticed the weather before. That was one thing that was different anyway. He did not think he could have borne to see this place again on a day of bright sun.
"You don’t seem to mind it much, though,” the centurion added enviously. "You were born here, weren’t you? I’m from Etruria myself. Getting to be a rarity, these days, to find another native-born Latin in the Legions. I’ve served all over the Empire—Egypt, Hispania, Parthia. My cohort got cut to pieces in Parthia, and when they promoted me to centurion—probably because I was one of the few left alive—they sent me out here. If Apollo really discovered this country, I don’t admire his taste.”
"We’ll dismount here.” Gaius nerved himself up to it suddenly. "And leave a man with the horses. No room for them inside.”
They heard lowing behind them as another contingent of cattle was driven in. The centurion bawled a command to the soldiers to move aside, and he and Gaius stepped back.
"No sense in getting under their hoofs,” he added lazily. "I don’t know about you, but I’ve better uses for my feet than having ’em stepped on by these cows. You ready to go in now?”
Gaius sighed. He would never be ready, but he was a Roman, and he could no longer run from his memories. He shivered and drew a fold of his mantle over his head.
"What’s going on here anyway?” asked the centurion as they passed through the gateway in the wake of the cattle. "Is it some kind of festival for the farmers? They did that in Egypt—had a big white bull they called a god. Paraded him through the streets with garlands around his neck, and fanned incense over the cattle till you could hardly breathe. Trying to make them healthy, they said.”
"Here, they throw herbs on the flames and drive the cows between the fires to bless them,” Gaius answered him.
"Funny thing, how people keep fighting about religion, when really it’s all the same. Seems to me it’s the priests who make all the problems; most folks just want good harvests and healthy babies, just trying to get along. If it’s not the cattle stampeding, it’s the priests haranguing the crowds. Do the Druids run this festival?”
"Not exactly,” said Gaius. "There’s a Priestess, something like a Vestal, who calls down blessings from their gods.” For a moment he closed his eyes, once more seeing that veiled figure lifting her arms to the moon.
"Is she going to do the sacrifices?” They moved slowly towards the central square, for the herd of cattle was still ahead of them, lowing anxiously and pressing together at the strange sights and smells.
Gaius shook his head. "These days, anyway, the Druids or whoever runs their worship don’t sacrifice anything except fruit and flowers.”
"I heard they did lots of sacrifices—even human,” said the centurion.
"Gates of Tartarus, no.” Gaius remembered how indignant Eilan had been when he asked the same question. "Really, this festival’s pretty tame. I was here once, and—”
"Oh, by Caligula’s balls! Somebody’s scared the cows,” the centurion exclaimed, peering ahead of them. "That was what I was afraid of.”
A big man in a checked robe had upset a lantern, and the cows were shifting about, lowing uneasily.
Beyond him an older man was haranguing the crowd. More than a hundred people had gathered to hear. Gaius edged forward to listen. This was why he was here, in case someone used the peaceful gathering to stir up rebellion. People in the crowd were yelling in agreement, ignoring the growing unease in the herd.
A lad came running with a bucket of water, splashing one of the shouters as he went by. The man turned, yelling, and the nearest cow threw up its head with a bellow, pricking its neighbor with a twisted horn.
"Oh, Hades, that’s done it; those cows are going to stampede,” Gaius shouted, even as one of the lead cows burst into a clumsy gallop, knocking into her drover and sending him head over heels into the crowd.
The speaker was still haranguing the crowd, but his audience were shouting at each other now. Two or three men were crowded off their feet, and a woman screamed, and then the whole front line of cattle burst into a lumbering run. A cow bellowed, swerving, and Gaius saw red on its horn. Somebody screamed. Men, women, and a few children surged backward, yelling.
Now everyone was pushing, trying to get out of the way. Within moments the central square was a confusion of motion and sound. Mothers reached for their crying children; one of the legionaries, not accustomed to cattle, was pushed off his feet and went down howling. Gaius struggled to keep his feet and was swept away from his men.
Someone grabbed at his arm. "Here, you look strong, you must help me; the Lady will fall.” A tall, dark-haired woman in a blue robe gripped Gaius’s arm and pulled him towards the edge of the square where an old woman swathed in a blue cloak had collapsed against two women in linen dresses with wreaths of green leaves over their unbleached linen veils.
Gaius reached out cautiously and the women let their burden sag into his arms. He blinked, recognizing the Priestess who had invoked the Goddess two years before. Carefully he lifted her, amazed at the fragility of the form within the heavy robes. Most of the people had fled, but cattle were still bucketing about angrily, or drifting in twos or threes with lowered horns and switching tails, lowing defiance at anyone who tried to herd them.
Near by lay the sti
ll form of the giant who accompanied the Priestess everywhere. "What’s the matter with him?”
"Huw? Oh, he’s all right,” the older priestess said carelessly. "One of the cows gored somebody; he’s afraid of the sight of blood.”
Some bodyguard, Gaius could not help thinking. "We’ve got to get her out of the way of the cows,” he said aloud. "Where shall I carry her?”
"This way.” The taller of the two attending priestesses quickly led the way through the tumble of wrecked booths. Gaius settled his burden so that her head rested against his shoulder, relieved to hear the rasp of her breathing. He did not want to think what would happen to him if the High Priestess of Vernemeton died in his arms.
His nostrils flared at a sudden scent and he realized that the priestess had led them to the booth of an herb seller. The herbalist, plump and worried, was lifting the hanging rug aside so that Gaius could carry the High Priestess in. He knelt and laid her on the piled sleeping furs.
The place was dim and dusty, pungent with the fresh summery smell of the herbs suspended from the beams or shelved in linen bags. Gaius straightened, and his cloak fell back. From behind him came a sudden cry of surprise. Gaius felt his heart begin to thud heavily in his breast. Slowly, for suddenly he needed more courage than it had taken to face a charge of Caledonian tribesmen, he turned.
The smaller of the attending priestesses had thrown back her veil. From its shadowy folds he saw Eilan staring back at him. He felt the blood leaving his head; the world darkened, then flared into brightness as he got his breath again. You’re dead…he thought. You died in the fire! But even when all other vision failed, shining down at him he saw Eilan’s eyes. He felt a breath of air on his face and gradually his senses came back to him.
"Is it really you?” he croaked then. "I thought you had burned…I saw what was left of your house after the raiders came.”