A scant three days would bring her to Vernemeton. She would much rather have travelled in the simplicity of men’s clothing and afoot, but the temple was not yet ready for that; not this year at least. So she resigned herself to travelling with her formal litter and all the regalia of a priestess. An escort of two young priests went with her. They treated her with as much deference as if they had been her grandsons; which was not particularly surprising, Caillean thought, for both were young enough.
As they wound through the marshes below the Tor, it began to rain; Caillean knew that this would slow her progress, and fretted, but there was nothing to be done. It had been raining off and on since the Equinox, as if the heavens were weeping for the dead Emperor, and no one, however gifted with magic, had ever been able to control the British weather.
Two days’ journey brought them to Aquae Sulis, and from there a Roman road led northward to Glevum. To her surprise, it was in considerable disrepair; the recent rains had left it pitted and the stones all awry. There were great ruts in the gravel and she was glad they did not have to drive a chariot or even a farm cart with oxen over such a road.
She had almost fallen asleep when, from the depths of the forest which edged the road, a number of men came running, dirty and rough-looking, in tattered and filthy garments. Bacaudae, thought Caillean, a rabble of runaway slaves and criminals who plagued many parts of the Empire. She had heard of them, but never encountered any before. The unrest following the death of the Emperor must have encouraged them.
“Stand aside, fellows,” demanded one of her escort. “We bear a great priestess.”
“That ain’t nothing to us,” said one of the bandits, jeering. “What can she do? Throw fire at us, maybe? There’s a stall at every market with a juggler who can do that same trick.”
Caillean had indeed been regretting that there was no fire within the litter, but these fellows were clearly more sophisticated than the Irish raiders she had once frightened that way. She climbed out of the litter and said to the young priest, “What is the delay?”
He was still sputtering with indignation. “These—these fellows—” he began. Caillean regarded them calmly, then reached into the little pouch at her waist. She still—she realized it only afterwards—had not completely taken in what was happening. For so many years the Romans had kept the roads quiet; the danger did not seem real.
She took out the little purse tied at her waist and said with distant courtesy, “Charity is a duty to the gods. Here, fellow,” and she handed him a denarius. He gazed at it for a moment, then guffawed.
“We don’t want your charity, lady,” he remarked, with an odd, exaggerated courtesy. “But you can start by giving us that little purse—”
Then, finally, Caillean realized what they dared to want from her. Amazement gave way to outrage. With suddenly heightened senses, she felt the energy in the clouds above her and its resonance within her. In that moment she knew she had some power over the weather after all. She lifted her hands and saw a blur as the bandit, who had sensed his danger, struck out with his cudgel. Lightning flared, blanking out vision, and as the thunder boomed, the sky fell on her head and the world disappeared.
It was many hours before she became conscious again.
In the days that followed that first pain, Eilan tried to accept the will of the gods. But although she could believe that the Goddess would watch over Vernemeton and her people, she still feared for her child. She could have trusted Gawen to Caillean. But Caillean—at her work at the far end of the country—was not there. Dieda was kin to the boy, but since the death of Cynric she was the last person to whom Eilan could entrust him. Lia, she knew, would die for her nursling, but she was only a poor woman with no place to go. Perhaps Mairi might be willing to take the child, but Gawen would not be safe even with her if their father should learn his identity.
If she only knew how long she had…But no matter how Eilan framed the question, the forces that had warned of her own death remained so obstinately silent that if it had not been for the occasional throb of pain in her brow, the whole thing might have been some morbid product of her own imagination. All she could do was to spend as much time as she dared with the boy.
Gawen had just gone off to his dinner when Senara came in to light the lamps. As usual, Huw was a silent presence by the door. For so many years she had thought him about as much protection as an unhatched chicken, but he had been lethal enough. Seeing him reminded her of the unhealed pain of Cynric’s death.
“You go too, and get yourself some dinner,” she ordered. “Senara will remain with me until you return.”
Senara moved slowly around the room with flint and steel, and the clay lamps—of Roman make even here—flared into life one by one. It was only when the girl had stood for several minutes staring at the last of them that Eilan asked, “What is it, child. Are you unwell?”
“Oh, Eilan!” Senara caught her breath on a sob.
Eilan took a seat on one of the benches. “Come here, child,” she said gently. As Senara approached, she saw the girl’s face was wet. “Why, my love, what is it? You know me well enough to know that whatever it is, you needn’t be afraid to tell me.”
Bright drops shone on Senara’s cheeks. “You’re so good to me, you’ve always been so good…and I’m not worth it,” she said, choking, and fell at Eilan’s feet, crying helplessly.
“Oh, my dear,” Eilan soothed, “you mustn’t cry; I’m not strong enough for this. Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.” She reached out and gently pulled the girl to her feet. “Come, sit here beside me.”
Senara’s weeping diminished a little, but instead of taking a place at Eilan’s side she began to pace the room. At last she said, her voice half choked with weeping, “I hardly know how to tell you.”
And all at once, Eilan knew what ailed the girl. She said, “You’ve come to tell me you don’t wish to be sworn as a priestess in the Forest House.”
Senara looked up, the bright drops still making glistening tracks down her cheeks in the lamplight. “That’s part of it,” she whispered, “the least part.” She struggled for words. “I’m not worthy to be here at all; I’m not fit; if you knew, you’d cast me out of here—”
You aren’t worthy! Eilan thought. Oh, if you only knew! And then, aloud, she repeated what Caillean had once said to her. “Perhaps in the sight of the Goddess, none of us is truly worthy. Try to stop crying, my dear, and tell me what ails you.”
Senara calmed a little, though she still could not meet Eilan’s eyes. Eilan recalled standing like this before Lhiannon, so many years ago. But surely she wronged the girl; Senara had been spending her time with the Christians, and they were even more concerned with chastity than the women of Vernemeton.
“I…I have met a man…and he wants me to go away with him,” she said baldly at last.
Eilan caught Senara in her arms. “Ah, my poor child,” she whispered. “But you are still free to leave us and even to marry if you wish. You were brought here so young. It was never really intended that you should take vows among us; but that was so long ago now that most of us had forgotten. Tell me about it. Where did you meet this man? Who is he? I have no objection if you want to marry, but I care for you as much as any mother, and I would like to be sure you are choosing well.”
Senara stared at her, hardly understanding that not only was Eilan not angry, but that the older woman would set her free. “I met him at Father Petros’s hermitage. He is a Roman, a friend of my uncle Valerius—”
She stopped at the sound of a man’s voice. “Senara?” answered one of the newer girls from the other side of the door. “I think you will find her in there.”
I will have to speak to that child, thought Eilan. That is no way to announce visitors, especially a man. Senara, recalling that with Huw gone it was her business to protect the High Priestess, took up position between her and the door. A man came through it and, as he closed it behind him, Eilan saw all the color drain out of Senar
a’s face and then flood into it again.
“This man…” she faltered. “He has come for me…”
She moved aside, and in the flickering, deceptive lamplight Eilan saw his face.
“Gaius…” she whispered. Surely this was some nightmare born of a fevered imagination. She shut her eyes, but when she opened them he was still there, staring in stupefaction from her to Senara. Senara took a step towards him. “Gaius!” she cried. “I did not expect you so soon! Has my uncle given his permission for you to marry me?”
Gaius stared wildly around him. “You foolish girl, what are you doing here?”
Eilan felt as if the flame of the lamps had ignited in her breast. Slowly she rose to her feet. “What are you doing here?” She turned to Senara. “Are you trying to tell me that Gaius Macellius Severus is the man you love?”
“He is. Why, what is wrong?” Senara stared at Eilan in confusion.
Eilan turned on Gaius. “You tell her what is wrong,” she commanded. “Tell her all the truth—if you are still capable of it.”
“What truth?” demanded Senara, her voice cracking. “I know that he has a Roman wife who has refused to honor her marriage vows. Of course he will divorce her before he marries me…”
“Of course he will,” Eilan said in a terrible voice. “So, Gaius, she knows about the little daughters that you will be abandoning. Does she know about our son as well?”
“Your son?” Stricken, Senara looked back and forth between Gaius and Eilan. “Tell me this is not true,” she said to Gaius, pleading. Her voice caught in her throat.
“You do not understand,” Gaius muttered.
“Understand,” Senara repeated brokenly. “I wanted to save you, and you have nearly ruined me! I understand that I have been a fool!”
As she turned from him, the door swung wide and the giant Huw thrust into the room, cudgel upraised. But after the death of Cynric he had been severely chastised, and he did not want to make the same mistake again. “Lady,” he mumbled, “they said a man was here. I heard shouting. What shall I do?”
Eilan stared at Gaius, thinking that if the danger were not so real he would have looked ridiculous standing there. But perhaps to be caught in this situation was the worst punishment a proud Roman could have endured. After a long moment Eilan lifted her hand to signal Huw to stand still. “Go,” she said fiercely to Gaius. “Go, or he will knock out your brains.” To Senara she added, “Go with him, if you wish—while I can still protect you.”
Senara stared at Gaius for a moment and then flung her arms around Eilan. “Oh, I would not,” she cried, “not for the world and everything in it would I go with him now!”
Eilan, startled, tightened her arms around the girl, then she turned upon Gaius.
“Get out of here,” she said in a low voice. “Get out or I will let Huw do his worst.” Then, losing her control, she cried, “Get out of here, or I will kill you myself!”
Gaius did not stay to argue. He pushed through the door curtain, and it flapped shut behind him.
Gaius sat in the Blue Eagle taverna and called out to the proprietor to bring him a new flagon of sour Gaulish wine. He had been drinking for most of the past three days, moving from one wine shop to another as he outwore his welcome. The tavern keepers knew who he was, and his father. Eventually, they would be paid.
At times Gaius wondered if he had been missed, but he supposed Macellius must think he had gone home to the villa, and Julia would think he was still with his father in the town. Mostly, he wondered how much wine he would have to drink before the pain went away.
He had stayed in Deva at first because of the political situation, and then because he did not want to confront Licinius and inform him that he was about to abandon Julia and the useless daughters she had borne him. In tardy fairness, he supposed that Licinius, doting father though he was, might be willing to remonstrate with Julia. Sonless himself, he would not want Julia divorced for the same reason. But if Licinius had persuaded his daughter to honor her conjugal obligations, Gaius would not be able to marry Senara, and the thought of her had been a warmth that could keep his fears about the future at bay.
Not that it mattered any more, he thought, feeling the cool fire of the wine going down. Senara didn’t love him. Julia didn’t love him. And Eilan—especially Eilan—didn’t love him at all. He shuddered, remembering the face of the Fury once more when she had ordered him away.
The door to the taverna was flung open and another bunch of legionaries crashed in. The Commander must be wondering by now if he had miscalculated, thought Gaius sourly. The feast he had offered had done no more than weaken military discipline. If this had been Rome, the Emperor would have been emptying the treasury to give the men circuses, but a little bear-baiting was all his godforsaken province could provide. It wasn’t nearly enough to distract them, and the soldiers seemed to be getting wilder with every day.
But nobody paid any attention to the lone man getting quietly drunk in the corner, and that was all that mattered to Gaius right now. He sighed, and reached for the flagon again.
A hand closed around his wrist. He looked up blearily, and blinked to see Valerius standing there. “By Mercury, man, you’ve led me a chase!” Valerius stood back to look at him and made a face. “Thank the gods your father can’t see you now!”
“Does he know—?” Gaius began.
“Are you crazy? I care about his feelings, even if you do not. One of the men told me he’d seen you. What possessed you to get drunk now? Never mind that,” he said as Gaius started to protest. “First, my lad, we’ve got to get you out of here!”
Gaius was still protesting when Valerius hauled him into the street and across the town to the bathhouse. But it was not until he had been shoved into the cold pool that Gaius began to sober up enough to understand what was said to him.
“Tell me,” Valerius said as he came up, sputtering, “is my niece Valeria still in the Forest House?”
Gaius nodded. “I went there, but she…changed her mind, wouldn’t come with me.” Events were coming back to him. He had given Valerius an expurgated version of the situation and gained his permission to marry Senara—that gave the man some rights—but why was he so upset about it now?
“Listen,” said Valerius quickly. “You’re not the only one who’s been drinking. Last night I was with some of the legionaries attached to the Quaestor’s office—their names don’t matter—who were speculating about the priestesses at Vernemeton. And one of them said, ‘It’s not as if the women there were anything like real Vestals; they’re just barbarian women like any others.’ I protested, but it finally came to a wager that they could carry off one of the sacred virgins there, and it wouldn’t be sacrilege.”
Gaius picked up a towel and began to rub himself furiously, trying to understand.
“Come into the hot room,” said Valerius, offering his arm. “You’ll sweat the poisons out faster.” When they were settled, gasping as the hot steam hit them, the secretary continued. “I thought it was the sort of silly bet that drunken men make—no more than words born of wine, and nothing to worry about—till this morning, when three of the men turned up missing at muster. One of my drinking companions of the night before told me that they had left Deva this morning to try and win the bet.”
“The centurion…” Gaius’s head was pounding, but he was becoming able to think once more.
“…has more than enough on his hands without this, and so do the tribunes. Discipline has gone to hell since the assassination. You and your father know the British better than anyone. What do you think will happen if some of our men are discovered raping a native priestess? Boudicca’s rebellion will be nothing to it, and we’re in no condition to respond!”
“Yes…of course,” said Gaius. “I will go. Do you know exactly when they left? Have you any idea which way they took?”
“None whatever, I’m sorry to say,” Valerius replied. “I suppose I could ask around.”
“No, there??
?s not enough time. I’ll have to go home for clothes.” He rubbed his eyes.
“I have them,” said Valerius. “I had an idea you might need a change.”
“My father was right,” muttered Gaius, “you do think of everything.”
He let the slaves dry and shave him, and forced himself to eat something. He had been a fool, he thought bitterly, trying to drown his sorrows in wine when the world was falling to pieces around him. Somewhere during the process of returning to sanity he had realized that tomorrow must be Samaine. Half the tribesmen in the West would be converging on Vernemeton for the festival. It didn’t matter what Eilan and Senara thought of him. His blood ran cold at the thought of their danger if a war started there.
“I’ll get your niece to safety,” he told Valerius as he prepared to ride out of Deva. And Eilan, and the boy…and if they still hate me they can tell me about it on the way home. He folded back his cloak to free his arms, and patted the last thing he had borrowed from Valerius—a sword.
Not all the years since the coming of the Romans—not all the years since the building of the great Temple of the Sun on the plain, could have been longer to Eilan than the next two days. The night before the Samaine festival seemed to last a thousand years. She had sent Senara away hours ago. As the lights burned down, it seemed to her that the growing shadows were engulfing her own spirit as well.
This must have been what was meant when the warning had come to her; death had waited within her heart and spirit like a seed; it seemed now to expand through her body like an unfolding flower. Her heart pounded as if it would break through walls of bone. Even when her child was born she had felt no such pain. But whether the pain was of the body or of the mind and spirit she could not tell.