The Forest House (10 page)

"The Druids teach this also,” she said quietly. "The greatest of our priests have been many lifetimes upon this earth, living as stags and salmon and boars so that they may understand all that lives; and heroes whose lives are cut short are often born again. But as for me and you…” She frowned, and he found it hard to meet her clear gaze.

"I looked in a pool once and saw myself with a different face, and yet it was me. I think that then I was a priestess. Now I look at you, and I do not see a Roman or a Briton either. My heart tells me that you were a great man among your people—like a king.”

Gaius flushed. This kind of talk always made him uncomfortable. "I am not a king now,” he said gruffly, "and you are not a priestess. I want you in this life, Eilan!” He took her hand. "I want to see you in the morning when I wake and sleep with you in my arms. I feel as if all my life something has been missing and you make me whole! Can you understand?” It seemed impossible that tomorrow he would be going back to the Legions, impossible that he might not see her again.

For a time she gazed into the fire, then she turned back to him. "Before I met you I dreamed of you,” she said softly. "Many of my family are second-sighted, and I see true things sometimes in my dreams. But this I have told no one. You are in the center of my heart already. I do not know what power is drawing us together, but I think that I have loved you before.”

He bent to kiss the palm of her hand and she gave a tremulous sigh.

"I love you, Gaius. There is a bond between us. But how we can be together, that I cannot see…”

I should take her now,
thought Gaius.
Then they would have to let us marry!
He was about to pull her closer when a shape passed between them and the light. The space around the bonfires was filling with people. A glance at the stars told him that it was near midnight, and the moon was high. Where had the hours gone? Eilan exclaimed softly and started to get to her feet.

"What is it?” he asked. "What is going on?” In the distance he could hear rowdy shouts and laughter, but the mood of the people here was both subdued and joyous. The sense of expectation around him set his skin prickling.

"Hush!” Eilan whispered as he stood up beside her. "The Goddess comes…”

Somewhere beyond the circle of firelight flutes twittered, and Eilan went still. In the sudden silence, the hiss of the fire came clearly. The flames had burned down to brands that lit the space with a steady glow, cooled by the moonlight to a pale golden radiance like no light he had ever known.

Something glimmered beyond the circle of light. Druids in white robes were coming; men with flowing beards crowned with oak leaves, and with golden torques about their throats. Sunwise they circled the fires and halted, waiting. Their circle was as evenly spaced as guards around a camp perimeter, but their movement had none of the military precision which Gaius had learned. They simply came to rest where they ought to be, like the stars.

Silver bells shivered sweetly and the tension in the circle grew. Gaius blinked, but he could see nothing, and yet there was something moving, a mass of shadow that swept towards them. Abruptly he realized that he was seeing women's shapes swathed in draperies of a blue like midnight. They flowed into the circle and around it, silver ornaments jingling faintly, faces a pale blur beneath the veils.

Suddenly he understood. These were the priestesses of the Forest House, the sacred women who had escaped the rape of Mona. To see so many Druids together raised his hackles, and when he looked upon the shadow shapes of the priestesses he felt terror, and a sudden sense of destiny. Was his fate somehow entangled with that of the priestesses of the Forest House? The thought made his blood run cold, and his grip tightened on Eilan's hand.

The last three priestesses moved towards the long-legged stool that had been set between the fires. The foremost was slender, a little bowed beneath her robes, flanked by a tall woman and another who was sturdier. Both had dark hair and silver ornaments. Both were unveiled, and he could see the woad-blue crescents tattooed between their brows. Gaius's first thought was that the tall girl would be a worthy opponent in a fight, while he sensed discontent in her companion's eyes.

The group paused, and there was some ritual with a golden basin that he could not understand. Then they helped the Priestess to sit down on the three-legged stool and carried it to the top of the mound between the fires. The shimmer of sound from the bells reached a climax, then stopped.

"Children of Don, why have you come here?” the tall woman asked, calling them by the name of the mythic ancestress of the tribes.

"We seek the blessing of the Goddess,” one of the Druids replied.

"Then call Her!”

Two of the women cast handfuls of herbs on the coals. Gaius's nostrils flared as the sweet-smelling smoke puffed and swirled outward, filling the space with a glowing haze. He was accustomed to incense, but he had never felt this odd sense of pressure before. He would have said the weather was changing, but the sky was clear.

Around him the whisper was becoming a murmur of many voices, a soft mutter of invocation and appeal. Beneath it all he heard the Druids humming, and it seemed to him that the earth beneath his feet throbbed in answer. Once more he was afraid. He glanced over at Eilan and saw her gaze, rapt and exalted, fixed upon the three figures between the fires.

From the veiled woman came a little whimper and he saw her sway.

She is like the Sibyl,
thought Gaius,
or the Pythia of Delphi that my tutor told me about.
But he had never expected to see such a thing himself. The humming grew in intensity, and suddenly the veiled woman stilled and the other two backed away. He caught his breath, for somehow she seemed to have grown taller. She straightened, turning as if she was looking around her. Then she laughed softly and put back her veil.

Gaius had heard that the High Priestess of Vernemeton was old, but this woman blazed with beauty, and she gestured with a restless energy that had nothing to do with age. His Roman cynicism fled and his mother's blood rose up in him.
It is true—all the tales are true—the Goddess is here…

"I am the green earth that cradles you and the womb of the waters…” she said in a voice whose soft resonance made it seem as if she spoke in his ear. "I am the white moon and the sea of stars. I am the night from which the first light was born. I am the mother of the gods; I am the virgin; I am the dark serpent that swallows all. Do you see me? Do you desire me? Do you accept me now?”

"We see…” came the murmured answer. "We see you and adore…”

"Rejoice then, that life may continue. Sing, dance, feast and make love and you will have my blessing; the cattle will bear and the corn will grow.”

"Lady!” a woman's voice rang out suddenly. "They have taken my man to the mines and my children are hungry. What will I do?”

"They took my son!” a man cried, and others echoed him. "When will you deliver us from the Romans? When will the war arrow fly?” A babble of protest rose and Gaius tensed, feeling the tension in the air. Eilan had only to say the word and they would tear him in pieces. But when he looked at her he saw her eyes bright with tears.

"Are you my children, that hear your sister's cry and do not provide for her?” Dark draperies swirled as the Goddess turned. "Care for one another! In the arcane volumes of the heavens, I have read the name of Rome, and on that scroll I say their name reads
Death!
Indeed, Rome will fall, but her fate is not yours to declare! So I have said, heed now my word!

"Remember the circle of life. All that you lose you will one day find, and that which has been taken from you will be restored. Behold, I bring down the power of heaven, that the world may be renewed!”

She lifted her hands to the moonlight, and it seemed to Gaius that the radiance grew brighter, so that her figure was obscured. The priestesses grouped around her began to sing:

Gaius shivered. He had never known that women's voices could be so beautiful. For a moment the whole world seemed spelled to silence; then the arms of the High Priestess swept outward. Her two priestesses whirled to either side, and in the same moment the bonfires blazed up furiously. Had they cast something on to the flames? He could not see—he could hardly think, for everyone was shouting.

"Dance!” The voice of the Goddess rose above them all. "Rejoice, receive my ecstasy!” For a moment she arched upward, arms extending as if to embrace the world. Then she slumped into the arms of the tall priestess.

But Gaius could not see what happened afterwards, for someone bumped into him. His grip tightened on Eilan's hand and he felt his other hand seized by a stranger. Drums sounded and suddenly they were moving, the whole circle was moving, and there was nothing in the world but the beat of the drum. As the beat whirled him outward, he glimpsed Cynric and Dieda across the circle, and it seemed to him that Dieda's face shone with tears.

 

A long time later, it seemed, the dance came to an end and Cynric and Dieda found them, but once the ecstasy had faded, their own despair kept them from wondering what Gaius and Eilan had found to talk about on that Beltane Eve. It was very late by the time they reached the home of Bendeigid, and no one appeared to suspect that the two couples had not spent the whole time together. Gaius was happy to have it so—far better to seek Eilan's hand from Deva with his father's force behind him than to let the Druid suspect that his guest had compromised his child while Gaius was in the older man's power.

But if he had been Eilan's acknowledged suitor, they might at least have allowed him to see her to say goodbye. Rheis had decreed a cleaning day, and all the women were hard at work. As it was, he had only Rheis's promise to convey his carefully edited farewell and a glimpse of Eilan's bright hair to sustain him as he took the road for Deva and the world of Rome.

M
acellius Severus senior, Prefectus Castrorum of the Second Adiutrix Legion at Deva, was a man just entering middle age, of a tall and commanding presence, who could conceal a formidable anger beneath an outward surface of calm. His mildness was deceptive. Big as he was, he never blustered or bellowed; he was soft-spoken, almost scholarly, and from time to time those who did not know him well were deceived into thinking him ineffectual.

This apparent mildness was a valuable asset in the position he now held: Camp Prefect, Prefectus Castrorum of Deva. In addition to remaining permanently in charge of the camp, he served as a sort of liaison between Legion and populace; he was not responsible to the Commander of the Legion, but only to the Governor of the Province, and the newly instituted
Legatus Juridicus;
but since the Governor was in the field in Caledonia, and the Juridicus was stationed in Londinium, that meant, in this distant outpost, that his word was effective civilian law. Fortunately he worked well with the legionary Commander, under whom he had served in several campaigns long ago, and who had encouraged his efforts to fulfill the financial requirements necessary to rise to the rank of Equestrian, the middle classes who were the backbone of the Roman government.

Macellius Severus secured supplies and rations for the entire Legion, directed quartering, and acted as general liaison officer between the populace—both Briton and Roman—and the army. In theory, he also represented the interests of the civilian population. In requisitioning supplies for the Legions, he was required to see that the people who provided them were left with adequate food and manpower to avoid driving them to revolt. Hence the actual management of the Ordovia lands around Deva lay more in his hands, except in time of war, than in those of the legionary Commander.

His office, small and austere, and constructed with a rigid economy of space, somehow accommodated a daily overflow of civilians and military personnel, with a long string of complaints, requests and petitions. Sometimes Macellius, who was not a small man, seemed as if physically forced into a corner.

He had almost finished with this morning's accumulation. Seated on a kind of folding chair and frowning at a roll of parchment in his lap, he was pretending to listen patiently to a plump and effeminate townsman in the toga of a Roman citizen who had been talking uninterruptedly for about twelve minutes. Macellius could have stopped him at any time, but as a matter of fact he had not heard one word in twenty; he was reading the supply list. It would have been rude to turn away a petitioner simply to study a list; it cost nothing to let the man talk while he read it. In any case, he had heard enough to know that Lucius Varullus was simply saying one thing over and over with a number of oratorical variations.

"Surely you don't wish me to go to the Legate, Macellius,” the falsetto voice continued querulously. Macellius rolled up the list and put it aside, deciding he had listened long enough.

"You can if you like, of course,” he protested mildly, "but I doubt if he'd give you even this much of a hearing, if he had time for you at all.” He knew his Commander well. "You must remember that these are restless times. A certain amount of sacrifice…”

The plump underlip of the man across the table went out in protest. "No, no, of course not,” he said, waving his hand in a delicate gesture. "My dear fellow, no one, absolutely no one is readier than I to realize that, but how can I work my farms and my gardens if all the men in the area have been levied? Surely the peace and comfort of Roman citizens must be the first consideration? Why, I've had to put my landscape gardeners to work in the turnip patches! You should see my flower gardens!” he concluded mournfully.

"Now really,” Macellius said offhandedly. "I'm not responsible for arranging native conscriptions.” Silently, he cursed the shade of the Emperor who had extended Roman citizenship to fools like this. "I'm sorry, Lucius,” he said—he was lying, and wasn't sorry at all—"I can't do anything for you now.”

"Oh, but my dear fellow, you simply must.”

"Look,” said Macellius briefly, "you're chasing the wrong horse. Go to the Legate if you like, and see what kind of answer he gives you; I doubt he'll be anywhere near as patient as I have been. Bring over slaves from Gaul, or offer better wages.”
Or,
he added silently,
get out there with a pitchfork yourself and work off some of that fat.
"Now, if you please, I'm very busy this morning.” He let his gaze fall on the scroll again and coughed discreetly.

Varullus started to protest, but Severus had already turned to his secretary, a skinny sad-looking youngster. "Who's next, Valerius?”

After Varullus had grumbled his way out, the secretary showed in a drover who had sold cattle to the Legions. Bonnet in hand, he begged the Excellency's pardon in stumbling market-Latin for troubling him, but the roads were so beset with bandits…

Macellius addressed the man fluently in his own Silurian dialect. "Speak up, man. What's troubling you?”

When the countryman poured out his story, it appeared that he had been hired to drive his cattle overland to the coast, and there were thieves and robbers, and the cattle already belonged to the Legion, and he was a poor man who could not support the loss of them to outlaws…

Macellius held up a hand. "All right,” he said, not unkindly, "you want a military escort. I'll give you a note to one of the centurions. Take care of it, Valerius.” He nodded to the secretary, "Give him a note to Paulus Appius and tell him to take care of escorting this army beef. No, man, don't apologize, that's what I'm here for.”

When the drover had gone out, he added testily, "What's Paulus thinking of? Why in heaven's name did this come all the way up to me? Any decurion down the line could have handled it!” He drew breath, striving for his customary calm. "Well, send in the next one.”

Next was a Briton named Tascio who had come about selling some rye. Macellius scowled. "I won't see him; that last lot he sold us was rotten. But we need it; grain's in short supply. Listen. Offer this gouger half of what he asks; and before you sign for the treasurer to give him his pay, get half a dozen of the cooks from the messes to come and look it over. If it's rotten or moldy, dump and burn it; rotten rye will give the men the burning sickness. If it's good, pay him the half agreed on, and if he gives you any trouble, threaten to have him flogged for cheating the Legion. Sextillus told me five men were poisoned by the damned stuff last time. If he still kicks up a fuss, turn him over to Appius,” he went on, "and I'll put in a complaint to the Druid Curia, and what they'll do to him won't be half so kind. And by the way, if this lot is rotten put him on the blacklist and tell him not to come around here again. Is that clear?”

Valerius, looking sadder than ever, complied. For all his skinny poverty of appearance, he was extremely efficient at this sort of thing. As he started to leave, Macellius heard his incongruously husky bass rise in surprise.

"Hullo, young Severus. You're back again?”

Macellius heard a familiar voice reply, "Salve, Valerius. Hey, take it easy, that arm's still sore! Is my father in?”

Macellius arose so precipitately that he upset his chair. "Gaius! My dear boy, I was beginning to worry about you!” He came round the desk and briefly clasped his son in his arms. "What kept you so long?”

"I came as soon as I could,” Gaius apologized.

He felt the boy flinch as his grip tightened and abruptly let go. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?”

"Not really, it's nearly healed. Are you busy, Father?”

Macellius looked around the small office. "Nothing here that Valerius can't handle perfectly well.” He regarded his son's dusty garments with disapproval, and said with some sternness, "Must you go about the camp dressed like a freedman or a native?”

Gaius's lips tightened briefly, as if "native” had stung. But his voice was matter of fact and without apology when he replied. "It's safer to travel this way.”

"Humph!” But Macellius knew it was true. "Well then, couldn't you at least bathe and dress decently before coming into my presence?”

"I thought you might be anxious about me, Father,” Gaius said, "seeing that I'd overstayed my leave by a couple of days. With your permission I will go and bathe and dress. The only bath I've had this week was in the river.”

"Don't be in a hurry,” Macellius said grumpily. "I'll come with you.” He let his hand rest on the younger man's forearm, gripping it without words. For some absurd reason he always worried whenever Gaius was away that the boy would not return; he did not know why, for the youngster had always been very self-sufficient. Seeing the bandaged arm had frightened him. "Tell me what happened now; why the bandages?”

"I fell in a trap dug for boars,” Gaius said. "One of the stakes went through my shoulder.” His father paled, and Gaius added reassuringly, "It's all but healed now; doesn't even hurt unless I knock it against something. I'll be carrying a sword again in six weeks.”

"How—?”

"How did I get out?” The boy grimaced. "Some Britons found me and doctored me till I was on my feet again.”

Macellius's face betrayed what he could not express. "I hope you rewarded them suitably.” But Gaius appeared to understand the solicitude hidden behind the indirection.

"On the contrary, Father, hospitality was offered in a noble manner and I accepted it in kind.”

"I see.” Macellius did not press the matter. Gaius tended to be touchy about his British blood.

At the military baths just outside the stockade, Macellius chose a low chair while Gaius was stripped and scrubbed by the army attendants. Once his personal slave had been despatched to their house for clean garments, Macellius lay back in his chair wondering what the boy had been up to now. There was a difference in him, something more than could be explained by the injury. For a moment he wished himself back in his office dealing with questions that could be quickly dismissed.

Presently Gaius emerged from the bath looking young and very clean in his short wool tunic, his damp hair curling down his back. He sent for a barber-slave and as the man clipped the unruly hair to proper military shortness and scraped away the nascent beard, he recounted his adventure. Clearly he was leaving some things out, thought Macellius. Why had Clotinus Albinus not reported the accident? He felt a moment of gratitude at being spared the kind of unpleasantness any irregularity would involve.

"You should have a regular army doctor look at that arm,” he said simply when the tale was done.

Gaius protested irritably, "It's doing well enough.” But Macellius insisted, and after a certain amount of delay old Manlius came and unbound Cynric's careful bandages, and probed and poked and pressed until Gaius was white-faced and sweating. Then he solemnly pronounced that the arm was healed as well as if he had had the care of it from the beginning.

"I could have told you that—” muttered the boy, refusing to meet his father's eyes.
Good,
thought the older man,
he knows better than to argue with me…

Gaius lay back limply, his good hand falling away from a fumbling attempt to repin his tunic, yet he grinned as Macellius reached out and refastened it, reaching up to take his father's hand in his own.

"I told you I was all right, Dad, you old Stoic,” he said roughly. Macellius thought again,
He's a handsome boy; I wonder what sort of devilry he's been up to? Well, he has a right to a certain amount of folly. Better not let him know that, though…
He cleared his throat, glad that no one else was using the bathhouse at this time of day.

"So, what excuse can you offer for overstaying your leave, Son?”

Gaius nodded at his arm.

"I understand; of course you couldn't travel with that injury, and I'll speak to Sextillus. Another time, allow for accidents. But you're not some patrician puppy who can slack. Your grandfather was a farmer outside Tarentum, and I've had to work hard to get this far. Gaius, what would you say to not going back to Glevum?”

"Do you mean they would court-martial me for overstaying leave because of an accident—?” He looked so upset that Macellius hastened to reassure him.

"No, no, I didn't mean it that way. I mean, would you care to be transferred to my staff? I need someone to help me here, and when I spoke to the Governor on his way north he agreed to make an exception and let you serve with me. It's time I started introducing you to my connections here. The Province is growing, Gaius. Intelligence and energy will carry a man far. If I could rise to the rank of Equestrian, only one rung below the nobility, who knows how far you might go?”

He saw the trouble in Gaius's eyes, and wondered if his son was in pain. It seemed a long time before the boy replied. "I've never understood why you stayed here in Britain, Father. Couldn't you have risen more quickly if you had been willing to go elsewhere? It's a big empire.”

"Britain isn't the whole world,” said Macellius, "but I like it.” His face grew grave. "They offered me a Juridicus post once in Hispania. I should have taken it, if only for your sake.”