“I cannot see why that should be so,” Eilan said. “Surely a woman who can govern a large household is as fit to rule an empire as any man. Have there been no mighty queens among the Romans?”
Gaius grimaced, remembering the history that his Greek tutor had insisted he learn. “In the days of the Claudian Emperors,” he said carefully, “I have heard there was an evil old woman named Livia, the mother of the deified Tiberius. She poisoned all her kinfolk. Perhaps that is why the Romans are not fond of female rulers.”
Their walking had brought them to the far side of the fires, where the barrow mound sloped down to the festival ground.
“Gawen, do you think women are evil?” Eilan asked.
“You are not evil, certainly,” he said, meeting her clear gaze. Her eyes were like a well of pure water into which he could sink for ever. A well of truth — at that moment it seemed to him monstrous that he should have to live this lie. Though it made no sense, he felt that he could trust her with his life; and if he entrusted her with his true identity, he might be doing just that.
There was a stir behind them. The shouts and singing grew closer. Gaius turned, and saw men bringing up images made out of wicker or straw. Some were human in shape, some, figures out of nightmare. One was even clad in a recognizable simulation of a legionary’s helm.
The hair lifted on his neck. Earlier he had told Eilan he remembered nothing of the Beltane rites, but now, whether because of the drumming or the flickering light or the scent of sweet herbs they had cast on the fire, he suddenly knew that he had seen something like this before. He closed his eyes, seeing in memory tattooed dragons coiling up strong arms, hearing a young man’s laughter. For a moment the drumming deafened him; blood filled his vision, and a grief so long suppressed that even now he could not give it a name.
His grip tightened on Eilan’s arm.
“Silly!” Eilan laughed at his expression. “They are only effigies. Even in the old days it was only every seven years that the Summer King or his substitute was offered to renew the land.”
“You are a Druid’s daughter,” he said, easing down upon the grass. “I suppose that you would know.”
She smiled and sat down beside him at the edge of the circle. “I have not the lore they teach them in the Forest House, but I have heard that tale. They say that the Chosen One would be treated like a king for the year before his doom. It was a great honor for his family. His every wish was fulfilled, he had the best of food and wine, and the most beautiful young women were brought to him. It was an honor to bear a child to the god; even the women of the sanctuary were not forbidden to him; though it is death for any other to lie with one of the priestesses. And at the end of his time . . .” She hesitated. “He was given to the fire.”
Eilan was sitting very close to him. He could smell the fresh, wild-flower scent of her hair.
“I have heard that there is a new cult in Rome called the followers of the Nazarene who believe that their prophet was the son of their god and died for their sins,” said Gaius. Personally, he favored Mithras, the soldiers’ god.
“They are not only in Rome,” she said. “My father says that some of them fled to Britannia when the Emperor was killing them. And the Druids allowed them to build a sanctuary at the Isle of Apples far to the south in the Summer Country. But here we have only the consort of the Goddess – or his substitute, who gives his blood to the land.”
Shouting, teams of young men swung the effigies on to the bonfires, cheering as the flames surged against the sky. Eilan flinched as another group ran past, and Gaius put his arm around her protectively.