"I have seen her —" he began, searching for a way to tell her what had happened. Julia had a right to know what kind of a husband she would be getting if she married him.

 

But before he could get the words out, he heard Licinius's halting step on the mosaic floor and the moment was lost.

 

"So you're back, my dear fellow." Licinius seemed genuinely glad to see him. "I suppose this means we shall soon be having a wedding here."

 

"I hope so, sir," Gaius said, and hoped they thought his hesitation had been modesty. Perhaps it was just as well, for if Julia had refused to marry him, what hope had he of fulfilling his promises to protect Eilan and their child?

 

Julia smiled radiantly. Perhaps being married to her would have its compensations. She caught his glance and blushed.

 

"Come and see my wedding veil," she said invitingly. "I have been working on the embroidery for months. It's all right to show it to Gaius now, isn't it, Father?" she asked.

 

"Yes, my dear, of course, but I still think you should have been content with a linen veil. That was good enough for a Roman woman in the days of the Republic, and it should have been good enough for you," Licinius grumbled.

 

"And look at what became of your Republic," Julia said impertinently. "I wanted the most fashionable veil that could be had — and I think you did too!"

 

The veil was indeed beautiful, of sheer, flame-colored silk, which Julia was embroidering in gold thread with fruit and flowers.

 

When she had left them, Licinius took Gaius quietly aside.

 

"I have set the date for the formal betrothal at the end of this month, before the unlucky days at the beginning of March. Your father cannot be present, but the Legate should be able to do without him for a time by April, when my augurs have found a

 

favorable day for the wedding. It is short notice, but I think we can be ready. Otherwise it would be the second half of June before the season was auspicious, and while you have been off winning honors among the Caledonians my daughter has had to wait an extra year to be married." He smiled benignly. "If that's quite all right with you, my dear boy?"

 

"Oh yes, quite -" Gaius said faintly. And what would they all do, he wondered, if he said it was not? He wondered why Licinius bothered to consult him at all.

 

Then Julia came back into the room, and as she reached out to him, he realized that he could not betray the trust in those dark eyes. He and Eilan had never really had a chance; at least he might be able to give some happiness to this Roman girl.

 

A watery sunlight streamed through the door of the hut in the forest, for it had been raining earlier. Eilan moved slowly about inside. Putting on her clothes, part of her awareness turned to the small sounds the baby made in his sleep. Her strength had returned more quickly after Gaius's visit, but it still hurt to move. She had been much torn by the birth, and she was easily tired.

 

The baby slumbered in his basket, wrapped in an old shawl. Eilan stopped for a moment to admire him. To her, Gawen was all the more beautiful because she fancied she could see a blurred reflection of his father in the nub of his nose and the dark feathering of his brows.

 

She sat for a moment contemplating her child's face. Gawen . . .she thought, my little king! What would Macellius - supposing he should ever hear of his grandson - think of that? She wanted to pick him up but she had so much else to do, and he was sleeping peacefully. So peacefully, in fact, that she bent close to catch the small sound of his breathing. Reassured, she straightened again.

 

One garment at a time, with long rests between them, she managed to dress and to comb and braid her long hair. Ordinarily Annis would have helped her, but she had been sent to the village to replenish their supplies. Having preserved her secret so long, it would not do to have the old woman present when Ardanos arrived.

 

Eilan wrapped the braid around her head in a matronly style that was new to her. Perhaps she could face him with more confidence if he saw her as a grown woman instead of a frightened child.

 

What did the old man want? Reason told her that he had come to order her back to the Forest House, but again and again she had to repress a chill of fear. Did he mean to send her away after all?

 

She thought wildly of following Gaius, if he was not yet married. Or Mairi might shelter her, unless their father forbade it. Caillean had told her that Bendeigid was back from the North, gaunt as a winter wolf and much embittered by the ruin of their cause. But so long as he lived quietly at his elder daughter's steading, the Romans were unlikely to bother him.

 

Once Eilan got her strength back she could care for herself and her child by hiring out to some farm. A healthy boy could always earn his keep. It might be wiser, though, not to say who his father was. She herself was skilled in all manner of household work, spinning and weaving, milking and churning; if she had to support herself and her son, she certainly could. She" sighed and sat back on the bed, knowing that these were only fantasies.

 

She had heard that the Roman Vestals could leave the temple when they reached the age of thirty, but here the only release for a High Priestess was the funeral fire. She remembered that Ardanos's first reaction to her pregnancy had been to sentence her and her unborn child to death, and there was Bendeigid's threat to strangle her with his own hands. But surely, if they meant to kill her, they could already have easily done it.

 

By the time the Arch-Druid's shadow fell across the doorway she had worked herself into a state of numb apprehension.

 

"I am glad to see you are better," he said neutrally, looking down at her.

 

"Oh yes, I am feeling quite well, Grandsire."

 

He scowled. "Indeed I am your grandsire, and you will do well to remember it!"

 

He strode to the basket, looked down at the child for a moment, then lifted it in his arms. "But you have made your bed, and now we must all lie in it. This masquerade has gone on long enough. Three days should be enough for your milk to dry off, and then you will return to the Forest House to prepare for the spring rituals. As for your son, he will be fostered elsewhere." He turned and started towards the door.

 

"Stop!" Eilan cried out. "Where are you taking him?" She felt anguish swelling in her throat and remembered how their hound bitch had howled when Bendeigid took her puppies out to be drowned because she had mismated with a neighbor's terrier.

 

He regarded her unblinkingly. "Believe me, it is better that you do not know. I pledge you that he will be perfectly well and safe. Perhaps, if you do everything you are told, we may let you see him from time to time."

 

Eilan wondered why she had never noticed before how cruel Ardanos looked when he smiled, and how very long and sharp his teeth were. "You cannot," she cried. "I will care for him. You must not take him from me. Oh, please, I beg you —"

 

Ardanos's bushy brows met. "Why such surprise?" he asked with edged control. "Did you suppose you could nurse your child before all the priestesses in the House of Maidens. Be reasonable."

 

"Give him to me," she cried. "You cannot have him." She snatched at the wrapped bundle in her grandfather's arms, and the baby, waking, began to scream.

 

"You little fool, let him go."

 

Eilan's legs would no longer uphold her, but she clung to his knees. "I beg you, I beg you, Grandfather! You cannot," she was babbling, "you cannot take my son from me . . ."

 

"I must, and I will," Ardanos said fiercely, thrust outward with his knee and wrenched his robe free. As she collapsed he carried the wailing infant out through the open door.

 

And then there was only the dappling of sunlight, as innocently mocking as a baby's smile.

 

"Is this your revenge, you monster?" Caillean banged the door shut behind her and stormed into the room, too angry to appreciate the fact that in his quarters in the Roman town, the Arch-Druid had a door to slam. By Roman standards the house would have seemed plain and small; its straight, plastered walls and sharp corners seemed unfriendly to British eyes.

 

Ardanos looked up from his meal, agape, and she marshaled the words stored up during her ride from Vernemeton.

 

"You wicked, cruel old man! I promised Lhiannon before she died to help you. But that does not make me your slave or your torturer!"

 

He opened his mouth to speak but she raged on. "How could you treat Eilan - your own daughter's child - that way? I tell you I will be no part of this; let her keep her child or —" she drew breath, "or I will appeal directly to the people and let the Goddess judge between us."

 

"You would not —" Ardanos began.

 

"Try me!" Caillean retorted implacably. "I assume that you have some use for her or you would not have let her survive," she continued more moderately. "Well, I tell you, unless Eilan is allowed to have her child with her she will die."

 

"I suppose it is not surprising that the girl should be such a fool, but I did not expect it of you," he said when she let him get a word in at last. "Stop exaggerating. Women do not die so easily."

 

"Do they not? Eilan was bleeding again when I found her. You almost lost her, old man, and then where would all your plans be? Do you truly believe Dieda would be as pliant to your will?"

 

"In the Goddess's name, what do you want of me, woman?"

 

"Don't dare to speak of the Goddess; you have shown me over and over that you know less than nothing of Her," Caillean said angrily. For the sake of Lhiannon who - the gods know why — loved you and believed in your plans, I have helped you so far.

 

"But you cannot intimidate me as you did Lhiannon, nor frighten me; I have too little to lose. I would be willing to go to the priests and let them judge between us. Treating with the Romans and interfering with Oracles is a nasty business, or at least they would think it so, not understanding —" she stopped to sneer - "your high purpose."

 

"Why are you doing this? Eilan is no kin of yours." Ardanos was gazing at her as if he really did not understand.

 

Caillean sighed. She had loved Lhiannon as a mother, but she was coming to realize that Eilan was like a sister, or like the daughter she had never had — and never would, now that her moonblood had ceased to flow. Barren as she was, and in a way that would have been impossible when she was younger, she understood Eilan's passionate need to keep her child.

 

"It should be enough to know that you really cannot stop me. I suggest that you believe that, Ardanos, for you have more to lose than I. Do you think the other priests of your Order would not inquire why this child should live at all? You have a hold over Eilan while she knows you can take her child; you have - thanks be to all the gods at once - none over me."

 

The Arch-Druid looked thoughtful, but even as she began to hope that she was convincing him, Caillean realized that what she had said was not strictly true. Ardanos threatened her by threatening Eilan.

 

"Bring the baby back, Ardanos," Caillean, who in her years with Lhiannon had learned all about compromise, softened her voice. "Even if Eilan has the child with her, they are still in your power.

 

Do you think it is a small thing to have the Priestess of the Oracles in the hollow of your hand?"

 

"Perhaps I did act a little hastily -" he said finally. "But what I told the girl was true. If she flaunts her son at the Forest House we might as well proclaim her shame to the world. How do you suggest we maintain the deception if I let her keep him there?"

 

Caillean's shoulders slumped as she realized that she had won. "I have thought of a way —"

 

The day appointed for Gaius's wedding dawned clear and bright. Gaius woke when the spring sun shone in through his window, and blinked as it glowed blindingly on the whiteness of the toga draped across the chair. In the past year he had been required to wear the garment at the social and diplomatic occasions at which he had accompanied his prospective father-in-law and had become a little more used to handling its draperies, but he still found it awkward. Agricola boasted that he had taught the sons of British chieftains to wear the toga, but Gaius wondered. He had been brought up as a Roman, but he was still more comfortable in uniform or in the tunic and trews of the tribes.

 

He sat up, surveying the garment in dismay. His father, who had come in from Deva the day before and was sleeping in the same room, turned over and lifted one eyebrow.

 

"I do think they could invent a better ceremonial garment," Gaius grumbled, "or at least something more convenient."

 

"A toga is more than a garment," said Macellius. "It is a symbol." He sat up and to the amazement of his son, who was never at his best the first thing in the morning, began to discourse on the toga's honorable history.

 

But presently Gaius started to understand. Even, or perhaps especially, here at the far end of the Empire, the right to wear the white toga of a citizen was a way of distinguishing between the masters of the world and those they had conquered, and the narrow purple stripe of the eques that marked his tunic an honor dearly won. And that was very important to men like his father. Compared to that, the comfort of the garment was irrelevant.

 

Much as he would have liked to toss the offending piece of cloth out of the window, it was just one of the things he had to accept when he threw in his lot with Rome. At least the toga was woolen, and so was the tunic he would wear beneath it. Though the April wind blew chill and rainy he would not freeze.

 

Sighing, he allowed himself to be bathed and shaved by his freedman, slipped into his tunic and sandals, and then set to work trying to figure out how to drape the thing. After a few moments his father, his face gone so wooden that Gaius felt sure he was suppressing a grin, took the toga away from him. Deftly he arranged the pleats of white wool to hang down in front of the left shoulder, adjusted the drape across the back and under his son's right arm, and then drew the remainder carefully across his chest and over the left shoulder in the other direction so that the folds were draped gracefully over his arm.

 

"There now." He stepped back and surveyed his son indulgently. "Stand up a little straighter and you could pose for a statue."

 

"I feel like one," Gaius mumbled, afraid to move lest the whole arrangement come undone. This time his father did laugh.

 

"Never mind; it's natural for a bridegroom to be nervous. You'll feel better when it's all done."

 

"Did you?" Gaius asked abruptly. "When you married my mother, were you afraid?"

 

Macellius stilled, and for a moment his eyes clouded with remembered pain. "I felt joy when she came to me and every day of our lives together until she was gone . . ." he whispered.

 

As I did when Eilan lay in my arms . . .Gaius thought bitterly. But I have consented to this mummery, and have no choice but to go through with it now.

 

The sight of the haruspex who had been called in to take the auspices for the marriage did nothing to improve his mood. In the noon sunlight the man's bald red head and long skinny legs made him look like one of his own chickens and Gaius was cynically certain that whatever spots he found on the entrails of the unfortunate fowl would indicate it was an auspicious day. With most of the dignitaries of Londinium standing about it would be exceedingly inconvenient to cancel the festivities. In any case, the augurs had already been consulted weeks ago to select the proper day.

 

The atrium, its pillars twined with greenery, was crowded with what seemed to be an appalling number of people; he recognized a couple of wrinkled prune-faced elderly dowagers whom he had met in Licinius's house several times over the last few months. He noticed that they really smiled, if not actually at him, at least somewhere in his direction. Maybe they were happy for Julia; if

 

they only knew how mixed a bargain she was getting they would frown!

 

In due course the sacrificer declared it a very good day for a wedding and offered congratulations. No day on which Julia had decided to be married would dare to be unfavorable.

 

There was a little murmur as the sacrifice was cleared away and the bride entered on her father's arm. Gaius could see little but the hem of her white tunica beneath the crimson flamma, the famous veil. One of Licinius's secretaries unrolled the marriage contract and began to read in a nasal drone. Most of it had been completed at the ceremony of betrothal: the amount of the coemptio which Gaius was offering, and the sum which Julia would bring to the marriage, the fact that she was to remain "in the hand" of her father as a legal part of his family, and would retain her own property. It had been explained to him that these days that arrangement was more usual, and no one would think the less of him. There was a provision that he could not divorce Julia except for "grievous misconduct", which must be attested by at least two noble matrons. Gaius would have laughed if anything now could have made him laugh; anyone less likely to misbehave than the dignified Julia, he simply could not imagine, and she had made it too clear that she wanted this marriage to jeopardize it. Even her sober demeanor today could not hide the triumph in her eyes.

 

"Gaius Macellius Severus Siluricus, do you agree to the terms of this contract, and are you willing to take this woman as your wife according to the law?" his father asked then. Gaius realized that they were all looking at him, but still it seemed an endless time before he could say the words.

 

"I am willing-"

 

"Julia Licinia?" Her father turned to the girl and repeated the question. Her agreement came a good deal more swiftly. The secretary presented the document to each of them for signing and then carried it away to be registered in the archives.

 

Gaius felt as if his freedom were going with it, but the Roman gravity that went with the toga did not require him to smile. A sweet-faced lady, identified as the daughter of Agricola, came forward, took Julia's hand and led her to Gaius. He felt a pang of guilt as her small fingers tightened on his.

 

There were prayers then, a great many it seemed, invoking Juno and Jupiter, Vesta and every other deity who might be assumed to be concerned with the preservation of hearth and home. He and Julia were given a bowl of grain and a flagon of oil to offer to the fire on the altar. As it crackled in the flames the scent of cooked food came suddenly from the dining hall off the atrium, mingling in a rather sickening fashion with the incense that had been burned. The feast was almost ready. Julia put back her veil. He took the cake of rough spelt wheat - he hoped they would have something better to eat at the feast to follow - broke it and thrust a morsel between Julia's lips. She repeated the gesture, saying the appointed words that made them legally one. The ritual had acquired its own momentum, and from now on he had only to go through the motions.

 

He sat through the wedding feast in the dining chamber, as lavish as Licinius's purse and Julia's pride could make it, in a kind of daze. He was aware that the tables were laden with an amazing variety of things. People spoke to him; he accepted congratulations from an elderly friend of Licinius and agreed that yes, he was indeed lucky to be getting a splendid girl. The old senator lingered, insisting on telling him anecdotes of Julia as a toddler; he had known her all her life. Somewhere near by two of the magistrates were discussing in low tones the Emperor's upcoming German campaign.

 

Slaves, murmuring congratulations, served them, not the meat of the sacrifices, but tender roast chickens, roast pork and delicate cakes of fine wheat bread. And there was a liberal amount of wine; which Gaius, drinking everything he was given, soon decided was better than he had thought. An almost endless stream of guests kept coming and offering him congratulations; he had seldom seen Macellius look so happy.

 

As the feasting continued, Gaius drew on all his reserves of courtesy and self-control, while at the back of his mind wondering what Eilan would think of all this nonsense, whether she would ever know or appreciate what he was doing for her and for their son.

 

Julia giggled at the rude jokes of the mountebanks who entertained them, but he was not sure whether she really understood them. This part of the ceremony was traditionally to encourage the begetting of children; the clowns seemed very eager to make sure nobody could possibly miss the point. The sight of food was beginning to revolt him, but he continued to make a pretense of eating, and agreed for the ninetieth time that Julia was a lovely girl and he a very lucky man.

 

Julia was beginning to look sleepy; she had accepted a second and then a third glass of the wine, and since it was considerably stronger than what Licinius served at his everyday table, her normal vivacity was muted. Gaius envied her condition; he was still, unfortunately, quite conscious.

 

It was growing dark. From outside he heard shouting, and grinned foolishly when the Master of Ceremonies announced that the moment for the bridal procession had arrived. It was all quite ridiculous really, for since Macellius had no house in the town, the new couple was only moving to the far wing of Licinius's mansion, but Julia was apparently determined not to miss a single tradition on her big day.

 

It was just as well that he was not really expected to carry off his bride, thought Gaius as he gripped Julia by the wrist with simulated roughness and pulled her after him. In his current state of unsteadiness he could have been held off by an old woman and a lame dog.

 

The Master of Ceremonies handed him a bag full of gilded walnuts and small copper coins; he indicated that Gaius should scatter them to the beggars outside who frequented weddings just for this. Julia had a similar bag which matched her crimson veil. The litter bearers ceremoniously carried them out of Licinius's house, down the avenue to the forum, past the new Governor's palace and the tabularium, preceded by flute players and singers and surrounded by torches, and finally circled back to the entrance of the new apartment that had been made ready for them. Gaius suppressed a desire to giggle. He scattered coins and heard the blessings of the crowd. Only a little further now . . .

 

The whitethorn torch sent a flickering light through the doorway, banishing shadows and evil magic. Gaius, whose head had been somewhat cleared by the chill air, wished it could banish memory. Someone handed Julia a bowl of oil with which to anoint the doorposts and the strands of white wool with which to adorn them.

 

The elderly dowagers kissed Julia, murmuring wishes for her happiness, and after a moment's thought kissed Gaius too; this touched off a regular storm of embraces, kisses and congratulations. Macellius, a bit drunk - the first time Gaius had ever seen his father affected even a little by wine - embraced them both; Licinius kissed Julia and Gaius, and said it had been a splendid wedding.

 

Then Gaius lifted her, marveling once more at how light she was m his arms, carried her over the threshold, and kicked the door shut behind him.

 

He could smell fresh paint on the walls, competing with the incense and the scent of Julia's flowers. She stood still before him, and with more tenderness than he had thought he could muster he lifted the flamma away.

 

Her wreath was wilting; the six locks of hair that her maid had so carefully curled unraveling around the neck of her gown. She looked far too young to be married. Before he could speak she led the way to the altar in the center of their own atrium, and stood waiting expectantly.

 

He pulled the end of his toga up to cover his head and saluted the little terracotta statues that represented the family gods.

 

"By fire and water I welcome you as my wife and priestess of my home —" he said hoarsely. He poured water across her hands and held the towel for her to dry them; then handed her the taper from which to light the fire.

 

"May the gods bless us at bed and at board; and grant that I bear you many sons," she answered him.

 

The bridal bed had been made up against the wall. He led her towards it and fumbled to undo the peculiar knot with which her woolen girdle was tied, wondering how many eager grooms had lost patience and simply cut the thing loose. At least now he could unwind himself from the swaddling folds of his toga.

 

Julia lay in the big bed with the covers drawn up to her chin, watching him. In the morning the bloody sheets would be ceremoniously presented to the dowagers as evidence of consummation; but Gaius would not even have to be present. And in any case he did not doubt that Julia - always practical - had provided herself with a little bag of chicken blood in case he should be too drunk to perform. Almost every bride had sense enough for that, he had been told.

 

But he was not that drunk, and if he did his duty with more efficiency than passion, at least he was gentle, and Julia was too innocent to expect more.

 

 

 

Twenty-One

 

 

 

Eilan did not return to Vernemeton until March, for despite Caillean's promise to bring her son back to her, it took some time to recover from the shock of losing him. Once she had wept herself out she came to understand that even when he was restored to her it would not be the same.

 

After a few days her breasts ceased to ache and she knew that another woman would feed her little one now. Another woman would hold him close during the long night hours and pat the bubbles away and comfort him, would have the sweet labor of bathing the firm little body. Someone else would lean over his cradle and sing the lullabies her mother had taught her. But not Eilan. She could not - she must not - or all she had suffered to achieve was lost.

 

It was announced that the High Priestess was ill to cover the transition, and late one night Eilan was brought back to the Forest House and Dieda was spirited away, bound for further bardic training in Eriu as promised. By the time she returned, it was their hope that everyone would have forgotten there had ever been two maidens in Vernemeton who looked almost the same. With Cynric still a prisoner, it was clearly impossible for Dieda to go to him even if she had desired it. In the end, Dieda seemed reconciled to the prospect of learning from the bards of a land that had never been touched by Rome.

 

Only now, as she resumed her duties as Priestess of the Oracles, did Eilan realize how isolated she would henceforward be. Part of this was the result of the seclusion forced on Dieda as part of the deception, but it was also a result of her change in status. As was her right, Eilan honored Caillean, Eilidh, Miellyn and young Senara by choosing them as her primary attendants, but she saw little of the other priestesses except at the ceremonies.

 

From time to time in the past the Forest House had sheltered women or children like Senara who had need of care. It was therefore unusual, but not unheard of, to take in the young woman called Lia and the infant the Arch-Druid had brought to her to wet-nurse and install them in the roundhouse next to the herb sheds where visitors usually stayed. Nor was it even so surprising that Caillean should take the baby to the High Priestess, saying that she might be cheered by holding a young child.

 

After that first joyful reunion, Eilan wept copiously; for it seemed to her that Gawen, being nursed by Lia, had somehow become almost more Lia's child than hers. Nevertheless it seemed a miracle to her that Ardanos, even under duress, had kept his word. She wondered sometimes how Caillean had persuaded him, but did not dare to ask.

 

Naturally her partiality for the child caused gossip. But Caillean took the precaution of confiding to old Latis — in strictest confidence - that the child belonged to Eilan's sister Mairi, born of a father unknown, and had been sent here because Mairi was thinking of marrying again. Within a week the story was all over Vernemeton, as they had expected. But although there were some who believed the baby was Dieda's, no one appeared to suspect he was Eilan's. And with most of the women the boy soon became a pet.

 

Eilan felt guilt for the damage to the reputations of her sister and the girl who had been like a sister to her. But after all they had assented, however reluctantly. Worse was the torment of not being able to acknowledge her child. But she must not - she would not - and, as week followed week, confession became less and less possible.

 

It seemed to Eilan that time went by very slowly under this uneasy reprieve; Ardanos had returned from Deva, and, almost gloating, reported that Macellius's son was married to the daughter of the Procurator in Londinium. She had known this must happen, but she could hardly keep from weeping, though she resolved not to in the sight of Ardanos.

 

She had to believe that both she and Gaius had made the right decision, but she could not help wondering about the woman whom she could not keep from thinking of as her rival. Was she beautiful? Did he speak words of love to her, from time to time? Eilan was the mother of his first son; did that not count for something? Or was she forgotten? And if she were, how would she ever know?

 

But time went on — as it always does, no matter what shifts are taken to ignore its passing - and the festival of Beltane came upon her, when she must serve again as the voice of the Oracle.

 

Eilan had thought that she had resolved her doubts when she became High Priestess. Perhaps they were returning now because of the child. In the dark hours of the night she wondered if this time she would be punished for her blasphemy, though by daylight she reasoned that if she had lived through the first time, the Goddess was unlikely to be insulted now. If the Power she had felt during her initiation was a delusion, then she had given up Gaius for nothing. But if Ardanos did not truly believe in the Goddess he served, then it was he not she, who was committing the blasphemy. If she meant to continue in this role, it was essential to learn whether it was the Arch-Druid's interpretation or the Goddess Herself that was the lie.

 

As Eilan was preparing and purifying herself, it occurred to her that drinking from the golden bowl would be more dramatic done in the sight of the people, and resolved to speak of this to Ardanos when she saw him again. He readily agreed to the change, as if surprised that she should have thought upon the matter at all.

 

This time, Eilan herself mixed the herbs she would be drinking, and made certain substitutions, retaining those that would increase vision and leaving out the ones that detached the senses from the will. As a result she was vividly aware of the vast hush that descended over the assembled gathering. She could feel their reverence and expectation. From a purely public point of view she could understand it. She knew that the people responded to her beauty as they had never responded to Lhiannon's faded charm. But there must have been a time when Lhiannon too had been young and very beautiful. Had it never been any more than this - a drama staged by the priests of whom her grandfather was foremost? Surely the first time she sat in the Oracle's chair the Power that spoke through her had been real.

 

Eilan drank, and felt the familiar dip and lift of the trance state take her. Remembering how the potion had affected her before, she slumped in her chair with lids half-closed so that Ardanos would not see the intelligence in her eyes. And this time, when the Arch-Druid began his incantation she was aware that instructions were being interspersed into the spell. It was clear what was wanted -and why.

 

Now she understood why Ardanos wanted a Priestess of the Oracles who did not rely on inspiration. She had heard him speak before of all the benefits to Britain that would come from the civilizing influence of the Romans. In fact she remembered his saying something like this on that evening in her father's house before she knew who Gaius really was. Well, at least the Arch-Druid could not be accused of inconsistency.

 

In her last meeting with Gaius she had learned enough to agree that - for now — Ardanos might even have the right idea. Used wisely, the Oracle could be a powerful tool to bring peace to Britain. So long as Ardanos was Arch-Druid, and so long as his policies were indeed the path of wisdom, perhaps what they were doing was not even so great a sin. But if Eilan were to be something more than Ardanos's instrument; she would have to understand what was going on in the world outside her walls. Potentially, the High Priestess of Vernemeton could exercise an influence that went far beyond her role as Oracle. By learning what her grandfather was doing, she had also taken on the responsibility for deciding whether or not to cooperate, and how far.

 

Eilan believed that something other than her own hidden will had spoken through her before. But no single human could carry the full power of a goddess. When a divine spirit possessed a body, it not only became accessible, but took on some of that body's limitations; it had to work with the material at hand.

 

Goddess, help me! her spirit cried. If You are there, Lady, and not just my delusion, show me how to do Your will!

 

Ardanos's invocation ended, but the expectation of the crowd around her was building. As the smoke of the sacred herbs billowed from the fires, Eilan felt a Presence building up behind her.

 

Lady, I am in Your hands. With a sigh, Eilan allowed control to slip away. She had the sensation that soft arms were holding her, but at the same time she knew that her body was sitting up, and the One whose power now flowed through it was fixing Ardanos with a radiant smile.

 

Grandfather, she thought, be careful! Can you not see Who has come to you now? But he had turned to the people, and was leading them in the invocation, and she knew he could not see. Her awareness turned inward then. Goddess have mercy! her spirit cried. He works for the good of his people — give him the wisdom to do the right thing - for the sake of us all!

 

And in the silence of the place to which she had come, it seemed to her that there was a reply.

 

"Daughter, I care for all my children, even when they quarrel; and for all times, not only the one you are living through. My Light may be your darkness; and your winter the prelude to My spring. Will you accept this, that a greater good may come?"

 

"I will, but do not leave, me, for You are all I have," she answered, and once more that Voice spoke within her.

 

"How could I leave you — do you not know I love you as you love your child?"

 

The Lady's love surrounded her. Eilan allowed herself to sink into it as into her own mother's arms. As if from a great distance she was aware of Ardanos's questions. She remembered the answers he had told her to give, but they no longer seemed important. Knowledge came to her; she knew what she said in reply, and yet the Self who spoke those words, this time in the language of the people, was not the Eilan she knew.

 

Eilan could not tell how long it went on. In that state where she rested now there was no time at all. And yet a time did come when she heard her own name called. She moaned and tried to turn away. Why should she return? But the cool air with which they were fanning her and the drops of water that splashed her face and hands could not be ignored. They drew her back into her body once more.

 

She shuddered and gasped, and suddenly she was herself, Eilan, once more, looking at the awed faces of the people around her with wide eyes.

 

Ardanos was instructing the people to depart in peace. There was almost a hint of smugness in the satisfaction that filled his smile.

 

He does not understand, Eilan thought then. He thinks he did it all . . .But if the Arch-Druid did not understand the power of the Goddess he said he served, it was not for her to enlighten him. She could only trust that the Lady knew Her own business, and would continue to watch over them.

 

Gaius spent the first months of his marriage fighting the awareness that it was based upon a lie. He suspected that Julia was more enamored of being married than she was of him, but she was cheerful and affectionate, and as long as he was reasonably attentive, she seemed satisfied with his companionship. He could only thank the gods for the innocence, or perhaps the lack of emotional depth, which prevented her from realizing a relationship between a man and a woman ought to be a great deal more.

 

Licinius, who believed that a young couple should not be separated in the first year of their marriage, had arranged for Gaius to serve as an aedile in charge of government buildings in Londinium, which would give him some of the experience in public service necessary to advance his career. At first he had protested lack of background, and wondered if his father-in-law had got him the job simply so that Julia could continue to keep house for him, but he found that although his staff of slaves and freedmen could do the work, they needed the authority of a man of status to deal with the rest of the government. Presently, he realized that a childhood spent listening to his father deal with the problems of maintaining a major fortress had prepared him for his new responsibilities quite well.

 

"Treasure the time you have with Julia now, my lad," Licinius would say, patting him on the shoulder, "for you'll be parted often enough in the future, especially if you're assigned duty in Dacia or some other post on the frontier." They both knew that the path of promotion led all over the Empire; a long-term provincial post such as Camp Prefect or Procurator was awarded only at the end of a career.

 

These were the crucial years, when the name a young man made for himself - and the contacts - determined how far he would rise. Soon Gaius would need to spend some time in Rome itself; he found himself looking forward to it. Meanwhile he applied himself to understanding the workings of government in the smaller reflection of the capital that Londinium had become.

 

More quickly than he could have imagined, a year went by. From time to time disturbing news came from Rome. The Emperor had got himself elected to the office of Consul for the next ten years, and Censor for life in addition to the powers he already had. The patricians muttered darkly that it was a plot to gain control over the Senate, but did little more, for at the moment the army was quite happy with their Emperor, who had raised pay by one-third. As an officer Gaius could not object to that, but it was clear which way the wind was blowing. Even more than his predecessors, Domitian seemed to regard the remaining democratic institutions of Rome as outdated, and certainly inconvenient.

 

A few months after their marriage, Licinius had engaged a tutor -primarily for Julia, he said - so that she might learn to speak better Greek and more polished Latin, and Gaius, to his chagrin, was urged to share these lessons. "For if you go to Rome, it will be necessary for you to speak good Greek; and a more aristocratic Latin," he pointed out.

 

Stung, Gaius had protested. From his earliest boyhood, Macellius had insisted that tutors should be engaged, and that he became as fluent in Latin as in the tribal Celtic language of his mother's kin.

 

"Plain Latin is good enough for me," he protested.

 

"No doubt it's good enough for an army camp," Julia argued, "but believe me, it would be better to speak to the Senate in Celtic than in that vulgar dialect of Deva."

 

Gaius felt like protesting that his Latin was no worse than that of Macellius; but it was true that Macellius had never had to speak to the senators of Rome. And it would do him no harm to learn the language of educated men everywhere, which would always be Greek. But the lessons did not go on for long. By the end of the summer Julia was pregnant and so queasy much of the time that the tutor was dismissed.

 

But by this time Gaius was conversing with the Greek house slaves whenever he had the opportunity, including Charis, Julia's chambermaid, who had herself been born on Apollo's own island of Mytilene. One of the freedmen who worked for him had originally come to Britain as a secretary to a former Governor, and was glad enough to earn a few extra sesterces by correcting Gaius's accent and making him copy out the speeches of Cicero to improve his Latin style.

 

He was resolved that when Julia's child was born and she felt well enough to resume her lessons — if she ever did — he would have far surpassed her.

 

And so the winter passed. By their first anniversary, Julia's sickness had subsided. She did not protest when her father proposed that Gaius join a hunting party for boar in the woods north of Londinium, escorting a wealthy senator with interests in the wine trade who claimed to have undertaken the hazardous journey all the way there for the sake of the hunting. Licinius did not think a great deal of the man's skill, but admitted his political power, and flattered the man by assigning his own son-in-law to escort duty.

 

Julia, far from resenting his absence, was a little relieved to have him out of the house. Like most men, Gaius appeared to feel that any admission of difficulty was a plea for help. Since he could not help her, and indeed, was the cause of her condition, he was inclined to react with annoyance if she mentioned ill health or anxiety. Her father was not much better, and she had too much pride to unburden her heart to the slaves.

 

And so, on the morning Gaius left to go hunting, Julia sought the temple of Juno. Her maid Charis complained about walking all the way, but ungainly as she had become, Julia was sure the jolt of a wagon or the sway of a litter would have made her queasy again.

 

Nor did she mind when the eunuch who watched the door told her she must wait until the priestess should have time for her, for the interior of the temple was dim and cool after the brightness and dust of the street outside, and she was quite content to sit there for a time, gazing up at the painted statue.

 

Domina Dea . . .she prayed, I thought it would be so easy. But the slaves gossip about women who have died in childbirth when they think I cannot hear. I'm not afraid of that, Goddess, but what if my baby should die? What if I am like my mother, who bore only one child who lived beyond a year? My father has political power and Gaius can fight battles. But the only thing that I can do is give them a legitimate heir. She pulled her veil across her face so that no one could see that she was weeping. Help me to deliver a healthy son . . .please, Goddess, please!

 

She started as the eunuch touched her shoulder, then wiped her eyes and followed him to the inner chamber, ignoring the nagging pain in her lower back.

 

Juno's high priestess was a woman of middle years, her face painted to look younger, whose hard eyes silently priced Julia's jewels and gown. But she greeted Julia with an effusive warmth that sparked lively caution in the girl.

 

"You are worried about the birthing." The woman patted her arm. "And it is your first, so it is only natural that you should be afraid . .."

 

Julia pulled back a little, eyeing her warily. Didn't the woman understand that it was not for herself that she feared?

 

"I want a son," she began, and coughed at the wave of scent as the priestess bent closer.

 

"Of course you do. And if you make an offering, the Goddess will help you."

 

"What kind of animal should I buy for the sacrifice?"

 

"Well, dear —" The woman looked down at her rings. "We really have enough of that sort of thing. But they are building a lavish temple for Isis down near the wharfs, and it would be a pity if Juno should be left looking like a poor relation. Surely she will give you what you want if you offer a generous gift to her shrine."

 

Julia stared at her, understanding all too well, and rose heavily to her feet. "Indeed," she said dryly. "I must go now, but I thank you for your good counsel."

 

She turned on her heel, wishing she had the height to make an impressive exit, and stalked from the room, leaving the priestess gaping behind her. As she crossed the threshold, the ache in her back became a stabbing pain that for a moment took her breath away.

 

"My lady —" Charis reached out to help her.

 

"Go summon a chair for me," Julia told her, supporting herself against a pillar. "I believe I will ride home after all."

 

Gaius did not return to Londinium until late in the evening, having seen to it that the distinguished guest got the trophy he wanted, and taking leave of him with some relief. When he came in, he discovered all in chaos; for during his absence, Julia had gone into premature labor and borne him a daughter. He received the news from Licinius, who said all had been over for an hour or two, and Julia was asleep.

 

It was time to toast the birth of his first child, said Licinius, holding out a dusty clay flagon with a Greek seal. It was all too clear, Gaius thought, that his father-in-law had already been celebrating.

 

"I do not know how to thank you for this great gift," he said somewhat drunkenly. "I have always wanted to be a grandfather; and if the child is only a daughter, well, I do not mind that; Julia has been as good a child to me as forty sons, and she brought you into our family. No doubt that your next child will be a boy."

 

"I certainly hope you are right," Gaius said. It would not be his fault if she did not, since he had begotten one son already.

 

"I put this wine away when Julia was born, to be drunk when my first grandchild was born," Licinius said, removing the seal. "Drink with me, my son; and don't spoil it by putting too much water with it."

 

Gaius had had no supper and would much rather have had a cup of ale with a bowl of beans or a roast fowl, but with the household in such disarray he'd be lucky to get some cold bread and meat if he could corner one of the household slaves. He resigned himself to going to bed half drunk, and joined Licinius.

 

"To your daughter," Licinius said. "May she be as good to you as Julia has been to me."

 

Gaius drank and then the old man proposed a toast to his son.

 

Gaius blinked and sputtered, and his father-in-law elaborated, "Surely you will have a son next year."

 

"Oh, yes, of course."

 

But as Gaius lifted his goblet it was of Eilan and the son he already had that he was thinking. By now the boy would be a year old. Was he walking? Had the fuzz of dark hair turned to gold?

 

And then of course they had to drink to Julia; if the serving woman had not come in at around that point to say he might see her, Gaius would have been very drunk indeed. Grateful for the interruption, he followed the woman to the bedchamber.

 

Julia struck her husband as very small, small and pale. Tucked in her arms was the tiny swaddled form of the child.

 

Julia looked up at him and began to cry. "I'm so sorry. I did so want to give you a son - I was so sure . . ."

 

Made generous by the thought of Eilan's son, far to the west, he stooped and kissed her. "Don't cry," he said. "We will have a boy next time, if the gods wish it."

 

"Then you accept her?"

 

The slave woman picked up the child and held it out and they all looked at him expectantly. After a moment Gaius realized what he was supposed to do and took the baby, rather awkwardly. He looked down into the crumpled features, waiting for the tide of tenderness that had overwhelmed him when he held his son. But his only emotion was amazement, for it seemed to him impossible that something so tiny could be real. He sighed.

 

"In the name of my ancestors I claim this child as my daughter," Gaius said loudly. "Macellia Severina shall be her name."

 

Just after Beltane, Bendeigid sought audience with the Lady of Vernemeton. By this time Eilan had settled into her role as High Priestess, but it still seemed strange that her own father, a powerful Druid, should seek permission to visit her. Yet she sent an equally formal reply that she would gladly receive him, and when he appeared in her outer chamber that afternoon, she made ready to give him a cordial welcome.

 

Truth to tell, Eilan did not feel all that cordial. She could not help but remember that it was her father's refusal even to consider her marriage to Gaius that had placed her in a position in which, while she had comfort and honor, had also made her a stranger to her own son. She made certain that Gawen was out of sight and hearing for the afternoon. Bendeigid at least would know that Mairi had not borne another child, and Gawen was getting to look more like his father.

 

She set out a pitcher of fresh water, newly drawn by Senara from the Sacred Well, and indicated to Huw that he could let her visitor come in. It gave her a certain pleasure to have her bodyguard looming over them. His bulk made even her father, who was a big man, seem small. She had thought that to be the recipient of such dog-like devotion would make her uncomfortable, for Huw had gratefully transferred his loyalty to her as soon as she emerged from her ritual seclusion and began to go about again, but he never intruded. He was simply there, and she gradually came to appreciate his usefulness in getting rid of visitors, or, as now, to overawe them.

 

"How may I serve you, my father?" she said coolly, remaining seated. Her tone was the same as she would have used to any highly placed Druid. Indeed, his time in the North had changed him. He was still a powerful man, but the comfortable solidity she remembered had been worn away until he was all sinew and bone.

 

Bendeigid stopped short, eyeing her oddly. What was he seeing, she wondered? Not the daughter he remembered, for certain. The face she saw when she looked into the Sacred Pool had lost its girlish roundness, and suffering and responsibility had given a certain air of watchfulness to her shadowed eyes. But perhaps those subtle signs of maturity would be less striking than her golden ornaments and the crescent between her brows.

 

Although she had pushed the sheer veil of fine, dark blue linen back from her face, its folds were draped about her head and shoulders. She had continued to go veiled in the fashion Dieda had adopted to aid in the deception; and by the time it might have been safe to go without it, she had grown used to its protection. It seemed to lend an air of authority; certainly, it added to her mystery.

 

"I only wanted to pay you my respects, daughter - or should I say Lady," replied the Druid. "It has been long since we met. I wanted to be sure that you were well . . ."

 

It has taken you long enough, she thought grimly. But she could see that the past few years had not been easy for him either. It was not entirely Huw's bulk that made him seem smaller; his hair had gone completely gray and there were new lines around his mouth and in his brow. He had always been stern, but now purpose burned in his eyes like a dark flame.

 

Bendeigid accepted the silver-bound wooden cup she handed him and sat down on a bench. Eilan took her seat in the great carven chair.

 

"Surely that is not the only reason you have come here, my father," she said calmly.

 

"Lhiannon was old." He looked into his cup and then back up at her. "I can well understand that she did not wish her country torn by war - and that may be why the Goddess has counseled peace for the past few years. But now there is a new time and a new priestess. Did you not know about the battle the Romans call Mons Graupius? Have you heard how the Votadini lands are become a desert in which a few survivors scratch for a living where once was a thriving tribe?"

 

Eilan lowered her gaze away from his. Indeed she had heard of the battle, from one who had fought in it, and Gaius had told her how that winter the starving survivors had come to the gates of the fortress to be fed. It was true that the Romans were the invaders, but she knew it was the defeated tribesmen who in despair had fired their own villages and slaughtered their animals to keep them out of Roman hands.

 

"Voice of the Goddess, tell me - the tears of captive women fall down like rain and the blood of our slain warriors shrieks from the ground, why does She not hear them? Why has the Goddess not answered our prayers, and why does the Oracle still counsel us to keep this miserable peace?"

 

He surged to his feet, reaching out to her, and Huw took a heavy step into the room. Eilan drew a long breath to conceal her astonishment and gestured the man away. She had always assumed that her father was deep in the Arch-Druid's counsels. Was it possible that he did not know how Ardanos had been manipulating the Oracle all these years?

 

"Surely my father knows I speak only such Oracles as are given to me," she said soothingly. If he knows, then I have told him the truth — and if he does not, then I have told him nothing he does not know.

 

Indeed, what she had said was a greater truth than even Ardanos knew, for although Ardanos translated her answers to questions as he saw fit, when the Goddess filled her and she spoke directly to the people, it was the Goddess who agreed or disagreed with the policies of the Arch-Druid as She chose. So far, at least, Her counsels had been sufficiently peaceable that he had not questioned them.

 

Bendeigid rose and began nervously to wander about the room. He said, "Then I must entreat you to pray to the Goddess to avenge us. The spirits of the women of Mona still cry out for vengeance."

 

She frowned. "Has Cynric sent you to say this to me?" She knew that Gaius had taken him prisoner, and saved his life and freedom by making him one of the hostages, but did not know what had happened to him after that.

 

"He was captured," growled her father, "They were going to send him to Rome to amuse the Emperor, but he killed his guards and won free."

 

"Where is he?" she asked in some alarm. If the Romans caught him now a quick death was the best fate he could expect from them.

 

"I do not know," the Druid said evasively. "But there is a great anger growing in the North, my daughter. The Romans are pulling back. The Ravens were not all killed in that battle, and their wounds are healing. If the Goddess does not rouse the land against the Romans, be sure that Cynric will."

 

"But I speak only to those who attend the festivals at the Hill of the Maidens," Eilan said uncomfortably. "The Cornovii and Ordovices primarily, some Demetae and Silures, and a few of the wilder folk from the hills. What have we to do with Caledonia?"

 

"Can it be that you do not understand your influence?" He faced her directly. "The Romans have taken our lands and subverted our chieftains and forbidden most of our religious rites. The Oracle here at Vernemeton is one of the few things that remains to us, and if you do not think that the words of the Goddess are repeated from one end of Britannia to the other you are a fool!"

 

He does not know that Ardanos influences the Oracle, Eilan thought then, but he suspects it. While she pretended ignorance he could not openly ask her support for an insurrection. But eventually matters were going to come to a head.

 

"I have been very isolated . . ." she said softly. "But pilgrims do come to make their prayers at the sacred well. Let those who have news come to drink the waters on the new moon of each month, and if the veiled priestess who attends them talks of ravens, let them speak to her there."

 

"Ah, Daughter ! I knew you would not betray your breeding!" he exclaimed, his gaze kindling. "I will tell Cynric —"

 

"Tell him I make no promises," she interrupted, "but if you wish me to pray to the Goddess for Her help, I must know what to ask! I can give you no assurances how She will reply . . ."

 

With that, Bendeigid would have to be contented. Eilan sat for a long time in thought when he had gone. Clearly Cynric was doing his best to start a rebellion, and without her support, he would certainly fail.

 

But the Druid had apparently also realized that she was a grown woman now and would make her own decisions. It was almost worth all she had suffered to face him from such a position of power. But with that power came a responsibility she could not avoid, not when there might come a day when her father and foster brother faced the father of her son across a battlefield.

 

And if that happens, what will I do? Eilan closed her eyes in anguish. Dear Goddess, what will I do?

 

As Julia's child grew they took to calling her "Cella", for it seemed ridiculous to refer to something so tiny by such a long name. But Gaius waited in vain for the bond he had felt with little Gawen when first he saw him in Eilan's arms. Was it then something that happened only between a man and his first-born son? Or was it because he did not have such a bond with the child's mother?

 

At least Julia did not seem to find it odd that he would have little interest in a girl-child. And Cella was a placid baby who soon promised to be pretty, and was the delight of her grandfather's heart. Julia spent much of her time with the infant, dressing her in beautifully embroidered clothes, which seemed to Gaius a waste of time, and by the time the girl was a year old, Julia was pregnant again. This time she was absolutely positive it would be the longed-for son. A soothsayer, consulted at Julia's behest, promised that a son awaited birth but Gaius was not so certain.

 

In the end, however, he did not have to suffer with his wife through this pregnancy. The wars in Dacia had been going badly. Gaius felt a pang at hearing the Second Legion was to be withdrawn and the fortress they had built in the North destroyed. He supposed that it had become apparent that the North could not be held without a far greater investment of men and materiel than the Empire could afford. A lot of lives would have been saved, Gaius thought grimly, if they had had the sense to see that three years earlier!

 

He took to spending his spare time at the army post, listening to the news. On orders from the Emperor, the new Governor,

 

Sallustius Lucullus, had commanded that all the northernmost fortresses be abandoned, their walls pulled down and their timber buildings burned so that nothing would remain that could be of use to the enemy. The Twentieth marched down from the North and settled back into their old quarters in Glevum, but no one knew for how long.

 

It was the Second Legion, however, which was ordered from Deva to Dacia. Macellius, announcing that he was too old to go dragging across the Empire, decided that the time had come to retire and started planning a new house in Deva. But Gaius was surprised by an invitation from the new legionary Commander to join his staff and sail with them. What amazed him almost as much was the fact that even Licinius did not object when he indicated that he would like to accept the offer.

 

"We'll miss you, lad," the old man said, "but it's time that you were attending to your career now that you've started your family. Haven't I been singing your praises all over Londinium for just this reason? It's a pity you won't be here for the birth of your second child, but it was only to be expected. Don't worry about Julia - I'll take care of her. You do your duty and come back covered with glory!"

 

 

 

Twenty-Two

 

 

 

Dieda returned to the Forest House in the middle of May, a little over four years after she had gone into exile in Eriu. For once the day was sunny, and Eilan received her in the garden, hoping their meeting might be eased by a more informal setting, but she had asked Caillean to stay with her just the same. She sat up straighter, her veil sliding down over her shoulders, as Dieda came through the gateway, and Caillean hurried forward to greet her.

 

"Dieda, my child, it is good indeed to see you. It has been too long —" They embraced ceremoniously, pressing cheek to cheek.

 

Dieda was wearing a loose gown of white linen in the Irish style, lavishly embroidered, with a bard's mantle of sky blue edged with golden fringe and held with a golden pin. Her hair, confined by an embroidered band, fell down in ringlets but, despite the festive raiment, her manner seemed strained.

 

"Ah, I had forgotten the peace here —" said Dieda, looking around her at the glossy green of the mint beds, and the silvery foliage of lavender where the bees buzzed among the purple flowers.

 

"I am afraid you will find us quiet indeed after all the kings and the princes of Eriu." Eilan found her voice.

 

"It is a fine land, certainly, and very appreciative of singers and poets and all kinds of makers of music, but after a time one begins to miss one's own country."

 

"Well you certainly have the very lilt of Eriu in your voice, my child," observed Caillean. "It is good to hear that music again!"

 

Certainly nobody who heard her speak could confuse us now, thought Eilan. It was not only a matter of accent but of depth and timbre. Dieda's voice had always been pleasant, but now she used it like a well-tuned instrument. Even ill words said in such a beautiful voice could be forgiven more easily.

 

"I've had time and enough to acquire it," said Dieda. Her gaze slid to Eilan. "It seemed half a lifetime I was away."

 

Eilan nodded. She felt herself to be a century older than the girl Lhiannon had chosen as her successor five years ago. But there was a petulant twist to Dieda's mouth. Did she still resent being sent away?

 

"It has been long enough for half a dozen new girls to come to us," she said evenly. "A promising group - I think that most of them will eventually take their vows."

 

Dieda looked at her. "And what had you in mind for me?"

 

"Teach these girls as much as you can of the skills you have learned!" Eilan leaned forward. "I don't mean only hymns to make our rituals more beautiful, but the ancient learning, the lore of the gods and heroes as well."

 

"The priests will not like it."

 

"They will have nothing to say about it," said Eilan. Dieda's eyes widened. "These days the chieftains buy Latin tutors for their sons and teach them to recite Virgil and appreciate Italian wines. They are doing their best to turn our men into Romans, but they do not care what women do. The last sanctuary for the old wisdom of our people may be here at Vernemeton, and I would not have it lost!"

 

"Things have changed indeed since I went away." For the first time, Dieda smiled. Then her eyes fixed on something beyond Eilan, and her expression changed.

 

Gawen was running towards them with his nurse trailing behind him. Eilan's hands twisted in the folds of her veil as she fought the compulsion to reach out and take him into her arms.

 

"Moon Lady! Moon Lady!" he cried, then stopped and peered up into Dieda's face. "You're not the Moon Lady!" he said disapprovingly.

 

"Not any more," Dieda said with a strange smile.

 

"This lady is our kinswoman Dieda," Eilan said through stiff lips. "She sings as beautifully as any bird."

 

For a few moments the boy looked from one to the other, frowning. His eyes were the same changeable hazel as Eilan's, but his hair was dark and curling like his father's, and he would have the same broad brow when he was a man.

 

"My Lady, I'm sorry," Lia said breathlessly, catching up with him and reaching for his hand. "He got away from me!"

 

Gawen's lower lip began to quiver and Eilan, recognizing the signs, gestured to the nurse to let him be. I suppose we have spoiled him, she thought, but he is so little, and I will lose him so soon!

 

"Did you want to see me, my heartling?" she asked softly. "I cannot play now, but if you come to me at sunset we will go down and feed the salmon in the Sacred Pool. Will that make you happy?"

 

Solemnly Gawen nodded. She reached out to touch his cheek, and her breath caught as he grinned and the dimple suddenly appeared. And then, as swiftly as he had come, he darted back to his nurse and let her lead him away. The day seemed to darken when he had gone.

 

"That is the child?" Dieda said in the silence after they had disappeared. As Eilan nodded, fury flared in her blue eyes. "You are mad to have him here! If he is discovered we are all lost! Have I spent four years in exile so that you could enjoy the pleasures of motherhood as well as the honor of being High Priestess?"

 

"He does not know I am his mother," Eilan whispered brokenly.

 

"But you can see him! They did not kill him, or you! You owe that to me, O holy Moon Lady of Vernemeton!" Dieda began to walk up and down, vibrating like one of her own harp strings.

 

"Have some pity, Dieda," Caillean said sternly. "The boy will be fostered out in a year or two, and no one knows."

 

"Whose child do they think he is then?" Dieda spat over her shoulder. "Poor Main's, or perhaps mine?" In their faces she could read the answer. "So. Now that I have finished your exile, I will also have to bear your shame. Well, when they see me with the boy perhaps that rumor will die. For I warn you, I do not like children at all!"

 

"But you will stay, and keep silent?" Caillean asked bluntly.

 

"I will," Dieda said after a time, "for I believe in the work you are doing here. But Eilan, hear me, for I have said this to you before, when I agreed to the substitution - if ever you betray our people, then beware, for I will be your doom!"

 

The new moon was already high in the sunset sky, adding a silver gleam to the opalescent waters of the Sacred Pool. The salmon had come when summoned, and taken the cake Gawen offered almost from the boy's hand. Eilan waited until she could hear his prattling die away into the silence of the evening, then drew her veil over her face and took the path up to the shrine they had built around the spring that fed the pool.

 

Her maidens thought it a great grace in their High Priestess to take her turn to minister to those who came to the Forest House for counsel. And often enough, that was all that Eilan did, serving as a sympathetic ear for the troubled, or referring those with more tangible problems to one of the spell-women or herbalists. But since learning of Cynric's plans for insurrection, she climbed this path with a little tremor, dreading those nights when the one who waited would whisper of ravens and rebellion.

 

It was cool in the shrine; Eilan pulled her mantle more closely around her, letting the murmur of running water soothe her. The water trickled from a fissure in the rock with a leaden figure of the Lady set into a niche above it, and splashed into the channel that led to the drinking well and the Sacred Pool.

 

Source of life . . .she prayed, bending to cup some of the icy water in her hand and touch it to lips and brow. Sacred water, forever upwelling, fill me with your serenity. Then she lit the lamp below the image, and settled herself to wait.

 

The moon was high in the sky when she heard the dragging footsteps of someone who was either ill or exhausted forcing himself up the path. Her throat tightened as the dark figure appeared in the doorway. It was a man, wrapped in a coarse sagum that might belong to any farmer, but below the cloak old blood stained his trews. When he saw her, some of the tension went out of him in a long sigh.

 

"Rest, drink, receive the Lady's peace . . ." she murmured. He dropped to his knees and scooped water from the channel, visibly struggling for control.

 

"I have been fighting . . .the ravens flew over the battlefield," he whispered, looking up at her.

 

"Ravens fly at midnight as well," she answered. "What have you to say to me?"

 

"The rising . . .was set for midsummer. Red-cloaks found out about it somehow, attacked us —" He passed his hand over his eyes. "Night before last."

 

"Where is Cynric?" she asked, her voice low and quick. Was her foster brother still among the living? "What does he want from us here?"

 

The man shrugged hopelessly. "Cynric? On the run, probably. There may be more like me coming, needing a place to lick their wounds."

 

Eilan nodded. "Behind our kitchens a path goes off into the forest. It leads to a hut our women use sometimes for meditation. Go now. You can sleep there, and someone will come with food." His shoulders sagged, and she wondered if he would have the strength to get that far.

 

"Blessed be the Lady," he murmured, "and a blessing on you, for helping me." He heaved himself to his feet, saluted the image, and then, more silently than she would have thought possible, was gone.

 

But Eilan sat for a long time after he had left her, listening to the plash of the water and watching the hypnotic flicker of lamplight on the wall.

 

Goddess, she prayed, have pity on all fugitives; have pity on us all! In a month it will be Midsummer; Ardanos will want me to tell the people to accept this latest blow, and my father will want them to rise and avenge the Ravens in blood and fire. What should I say to them? How can we bring peace to this land?

 

She waited for what seemed a long time, but the only vision that came to her was that of water continually welling forth from the rock and running away down the hill.

 

Gaius sat writing in his quarters in the fort at Colonia Agrippensis, listening to the rain. He supposed that Germania Inferior was not really wetter than Britannia, but it had been a rainy spring. Sometimes the two years he had been gone, first in the lands north and west of Italia and now here, where the gorge of the Rhenus ended and it began its meanderings through flat marshes towards the northern sea, seemed only weeks. But today it felt to him as if he had been away from home for centuries.

 

He dipped his quill into the inkpot and began to form the letters of the next sentence in the letter he was writing to Licinius. Two years of regular correspondence, he reflected wryly, had made him almost as facile a writer as his slave secretary; at first it had been hard, but he had come to appreciate the value of a private correspondence.

 

". . . the last of the legionaries who a year ago followed Saturninus into rebellion have been judged and, for the most part, split up and integrated into other legions" he wrote carefully. "The Emperor's new order of only one legion per camp is causing some inconvenience, and a great deal of work for the engineers. I do not know if it will discourage conspiracy, but it may be a good thing to have our forces spread more evenly along the border. Has the order been implemented in Britannia?"

 

For a moment he paused, listening to the regular tramp of hobnailed sandals on stone as the watch went by, then bent to his work again.

 

"The word here is that the Marcomanni and Quadi are restive again, and Domitian has had to pause in his campaign against Dacia to deal with them. My advice would be to make an ally of King Decebalus if possible, and use the Dacians to deal with the Marcomanni. The Emperor, however, has not yet included me among the select circle of his advisers, so who knows what he will do?"

 

He smiled, knowing that Licinius would understand his humor. He had been in the Emperor's presence several times before he was transferred from the Second Legion in Dacia to a cavalry command in Germania, but he rather doubted that Domitian was aware of his existence.

 

"Training with my wing of cavalry goes well. The Brigantes stationed here are fearless horsemen, and very grateful to have a commander who can speak to them in their own language. The poor beggars must be as homesick as I am. Give my love to Julia and the children. I suppose Cella must be quite a big girl now, and it is hard to believe that little Secunda is more than a year old.

 

"I think of Britannia as a haven of peace compared to the frontier of Germania," he went on, "but I suppose that is an illusion. I overheard one of the new men in my command talking about ravens, and suddenly I am wondering about that secret society that we used to hear of years ago . . ."

 

Once more he paused, telling himself that the anxiety that had suddenly overwhelmed him was only his reaction to the rain, but before he could return to his writing, someone knocked on his door with word that the Legate wanted to see him, and he pulled on his cloak and left his quarters, wondering what it could be.

 

"It's new orders, tribune," said his Commander. "And I must say I'll be sorry to lose you, for you were shaping well here —"

 

"Is the wing being transferred?" Gaius looked at him in some confusion, for a wave of camp gossip usually preceded any move of this kind.

 

"Just you, lad, more's the pity. You're being transferred to the staff of the Governor in Britannia. Seems there's been some kind of local dust-up, and they need a man with your particular background there."

 

The Ravens . . .thought Gaius, and Cynric's face as he had last seen it, sullen with hatred, came to mind. I shall pay more attention to my premonitions from now on. He could see Licinius's hand in this summons. As one officer among many on the frontier, only the greatest good luck would bring him to the attention of anyone who could offer useful patronage. But if he could prevent a rebellion . . .

 

Licinius was no doubt congratulating himself at finding a way for his son-in-law to do his duty and at the same time advance his career. Only Gaius would know, or care, that to do so he must destroy a man who had been his friend. He made some kind of polite response to his Commander, scarcely hearing the reply, and went back to his quarters to pack his gear.

 

As the days ripened towards Midsummer, whispers of the fate of the Ravens' rebellion circulated through the land. Eilan had hoped that the Governor would forbid public assemblies in response to the rising, but it seemed that the official line was to discourage popular support by refusing to recognize that anything was wrong. But from the refugees, Eilan learned that Cynric had gone back to his friends in the North and raised a force from the survivors of Mons Graupius with men of the Ravens to lead them. That was easy enough, for the Romans had simply withdrawn from the desert they had made, leaving the people with nothing to sustain them but their hatred.

 

But then he had attempted to raise Brigantia, where the severity with which Venutius's rebellion had been put down had been followed by some attempt to rebuild the province. It was probably some man of the Brigantes, thought Eilan, or perhaps, remembering Cartimandua, a woman who had betrayed them, having decided that a limited prosperity in chains was preferable to the Roman sword.

 

By ones and twos more of the Ravens made their way southward, anguished by grief or sullen with despair. They were tended by Eilan's most trustworthy women, given new names and clothing and sent on their way. They told her that Cynric was still in the North with a remnant of unwounded men, being hunted by a special detachment from the Legions. The Caledonians had melted back into their hills, but the Ravens were clanless men, and had no homes to flee to when they could fight no more.

 

The ones who came to the Forest House were only Cynric's age, but hardship had made old men of them. Eilan looked at them with anguish, for some, like her own Gawen, showed their Roman blood in their faces. In her vision, she had seen that it was necessary for the blood of Rome and the tribes to mingle. But the Merlin had not said whether this would occur in friendship or through generation after generation in which men planted their seed and died, leaving grieving women to carry on.

 

Ardanos and Lhiannon, remembering the rape of Mona, had chosen a policy of accommodation as the lesser evil; her father and Cynric seemed to feel that death was preferable to slavery. As Eilan watched Gawen grow, she knew only that she would protect her child.

 

And so the lengthening days brought them at last to Midsummer, and the priestesses of the Forest House went out to the Hill of the Maidens to perform the ritual.

 

Even from the avenue Eilan could see the glow of the great bonfires atop the mound, and the fiery arcs the torches traced against the dark sky. The drums pulsed with a heavy insistence, their beat deepening to thunder as the young men of the countryside competed to toss their torches highest. Kings and armies might come and go, but the real struggle - sometimes it seemed to Eilan the only struggle that mattered - was the one that men waged each year to protect their fields and nurture the young crops.

 

In the distance she could hear the lowing of the cattle that had already been protected by driving them between the sacred fires; she smelled woodsmoke and cooked meat and the sharp fragrance of mugwort and hypericum from her garland.

 

"Oh look," said Senara, beside her. "See how high they are throwing the torches, like shooting stars!"

 

"May the crops grow as high as the torches rise!" Caillean answered her.

 

They had brought a bench for Eilan to sit on until it was time for the rite of the Oracle; she huddled there gratefully, letting the murmured conversation of the other women eddy around her. It was not only the crops that were growing, she thought, listening to Senara's commentary. The frightened eight-year-old who had been given into her care five years ago was becoming a leggy maiden with a promise of beauty in her long bones and amber hair.

 

There was a last crescendo from the hill, and then the fires appeared to explode outwards as lads snatched brands from the bonfires and raced down the hill in every direction to bear their Protecting sun-power to the fields. The drumming settled to a hypnotic heartbeat, and Eilan felt the familiar flutter of approaching trance.

 

It will be soon now, she thought, and then, whatever comes of this night's work, it will be done. For the first time in years she had mixed the most powerful trance herbs into the potion, afraid that without their help her own fears might keep the Goddess from coming through. She knew that Ardanos was anxious as well, though his face did not show it. He was like a carven image, she thought, a shell in which the spirit flickered ever more fitfully, and she had seen how much he needed the support of his oaken staff. One day, perhaps soon, he would be gone. There had been times when she hated him, but in the past years they had come to an unspoken understanding. And there was no telling who his successor would be.

 

But that was a fear she could face once this night was past. The procession was beginning to move now. Eilan allowed Caillean to assist her to her feet and started up the hill.

 

The Druids were chanting; their song pulsed through the warm air.

 

"Behold, the holy priestess comes,

 

Sacred herbs are in her crown;

 

The golden crescent in her hand . . ."

 

Even after five years, there was always that moment of surprise when Eilan felt the first wave of expectation from the assembled crowd. And she had certainly forgotten the nausea, and the sickening lurch in consciousness as the drugs began to take hold. She fought back the flicker of panic as the world whirled around her. She had sought this; whether out of faith or cowardice she was not sure, but this time she wanted the world to go away.

 

Lady of Life, to You I entrust my spirit. Mother, be merciful to all your children!

 

Years of practice had given her full control over the techniques of focus and breathing that loosed the spirit from the body. The herbs in the potion aided the process, as if her head had been shattered like a broken bowl so that Other could flood into her, tossing her consciousness aside like a leaf on a stream.

 

Eilan felt the priestesses assisting her into the chair, and the unsettling sensation of falling even though she knew they were lifting her. Her spirit swung between earth and heaven; there was a slight jerk as they set the chair atop the mound, and she was free. She was floating in a golden mist, and for a time it was enough simply to enjoy the sense of being safe, protected, and at home. Suspended in this certainty, the fears she had left behind her seemed transitory, even absurd. But the silver cord that still tied her to her body would not entirely release her, and presently, ever reluctantly, the mist thinned enough so that she could see, and hear.

 

She looked down upon the huddle of blue robes in the tall chair and knew it for her body, dimly illuminated by the embers of the great bonfires to either side. The priests and priestesses made a circle with the people behind them, pale robes on one side and dark on the other in two great curves of light and shadow. The great mass of folk who had come for the festival darkened the hillside; points of fire winked from the booths and tents of the encampment that had sprung up around it. Beyond stretched the patchwork of field and forest, with the pale glimmer of roads cutting through the trees. Without curiosity she noted a swirl of motion in one part of the crowd, and further off a more regular movement along the road from Deva, and the gleam as metal caught the light of the setting moon.

 

The Druids were invoking the Goddess, twining all the incoherent imaginings of the people into a single, mighty image which was at the same time as various as there were people to echo their call. Eilan saw the power they were raising as a swirl of multicolored light and pitied the fragile human form into which it was descending. Now her body was almost hidden; the energy was taking shape; she saw a female figure, heroic in stature and splendid in form, though the features could not yet be seen.

 

Eilan drew closer, wondering what face the Lady would wear for this gathering.

 

And in that moment, the disturbance in the crowd reached the center; she saw the red gleam of swords and heard male voices harsh with anguish crying, "Great Queen, hear us! Cathubodva, we call you - Lady of Ravens, avenge your sons!"

 

Ardanos turned, his face contorting, to silence them, but the intensity of emotion in that call had done its work. A whirl of dark-winged shadows fluttered across the circle as a sudden chill wind stirred the fires; and the figure in the chair seemed to expand suddenly and sat bolt upright, flinging the veil aside.

 

"I hear your summoning, and I come," she said in the language of the tribes. "Who is it that dares to call on Me?"

 

The murmur of fright that had swept the circle faded to absolute silence as a man limped into the circle of firelight. Eilan recognized Cynric, a bloody bandage around his head and a naked sword in his hand. "Mother, it is I who call you - ever have I served you! Lady of Ravens, arise now in wrath!"

 

The chair creaked as the figure who sat there leaned forward. In the firelight Her face and Her hair were as red as Cynric's sword. Ardanos looked from one to the other, straining to stop this; but the force that linked them was too strong and he did not dare.

 

"Well indeed have you served me . . ." Her voice scraped the silence. "Severed heads and dismembered bodies are your offerings, blood the libation you pour upon the ground. The wails of women and the groans of the dying are your sacred music; your ritual fires are fueled by the bodies of men . . .You have called me, red raven. What would you, now that I have come?"

 

She smiled terribly, and Midsummer though it was, the wind was suddenly icy, as if Cathubodva's darkness had killed the sun. The people began to edge backward. Only Cynric, Ardanos, and the two attendant priestesses held their ground.

 

"Destroy the invaders; strike down the despoilers of our land! Victory, Lady, is what I demand!"

 

"Victory?" Hideously, the battle-goddess began to laugh. "I do not give victory - I am the battle-bride; I am the devouring mother; death is the only victory that you will find in my arms!" She raised her hands and the folds of her cloak flared out like dark wings. This time even Cynric recoiled.

 

"But our cause is just. . ." he faltered.

 

"Justice! Is there ever justice in the wars of men? Everything the Romans do to you, men of your blood have done to each other, and to the peoples who were before them in this land! Your blood feeds the earth whether you die in the straw or on the battlefield -it makes no difference to Me!"

 

Cynric was shaking his head bewilderedly. "But I fought for my people. At least tell me that our enemies will also suffer one day . . ."

 

The Goddess leaned forward, staring at him, and he could not look away. "I see…" She whispered. "From the bright god's shoulders the ravens are flying - no more shall they counsel him. Instead it is an eagle he welcomes. He shall become an eagle, betrayed and betraying, suffering in the branches of the oak tree until he becomes a god once more. . .

 

"I see the eagle put" to flight by a white horse that gallops from across the sea. Now the eagle joins with the red dragon, and together they fight the stallion, and the stallion battles dragons from the North and lions from the South . . . I see one beast killing another and arising in its turn to defend the land. The blood of all of them shall feed the earth, and the blood of all of them shall mingle, till no man can say who is the enemy . . ."

 

There was silence in the circle when She had finished, as if folk did not know whether to hope or fear. From further away came the moaning of cattle, and a sound like drumming, though the musicians were still.

 

"Tell us, Lady -" Cynric croaked as if he found it hard to get the words out. "Tell us what we should do . . ."

 

The Lady sat back, and this time her laugh was low and amused.

 

"Flee," She said softly. "Flee now, for your enemies are upon you." She lifted her head and looked around the circle. "All of you, go swiftly and quietly, and you will live . . .for a while."

 

Some of the people began to shift away from the fires, but the remainder stayed staring as if enchanted.

 

"Go!" She flung up her hand, and a wing of darkness swept the circle. Startled into movement, people began to push against their neighbors like the first rolling pebbles in an avalanche of stones. "Cynric son of Junius, run," she screamed suddenly. "Run, for the Eagles come!"

 

And as the people fled the distant drumming became a present thunder and the Roman cavalry charged.

 

Gaius let the impetus of the charge sweep him forward, willing his awareness to confine itself to the movement of the horse beneath him, and the riders to either side, the rising ground, the running shapes of men and women and the glow of the flames. He tried to banish the memories which colored his perceptions, but he kept seeing a full moon and dancers, Cynric walking hand in hand with Dieda, and Eilan's rosy face lit by the Beltane fires.

 

The anterior horns of the saddle jabbed his buttocks as the slope steepened; he gripped with his knees and settled lance and shield, scanning the fleeing figures for armed men. Their orders had been dear enough - to avoid slaughtering a peaceful population, but to keep the fugitive rebels among them from getting away. The Legate had not explained how, in the confusion and darkness, that was to be done.

 

Still cursing the fate that had sent him after Cynric and the Ravens at this of all places, Gaius saw a glint of metal, a white face contorting in fear or fury. Responses trained into him by ten years as a soldier moved his arm without the need for decision. He felt the jerk and tug as the lance pierced flesh and pulled free again, and the face disappeared.

 

The charge was slowing; they reached the flattened hilltop and saw it almost deserted, though people were streaming away on every side. A terse order to his optio sent riders swinging outward in pursuit. His mount half-reared as a white figure waved its arms wildly, mouthing something about sacred ground. Gaius kneed the animal in a rocking canter around the perimeter, looking for Cynric, heard the clash of metal on the other side of the mound in the center, and headed toward it.

 

And suddenly his mount was plunging, whinnying in terror as a wing of shadow swirled around it and someone screamed. It was not fear he heard but anger, anguish; a cry that contained all the horror and fear and fury of all the battlefields in the world; a shriek that turned the bowels to water and shivered the bones. Every animal that heard it for a moment was maddened, and every human felt the spirit within him gibber with fear. Gaius lost his reins and his lance and clung to his pony's mane as the world whirled around him. The face of a Fury hung before him, haloed by seething tendrils of shining hair.

 

His mount plunged onward and he came into the leaping firelight; all around him men stood frozen as if by some spell. Then his horse came to a shivering halt and people began to move again, but he could still see the terror in their eyes. He took a deep breath, realizing that surprise was lost, and looked around.

 

Some of the Druids were supporting a man in white whom he realized in shock must be Ardanos; he looked very old now. The blue-robed priestesses were easing what looked like a bundle of cloth out of the chair on the top of the mound. As his battle fury drained away, Gaius felt suddenly very tired.

 

Another rider, his optio, appeared at his side. "They've scattered, sir."

 

Gaius nodded. "But they can't have gone far. Set the men to scouring the area. They can report back to me here."

 

Stiffly he swung his leg over the pony's neck, slid to the ground, and walked forward, the horse plodding behind him. As he neared, Ardanos stirred, looking at him pleadingly.

 

"It was not my doing," he mumbled. "Called the Goddess — suddenly Cynric was there!"

 

Gaius nodded. He knew the Arch-Druid's policies well enough to believe him. It was the woman whose shriek had paralyzed them who had given the rebels the extra moment they needed to melt into the crowd. He continued walking towards the group of women. Somehow he was not surprised when Caillean turned, staring at him defiantly, but it was the woman who lay on the ground he wanted to see.

 

He took another step and found himself staring down at a woman's face; white, unconscious, identifiable only in its broadest outlines with the Fury who had appeared to him. And yet with a sick certainty he knew that it was She, and at the same time that it was Eilan.

 

 

 

Twenty-Three

 

 

 

As the Romans hunted Ravens in the days that followed the fight at the Hill of Maidens, Gaius felt as if he had become two people, the one dispassionately reporting the results of the operation to the Commander in Deva and then returning to Londinium to repeat the story to the Governor, while the other tried to reconcile the mask of fury he had seen there with the image of the woman he loved. Julia hovered about him with wifely solicitude, but after the first nightmare, they both agreed that for a time it might be better if he slept alone.

 

Julia did not seem to mind. She was as affectionate as ever, but during the two years he had been away her focus had shifted to her children. The girls were growing fast, miniatures of their mother, although there were times when Gaius thought he saw a gleam of Macellus's determination in his elder daughter's eyes. But though they were dutiful, he had become a stranger. It hurt a little to hear their laughter cease when he entered the room, and it occurred to him that perhaps if he could find the time to get to know them better the distance between them would disappear.

 

But he could not bring himself to try to bridge it, not now, when his heart was telling him that whatever love had remained between him and Eilan had been swept away by the Power that possessed her. At times the strain of concealing his anguish made him want to howl. Gaius was relieved when the Commander at Deva requested him to return for consultation, a postscript indicating that his father was hoping that instead of staying in the fortress, Gaius could pay him a visit in the new house he had built in the town. Perhaps it would be easier there to reconcile the conflict that was tearing at him.

 

"Have they captured any more fugitives from the Raven conspiracy?" Macellius poured wine for Gaius and handed him the cup, good but not gaudy, like the dining chamber itself and the mansion that surrounded it. His father's place was one of the better houses that had been built around the fortress, evidence of a growing civilian presence as the country settled down. Gaius shook his head.

 

"That fellow Cynric — he was their leader, wasn't he?" Macellius said then. "Didn't you capture him at Mons Graupius?"

 

Gaius nodded and took a long drink of sour wine, wincing as the movement stretched the healing slash on his side. He had not noticed it until the fight at the Hill was over, but it was more annoying than serious; he had had far worse on the German frontier. The shock of realizing that the Fury who had cursed them all was Eilan was his worst wound. After a moment he realized that his father was waiting for an answer. "I did - but later he got away."

 

"Seems to be good at that," observed his father, "like that bastard Caractacus. But we got him in the end, and eventually somebody will betray your Cynric too, someone from his own side . . ."

 

Gaius stirred uncomfortably at the pronoun, hoping his father would not remember that Cynric was Bendeigid's foster son. It would have saved everyone a lot of trouble, he thought grimly, if he had killed Cynric when he had the chance.

 

"Ah well," the older man continued, "nobody blames you for not catching him, and wherever the survivors run to, it's not likely we'll see them here . . ." He looked around him with what Gaius could only characterize as a smug sigh.

 

"Not likely," his son agreed. "Are you really comfortable here?" After retiring from the army, Macellius had built his mansion, almost immediately been elected a decurion and was rapidly becoming a pillar of the community.

 

"Oh yes, it's a nice place. Settled down a lot in the past few years, and the town is growing. The amphitheater is a draw, of course. More shops every day, it seems to me, and I've just coughed up a goodly sum to pay for the new temple."

 

"A miniature Rome, in fact," Gaius said, smiling. "All you lack is a coliseum for the Games."

 

"Gods preserve me." Macellius held up one hand, laughing. "No doubt I'd have to pay for those as well. This business of being a city father is highly overrated. I hardly dare open my door for fear II be given the honor of contributing to something new!"

 

But he was laughing, Gaius observed, and thought that he had never seen his father so contented.

 

"There's one thing I'd not grudge the money for, though," said Macellius, "and that's to send you to Rome. It's time, you know. You'll get a good recommendation from the Governor after this last bit of service, and you can't rise much further on the kind of patronage your father-in-law and I can give you. Has Licinius said anything?"

 

"He's mentioned it," Gaius said cautiously. "But I can't go until everyone's satisfied that things will stay quiet here."

 

"I can't help wishing Vespasian had lived longer." Macellius frowned. "There was a stingy old fox for you, but he knew how to pick good men. This cub of his, Domitian, seems determined to rule like an Eastern despot. He's banished the philosophers, I hear. Now I ask you, what harm could a lot of prosy old bores do?"

 

Gaius, remembering his own desperation when his old tutor had droned on about Plato, felt a sneaking sympathy for the Emperor.

 

"In any case, he's the man you'll have to impress if you want a good posting, and though I'll miss you, a procuratorship somewhere in one of the older provinces is the logical next step in your career."

 

"I'll miss you, too," said Gaius quietly. And that was true, but he realized that he would not particularly miss Licinius, or even Julia and the girls. In fact, he thought he would be glad to get away from Britain for a while, to some place where nothing would remind him of Cynric or Eilan.

 

Gaius finally set out for Rome on the ides of August, attended by a Greek slave called Philo, a gift from Licinius, who swore he could be depended upon to drape a toga decently and send his master out each morning looking like a gentleman. In his saddlebag was the Procurator's annual report on the economy of the Province, which gave Gaius the status of official courier and carried with it the right to use the military post houses.

 

The weather held fair, but even so it seemed a weary journey. The further south they traveled the drier the country became - to Gaius's northern eyes a desert, though the officers at the posting houses laughed to hear him say so and traded stories of Egypt and Palestine, where the desert sands scoured monuments older than Rome. He found himself wishing that like Caesar he could while away the time by writing his memoirs, but even if he waited forty years to do so, he doubted anyone would be interested in reading them.

 

Even Julia's chatter would have been welcome, though these days all she seemed able to talk about was the children. But children were what he had married her for, he reminded himself; children, and social standing. And so far everything had gone more or less to plan. Only, as he passed through the endless miles of slave-farmed estates in Gaul, Gaius found himself wondering if this pursuit of rank and position was really worth it. And then they would come to the next inn, or the next villa belonging to one of Licinius's friends. In the arms of whatever pretty slave girl they sent to warm his bed he could forget both Julia and Eilan, and in the morning he would tell himself that it was only his fatigue that had been speaking, or perhaps a natural anxiety about how he would do in Rome.

 

Once he reached Rome, it began to rain, heavily and continuously, as if making up for lost time. The kinsman of Licinius with whom he was staying was hospitable enough, but Gaius very quickly became tired of jokes about bringing his British weather with him. And it was not even true, really, for in Britannia there was an honest chill to the rain, but Rome was not so much cold as plagued by a pervasive and pestilent damp. Forever after, Gaius's memories of that time were linked to the alkaline smell of damp plaster and the reek of wet wool.

 

Rome was mud and smoky skies; the rank smell of the Tiber and the exotically spiced cooking fires of a hundred different nationalities. Rome was white marble and gilding and heady perfumes; the blare of trumpets and the shrieking of market-women and the eternal, sub-aural hum of more people, speaking more languages than Gaius had ever imagined existed, crammed together on seven hills whose contours had long ago disappeared beneath this encrustation of humanity. Rome was the pulsing heart of the world.

 

"And this is your first visit to Rome?" The lady to whom Gaius was talking favored him with a laugh that tinkled like the silver bangles she wore. Exquisitely curled women and elegantly draped men crowded the atrium of Licinius's cousin, who was giving the party, and conversation hummed like bees in an orchard. "So what do you think of the Mistress of Nations, diadem of the Empire?" her painted eyelids drooped coquettishly. This was another question Gaius had heard so often he had been forced to memorize an answer.

 

"I think the splendor of the city far eclipsed by the beauty that adorns it," he said gallantly. He would have said "might," and "power," if he had been talking to a man.

 

This earned him another burst of tinkling; then his host rescued him and bore him away to the peristyle, where toga-clad men were grouped like figures on a piece of statuary. He joined them with some relief. Even among the men, there were dangers, but at least he understood them. Roman women produced in him something of the same paralysis he had felt when he first met Julia.

 

But she was straightforward by comparison to the ladies he was meeting now. One or two of them had invited him to bed, but a lively sense of self-preservation had kept him free of such entrapments. Rome attracted the best of everything, and if he needed a woman, there were courtesans who demanded nothing of him but his money, and whose arts could banish anxiety, for a little while.

 

Moving in Roman society was like leading a cavalry charge across icy ground - exhilarating while it lasted, but you never knew when some treacherous bit would bring you down. Gaius wondered if Julia could have held her own in that company. And as for Eilan -it was like trying to imagine a wild antelope, or perhaps a wildcat, among a herd of high-bred racing mares to picture her here: both were beautiful, but different orders of being entirely.

 

"I understand that you served under Agricola in Caledonia . . ."

 

Gaius blinked, realizing that one of the older men was talking to him. He caught the flicker of a broad purple stripe on the tunic and straightened as if he were facing a superior officer, racking his brains to remember the man's name. Most of his host's friends were from the equestrian class; he had done well to get a senator here.

 

"Yes, sir, I had that honor. I had hoped to call upon him here in Rome."

 

"I believe that at present he is residing on the family estates in Gaul," the Senator said neutrally. Marcellus Clodius Malleus, that was his name.

 

"It is hard to imagine him resting." Gaius grinned. "I had supposed he would be putting the fear of the gods into the enemies of Rome somewhere on the frontiers or bringing the Pax Romana to one of the provinces."

 

"Indeed, one might think so." The Senator's manner warmed perceptibly. "But you might be wiser not to say so until you are sure of your company . . ."

 

Gaius stilled, thinking once more of icy ground, but Malleus continued to smile.

 

"There are many here in Rome who appreciate Agricola's qualities, qualities that appear ever more admirable each time we learn of some mishandled campaign by one of our other generals."

 

"Then why doesn't the Emperor employ him?" Gaius asked.

 

"Because victory for Roman arms is secondary to keeping the Emperor in power. The more people clamor for Agricola to be sent out as General, the more our "lord and god" suspects him. In another year he will be due for a major consular appointment, but as things are now, his friends must advise him not to accept it."

 

"I can see the problem," said Gaius thoughtfully. "Agricola is far too conscientious to fail deliberately, but if he does well, the Emperor will feel threatened by his success. Well, he will be remembered with honor in Britannia, whatever happens in Rome."

 

"Tacitus would be happy to hear you say that," said Malleus.

 

"Oh, do you know him? I served with him in Caledonia." The conversation moved into a general discussion of the northern campaign, which the Senator proved to have followed closely. It was only as the guests were being herded to the gardens for a display by some Bithynian dancing girls that the conversation became personal once more.

 

"I'm giving a small dinner party three weeks from now —" Malleus laid a friendly hand on Gaius's arm. "Nothing elaborate, just a few men whom I think you will find interesting. Would you honor me by attending? Cornelius Tacitus has promised to be there."

 

From that day forward it seemed to Gaius that the superficial round of parties and entertainments that had begun to exasperate him took on a new dimension. It felt as if he were at last penetrating the veil with which Roman society protected itself against outsiders, and if it was only one segment of that society, and perhaps a dangerous one, even that was preferable to dying of boredom.

 

A few days later Licinius's cousin, whose agnomen was Corax, took Gaius with him to the Games in the new Coliseum that Domitian was building on the site where Nero's overwrought palace had once stood.

 

"There's a certain appropriateness in the location," Corax observed as they took their seats in the section reserved for the equestrians, "since Nero himself put on Games such as Rome had never seen before, especially when he was trying to convince everyone that that odd Jewish sect - you know, the Christians -had caused the great fire."

 

"Did they?" Gaius was looking around him. They had arrived between fights, and slaves were replacing the bloodstained sand.

 

"You hardly need deliberate sabotage to start a fire in this city, my lad," his host said wryly. "Why do you think every district has a fire watch to which we all contribute so willingly? But this was a particularly bad one, and the Emperor needed a scapegoat to counter the rumors that he had started the blaze himself!"

 

Gaius turned to stare at him.

 

"New buildings, lad, new buildings!" Corax explained. "Nero fancied himself an architect, and the people who owned the property where the fire started wouldn't sell. The fire got out of hand, and the Emperor needed someone to blame. The Games were really quite horrid - no skill involved at all - just a lot of poor souls who died more like sheep than like men."

 

Gaius was suddenly glad he had not captured Cynric after all. Such a fighter would certainly have been sent here, and he did not deserve it, though surely he would have not been a sheep but rather a wolf or a bear.

 

Trumpets blared and a shiver of expectation ran through the vast throng. Gaius felt his own heartbeat quicken and was reminded oddly of the moment before battle; it was the only time he had been in the presence of so many thousands, all nerving themselves up to make blood flow. But at least in war both sides were at equal risk. It was other men's blood these Romans were offering, not their own.

 

He had seen bear baitings at home, of course, as entertainment for the Legions. There was certainly a fascination in some of the pairings of wild beasts imported for the Games. A lion and a giraffe, for instance, or a wild boar and a panther. Corax told him that on one occasion a pregnant sow had been fighting and actually farrowed a piglet during her death throes. But the real focus of the afternoon was on the most dangerous of all animals — man.

 

"Now we shall see some skill," said Corax as the mock combats finished and the first of the gladiators, hide and armor alike oiled and gleaming, stalked across the sand. "This kind of thing is what makes the Games worth seeing. Those fights in which they throw in untrained prisoners of war or criminals, even women and children, are simply a stupid slaughter. Here, for instance, we have a Samnite and a Retarius -" He indicated the first gladiator, wearing greaves and a visored helmet crowned with a tuft of feathers and armed with a shortsword and big rectangular shield, and his more agile opponent, flourishing his net and trident.

 

Gaius, trained to judge fighting men, found his professional interest engaged. All around him bets were being placed with an intensity that almost matched that of the fighters. Corax kept up a running commentary, and it was not until the Samnite fighter was down with the net-man's trident at his throat that he realized that the man giving the thumb's down signal from the purple-hung box was the Emperor.

 

The trident thrust and the Samnite convulsed and then was still, his bright blood staining the sand. Gaius sat back, licking dry lips, his throat raw from cheering. He must have been intent indeed not to hear the trumpets announcing the entrance of the Emperor. From this distance he could see only a figure in a purple tunic, wrapped in a mantle that glittered with gold.

 

Later that night, as Corax's masseur pummeled him after his soak in the bath, Gaius realized that his whole body was a mass of aching muscles, which had been tensed against one another as he watched the Games. At the time he had not noticed.

 

But he felt also a great sense of release. Going to the Coliseum was indeed like being in a battle, like that moment when all existence is simplified into a single struggle, and you are carried beyond yourself and become one with a greater whole. For a moment, it seemed to him he understood why the Romans loved their Games with such a passion. However perverse and pointless it seemed, they were moved by the same force that had enabled the Legions to conquer half the world.

 

The night of Malleus's party was cold and windy, but the streets were choked as usual with food sellers and barbers, men hawking pots and every other kind of street merchant, hoping for one more sale before darkness forced them all indoors. As Gaius's litter bearers forced their way towards the Aventine, it occurred to him that he had almost become used to the noise, as he had grown accustomed to the clatter of iron-shod cartwheels on cobblestones that made the night almost as noisy as the day.

 

But as they turned on to the main avenue he heard a new sound. The litter stopped, and he stuck his head through the curtains to see. A religious procession was making its way along the road; he glimpsed shaven-headed priests in white robes and women in veils. The women were wailing, their lamentations punctuated by the sibilance of shaking sistrums and the deep boom of a drum.

 

Despite the warmth of his toga Gaius found himself shivering, for the mourning touched something that deeply disturbed his urbane persona, and even the easy competence of the man he was at home.

 

Even without understanding its cause, he felt that anguish as his own. It was like the mourning in the Mithraeum when the bull is killed. Another group of priests went by, and then more women, their gliding gait reminding him of the priestesses at home, and then a litter on which he could see the black-veiled statue of a golden cow. For a few moments longer the drumming pounded in his ears; then the procession passed.

 

When Gaius finally got to it, the dinner party proved to be a gathering of the kind that he had come to feel represented the best in Roman society. The food was simple but well prepared, the company urbane and well informed. Gaius felt outclassed, but these were men from whom he could learn.

 

The topic that had been proposed was "pietas," the wine mixed half and half with water so that everyone remained focused enough to discuss it seriously.

 

"I suppose one question is whether there is more than one true religion," Gaius said when his turn to speak arrived. "Of course each people has its faith and should be allowed to keep it, but here in Rome you seem to worship more gods than I ever knew existed. Just tonight, for instance, I saw some kind of procession that sounded oriental, but most of those following it looked Roman."

 

"That must have been the Isia," observed Herennius Senecio, one of the more important of the guests. "The followers of Isis celebrate her search for the dismembered body of Osiris at this time of year. When she has gathered the pieces she reanimates his body and conceives the sun-child Horus anew."

 

"Do not the British tribes have a festival at this time also?" asked Tacitus. "I seem to remember processions around the countryside with masks and bones."

 

"True," replied Gaius. "At Samaine the white mare goes around with her followers and the people invite the souls of their ancestors to reincarnate in the wombs of the women of the tribe."

 

"Perhaps that is the answer then," said Malleus. "Though we all have different names for the gods, they are all in essence the same, and therefore to worship any of them is piety."

 

"For instance, the god whom we call Jupiter is known by his oak tree and his thunderbolt," said Tacitus. "The Germans worship him as Donar, and the British as Tanarus or Taranis."

 

Gaius was not so sure. It was hard to imagine any Celtic deity being worshipped in a great temple like the one dedicated to Jupiter in the Forum. At one party he had met a woman they said was a Vestal and he had observed her with curiosity, but although the woman was marked by a certain dignity and certainly more decorum than most of the Roman women he had seen, there was none of the nobility he associated with the women of the Forest House. Curiously, it was easier to identify the Egyptian Isis, whose procession he had just seen, with the Great Goddess Eilan served.

 

"I think, that our British friend has put his ringer 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.

 

"Pietas 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 right, 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 Tightness 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." There 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."

 

"When -" Caillean began, and Eilan shook her head.

 

"I don't know!" She sighed, for the vision, as so often happened, had been only a glimmering. "But it sounds a safe place, hidden from Roman eyes. Perhaps we should think about installing some priestesses there."

 

Gaius's new position kept him much on the move about the country. Since for the time, the main supply depot had been established at Deva, now occupied by the Twentieth Legion, it made sense for him to move his family to a pleasant estate that they called Villa Severina, south of the town. Julia was not happy about leaving Londinium, but she settled in to country life with a stoic resignation, and a year after their arrival in the West gave birth to twin girls whom she named matter-of-factly, Tertia and Quarta. The latter was so tiny they soon took to calling her Quartilla instead.

 

"But why?" asked Licinius. The old man had come to pay a visit to see his new granddaughters.

 

"Can't you guess?" Julia asked, but without humor. "If she were a jug, we would have to name her half-pint, not quart at all." Her father looked at her oddly, and she realized that it was not much of a joke - but then Quartilla was not much of a baby.

 

She found it hard to warm to the twins. When her belly grew so large, she had been certain she was about to bear Gaius a strapping son at last. Surely to go through such a hard labor with no more result than a pair of daughters, one of whom was sickly, was a reason for depression?

 

She recovered slowly, for she had been much torn during the delivery, and when it became clear that she could not nurse these children herself, gave them up to wet nurses with hardly a pang. The sooner she was fertile once more, the sooner she could try again for a son. The Greek physician had hinted that it might be dangerous, but he was only a slave, and Julia's threats kept him from saying anything to Gaius or her father.

 

Next time, she swore, I will build a temple to Juno in Deva if I have to — but next time it will be a boy!

 

Yet, as the children grew, Julia became accustomed to living most of the time among the gentle hills south of Deva and staying in her father's house in Londinium only during the wintertime. Licinius loved the children, and was already looking around for families with whom to ally them in marriage.