Gaius was a somewhat indifferent father, but she had expected no more. She knew that when she was unwell he sometimes slept with one of the slave girls, but so long as he did his duty in her bed as well she could hardly object to it. She had married to gain the status of a matron and to give her father an heir. Her relationship with Gaius was one of mutual respect and affection; for a Roman girl of good family anything else would have been unseemly.

 

Observing the scandals and divorces that occurred even in the pale imitation of Roman society that was Londinium, it seemed to her that she and Gaius were one of the few couples who had managed to preserve the old Roman values. Her marriage was a good one, and there were even times, seeing her daughters playing together in the garden of the villa, their bright tunics like flowers against the greenery, when Julia felt that perhaps she had not done so badly as a mother.

 

And soon after the twins celebrated their second birthday, she was pregnant once more.

 

After a long rainy spell, when the children chafed and whined at being kept inside, the weather had turned warm at last. Julia sat on the veranda they had built along the front of the house when they added the wings to either side. Ostensibly she was going over the household accounts, but actually she was dozing in the sunshine. Her hands rested lightly on the round of her belly, where she could sense the movements of the child within, surely a son. He had not moved much lately and she supposed that the warm weather had made the baby as torpid as she was.

 

Julia lay still, eyes half-closed against the sunshine, listening to the singing of the birds and the voices of the household slaves as they busied themselves about the tasks of the farm. Gaius used to say that Julia's household always ran with the efficiency of a Legion making camp. She knew without checking where each of her servants would be and what he or she would be doing at each hour of the day.

 

". . .playing in the garden." That was the voice of the strapping Gaulish girl whose job it was to keep track of the children.

 

"That they are not!" Old Lydia, who ran the nursery, replied. "The twins are eating their noon meal, and Cella is helping the cook make pies. But Secunda is just at that age when if they are unwatched they will go exploring —"

 

"She was in the garden . . ." the girl said weakly.

 

"And where were you? Flirting with the master's groom again?" Lydia replied. "Well, she can't have gone far. You get out there and find her, and I will call some of the men to help you. But I promise to personally see you whipped if any harm has come to the child! What were you thinking of? You know the mistress must not be worried with her time so near!"

 

Julia frowned, debating whether to get up and speak to them. But this pregnancy had sapped her energy and her will, and surely Secunda would turn up soon.

 

In the distance she heard more voices, and Gaius's deep tones questioning. Good, she thought then, they have got him out looking. It is high time he bestirred himself more on the children's behalf.

 

She lay back again, knowing that she ought to relax for the sake of her unborn child, but as the moments wore on, she found tension bringing her upright again. She could hardly hear the calling now. How far had Secunda gone?

 

The shadow on the sundial had moved almost to the next hour when she heard muted voices and footsteps crunching on the gravel of the path. They had found her then — but why were they so silent? Secunda ought to have been wailing if her father had paddled her as she deserved. A chill swept through Julia's body. She hauled herself upright, clinging to the pillar, as the little procession emerged from among the trees.

 

She saw Gaius's dark head and tried to call out to him, but words would not come. Then the gardener moved aside and she saw that he was holding Secunda in his arms. But even asleep she had never seen her little girl lie so still.

 

"Why isn't she moving?" Her lips twitched soundlessly.

 

Gaius came forward, his face working, already blotched with tears. More water dripped from Secunda's pink gown, and her black curls were plastered tight to her skull. Julia stared, shock sending ice through her veins.

 

"She was in the stream," he said hoarsely, "at the edge of the field. I tried to breathe life back into her. I tried . . ." He swallowed, looking down at the small closed face, pale as marble now.

 

No, thought Julia numbly, Secunda would never breathe again. She blinked, wondering why the world had gone so dim around her. Then she felt a wrenching pain in her belly.

 

The next few hours were a confusion of grief and pain. She remembered hearing Gaius swear he would have the Gaullish girl flayed, and Licinius trying to calm him. Something was wrong with Secunda . . .She tried to get up and go to her, but her women kept pushing her back down. And then the ache in her belly would begin again. In her more lucid moments Julia knew this was wrong. She was familiar with the pangs of labor, but she was barely six months along. Gods, if you have any mercy, make it stop. You took my daughter — don't let me lose my son!

 

It was nearly dawn when she convulsed and felt a last hot gush of blood between her thighs. Lydia bent over her, swearing softly. Julia felt the pressure as the woman jammed more cloths between her legs to stop the bleeding. But for a moment she had glimpsed something else, something small and purplish that did not move.

 

"My son." Her whisper was a thread of sound. "Let me hold him, please!"

 

Weeping, Lydia brought something wrapped in a bloody cloth and laid it in the curve of her arm. The face had been wiped clean, and she could see the tiny, perfect features, like the petals of a blighted rose.

 

She was still holding him when they finally let Gaius in to see her.

 

"The gods hate me," she whispered, tears sliding from her eyes.

 

He knelt beside the bed, lifted the damp hair from her brow and kissed her with more tenderness than she expected. For a moment he looked down at the stillborn child, and then, gently, he drew a fold of cloth across its face and lifted it. She made a convulsive movement to stop him, but she could barely move. For a moment he stood with the child in his arms, like any father about to acknowledge his new-born son, then handed the still form to Lydia to take away.

 

Julia turned her face into the pillow, sobbing, "Let me die! I have failed, let me die!"

 

"That's not true, my poor darling. You still have three little girls who need you. You must not weep so."

 

"My baby, my little boy is dead!"

 

"Hush, my love." Gaius tried to soothe her, looking at his father-in-law, who had come into the room behind him, in appeal. "We are not yet old, my dear. If the gods will it, we may yet have many children -"

 

Licinius bent down to kiss her as well. "And if you have no son, my dear child, what of that? You have been a better child to me than many sons, that I vow to you."

 

"You must think of our living children now," said Gaius.

 

Julia felt despair well up in her. "You never paid any attention to Secunda. Why should you care about the others now? You only care that I have lost your son."

 

"No," Gaius said very quietly, "I do not need you to give me a son. You must sleep now." He got to his feet, looking down at her. "Sleep heals many griefs, and in the morning you will feel differently."

 

But Julia, remembering the delicately carved features of her little boy, did not really hear.

 

As the slow weeks of Julia's recovery wore on, Gaius found that he was saddened more by her grief than any feelings of his own. He had been away from home when Secunda was born, and had no great attachment to her. Nor could he bring himself to grieve overmuch for one of four girls.

 

Yet when he thought of the son they had lost, he could not help thinking about his son by Eilan. In Roman society, adoption of a healthy boy from another family was a traditional solution. If Julia had no male children, and after a consultation with the physician that began to seem improbable, she was less likely to object if he claimed Eilan's son. And he was fond of his daughters, although he felt no such bond as he had to his first-born boy.

 

But there was time and enough for that once Julia had her health again. Hoping it would at least distract her from her grief, he agreed to take Julia on a pilgrimage to the shrine of the Mother Goddess near Venta, but the journey did little to help her recover her health and spirits, and when he offered to move the family back to Londinium, she did not want to go.

 

"It is here that our children are buried," she told him. "I will not leave them here."

 

Gaius privately considered this unreasonable. Despite native beliefs that the land of the Silures held the entrance to the Otherworld, it seemed to him that no earthly place could be nearer or further off than any other to the Land of the Dead, but he gave way to Julia's whim and they remained.

 

Towards the end of that year news came that Agricola was dead as well.

 

"As Tacitus is fond of saying," wrote Licinius Corax, " 'It is a principle of human nature to hate those whom we have injured.' But even our Divine Emperor could find little in Agricola to justify his anger, and so our friend escaped official disfavor. Indeed, the Emperor was remarkably solicitous throughout Agricola's illness, and though there are those who whisper that the General was taken off by poison; for myself, I think the cause was a heart broken by witnessing Rome's dishonor. It may be that he is well out of it, and it is we who will soon wish that we had gone on before. Be glad that you are safely out of sight in Britannia . . ."

 

In the following year Licinius retired and came to make his home with them, and so they added another wing to the Villa Severina, and the final year of Gaius's service as Procurator for supplies began. He had hoped that when he completed his term of office Senator Malleus would be able to arrange to have him appointed to a higher position, but that year brought disturbing news. The Emperor was growing ever more autocratic and suspicious. As a military leader he had been reasonably successful, but he seemed to take his successes as proof of divine favor, and was doing his best, wrote Licinius's cousin Corax, to destroy what power remained to the patrician class.

 

Gaius wondered if this would be the spark that set the embers of rebellion aflame, but the next thing they heard was that Herennius Senecio and several others had been executed for treason.

 

Gaius understood that his career was likely to be on hold for some time. His patron Senator Malleus, while not accused, had found it prudent to retire to his estates in Campania. And so, when Gaius completed his term as Procurator, he put off the visit to Rome with which he had planned to follow it and, like his patron, decided to devote himself for a time to developing the productivity of his lands.

 

Now he began at last to establish a stronger friendship with his remaining daughters, but Julia remained depressed and sickly. Though they still shared a bed, it was becoming ever clearer that she was unlikely to give him a son.

 

By now Eilan's child would be ten years old. Even a father who was not precisely in the Emperor's favor could guarantee the child a better future than a British priestess who must hide the very fact of his existence, and surely Julia would rather raise a son of his than a stranger's child - although he could never be quite sure what Julia would feel. But after all, Gaius could assure her - and it would be the truth - that the boy had been fathered before he ever set eyes on her.

 

The Forest House was scarcely an afternoon's ride away. His son could be living just over the next hill, reflected Gaius, gazing southward through the trees. But he found himself oddly afraid to face Eilan again. Did she hate Rome? Did she hate him? The girl he had loved when he was a boy was gone, transformed into the terrible priestess of Vernemeton. Sometimes it seemed to him that the woman he had married was gone too, all the playfulness that had attracted him dead with her son.

 

Gaius had been reasonably successful in his career, though he had hardly fulfilled his father's dreams. But it occurred to him that he had little to love. In his life he had often been lonely, but his father's discipline, or that of the army, had kept him too busy to worry about it. But as the year wore on Gaius found that though managing the estate exercised his body it left his mind free to roam, and he was haunted by dreams of his childhood.

 

Perhaps it was all the time he was putting in on the land that was stimulating his memories from that age when all the world was wonderful and new. He had not allowed himself to think about his mother when he was a child, but he dreamed of her now. He felt her holding him, heard her sweet lullabies and woke in tears, calling to her not to leave him alone.

 

But she had gone away to the Land of the Dead, and Eilan had left him for the Goddess she served, and now Julia was withdrawing from him as well. Would there ever be anyone, he wondered, who could simply love without trying to change him, whose love would endure?

 

Then Gaius would remember how he had felt when he held his son in his arms. But whenever he began planning how to find the boy, he would flinch from the possibility that when they did meet, his son would not care after all. And so he did nothing.

 

One day when Gaius was riding out after the wild pigs that had been rooting in his gardens he realized that he had reached the woodland above the Forest House where Eilan had given birth to their son and found himself reining his horse down the path. He knew that Eilan would not be there, but perhaps there was someone who could give him news of her. Even if she hated him, she could hardly refuse to give him news of their son.

 

At first he thought the place deserted. The promise of spring was blushing in the branches with their hard buds of green, but the thatched roof of the hut was ragged and weather-bleached, and the ground littered with sticks blown down in the last storm and last year's dead leaves. Then he saw a thin haze of smoke filtering up through the thatching. His pony snorted as he reined in and a man peered out at him. "Welcome, my son," he said, "Who are you and why have you come?"

 

Gaius gave his name, eyeing the fellow curiously. "And who might you be?" he asked. The man was tall, with a sun-browned face and night-dark hair, dressed in a coarse goat-hair robe above an untidy straggle of beard.

 

Gaius wondered if he were some homeless wanderer who had taken refuge in the unused building; then he saw the crossed sticks that hung from the man's neck on a thong and realized he must be some kind of Christian, perhaps one of those hermits who were, in the last two or three years, springing up from one end of the Empire to the other. Gaius had heard of them in Egypt and Northern Africa, but it was strange to see one here. "What are you doing here?" he asked again.

 

"I have come to minister to God's lost ones," the hermit answered. "In the world I was known as Lycias; now I am called Father Petros. Surely God has sent you to me because you are in need. What can I do for you?"

 

"How do you know it was God who sent me to you?" Gaius asked, amused in spite of himself by the man's simplicity.

 

"You're here, aren't you?" asked Father Petros.

 

He shrugged and Petros went on. "Believe me, my son, nothing happens without the knowledge of the God who set the stars in their places."

 

"Nothing?" Gaius said with a bitterness that surprised him. He realized that at some point during the past three years, perhaps when he heard of the death of Agricola, or perhaps while he was watching Julia's suffering, he had ceased to believe in the gods. "Then perhaps you can tell me what kind of deity would take a son, and a daughter, from a mother who loved them?"

 

"Is that your trouble?" Father Petros pulled the door wider. "Come in, my son. Such matters are not explained in a breath, and your poor beast looks tired."

 

A little guiltily, Gaius remembered how far the pony had carried him. When he had tethered the animal with a long enough lead to let it reach the dry grass, he went in.

 

Father Petros was setting out cups on a rough table. "What can I offer you? I have beans and turnips and even some wine; the weather is such, here, that I cannot fast as often as I did in a warmer climate. I drink nothing but water, myself, but I am permitted to offer these worldly things to such guests as come to me."

 

Gaius shook his head, realizing he had happened upon a philosopher. "I will try your wine," he said, "but I tell you plainly; you will never convince me your god is either all-powerful or good. For if he were all-powerful, why can he not prevent suffering? And if he can and does not, why should men worship him?"

 

"Ah," said Father Petros, "I can tell by that question that you have been trained in the Stoic philosophy; for the words are theirs. But the philosophers are wrong about the nature of God."

 

"And you, of course, are right?" Gaius's tone was belligerent.

 

Father Petros shook his head. "I am only a poor minister to such children as seek my counsel. The only Son of God was crucified and returned from the dead to save us; that is all I need to know. Those who believe in Him will live eternally in glory."

 

It was the usual childish oriental legend, Gaius thought, remembering what he had heard about the cult in Rome. He supposed he could see why the story appealed to slaves and even a few women of good family. Suddenly it occurred to him that this fellow's ramblings might interest Julia, or at least give her something to think about. He set down his cup.

 

"I thank you for your wine, Father, and for your story," he said. "May my wife call upon you? She is devastated with grief for our daughter."

 

"She will be welcome whenever she comes," Father Petros replied graciously. "I am only sorry I have not convinced you. I haven't, have I?"

 

"I'm afraid not." Gaius was a little disarmed by the man's regret.

 

"I am not much of a preacher," said Father Petros, looking somewhat crestfallen. "I wish Father Joseph were here; I am sure he could convince you."

 

Gaius thought it highly unlikely, but he smiled politely. As he turned to go, there was a knock at the door.

 

"Ah, Senara? Do come in," the hermit said.

 

"I see you have someone with you," a girl's voice replied. "I'll come another time, if I may."

 

"It's all right, I'm just leaving." Gaius pushed aside the flap of leather that covered the door. Before him was one of the prettiest young girls he had seen at least since his first sight of Eilan, so long ago. But of course he too had been very young then. She was about fifteen, he thought, with hair the color of copper filings in a blacksmith's fire and eyes very blue, dressed in an undyed linen gown.

 

Then he looked at her again and realized where he had seen her before. Despite the Celtic coloring, there was a distinct look of his father's old secretary Valerius in the line of her nose and jaw. That would explain her knowledge of Latin.

 

It was not until he was untying his horse that he realized he could have asked - what was it the hermit had called her, Senara? -how he might arrange a meeting with Eilan. But by that time the doorflap had closed behind her, and one of the few things he knew about women — not that he knew that much, and since his marriage he felt he knew even less — was that it was never wise to ask one woman about another.

 

It was well past sunset by the time Gaius reached the villa, but Julia's greeting, if subdued, was friendly. Licinius was already awaiting them in the dining room.

 

Macellia and Tertia were playing with a toy chariot on the veranda; they had dressed Julia's pet monkey in baby clothes, and were trying to stuff it into the chariot. He rescued the little animal and handed it to Julia. Sometimes he wondered how three small girls and one woman, with only seven servants, could make so much chaos in one house.

 

The little girls screamed, "Papa! Papa!" and Quartilla came running to join them. Gaius hugged them all round, called for Lydia to take charge of them, then went into the dining room with Julia.

 

She still had the monkey on her shoulder; it was about the size of a baby, and for some reason, seeing it dressed in baby clothes annoyed him. He couldn't imagine what Julia wanted with the creature; it was a hot-weather animal and had to be cosseted as if it really were a child. Of all places to keep such a pet, Britain was certainly the worst; even in summer, he supposed, it was too cold for the little animal. "I wish you'd get rid of that wretched beast," he snapped irritably as they sat down to the meal.

 

Her eyes watered. "Secunda was so fond of it," she whispered.

 

The comment made him wonder, not for the first time, if Julia had lost her mind. Secunda had been six years old when she died, and he didn't think she had ever paid the slightest attention to the monkey. Still, if it pleased Julia to think so . . . Seeing Licinius's warning glance from across the table, he sighed and abandoned the subject.

 

"What were you doing today?" she asked, making an obvious effort to speak cheerfully as the servants brought in the boiled eggs, a platter of smoked oysters and salt fish, and a selection of salad greens dressed with olive oil.

 

Gaius swallowed a piece of onion too quickly and coughed, mentally editing his day. He reached across the table for a fragrant roll of fresh bread. "I was trying to track those wild pigs and ended up on the other side of the hills," he began. "The old hut in the woods down there has a new tenant, some kind of a hermit."

 

"A Christian?" asked Licinius dubiously. He had never had any good to say of the oriental cults that were invading Rome.

 

"Apparently so," said Gaius neutrally, letting the girl take his plate away while others brought in the dish of ducklings sauced with plums soaked in sweet wine. He dabbled his fingers in the bowl of scented water and wiped them. "At any rate he believes that his god rose from the dead."

 

Licinius snorted, but Julia's eyes filled with tears. "Does he really?" The helpless look in her eyes wrung Gaius's heart even while it exasperated him. Whatever gives her comfort. He put down the duck wing, turning on his dining couch to face her.

 

"Do you think he would let me come and speak to him? Will you allow me to go?" she asked pleadingly.

 

"My dear Julia, I want you to do whatever will give you comfort." He meant it in all sincerity. "Whatever makes you happy will please me."

 

"You are so good to me." Her eyes filled with tears again. She gulped apologetically, and fled from the room.

 

"I don't understand her," admitted Licinius. "I raised her to live a virtuous life and honor her ancestors. I loved the child too, but all of us will die one day, be it late or soon. I chose well for my girl," he added. "You have been kinder to her than I could be, even though she did not give you a son."

 

Gaius sighed and reached for the wine. He felt like a monstrous deceiver, but held his peace. He had become responsible for this woman's happiness, and to hurt her feelings was the first of many things he did not want to do. But he could not help thinking that Eilan would never have been foolish enough to be seduced by some Christian monk's ramblings.

 

When the sweets had been cleared away, Gaius went to the room where Julia was supervising as the little girls were put to bed. Gaius was glad to see the monkey had escaped; feeling very mean-spirited, he hoped it would run off and, if they were lucky, get caught by a marauding dog.

 

The slave trimmed the wick and he and Julia stood for a moment, watching the soft light flickering on smooth cheeks and dark lashes. Julia spoke a phrase of blessing, and touched the amulet against fire that hung on the wall. Of late she had become very superstitious. Of course a fire would be disastrous, but the house was newly built and not at all drafty. On the whole he had rather more faith in the fire-fighting abilities of their household slaves than in most goddesses or charms.

 

As they came out into the hallway, she said, "I think I will go to bed now."

 

Gaius patted her shoulder and kissed the cheek she presented. He might have expected that. The idea was that by the time he came to bed she would be - or pretend to be - so deeply asleep that he would not disturb her. He might as well not have a wife at all. And how could she expect him to give her another child if she would not sleep with him?

 

But it was pointless to censure her. He wished her a good night and turned towards his office in the other wing of the villa, where a scroll containing the latest installment of Tacitus's Life of Agricola was waiting for him.

 

And there he discovered where Julia's monkey had taken refuge; it was on his desk and had defecated, evil-smelling monkey excrement, all over his papers. He shouted with rage, grabbed the little beast and flung it with all his force into the yard. He heard an odd crunch and then a whimper, then nothing more.

 

Good. If the creature was dead, he would not mourn; and tomorrow he would have no compunction in telling Julia that a dog must have caught it. The Christian priest could comfort her; though he had heard that they preferred to have nothing to do with women. At the moment, he wished that he need not either.

 

 

 

Twenty-Five

 

 

 

Gaius woke in the early morning. Today, whatever else happened, he must do something about finding his son. Ardanos must know how to contact his granddaughter. He was not anxious to talk to the old man, whom he suspected of being as much a fanatic in his own way as Father Petros, but he could see no alternative. The only problem that remained was how to find Ardanos, who no longer lived near Deva.

 

But while he lay contemplating the problem, he heard a peremptory knock on the front gate, and his steward complaining as he went to answer it. Gaius threw on a robe and slid out of bed, carefully, so as not to wake Julia. A legionary was waiting in the front courtyard with a request from Macellius for a visit. Gaius raised one eyebrow. Officially, his father was retired, but he was aware that the old man had made himself a trusted adviser to the Twentieth Legion's young Commander.

 

If he were gone when Julia discovered the death of her monkey, he would not have to face her tears. Gaius rode through the town and directly to the gates of the fortress, exchanging salutes with the guard on duty, who knew him well from his stint as Procurator.

 

"Your father said you would probably arrive before noon," said the soldier. "You'll find him with the Legate in the Praetorium."

 

On the bench outside the Commander's office he saw a weary-looking woman. She was a Briton of the dark-haired, pale-skinned type like his mother's people; somewhere between thirty and thirty-five, he guessed, dressed in a gown of saffron wool rather lavishly embroidered with gold. Gaius wondered what she had done, and when the legionary on duty ushered him into the presence of the Commander and his father, he put the question.

 

"Her name is Brigitta," his father answered with distaste. "She calls herself Queen of the Demetae. When her husband died, he left his fortune in equal shares to her and to the Emperor, and she seems to feel this gives her the right to rule his kingdom. Sound familiar?"

 

Gaius licked dry lips. It was common practice for a rich man to split his estate between his own family and the Emperor in hopes that the Imperial co-heir would make sure the other heirs got their share. Agricola had done the same thing.

 

The Legate looked from Gaius to his father. Clearly it did not sound familiar to him.

 

"Boudicca." Gaius said succinctly. "Her husband tried the same thing, but the Iceni had debts to some fairly prominent senators. When he died, they moved in, and she tried to resist. She and her daughters were rather . . .badly treated and she raised the tribe in a rebellion that nearly swept us out of this land!" That was the specter that Macellius was seeing when he looked at the unhappy woman sitting outside, especially since the Demetae were one of the tribes that counted descent through the mother's line.

 

"Oh, that Boudicca," said the Legate. He was called Lucius Domitius Brutus, and he seemed to Gaius rather young for such a major posting, but he was reputed to be a good friend of the Emperor.

 

"That Boudicca," Macellius echoed disgustedly. "So you see, sir, why the tribune over at Moridunum scooped her up as soon as the will was read, and why we cannot simply carry out the terms of the will as they stand, no matter how much they benefit the Emperor."

 

"On the other hand," said Gaius, "it should also be clear that this woman must be handled like blown glass. I assure you that every native in this country will be waiting to see what we do." A thought occurred to him. "I don't suppose she has children?"

 

"A couple of daughters somewhere, I've heard," said Macellius wearily, "but I don't know what has become of them; they are only about three or four, worse luck, or I'd have them properly married off to a citizen. I have no particular stomach for this business of war against women and children; but if women will mingle in politics, what can we do? Rumor has it that she - or those who would like to use her — have sent messages seeking alliance with the Hibernians."

 

Gaius shuddered, remembering the raid on Eilan's home. "Take her to Londinium," he suggested. "If she's sent to Rome her people will think she's a prisoner, but if she's set up in a fine house in the city they may think she's betrayed them. Tell her that unless she lives in Londinium she won't see a sestercius of her husband's gold."

 

"It might work," Macellius said, considering. He turned to the Legate. "I agree with my son's suggestion. You've already got a detachment ready to strengthen the garrison at Moridunum; they can carry the news."

 

"She'll be a hostage then," Domitius Brutus said. This he could understand.

 

As he left the office, it occurred to Gaius that the daughters, however young, could still be a danger. The woman stirred a faint pity; she looked so forlorn.

 

"Where are your little girls?" he asked in the British tongue.

 

"Where you will never find them, Roman, and I thank the gods," she said. "Don't you think I know how your legionaries treat young girls?"

 

"Not little children!" Gaius exclaimed. "Come now; I am a father myself with three little daughters about the age of yours. At most we would find them suitable guardians."

 

"I will spare you that trouble." she said fiercely, "They are well taken care of!"

 

A legionary came up and touched her on the arm. When she flinched, he ordered, "Do come along quietly, lady. We don't wish to bind you."

 

She looked wildly around her, and her gaze settled on Gaius. "Where are you taking me?"

 

"Only to Londinium," he said soothingly. He saw her face crumple, with relief or disappointment he did not know, but she went quietly enough.

 

The legionary on guard watched her go and said to Gaius, "You'd never think she would associate with known agitators, not to look at her now; but when we picked her up, it was reported she'd been seen about with a notorious rebel: Conmor, Cynric, or some such name as that. He's said to be still in the area."

 

"I know him," Gaius said. The legionary stared, "You, sir?"

 

Gaius nodded, recalling the high-hearted boy who had pulled him out of the boar pit. Was Cynric still in contact with Eilan? If they caught him, Gaius could ask how he could arrange a private meeting.

 

"Gods," said Macellius, closing the door of the Legate's office behind him and following Gaius down the corridor, "all this makes me feel old!"

 

"Don't be ridiculous," Gaius answered him.

 

"The Legate wants me to do something to calm things down among the people. Use my old contacts, he says."

 

Perhaps Brutus was not as stupid as he looked, Gaius thought. Macellius's ability to get cooperation from the tribes had been legendary in his day.

 

"But I'm tired of picking other people's chestnuts out of the fire. Maybe I'll move to Rome. It's been a long time since I've seen the city. Maybe I should go to Egypt where I would be warm for once."

 

"Don't be foolish," Gaius chided. "What would my little girls do without their grandsire?"

 

"Oh, come, they hardly know I'm alive," said Macellius. But he seemed pleased. "Of course if you had a son it would be different."

 

"I - well, I may have a son one of these days," Gaius broke out in a sweat. Macellius himself had told Gaius about Eilan's pregnancy, but when he had seen her and the baby in the hut in the forest, it was clear that the birth had been kept secret. If Macellius did not know that Eilan had borne him a son, Gaius did not think he should tell his father now.

 

Eilan dreamed that she walked beside a lake in a half-light that could have been either dusk or dawn. A light mist hung above the waters, obscuring the further shore; the mists were silver, and a silver sheen was on the waters; wavelets lapped softly against the shore. It seemed that across the water drifted singing, and out of the mists came swimming nine white swans, as fair as the maidens of the Forest House when they saluted the moon.

 

Eilan had never heard anything so beautiful. She moved down to the edge of the lake, stretching out her hands, and the swans circled slowly.

 

"Let me come to you, let me swim with you!" she cried, but from the swans came the answer, "You cannot come with us; your robes and ornaments weigh you down . . ." They began to swim away, and Eilan's heart was torn with loss.

 

Eilan stripped off her heavy gown, her veils and mantle, and cast the golden torque and armlets of the High Priestess aside. As her shadow glimmered in the water, it was the shape of a swan. She cast herself into the lake . . .

 

As the silver waters closed over her head she woke to the familiar timbers of the Forest House in the dim light of dawn. For a few moments Eilan sat still, rubbing her eyes. This was not the first time she had dreamed of the lake and the swans. Each time, it seemed harder to return. She had told no one of her trouble. She was High Priestess of Vernemeton, not some silly girl to be frightened by an odd dream. But each time it happened the dream was more vivid, and the role she played while waking more and more unreal.

 

Someone was pounding on a door. Oddly, it was the gateway to her garden. Faintly she could hear the voice of the young priestess who guarded it raised in protest.

 

"Who the mischief do you think you are? You cannot simply walk in from nowhere and ask to see the High Priestess, certainly not at this hour."

 

"Forgive me," answered a deep voice. "I think of her still as my foster sister, not the High Priestess. Ask her, please, if she will speak to me!"

 

Eilan threw on a shawl and hurried out on to the porch. "Cynric!" she exclaimed. "I thought you in the North somewhere!" She stopped short. Clinging around his neck was a small, dark-haired child of two or three; another girl, perhaps five years old, hid behind his cloak. "Are they yours?"

 

He shook his head. "They belong to an unfortunate woman, and I have come to beg you to give them shelter in the name of the Goddess."

 

"To give them shelter?" Eilan repeated stupidly. "But why?"

 

"Because they stand in need of it," Cynric returned, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

 

"What I meant was, why here? Have they no kindred to care for them? If they are not yours, why have they become your responsibility?"

 

"Their mother is Brigitta, Queen of the Demetae," said Cynric uneasily. "She tried to claim the kingdom when her husband died and is now a prisoner of Rome. We feared her daughters would be held as hostages, or worse, if they fell into Roman hands."

 

Eilan looked at the children and thought of her own son. She pitied their mother with all her heart, but what would Ardanos say? This was one of those times when she could have used Caillean's counsel, but the older woman had gone down to the Summer Country to visit the Sacred Well.

 

"You know they are too young to claim for the Goddess."

 

"All I am asking is that you keep them safe and secure!" Cynric began, but before he could say anything else there was more noise outside.

 

"My lady, you cannot see the Priestess now; she is with a guest."

 

"All the more reason I should be with her," a voice said, and Dieda came into the garden. At the sight of Cynric she cried out, and he turned hastily to see her. She had been told about his activities when she returned from Eriu, but this was the first time she had seen him.

 

"The children are not mine!" he exclaimed as the color left her face and then flamed back again. "Queen Brigitta sent them here for sanctuary."

 

"They should be taken to the House of Maidens, then," said Dieda, mastering herself, and held out her hand. But her eyes were still on Cynric.

 

"Wait," said Eilan. "I must think. The Forest House cannot afford to entangle itself in anything political."

 

"Without the consent of the Romans?" Cynric said scornfully.

 

"It is easy for you to jeer," Eilan began, "but you must remember that we exist by sufferance of those Romans you are so ready to dismiss. We should at least consult with the Arch-Druid before we commit ourselves to something that might look like support for a rebellion."

 

"With Ardanos?" Cynric spat. "Why not with the Legate in Deva himself? Maybe we should go to the Governor of Britain and ask his leave."

 

"Cynric, I have risked a great deal for you and your cause," Eilan reminded him soberly. "But I cannot risk the Forest House by taking in political fugitives without Ardanos's leave." A quick word sent her attendant running down the path towards the nearby house that had been built for the Arch-Druid.

 

Cynric said, "Eilan, do you know the fate to which you will be abandoning these girls?"

 

"Do you?" she snapped. "Why are you so sure Ardanos will refuse?"

 

"Regarding what?" said a new voice, and they all turned, Eilan frowning, Cynric flushed with anger, and Dieda pale with some emotion Eilan could not name. "Your woman encountered me just outside," Ardanos explained.

 

Eilan pointed to the children.

 

"There is nothing I can do for Brigitta," Ardanos said when she was done. "She was warned about what would happen if she claimed the right to rule. But she will not be harshly treated; even the Romans would not make that mistake twice in one century. As for the girls, I do not know. They could be trouble, later on."

 

"But not yet," said Eilan decisively. "And I will not hold children responsible for their parents' crimes. Senara and Lia can tend them. If we give them new names and treat them like any other children they should be safe enough for a time. No one will think anything of it." She smiled bitterly. "After all, I have a reputation for sheltering motherless children!"

 

"I suppose so," said Ardanos dubiously. "But Cynric had better get well away. For where he is, I have noticed, trouble follows." He glared at the young man, and Dieda went pale. "The Romans may not care about the girls, but they will certainly be looking for you!"

 

"If they try to interfere with me they may find more trouble than they bargained for." Cynric said fiercely.

 

Eilan sighed, thinking that rather than a raven, he should have been called a stormy petrel. But she knew better than to argue with Cynric, or with Dieda. All she could do was to try and keep the peace a little longer. Sometimes it seemed as if the whole weight of Britain lay on her shoulders - and that all her kin were conspiring to keep it there.

 

Senara was summoned to take the children to their new quarters, and Eilan went on to her duties, leaving Dieda and Cynric to make their farewells. Later that afternoon, she heard weeping in the shed where they dried the herbs. It was Dieda.

 

The other woman started up, her eyes blazing, then seemed to deflate when she saw who it was. Although their relationship was no longer close, at least Dieda felt no need to dissemble. But Eilan knew better than to try to touch her or offer comfort.

 

"What is it?" she said.

 

Dieda scrubbed at her eyes with the corner of her veil, making them even redder. "He asked me to go with him —"

 

"And you refused." Eilan kept her voice deliberately neutral.

 

"To live the life of an outlaw, always skulking in the forest, afraid of every sound, always wondering if tomorrow I would see him marched off in chains or slain by Roman swords? I could not do it, Eilan! Here at least I have my music, and work to do that I believe in. How could I go?"

 

"Did you tell him so?"

 

Dieda nodded. "He said that if I felt that way I could not truly love him; that I was betraying our cause. . .He said that he needed me . . ."

 

I'm sure he did, the idiot, thought Eilan, and never wondered whether she needs him at all!

 

"It is your fault!" Dieda exclaimed. "If it were not for you, I would have married him long ago. Then perhaps he would never have become an outlaw!"

 

With an effort, Eilan stopped herself from pointing out that Dieda had sworn the vows of a priestess of her own free will. Even when Eilan returned to the Forest House after Gawen's birth, she could have gone to Cynric instead of to Eriu. The poor girl did not want logic, she needed someone to blame.

 

"And now all I can think of is the way he looked at me! It may be months or even years before I know how he is, or what is happening to him! At least if I were with him I would know!" Dieda wailed.

 

"I don't suppose you care one way or another for my approval," Eilan said softly. "Whatever you think of my choices, you know that I have learned to live with them. But I too have wept in the darkness, wondering whether I did the right thing. Dieda, you may never be sure - all you can do is the work that is given to you, and hope that the Goddess will explain the reason for it all some day."

 

Dieda's face was turned away, but it seemed to Eilan that her sobs were diminishing.

 

"I will tell the maidens that you are ill and cannot take them tonight for the singing," she went on. "No doubt they will be glad of a holiday."

 

It seemed to Eilan that the problem of Brigitta's children had been solved, but only a few days later, just before the evening meal, her attendant told her that a Roman sought audience.

 

Gaius leapt to mind but a second thought told her he would never dare come here. "Find out his name and business," she said evenly.

 

In a few moments the girl returned. "Lady, it is Macellius Severus who begs the favor of a word with you." She added, "He used to be the Camp Prefect of Deva —"

 

"I know who he is." Lhiannon had received him once or twice, but Macellius was now retired. What, in the name of all the gods, could he want with her? The only way to find out was to ask. "Tell him to come in," she directed. She straightened her gown and after a moment's thought drew her veil down over her face.

 

Presently Huw shouldered through the entrance with another man behind him. Gaius's father . . .the grandfather of her son . . .From behind the veil Eilan eyed him curiously. She had never seen him before, and yet she would have known him anywhere. Overlapping visions showed her the weathered features of the old man and the strong lines of nose and brow that had been repeated in his son, and were just beginning to emerge from the childish curves in the face of her own.

 

Huw took up position beside the door and Macellius came to a halt before her. He drew himself up and bowed, and Eilan knew suddenly where Gaius had got his pride.

 

"My lady." He used the Roman term, Domina, but his British was quite good otherwise. "It is very kind of you to receive me —"

 

"Not at all," she replied. "What can I do for you?" She supposed it had to do with one of the approaching festivals as it had when he had waited upon Lhiannon.

 

Macellius cleared his throat. "I understand that you have given sanctuary to the daughters of the Demetan Queen —"

 

Suddenly Eilan was very glad that she had put on the veil. "If that were true," she said slowly, desperately wishing that Ardanos or Caillean, were here to help her, "why would it matter to you?"

 

"If it were so," he echoed, "we would want to know why."

 

The words of Cynric came into her mind. "Because it was told to me that they stood in need of it. Can you think of any better reason?"

 

"I cannot," he answered her, "and yet their mother is a rebel who threatened to raise the whole West against Rome. But Rome has been merciful. Brigitta has been sent in protective custody to Londinium, and will not be harmed. Nor have we demanded death for her kin."

 

The little ones will be glad to know their mother is safe, thought Eilan, remembering how unnaturally silent they had been. But why? Was it possible that Macellius desired peace between Rome and the Britons as much as she?

 

"If this is true I am glad to hear it," she said, "but what do you want of me?"

 

"I should think it would be obvious lady. These girls must not become a rallying point for some future uprising. Brigitta herself is not important, but in times of tension, any pretext will serve."

 

She said, "I think you may rest easy on that point; if they were among the maidens of the Forest House no political use would be made of them."

 

"Not even when they are grown?" he asked. "How do we know that they will not be given to men who will try to rule the Demetae by right of marriage to the Queen?"

 

He was right to wonder she thought. It was exactly the sort of thing that Cynric would try. "How would you avoid it?"

 

"The best way is to have them fostered in loyal Roman homes; and' when they are grown, find them good solid husbands with Roman sympathies."

 

"And that is all that would happen to them in Roman hands?"

 

"That is all," Macellius replied. "My lady, you cannot believe that we make war on babes and little children?"

 

She was silent. That is exactly what I have been brought up to believe.

 

"Is it your will that we shall always be paying for atrocities committed by others? On the sacred island, for instance?" said Macellius, as if he could hear what she was thinking.

 

That is what Cynric believes, but the decision is mine. And it is I whom the Goddess must tell what to do. For a few moments longer Eilan was silent, seeking the inner stillness in which she could hear.

 

"It is not," she said, "but I would lose the trust of my own people if I appeared too eager to believe you. I have heard Brigitta's daughters are both still too young for anyone to think of marriage. They have been through a great deal. Surely it would be more merciful to let them stay wherever they are a few months, or even a year, until the furor has died down. By then everyone will know how you have treated their mother. Passions will have cooled, and there will be less outcry if people learn they are in your hands."

 

"And will they then be given to us?" Macellius said, frowning.

 

"If all is as you say, I swear by the gods of my tribe that they will." Eilan set her hand upon the torque around her neck. "Prepare to receive them in your house in Deva at the Feast of the Maiden next year."

 

His face lightened, and Eilan's breath caught as she saw on his lined face Gawen's flickering smile. If only she could tell him who she was, and show him his grandson, safe and strong!

 

"I believe you," Macellius said. "I can only hope that the Legate will believe me"

 

"Vernemeton is hostage for my honesty," she gestured around her. "If I betray it, we are within easy grasp of his hand."

 

He said, "Lady, I would kiss yours; but your guard is eyeing me roost suspiciously."

 

"You cannot do that," she said, "but I accept your good will, my lord."

 

"And I yours," Macellius said, and bowed once more.

 

When he had gone, Eilan sat for a time in silence, wondering if she had betrayed her people or saved them. Was it for this that the gods had worked to bring her here? Was it for this she had been born?

 

Caillean returned from the Summer Country late the next day, looking tired, but elated. When the older woman had bathed, Eilan sent Senara to ask if she would take her evening meal by Eilan's fire.

 

"How that child has grown!" Caillean commented as Senara went out to fetch the meal. "It seems just yesterday she came here, and now she is the same age as you were when I first met you, and almost as beautiful!"

 

With some surprise Eilan realized that Senara was indeed a young woman, old enough for vows; one day soon she should be pledged as a priestess. There had been no word from the girl's Roman relatives for years, and she had no reason to think there would be any objection. But for this at least there was no hurry.

 

"And what have you been doing this bright sunny day, my dear child?" Caillean asked as Senara set the food down.

 

A strange look passed over the girl's face. "I walked by that little house in the forest. Did you know, a hermit has come to live there?"

 

"Indeed, we gave our permission. He is a strange old man from somewhere in the South, Christian, is he not?"

 

"He is," Senara answered with that same strange look. "He has been kind to me."

 

Caillean frowned. Eilan knew that she would say it was not suitable for a priestess of the Forest House to be alone with a man, no matter how staid or elderly. But after all, the girl was not sworn to them; besides, she had heard somewhere that Christian priests swore themselves to chastity. In any case, Eilan thought wryly, she herself was no one to question a young girl's modesty.

 

"My mother was a Christian," Senara said. "May I have your permission to visit this priest and take him some food from our kitchen? I would like to learn more about what my mother believed."

 

"I do not see why not," Eilan answered. "That all the gods are one God is a part of our most ancient teachings. Go, and learn which face of Him the Christians see . . ."

 

They ate for a time in silence.

 

"Something has happened," said Eilan finally, watching Caillean's face as she stared into the flames.

 

"Perhaps —" Caillean answered her. "But I am not entirely sure what it means. The Tor is very powerful, and the lake . . ." she shook her head. "I promise that when I understand what I felt there, you will know. In the meantime —" her eyes lost their softness as she looked up at Eilan. "I am told that something has happened here as well. Dieda says you had a visitor."

 

"Visitors, rather; but I assume you were speaking of Cynric."

 

"I meant Macellius Severus," Caillean said. "What did you think of him?"

 

Eilan thought, I could have wished for him as my father-in-law. But she could not, after all, say that to Caillean. She compromised by saying, "He seems both kindly and fatherly."

 

"That is how the Romans take more and more of our world," said Caillean. "I would rather they were all evil without compromise. When even you can think well of Macellius, who will rebel?"

 

"Why should we rebel against them? You speak like Cynric."

 

"I could do worse," said Caillean.

 

"I do not see how," Eilan said resentfully. "Even if we must have a Roman peace, what is wrong with that? Peace is certainly better than war however it comes."

 

"Even a peace without honor? A peace in which everything that makes life worth living has been taken away?"

 

"The Romans can be honorable —" Eilan began, but Caillean interrupted.

 

"I would have thought you the last person to say so!" Her voice trailed off into an appalled silence, as if she had realized that whatever she said could only make it worse.

 

But I do say so, thought Eilan, feeling her flush of shame die away. Gaius's mother married Macellius to bring peace, and I let Gains marry a Roman girl for the same reason. She wondered what sort of person his Roman wife was, and whether she had made him happy. Not all women sought peace, she knew, remembering Boudicca, who had started a rebellion, and Cartimandua, who betrayed Caractacus, and Brigitta, whose daughters she was sheltering, but she had made her decision, and she would stand by it.

 

"Cynric is wrong," she said finally. "What makes life worth living is not the glory that warriors sing of, but tended cattle and tilled fields and happy children around the fire. I know that the Goddess can be as terrible as a sow-bear when her cubs are threatened, but I think She would rather see us building and growing than killing each other. Isn't that why we have tried to recover the ancient ways of healing here?"

 

She looked up at last and met Caillean's dark eyes, and was startled to see that they held appeal.

 

"I have told you the reasons I have to hate men and fear what they can do," the older priestess said softly. "It is very hard sometimes for me to believe in life; it would be so much easier to go down fighting. There are times when you make me ashamed. But when I looked into the Sacred Well, it seemed to me that it overflowed in a hundred little rivulets that sank into the ground and carried its healing power throughout the land. And then, for a little while, I did believe."

 

"We must do something about that well," said Eilan softly, taking Caillean's hand and, like an echo, she seemed to hear the singing of the swans.

 

The next time Gaius was in Deva he called upon his father. Over a cup of wine, the talk came round to Brigitta of the Demetae. "Did you ever find her daughters?" asked Gaius.

 

"In a manner of speaking," his father replied. "I know where they are, and you will never guess where it is."

 

"I thought you were going to find them Roman foster parents."

 

"I will, when the time comes, but for now I think that the Priestess of the Oracles is the best guardian they could have." As Gaius gaped, his father went on. "She is a young woman, and I feared she would sympathize with young hot-heads like Cynric, whom, I tell you plainly, I would hang if we could lay hands on him, but she was surprisingly reasonable. As you might guess I have had an informant there for years, a servant of the priestesses, but this is the first time I have seen the Priestess myself."

 

"What did she look like?" Gaius's voice cracked, but Macellius did not appear to notice.

 

"She was veiled," he said. "But between us we worked it out that she'll keep the girls until tensions have eased, and then turn them over to us to be fostered in Roman homes, and contracted to Roman husbands; I think even Brigitta will be inclined to agree to this, if it is put to her. And I mean to put it to her. I feared that some of the agitators around her would make the girls the cause of another holy war, which, I need hardly tell you, would go hard with us, after Domitian's losses on the frontier."

 

He paused, and looked hard at his son. "I wonder sometimes if I made the right choices for you, lad. I thought Vespasian would live longer; he was a good Emperor, and would have seen to your career. After all our planning, you are living on your lands like a British chieftain after all. Even your marriage to Julia —" he broke off. "Can you forgive me?"

 

Gaius stared at him. "I did not know there was anything to forgive. I have made a life for myself here, and this is my home. Regarding my career, well, there is plenty of time."

 

No Emperor lives for ever, he thought, remembering what Malleus had said in his last letter, but even to his father he would not say that aloud. When he thought of Rome he remembered crowds and filth and the detested toga. He might have liked a little more sun here in Britain; but he felt little desire for southern climes.

 

And as for his lack of a male heir, he wondered if this was the time to tell Macellius about Eilan's son. Was it really she whom his father had seen? It was a great relief to know that she could be so moderate. Even if he could not see her; he knew that she was safe and well. It was not that he did not love his daughters, and Gaius knew that Licinius loved all the children. But Roman law counted only male children. It might not be fair, for in effect he would be disenfranchising little Cella, but the law was the law, like it or not.

 

In the end it seemed safer to say nothing. What remained unspoken — and he had found this out the hard way - he need never regret.

 

 

 

Twenty-Six

 

 

 

Caillean woke, shaking, to the gray light of early dawn. It was only a dream. But the images were still vivid, more real, even now, than the curtains of her bed and the breathing of the other women near by. She sat up and stuck her feet into slippers, and then, shivering, took her shawl down from its hook and wrapped it around her.

 

But the warm wool did not comfort her. When she closed her eyes she could still see the expanse of silver water where white mists wreathed and swirled. Eilan stood on the other side, but with each moment the waters grew wider, as if a strong current were carrying her away. It was the emotion that went with the images that terrified her, the overwhelming surge of anguish and loss.

 

It is only my own fears speaking, she told herself, a dream that will disappear with the dawn. Not all dreams were prescient. She got up and drank some water from the flask.

 

In the end, a grey veil of cloud had swirled between her and Eilan, cutting her off from the world. Death is like that . . .The thought would not go away. The ordinary fantasies of sleep dissipated like the mist of morning when one awakened. A great dream — a dream of power - became ever more distinct as one puzzled over it. It could not be ignored.

 

As the other women began to stir, Caillean realized she could not stay here to face their curious eyes. Perhaps in the garden she could find the serenity she needed to deal with this. But one thing was clear, she must tell Eilan.

 

That year the Beltane celebrations had ushered in a bounteous summer, and the woods around the Forest House were vivid with flowers. Eilan had allowed herself to be persuaded to go out to gather herbs with Miellyn, and Lia and the children had come along. Beneath the trees the creamy primroses and bluebells still flourished, but golden buttercups were already beginning to star the meadows, and white hawthorn hung heavy on the bough.

 

Gawen gleefully showed off his knowledge of the forest to Brigitta's two girls, who hung on every word, wide-eyed and admiring. Eilan smiled, remembering how she and Dieda had followed Cynric about when they were small. Listening to their laughter, she realized how much Gawen had missed having other children to play with, and knew that it was not only the girls who would soon be leaving her. Gawen would have to be fostered out soon.

 

It was noon before they returned, flushed and chattering and crowned with flowers. "Caillean is waiting for you in the garden," said Eilidh as Eilan came in. "She has been sitting there all morning. She would not even come in to eat breakfast, but she assures us that nothing is wrong."

 

Frowning, Eilan passed on into the garden without removing her wide-brimmed straw hat, for the day was warm. Caillean was sitting on a bench by the rosemary bed, motionless as if she were meditating, but at Eilan's step she opened her eyes.

 

"Caillean, what is it?"

 

The other woman looked up, and Eilan flinched at the utter calm in those dark eyes. "How many years now have we known one another?" Caillean asked.

 

Eilan tried to reckon it up in memory; they had met when Mairi's younger child was born. But in truth it seemed longer, and there were times when she remembered those odd glimpses of knowledge that had come to her and thought that they had been sisters in more lives than one.

 

"Sixteen years, I think," she said at last, doubtfully. It had been near to winter then; but no, it could not be, for the wild Hibernians were raiding, and it was certain they would not sail if they were afraid of being caught by winter storms. It had not been snow, but rain, she remembered. That had been a bad spring. And she had come to the Forest House as a novice priestess the summer that followed.

 

'Has it been so long? You are right. Mairi's child is nearly old enough to be wed, and Gawen is eleven winters old."

 

Eilan nodded, remembering with sudden vividness how Caillean? I visited her in her exile in the hut in the forest, and how the

 

woman had held her hands and sponged her brow while the child was being born. She had thought those memories would never fade or dim; now they were like a dream long gone by. The work that she and Caillean were doing in the Forest House seemed far more vivid now.

 

"And now we have two of Brigitta's daughters within the House," Caillean said thoughtfully. "But within a year they will go to the Romans to be fostered."

 

Eilan said, sighing, "I hate to think Brigitta should lose her children."

 

"I would waste no sympathy on her," Caillean answered her. "I doubt she lost any sleep over what it would do to her children when she let Cynric persuade her into plotting rebellion."

 

Eilan knew this was most likely true; but as a mother she remembered her anguish when Ardanos had taken Gawen away. "Why do you speak of these things now?" she asked. "I cannot believe you have waited here all morning just to count over old memories as a Roman moneylender counts his gold!"

 

Caillean sighed. "There is something I must say to you, and I know not how to say it. So I speak of all manner of meaningless things. Eilan, I have had such warning as they say comes to each priestess before her death. No, I cannot explain —"

 

Eilan felt cold congealing around her heart, despite the warmth of the sun. "What do you mean, a warning? Are you in pain? Perhaps Miellyn knows some herbs —"

 

Caillean returned quietly. "I have had a dream, and I think it means that this life will soon end."

 

Caillean, dying? Stunned, all Eilan could find to say aloud was, "But how?"

 

Caillean replied quietly, "Truly, I know not how to tell you; perhaps it is something one can understand only when it comes."

 

Oh aye, Eilan thought. It is true: I too am a priestess, even if not a very good one. In Caillean's presence she remembered that, though she often doubted it at other times. Since her last meeting with Cynric she had been most aware of herself as a pawn in his combat with the Romans, as with Ardanos she was aware above all else of the way he wished to use her to keep the peace with Rome. For the past few seasons the tribes had been quiet, but she heard tales of troubles among the Romans. Cynric would be quick to take advantage of any weakness if the Romans should rebel against their Emperor. Would Gaius join such a rebellion? Had he ever cared for her for her own sake?

 

But with Caillean, from the first moment she had met her, Eilan was above all and only a priestess. When she was with her, Eilan felt that the Goddess might still have some use for her. As deeply as she had loved Gaius she could not help remembering that he had not stood by her. But Caillean had always been there.

 

She looked at her sister-priestess helplessly, and thought suddenly, We have been through this before, and I watched her die in pain.

 

Suddenly Eilan was angry. If she could do nothing about it, why did Caillean want to harrow her feelings by telling her? She looked at the other woman almost with hostility, and saw a flicker of emotion in Caillean's dark eyes, like a hidden current in a pool. Knowledge came to her suddenly. She too is afraid.

 

She took a deep breath, and the power of the Goddess that Caillean could awaken in her stirred suddenly.

 

"As High Priestess of Vernemeton, I command you - tell me your dream!"

 

Caillean's eyes widened, but in a few moments the tale was spilling out of her. Eilan listened with eyes closed, seeing the images as Caillean described them. And soon it seemed to her as if she could see them before the other woman spoke, as if it were her own dream that Caillean was telling, and when Caillean fell silent, she herself continued with the story of her own dream of the swans.

 

"We will be parted," she said finally, opening her eyes. "Whether by death or some other force I do not know, but it is like death to think of losing you, Caillean."

 

"But if not by death, what then?" the older woman asked.

 

Eilan frowned, remembering the gleam of silver waters beneath the clouds. "The Summer Country," she said suddenly. "Surely that is the place we both saw in our dreams. You must go there, Caillean, and take a dozen of the maidens with you. I do not know if this is to fulfill the purpose of the Goddess or to defy it, but surely it is better to do something than to sit here waiting for death to take you, even if what we do is wrong!"

 

Caillean still looked dubious, but the life had returned to her eyes. "Ardanos will never allow it. He is the Arch-Druid, and he wants all the priestesses here at Vernemeton, under his eye!"

 

Eilan looked at her and smiled. "But I am Priestess of the Oracle. Leave Ardanos to me!"

 

In Midsummer Morning, the maidens of the Forest House went at dawn to gather dew from the summer flowers. The dew had many powers, both in increasing beauty and bestowing magic. It was said that on that day any maiden who washed her face with the morning dew and then looked into a clear stream could see the face of him who loved her best.

 

Eilan found herself wondering why the priestesses, who after all were all under vows of chastity or intending to be so, should wish to know such things. Did most of them cherish memories of sweethearts in the lives they had left? She had done worse than dream about her lover. But she hoped that the others who served the Goddess could be more single-minded than she.

 

Eilan heard the girls laughing as they returned from the forest, but she did not go out to see them. As time went on, she was increasingly aware of the need for ritual seclusion before the great festivals. She had thought it would grow easier with time, but it seemed to her that keeping the balance between all the forces that sought the Power of the Goddess grew harder each year.

 

Each time Ardanos came to whisper his instructions into her ear, she remembered that by keeping the peace she, no less than the Arch-Druid, was serving the Romans; and she wondered if the fact that they both worked for what they considered to be the good of Britain could ever justify that alliance.

 

The door opened and Caillean came in. Even she had a wreath of red poppies to celebrate the day. Her cheeks were flushed from the sun and she looked healthier than she had for some time. "You are alone?"

 

"Who would be with me today? All of the girls in the house have gone out to pick the midsummer flowers and Lia has taken Gawen to visit Mairi." Eilan answered.

 

"That is well." Caillean sat down on a three-legged stool. "We must speak of tonipick the midsummer flowers and Lia has taken Gawen to visit Mairi." Eilan answered.

 

"That is well." Caillean sat down on a three-legged stool. "We must speak of tonight's Oracle."

 

"I have been thinking of little else since I awakened!" Eilan said bitterly. "I wish it was you who must sit here in the dark, preparing. You would have made so much better a High Priestess than I!"

 

"Gods forbid; I am not such a one as could obediently do Ardanos's will."

 

Suddenly furious, Eilan said wrathfully, "If I am no more than a creature of the priests, you know best who made me so."

 

Caillean sighed. "I thought not to criticize you, mo chridhe." The endearment defused Eilan's anger. Caillean went on, "We are all in Her hands and do Her will as best we can, I no less than you. You should not be angry with me."

 

"I am not angry," Eilan said, not altogether truthfully, but unwilling to quarrel with the woman to whom she owed so much. Sometimes she felt that the weight of her debt to Caillean should crush her. "I am afraid," she went on, "but I will tell you a thing that no one else knows. The sacred drink that is intended to drug me is not the same as it was in Lhiannon's day. I have altered it so that the trance is not total. I know what Ardanos is telling me to say —"

 

"But he always seems quite content with your words," Caillean said frowning. "Are you still so in love with your Gaius that you intentionally serve Rome?"

 

"I serve peace!" Eilan exclaimed. "It has never occurred to Ardanos that I would disobey him, and when my answers are somewhat different from the words I was given he thinks only that I am an imperfect vessel. But the words of peace are not my decision. When I offered myself to the Goddess I was not lying! Do you think the rites we do here at the Forest House are a lie?"

 

Caillean shook her head. "I have felt the Goddess too strongly -but -"

 

"Do you remember Midsummer seven years ago, when Cynric came?"

 

"How could I forget?" Caillean said ruefully. "I was terrified!" For a few moments she was silent. "That was not you, I know it, but a face of the Goddess I hope never to see again. Is it that way always?"

 

Eilan shrugged. "Sometimes She comes, sometimes not, and I must use my own judgment. But every time I sit in the high seat I make the offering, and each time I wait like this I wonder if this will be the time She will strike me down!"

 

"I see," said Caillean carefully. "Forgive me if I misunderstood you when you said you would compel Ardanos to send me south. But what will you do about me?"

 

"This is the testing —" Eilan leaned forward. "For both of us. If all we have built here is not to be a lie I must now risk both myself and you. Tonight I shall make up the potion according to the old recipe. When the Goddess takes me, you must ask about your dream. Everyone will hear the answer, and we all - you, Ardanos, and I - will be bound by it, whatever it may be."

 

The quality of the light had altered considerably towards sunset when outer door opened and one of Ardanos's apprentices came in; he was so young that he had as yet only the thinnest straggle of beard.

 

The young Druid said deferentially, "We are ready for you, my lady." Eilan, who was already beginning to slip into the detached meditative state that preceded trance, rose from her chair. Eilidh and Senara lowered the heavy ritual cloak over her shoulders and fastened it at her throat with a massive gold chain.

 

The night was cool despite the season, and even in her thick cloak, Eilan shivered as she got into her litter. From out of the darkness came two white-robed priests, pale figures moving with measured step at her side. She knew that they were there to guard her against even accidental injury or pressure from the crowds, but somehow she had never been able to dismiss the thought that they were her guards.

 

The thought flashed across her mind like a rabbit scuttling into the bushes: Every priestess is a prisoner of her gods . . .

 

She was vaguely aware of passing through the long avenue of trees that led to the hill. Before the mound a great fire was burning, one of many fires on this night. Its red gleam played on the leaves of the ancient oak that grew next to the mound. A sound of anticipation went through the crowd like a soft sigh. She could not help remembering the first time she had heard it greet Lhiannon. Now she stood in Lhiannon's place, and the people who watched had as little understanding of what was really happening here as she had had then.

 

Two small boys about eight or nine years old, white-robed novices of the bards chosen for their innocence and beauty, brought forward the great golden bowl. They had golden torques about their throats, and belts embroidered with gold cinctured their white robes. As a ray of moonlight lanced through the leaves of the oak tree, a twiglet of mistletoe — cut by a priest hidden in the branches - fluttered downwards. Eilan caught it and dropped it into the bowl.

 

She murmured the words of blessing, and bracing herself against the bitterness, drank the liquid down. The voices of the Druids rose in invocation; the pressure of expectation from the people beat against her awareness. The liquid burned in her belly; she wondered if she had got the dosage wrong, then remembered that she had felt this way before. It came to her then that each time poisoned her a little, and that she would die as Lhiannon had died, though perhaps not as soon.

 

But the world was already dimming around her; she was scarcely aware of falling backward into the seeress's chair, or the jolting as they carried it to the top of the mound.

 

Caillean eyed the figure slumped in the high seat above her with more than usual concern. As always, the intensity of the chanting was pushing her towards trance as well. But there was a tension in the pulsing energies around her that she did not understand. She turned and saw Eilan's father among the white-robed Druids in the circle. Ardanos had said nothing. Had he even known that Bendeigid was going to be there?

 

Eilan twitched in the high seat and Caillean reached for the back to steady it. It was forbidden to touch the High Priestess when she was entranced, but they must be prepared to catch her if she fell.

 

"Goddess!" she prayed, "take care of her — I do not care what happens to me!" It seemed to her then that Eilan stilled; from the corner of her eye she could see one white hand dangling over the edge of the chair, slender as a child's. How could it wield such power?

 

"Lady of the Cauldron!" cried the people. "Silver Wheel! Great Queen! Come to us! Great Goddess, speak to us now!"

 

Caillean felt the wood of the chair quiver beneath her hand. Eilan's fingers were curling, and to Caillean's fascinated gaze the pale flesh seemed to glow. It is true, she thought then, the Goddess is here. Slowly, the figure in the high seat straightened, stretching as if to accommodate a mass greater than the slight figure of the woman sitting there. Caillean felt a little chill run down her spine.

 

"Behold, oh ye people, the Lady of Life has come. Let the Oracle speak! Let the Goddess declare forth the will of the Immortals!" Ardanos cried.

 

"Goddess! Deliver us from those who would enslave us!" came another voice. Bendeigid stepped forward. "Lead us to victory!"

 

They sounded like ravens, crying for blood and death. Eilan alone stood between the Forest House and a people shrieking for war. Did they even know what would happen to this country, between the Romans and their foreign auxiliaries, if it should come to open fighting? Despite her hatred for the Romans, Caillean wondered how any sane man or woman - or even a Goddess - could loose war on this countryside. Had Bendeigid so soon forgotten their home in flames, forgotten the deaths of his wife and little daughter?

 

Goddess, she thought, You have given the peace of this countryside into Eilan's hands; let her do Your will even if it may seem it is the will of the Romans as well. . .

 

The figure in the chair quivered, and thrust the veil back suddenly, surveying the throng with a face as cold and dispassionate as one of the statues the Romans made.

 

"This is the shortest night," she said softly, and the murmuring people stilled to hear. "But from this moment onward, the forces of light will be declining. Oh ye whose pride it is to learn all secrets of earth and heaven" — she indicated the circle of Druids with a disdainful hand - "can you not read the signs in the world around you? The tribes have seen their day and now grow ever weaker; thus it will be one day with the Empire of the Romans as well. All things reach their peak and thereafter must decline."

 

"But is there no hope then?" asked Bendeigid. "In time, even the sun is reborn!"

 

"That is true," said the still, calm voice from above him. "But not until the darkest day has passed. Put away your swords and hang up your shields, children of Don. Let the Roman eagles tear at each other while you till your fields, and be patient, for Time will surely avenge your wrongs! I have read in the mystic scrolls of the Heavens; and I tell you, the name of Rome is not written there."

 

A sigh of mingled relief and disappointment swept through the crowd.

 

Ardanos and one of the other priests were whispering. Caillean realized this was the only chance she might have to do what Eilan had asked.

 

"What then of the old wisdom? How shall Your worship be preserved in a changing world?"

 

Ardanos and Bendeigid both glared at her, but the question had been asked, and already the Goddess was turning, and Caillean trembled, utterly certain at that moment that what looked down at her was not Eilan at all.

 

"Is it you, daughter of the elder race, who would truly question Me?" came the soft answer. There was a pause, as the attention of the Goddess appeared to go inward; then She laughed. "Ah, it is this one also who asks. She could ask more than that of Me, but she is afraid. Such a silly child not to understand that My will is for you all to be free." She shrugged Her shoulders gently. "But you are children, all of you." Her gaze lifted to fix Ardanos, who flushed and looked away, "and I will not destroy your illusions now. You are not strong enough to bear too much reality . . ."

 

She extended one arm, turning the hand and flexing its fingers as if to enjoy the movement. "The flesh is sweet." She laughed softly. "I do not wonder that you cling to it. But as for Me, what do you suppose your puny efforts can do to help or harm? I have been here from the beginning and so long as the sun shines or the waters flow, I will remain. I am . . ." There was a terrible truth in that simple statement of being, and Caillean trembled.

 

"But our lives flow away like the waters and are gone —" Caillean said then. "How shall we pass what You have taught us to those who come after?"

 

The Goddess looked from her to Ardanos and back again.

 

"You already know the answer. In ages past your soul has sworn the oath, and so has hers. Let one of you go forth," She cried. "Let one go forth to the Summer Country, there on the shores of the lake to establish a House of Maidens. There shall I be served, side by side with the priests of the Nazarene. So shall My wisdom survive the days that are coming!"

 

Almost at once the body of the priestess, which had been tight as a strung bow, was released; the arrow had flown, the message had been given. Eilan slumped back in the chair, and Caillean and Miellyn moved quickly to steady her. She was twitching and muttering, coming out of the trance.

 

Ardanos stood with head bowed, pondering the meaning of this Oracle and how he could use it. Countermand it he could not - nor would he, a pious man, wish to gainsay the direct word of the Goddess - but it was his privilege to interpret it. After a moment his head came up. He looked directly at Caillean, and it seemed to her that he smiled.

 

"The Goddess has spoken. Now let it be so. And this house shall be founded by the servant of the Goddess; it is you, Caillean, who will go forth to found the House of Maidens on the Tor."

 

Caillean stared back at him. There was triumph in his pale eyes. To Ardanos, this decision of the Goddess was a fortuitous opportunity to achieve something he had long desired, to part her from Eilan.

 

He picked up the sprig of mistletoe and shook water over the limp body of the priestess, and all other sound was lost in a mocking jangle of silver bells.

 

"For someone who has been out of harness for a few years, you seem to be keeping busy!" Gaius grinned at his father across the rolled parchments and stacked wax tablets that littered the table. Outside, a cold, February wind was rattling branches that were just beginning to swell with sap. Indoors, the hypocaust warmed the tiled floors and charcoal burning in iron braziers fought the drafts. "I hope young Brutus appreciates all you are doing for him."

 

"He appreciates my experience," said Macellius, "and I appreciate his news. He's very well connected, you know, related to half the ancient families of Rome. His father is an old friend of your patron Malleus, by the way."

 

"Ah." Gaius took another drink of hot spiced wine, beginning to understand. "And what does our Legate think of the Emperor's current policies?"

 

"Frankly, his letters from Rome have him terrified. His term as Commander finishes at the end of this year, and he's wondering how to get out of going home again! As members of the equestrian order, you and I have one advantage: we're not required by law to reside in Rome. The Eternal City has been extremely unhealthy for senators this year, I am told."

 

"Like Flavius Clemens?" Gaius asked grimly. No wonder the senators were uneasy. If Domitian's own cousin had been executed, what were the rest of them going to do? "Did you ever hear anything more about what he was charged with?"

 

"The official accusation was atheism. But according to the rumors, the man was a Christian who refused to burn incense to the Emperor."

 

"I'm sure our Dominus et Deus was highly insulted!"

 

Macellius smiled sourly. "The gods know those Christians are an exasperating lot, and when the Government isn't persecuting them they persecute each other. If Nero had only tried setting their different factions against each other in the arena he could have saved a fortune in lions - but the kind of adoration Domitian is demanding goes beyond all propriety!"

 

Gaius nodded. He had heard enough about Father Petros's preaching from Julia to be aware of the Christian fascination with martyrdom, and of their sectarian strife, though Julia referred to it as purging the Church of the ungodly. But in the larger scheme of things the Christians were a minor problem. Far more serious was the megalomania of the Emperor.

 

"Is he going the way of Nero, or Caligula?" he asked.

 

"He hasn't tried to deify his horse yet, if that's what you mean," his father replied. "In many ways he has been a very effective Emperor; that's why he's so dangerous. What will Rome have to fall back on when the next crazy Emperor comes along if Domitian is allowed to destroy what remains of the senatorial class?"

 

Gaius looked at his father carefully. "You're really worried about this, aren't you?"

 

"It doesn't matter so much about me," said Macellius, turning his equestrian ring back and forth on his hand. "But most of your career is still ahead of you. With this Emperor, what chance is there for you?"

 

"Father . . .something's going on, isn't it? What have they asked you to do?"

 

Macellius sighed and looked around the room with its painted walls and racks of scrolls as if he were afraid it might be about to vanish. "There is a . . . plan . . ." he said carefully, "to end the Flavian dynasty. When Domitian has been dealt with, the senators will elect a new Emperor. For the plan to work, the Provinces must support it. The new Governor is Domitian's man, but most of the legionary legates are from the same kinds of families as Brutus -"

 

"And so they want us to support them," Gaius said baldly. "What do they imagine the tribes will be doing while we are engaged in this Imperial housecleaning?"

 

"If we promise them some concessions, they will support us . . . Queen Brigitta's daughters will be coming to us soon, and Valerius is helping me to find appropriate foster parents to raise them. Romans and Britons are bound to become allies in the end. This way it may come a little sooner, that is all."

 

Gaius whistled soundlessly. This was sedition on a grand scale! He gulped down the last of his wine. When he looked up again, his father was watching him.

 

"Stranger things have happened," Macellius said quietly. "Depending on how things go, there might be quite an interesting future for a Roman of the Silure royal line!"

 

Gaius rode home with his head reeling from more than the mulled wine. He had humored Julia long enough. It was now perfectly clear to him that he must adopt his son by Eilan formally. But when he arrived home, he found Julia could speak of nothing but her latest visit to the hermit, Father Petros.

 

"And he says that it is certain from Holy Writ — and from all the other prophecies - that the world will end with the passing away of this generation," she told him, her eyes glowing. "With the coming of every dawn we should think that it may not be the sun, but the world beginning to burn. And then we shall be reunited with our loved ones. Did you know that?"

 

He shook his head, amazed that she, who had received a good Roman education, could believe such stuff. But then, women were credulous, which was probably why they could not serve in public office. He wondered if the Christians were trading on the current anxieties about the Emperor.

 

"Are you going to become a follower of the Nazarene — that prophet of slaves and renegade Jews?" he asked sharply.

 

"I do not see how any thinking person can possibly do anything else," Julia replied coolly.

 

Well, Gaius thought, I am obviously not a thinking person — at least not of her kind. He only said, "And what will Licinius say?"

 

"He will not like it," Julia said sadly. "But this is the only thing I have been sure of since . . .since the children died." Her eyes filled with tears.

 

That makes no sense, he thought, but did not say it aloud; making sense did not seem to have comforted her very much. And indeed she looked happier than he had seen her since Secunda's death. The image of his daughter drowned was still behind his eyes night and day. Logical or not, he almost envied her.

 

"Well, do as you will," he said resignedly. "I will not try to stop you."

 

She looked at him with something almost like disappointment, then brightened. "If you had any sense of what was right, you would become a Nazarene as well."

 

"My dear Julia, you have told me many times I have no sense of what is right," he said sharply. She stared at the floor and he knew there was something else. "What is it?"

 

"I do not want to say this before the children," she stammered. Gaius laughed, took her arm and led her into another room.

 

"Well, what is it that you cannot say before our children, Julia?"

 

Again she cast her eyes on the ground. "Father Petros says that . . . as the end of the world is so near . . ." she stammered, "it is better if all married women - and men - take an oath of chastity."

 

At this, Gaius threw back his head and did laugh. "You do realize that, as the law now stands, refusing to sleep with your husband is grounds for divorce?"

 

Julia, although obviously troubled, was ready for the question.

 

"In the Kingdom of Heaven," she quoted, "there is neither marriage nor giving in marriage."

 

"That settles it," said Gaius, laughing again, "I do not care for your Heaven, at least not that portion of it ovet as much use in bed as a stick of wood, I can't imagine how you think it would make any difference to me."

 

Her eyes were wide with surprise. "Then you will make no difficulty?"

 

"None, Julia; but it is only fair to tell you that if you are no longer bound by our wedding vows, I will not hold myself bound by them either."

 

He realized that he was spoiling the scene she had resolved to play; he should, he supposed, have raged or pleaded.

 

"I would never consider asking you to take such a vow," she said, and then, spitefully, added, "I doubt if you would be able to keep it if you did. Do you think I do not know why you bought that pretty slave girl last year? God knows she is little enough use in the kitchen! With so many sins already upon your soul —"

 

But Gaius had had enough. He would not discuss the state of his soul - whatever she might mean by that — with her.

 

"For my own soul I will be myself responsible," he told her and went into his office where he found a bed already made up for him. So she had counted on his willingness to sleep alone, whatever else he might say.

 

Gaius thought briefly of celebrating his freedom by summoning the slave girl, but he discovered he had no wish to do so. He wanted something more than the compliance of a woman who had no choice in the matter. His mind went to Eilan. Now at least Julia could make no objection if he wished to adopt Gawen. How would he break the news to her?

 

Finally he was free to seek Eilan out once more. But the face of the Fury he had seen at the Midsummer festival came between him and his memories, and it was the face of the girl he had met at the hermit's the year before that went with him into sleep at last.

 

 

 

Twenty- Seven

 

 

 

In the middle of February the storms gave way to a period of fair, clear weather, brisk but sunny. In sheltered spots early fruit trees began to put forth buds and the branches grew red with returning sap. The hills were melodious with the bleating of new lambs, and the marshes resounded with the calls of returning swans.

 

Eilan looked at the blue sky and realized that the time had come to keep her word to Macellius. She was waiting in the garden when Senara answered her summons.

 

"It is a fair day," Senara said, clearly wondering why Eilan had called her away from her duties.

 

"It is that," Eilan agreed, "a fair bright day for performing an unwelcome duty. But you are the only one I can ask."

 

"And what is that?"

 

"Brigitta's daughters have been here for a year now, and it is time to send them to the Romans as I promised. They have kept their word regarding Brigitta, and I trust them to deal kindly with the children. But it must be done quietly, lest all the old enmity be awakened again. You are old enough to take them to Deva, and you know the Latin tongue enough to ask your way to the house of Macellius Severus. Will you take them there?"

 

"Severus?" Senara frowned. "I think I remember that name. My mother told me once that her brother served him, and that he was a hard man, but fair."

 

"That is my understanding." Eilan nodded. "The sooner the girls are in his care, the sooner he can settle them in their new home."

 

"But they will grow up Romans," Senara protested then.

 

"Would that be so bad a thing?" Eilan smiled at her. "Your own mother was a Roman, after all."

 

"That is true . . ." the girl said thoughtfully. "Sometimes I wonder about her family, and what it was like growing up in that world. Very well," she said at last. "I will go."

 

It took some time to make the children ready, for Eilan wished to make sure that no one in the Roman town should have cause to say that the girls had been neglected while they were among the Druids; but at last even Eilan was satisfied, and Senara, holding a little girl by either hand, was ready to set out for Deva.

 

The day was crisp but clear, and even with one child in her arms and the other trotting at her side, Senara made good time. The children babbled merrily, excited by the outing. When they grew tired, she tied the younger girl in her shawl, where she soon fell asleep, and picked up the older one in her arms. By this time she could see the straggle of houses at the edge of the city and the stout log walls of the fortress beyond. When she reached the central Forum, she sat down on a bench beside a fountain to rearrange her burdens before asking her way to the house of Macellius.

 

Suddenly the sunlight was blotted out. Senara looked up to behold the Roman she had met at the house of the hermit the year before. Later it seemed altogether symbolic to her that he should stand between her and the sun; but she did not think of that then.

 

"I have seen you before, haven't I?" he asked.

 

"At Father Petros's hut," she said, blushing. One of the children awakened and stared at him with owlish eyes. She had not seen him at any gathering of the small group of local Nazarenes; but then, living as she did actually within the Forest House, she was not able to go there very often. She had gone the first time from curiosity, and later because the Roman tongue seemed somehow a link with her dead mother, and finally, because she found comfort there.

 

The handsome Roman was still regarding her. He was younger than she had thought at first, and she liked his smile. "Where are you bound, maiden?"

 

"To the house of Macellius Severus, sir; these girls are to be given into his care -"

 

"Ah, so these are the children." For a moment he frowned, then the quick smile once more lit his eyes. "We are well met, then. I am myself bound there; may I be your guide?"

 

He reached out one hand, and the older girl placed her small one within it, smiling up at him.

 

She looked at him a little dubiously, but he swung the child up to his shoulder, and hearing the little girl's laughter, Senara decided that he must be of a kindly nature after all.

 

"You hold her as one well used to children, sir," she-said, and though she asked no further, he replied, "I have three daughters of my own; I am well accustomed to little ones."

 

So, she thought, he is married. Is he one of us? After a moment she said, "Tell me, sir, are you then a member of Father Petros's flock?"

 

"I am not," he replied, "but my wife is."

 

"Then, sir, your wife is my sister in Jesus, and thus kin to me."

 

His lips twisted rather sardonically at this, and she thought, He is too young to smile so bitterly. Who has hurt him so?

 

"You are very kind to escort me," she said aloud.

 

"It is no trouble. Macellius is my father, you see —"

 

They were approaching a fine-looking house near the walls of the fortress, white-washed and tiled in the Roman style. The Roman knocked on the gate, and after a moment a slave pulled it open and they passed through a long hallway into an enclosed garden.

 

The Roman asked, "Is my father within?"

 

"He is with the Legate," the man replied. "Go in and wait for him, if you will; he should be getting back just about now."

 

It was in actual fact only four or five minutes till Macellius arrived. Senara was not sorry to see him, for the younger of the children had wakened and begun to fret. Macellius turned them both over to a buxom and kindly slave woman who would look after them until the foster parents he had chosen for them came. He thanked Senara, and asked her politely if she needed an escort to return.

 

Senara shook her head quickly. At the Forest House they thought she had taken the girls to relatives of their mother in the town. Returning with an escort of Roman soldiers would have put the fat in the fire for certain. It would have been nice, though, if the younger Severus could have escorted her home - she thrust the thought away.

 

"Will I see you again?" he asked, and a little tremor of excitement ran through her.

 

"Perhaps at one of the services." Then, before she could make a fool of herself entirely, she slipped away through the door.

 

Julia Licinia never did anything by halves. One night in April she asked Gaius to accompany her to an evening service in the Nazarene temple in Deva. Though their marriage had become a polite fiction, she was still the mistress of his household, and Gaius felt bound to support her. He had considered divorce, but could see no point in hurting Licinius and his children in order to marry some other Roman girl.

 

He was not in sufficient favor with the Emperor to make an alliance with a family of his party, and to ally himself with the opposition could have been dangerous. Though the elder Macellius said little, Gaius knew that the conspiracy was growing. If the Emperor fell, all would be changed. It seemed to Gaius better to put off worrying about his personal future until he knew whether he had one.

 

Since the Nazarene temple had been, in part, purchased with the proceeds of the jewels Julia no longer seemed to wear, Gaius was curious to see what sort of value she had got for her money. By the time they set out they were quite a large party; not only Gaius and Julia, but the little girls and their nurses, and what seemed like half the household. "Why do we have to have all these people with us?" Gaius demanded, not altogether good-naturedly. He and his family would sleep that night at the house of Macellius, but his father did not have room for their whole staff.

 

"Because they are all members of the congregation," Julia said more pleasantly. Gaius blinked. It would never have occurred to him to question how she managed her household, but he had not realized that her zeal had led her quite so far. She added, "They will return to the villa when this is over. I cannot deny them the chance to worship."

 

Gaius thought it was, rather, that she would not, but he thought it wiser to say no more. The new Christian church was a largish old building near the river that had belonged originally to an importer of wine. The reek of old wine was overlaid by the fragrance of wax candles and early flowers were heaped on the altar. Rather crudely painted pictures — a shepherd carrying a lamb, a fish, some men in a boat, adorned the white-washed walls.

 

As they entered Julia made a cryptic sign; he was displeased to see that Cella, Tertia and Quartilla all tried to imitate her. Had Julia converted not only her servants but her daughters as well? He wondered if these Christians were in the business of undermining the authority of the home.

 

Julia found a seat on a hard bench not too far from the door, and sat down, surrounded by her waiting-women and her daughters. Gaius, standing behind her, looked round to see if anyone else in the congregation was known to him. Most of the assembled worshippers seemed to be working people of the poorer kind, and he wondered how the snobbish Julia liked finding herself among such folk. Then he recognized a face: the girl who had brought Brigitta's daughters to the town. She had told him she came to the meetings when she could get away, and he realized now that one reason he had given in to Julia's request that he accompany her was a faint hope of seeing her.

 

A priest, closely shaven and wearing a long dalmatica, entered with two boys, one of whom carried a large wooden cross and the other a candle, and a couple of older men whom Julia had told him were deacons, one of whom carried a heavy leather-bound book in his hand. This one was a rather sober-looking man of middle years. As he laid the book on the immense lectern, he stumbled over a four-year-old child in the aisle; but rather than fleeing in terror, the child laughed up at him, and the deacon bent down and hugged the toddler with a smile that transformed his face, then handed it back to its father, a rough-handed grimy man with a blacksmith's brawny arms.

 

There were prayers and invocations; the congregation was purified with incense and water, all of it similar enough to a Roman ceremony that Gaius did not feel too uncomfortable, though the Latin was rather less pure. Then the priests and deacons were seated and there was a little stir of excitement as another man came forward.

 

Gaius was not surprised to recognize Father Petros, looking frowsy and bearded next to the others. He gazed at the collected worshippers with such intensity that Gaius wondered uncharitably if the hermit suffered from poor eyesight.

 

"Our Master once said, "Suffer the little children to come to me and forbid them not; for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven." Many of you here tonight have lost a child and you grieve; but your children, I tell you, are safe with Jesus in Heaven, and you parents who grieve are happier than those parents who have given their children over, living, to the service of idols. I tell you that it would be better for these children to be safely dead, having sinned not, than living to serve false gods!" He paused for breath and the people sighed.

 

They have come here to be frightened! thought Gaius cynically. They are enjoying the thought of their own virtuous superiority!

 

"For the first of the great commandments is this: thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart and all thy soul; and the second of the great commandments is this: that thou shalt honor thy father and thy mother," Father Petros boomed. "The question arises, then: how far can a young person be held responsible if his guardians place him in the service of a heathen idol? There are Fathers in our Church who have said that all, even infants in arms, are guilty if they are present during the worship of an idol; but there others who hold that if a child's guardians commit him to serve an idol before he shall have arrived at an age of reason, then he should be held guiltless. My own feeling is —"

 

But Gaius did not really care what the Father's own feeling was. By this time his gaze had fixed on the far more pleasing spectacle of the girl, Senara, who was leaning forward, absorbed in the hermit's words. He had hopelessly lost the thread of the Father's discourse, but he had already decided that these Christian ceremonies were too dull for his taste; no sacrifices, no roaring exhortations, not even the drama the rites of Isis or Mithras could sometimes provide. In fact these Christian ceremonies, all told, were duller than anything he had ever heard except some of the Druidic philosophies.

 

Even with the girl's bright face to look at it seemed a long time before Father Petros's discourse finally rambled to its end. Gaius was looking forward to leaving, and it was with consternation that he heard that he and the other unbaptized members of the congregation were now expected to wait outside while the initiates participated in some kind of love-feast. His complaints were so loud that Julia finally agreed to leave, although she promised the nurses and serving women they might remain.

 

He picked up the sleeping Quartilla, and they set out for Macellius's home. But they had hardly started when Tertia began to complain that she wanted to be carried too. Gaius told her brusquely to behave like a big girl and walk; her mother's health had improved but she was not yet strong enough to carry the child, and Cella was still too small. As Tertia began to whimper, someone moved behind them and he heard a sweet voice saying, "I will carry your little girl."

 

Gaius would have refused, but the British girl had already picked up the drowsy child, who almost instantly fell asleep in her arms.

 

"Indeed, she is no weight at all," said the girl, "and I am used to harder work than this!"

 

"You are a true sister in Christ," exclaimed Julia. Gaius could find nothing to add to this, and so they walked along. The women exchanged a few low-voiced commonplaces, and Gaius found himself obscurely relieved that they clearly did not really know each other that well. The moon, just a few nights after full, gave them just enough light to illuminate their path. They could see the street underfoot clearly, and many of the trees were bright with clouds of misty white blossom.

 

As they pushed open the gate Macellius's steward came out to meet them with a lamp. When Tertia began to stir, the British girl set her down and they stood staring at one another in the sudden brilliance.

 

"You must stay and join us for something to eat, since you too missed the agape," Julia declared.

 

"Oh, no, I cannot," the girl said shyly. "It is most kind of you, lady, but I had not leave to come; I must get home at once, or I will be missed, and then, even if I am not punished, I might not be able to come again."

 

"I will not keep you, then; that would be a poor return for your kindness," Julia said quickly. "Gaius will go with you. This part of the city is quiet, but before you get out of the gates, there might be some people it would not be safe for an honest and proper young girl to meet."

 

"That will not be necessary, Domina —" she began but Gaius interrupted, "I'll go gladly; I wanted to walk a while before I go to bed, and I can return you safely to your home."

 

At least he could ask her what a girl from the Forest House was doing among Christians. The answer, he decided, might be revealing. When she pulled her cloak — a dark plain one such as a servant girl in a respectable home would wear - about her closely he wondered if it was because under it she wore the dress of a priestess. Gaius took a torch; even with a moon, he knew better than to brave the streets without one, and he felt that a good light might reassure the girl. She kissed all of the little girls, including the drowsy toddler in Julia's arms, and went down the steps at his side. They passed through the silent streets without attracting any notice, but even when the last houses were behind them his companion made no attempt to put back her hood, even though the night was warm.

 

The silence seemed oppressive. "How long have you been coming to services at the new temple?" Gaius asked finally. n, •

 

"Since it was built."

 

"And before that?"

 

"When I was a little girl, my mother used to take me to meetings in the servants' quarters in the house of one of the city fathers whose steward was a Christian."

 

"But you dwell in the Forest House," he said, frowning.

 

"It is true," she replied quietly. "Their Priestess has given me shelter there - I am an orphan. But no oaths bind me. My father is British, exiled now, but my mother was a Roman. She had me baptized, and when I found that Father Petros was living near I wanted to learn more of her faith."

 

Gaius smiled. "And your name is Valeria!"

 

She blinked. It had been a long time since she had heard that name.

 

"That is the name my mother called me, but I have been Senara so long I had almost forgotten it. Father Petros says it is my duty to obey my guardians, even if they are pagans. At least in the Forest House no harm will come to me. He says that the Druids are among the good pagans who will some day be offered salvation; but I must not take oath to them. And the Apostle Paul commanded slaves to obey their masters. Freedom is of the soul, but the legal status of the body cannot be set aside, and neither can lawful oaths."

 

"At least they have that much sense," he muttered. "A pity they cannot extend that reasoning to cover their duty to the Emperor!"

 

Senara chattered on as if she had not heard, and he wondered if her babbling covered fear, but he was too charmed by the music of her voice to care much about the words. She had such innocence, like Eilan's when she was young.

 

"Of course they do not ask me to sin in the Forest House, and they are good people there, but I want to be a real believer and go to Heaven. I would be afraid to be a martyr though, and I used to be afraid they would think it was my duty to die for my faith like one of the saints Mother told me about; I was only a baby but I can remember - just.

 

"But the Government is not persecuting Christians now . . ." She hesitated. As Gaius was searching for something to say, she went on. "Of course, tonight, the Father was really talking about me. A few of the people in the congregation know that I am in one of the pagan temples and they despise me because I remain there - but Father Petros says I do not need to leave them until I am of age."

 

"And then what?" he asked. "Will Valerius arrange a suitable marriage for you?"

 

"Oh no. It is most likely I will enter a holy sisterhood. In Heaven, the priests say, there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage."

 

"What a waste," Gaius declared. He had heard that one before. "I truly think the priests must be mistaken."

 

"Oh no; for when the world ends you do not wish to be found with any sin upon your soul."

 

Gaius said with absolute truthfulness, "It never occurred to me to be concerned about my soul, nor even to ask myself whether or not I had one."

 

She stopped short and turned to him in the dark. "But how terrible," she said very earnestly. "You do not want to be cast into the pit of hell, do you?"

 

"I find it a strange religion that would condemn folk for breeding children, or for the act that begets them! And as for your pit of hell, surely it is as much as a fable as Tartarus or Hades. Nothing to frighten a rational man. Do you mean to tell me that you truly believe that is where those who offend against Father Petros's rules will go?"

 

She stopped again and raised her face to him, white as a lily in the moonlight. "But of course I do," she said. "You must think about your soul now, before it is too late."

 

If anyone except a girl as pretty as this one had brought up such a subject to Gaius, he probably would have laughed in her face. Julia's talk of such things bored him almost to tears. Instead he answered more gently, "If you have a care for my soul you will simply have to help me save it."

 

She said doubtfully, "I think Father Petros could help you a good deal better than I can." They had reached the entrance to the avenue of oaks that led to the Forest House, and she stopped, frowning. "I can find my way from here; and you should certainly not come any closer. You might be seen, and then I too would be caught and punished."

 

He seized her shoulders and said, half jocularly, half pleading, "Will you let me go with my soul unsaved, then? We must meet again."

 

She looked troubled. "I should not say this," she said abruptly.

 

"But I take food to Father Petros's hermitage at noon of every day. If you happened to be there . . . I suppose . . .we could talk then."

 

"Then you shall certainly save my soul, if it can be saved," Gaius replied. He did not care a pin about his suppositious soul; but he knew he wanted to see Senara again.

 

"I will never see you again —" Eilan turned abruptly away from Caillean and stared into the garden.

 

"That is foolish!" exclaimed Caillean, the stab of fear those words gave her turning to anger. "Now it is you who are having the foolish premonitions. It was you yourself who wanted me to go!"

 

Eilan's thin shoulders quivered. "Not I, not I. It was the Goddess speaking through me, and I know we must do Her will. But oh, Caillean, now that the time conies, it is hard!"

 

"Hard indeed!" Caillean spat back at her. "But it is I who must leave you and everything that I have loved. Are you sure it was the Goddess speaking and not Ardanos whispering in your ear? He has wanted to separate us ever since I made him let you keep your son!"