Now, she was confused and torn. Part of the vision had already proven true. Atretes had achieved fame in Rome. He had fought as a gladiator and had triumphed over every foe in order to earn his freedom and return home. And he had brought with him a woman with dark hair and dark eyes, a woman of strange beliefs whom he clearly loved.
But peace? Where was the peace she had seen with his return? He brought rebellion and blasphemy and heartache. In one night, her family was being torn apart before her very eyes. A new god? The only god. How could he say such things? How could he believe them?
And what of the storm that would blow across the Empire and destroy it?
Freyja reached the sacred grove and went down on her knees on hallowed ground. Clutching the pendant, she bowed down before the ancient tree that held the golden horns. “I am unworthy. I am unworthy of your possession, Tiwaz.” Prostrating herself, she wept.
* * *
Anomia found Gundrid in the meadowlands to the east of the sacred wood. He was leading one of the sacred white horses in a circle, speaking softly to it, and listening intently to whatever snorts or neighs it uttered.
“What does she tell you?” Anomia asked, startling him. He untied the rope from around the mare’s neck, giving himself time to think before facing the young priestess with an answer. In truth, he had just been enjoying the animal, speaking his affection for her. Running a hand down her side, he patted her haunches and sent her galloping toward the other two white horses grazing in the sunlight.
“Holt will bring back good news,” he said. Whatever news Holt brought with him, he could interpret to fulfill his statement, be it rebellion against Rome or a time of waiting.
Anomia smiled faintly, suspect. “Freyja has had another vision.”
“She has?” He saw Anomia’s blue eyes flicker and knew he should have hidden his pleasure at the news. “Where is she?”
“She’s praying before the sacred emblems,” she said. “And weeping.” Her tone turned acrid.
“I’ll go and speak with her.”
She came closer so that he would have to go around her to depart. “Why does Tiwaz still use her?”
“You must ask Tiwaz.”
“I have! He gives me no answer. What of the sacred horses? What do they tell you, Gundrid?”
“That you have great power,” he said, well aware of what she wanted to hear.
“I want more,” she said with unveiled discontent, then added with less vehemence, “that I might serve our people better.”
Gundrid knew Anomia lied. He was well aware she craved the power for her own purposes and not for the benefit of her people. “Tiwaz will use you as he wills,” he said, secretly hoping the god would continue to speak through Freyja, who longed for the good of her people and not power for herself.
Anomia watched him walk away, the carved staff in his hand. “Atretes returned last night.”
“Atretes?” he said, turning back in surprise. “He’s here?”
“Did not the sacred horse tell you that?” She walked toward him with measured steps. “He brought a Roman with him and a dark woman he calls his wife. Both spoke of another god, a god more powerful than Tiwaz.”
“Sacrilege!”
“Is it any wonder Freyja sees blood and death in the forest?”
“Whose death?”
“She didn’t say.” She shrugged. “I don’t think she knows. Tiwaz only revealed a little to her, a hint of what’s to come.”
Perhaps the god would reveal the whole of it to her if she gave him blood sacrifice. She looked at the old priest and wished she could offer him. He was a fraud, currying the sacred horses’ hides rather than their spirits. He saw nothing. He knew nothing!
“I will see him after I’ve spoken with Freyja,” he said and left her.
* * *
He found her, still kneeling, in the wood.
Freyja rose in respect as he approached her. She took his hands and kissed each in deference to his position as high priest. His heart warmed toward her. Freyja never set herself above anyone, though she could easily have done so. The people revered her as a goddess among them. Yet it was Freyja who often brought him gifts, a woolen blanket in the chill winter, a bowl of roasted pine nuts, a skin of wine, herbs and salves when his bones were aching.
Anomia never showed him reverence. She condescended to show him respect only when it served her purposes.
“I’ve had another vision,” Freyja said, her eyes red from weeping. She told him everything from her waking dream. She told him of her son’s return.
“Anomia has told me of these things,” he said solemnly.
“I couldn’t see the man clearly. It could’ve been Atretes or the Roman or even someone else.”
“In time, we will know.”
“But what if it’s my son?”
“Have you no faith in your own prophesies, Freyja?” he said gently. “Atretes has returned and brought the woman with him, just as you said he would. He will lead our people to peace.”
“Peace,” she said softly, craving it with all her heart. “And what of the Roman with him?”
“What does one Roman matter?”
“Atretes calls him friend. My own son stands for him and swears to protect him. You know how Varus is. He’s bound to hospitality for the moment, but his anger is so great the hospitality won’t last. My sons almost came to blows last night. I’m afraid of what will come of this.”
“Nothing important will come of it. They quarreled. What young men do not? And they made amends. They’ll stand together as they always have.”
“Atretes speaks for a new god.”
“A new god? Who will listen? Tiwaz is all-powerful. All that we know is his dominion, Freyja. The sky itself belongs to Tiwaz.”
Doubts assailed her. When she had been caught in the vision, the Roman had merely spoken the name of Jesus Christ, and the spirit that Tiwaz had sent upon her had fled her body. She considered telling Gundrid what had happened, but she held her silence. She didn’t want to be the cause of anyone’s death, even a Roman’s. She needed to think. She needed to watch and consider. Atretes was involved with this man and she would do nothing that would jeopardize her son’s return to his rightful place as chief of the Chatti. And she prayed fervently that he would do nothing to destroy the people’s confidence in him.
Seeing her distress, Gundrid took her hand and patted it. “You’re worrying overmuch about this Roman, Freyja. He is one man against many. He will leave.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then he will die.”
35
Atretes took his mother’s advice and spent most of his time renewing friendships with the villagers. Theophilus accompanied him, but in deference to Chatti feelings he quietly absorbed conversations without speaking. The villagers tolerated his presence for the sake of Atretes, but their animosity and distrust was felt by both. Theophilus ignored the numerous barbs about Romans, and his calmness lent Atretes the strength of will to allow the insults to pass.
Many of the younger men had gone with Rud and Holt to meet with the Bructeri and Batavi chiefs. Those too old or too young to fight remained. A small contingent of warriors had been left behind so that the village wouldn’t be undefended. Should trouble arise, word would be sent to the others. Usipi was eager to relinquish his home-guard leadership responsibilities, despite Varus’ misgivings and those of the three men who had greeted Atretes on his arrival.
“You are chief of the Chatti by proclamation of the Thing,” he said, encouraging Atretes to take his rightful place.
Atretes declined, no more eager than Usipi to lead. And he did not want to take his previous position of leadership for granted. “That was years ago. Rud is chief now and may think differently.” Eleven years was a long time to be away, and he wouldn’t usurp the man who had held the Chatti together during his captivity.
While others might covet the power of the chief, Atretes didn’t want the responsibility of lea
dership again. When his father had died and the warriors pressed him, he had submitted to their will for the sake of his people. Not one man had stood against him. Now his own brother wouldn’t stand with him.
Atretes wondered how it was possible, in the space of a few short weeks, to feel closer to the Roman than he ever had to his own kin. The bond between him and Theophilus grew stronger with each day. No matter where they were or what they were doing, the Roman spoke of the Lord. Atretes had asked to know everything, and Theophilus was eager to impart all he knew. Each moment was a precious opportunity, and he made use of it. Whether they were sitting, standing, or walking, Theophilus taught him Scripture, often reading from the scroll Agabus had copied on board the ship.
Rizpah treasured up everything Theophilus said, pondering it when she was away from him. The time they spent together was precious for it was peaceful. Elsewhere things were not.
Varus flew into a rage when Theophilus asked to buy a piece of land on which to build a grubenhaus for himself. “I’ll see you dead before you ever own a piece of Chatti land!”
“I don’t ask for land within the village boundaries, but on the outskirts of it,” Theophilus said, making no mention of the document in his possession giving him the right, by Roman law, to any frontier land he wanted as payment for his years of service in the army. He wanted to gain these people’s respect, not their continuing enmity.
“The only land I’d give you is the dung hill.”
Atretes lost his temper and interfered before Theophilus could stop him. “By our law, Father’s full portion falls to me as the eldest son!”
Varus’ head jerked toward him.
“Atretes!” his mother said. “You can’t do this!”
“I can and I will. It’s within my rights to take back everything, no matter how hard Varus has worked to protect it. And he knows it!”
“Take nothing for my sake,” Theophilus said, seeing the breach a few words could make between the brothers. “He has reason not to trust Rome, and you’ll add cause to injury.”
“Do not defend him!” Atretes said, incensed.
“He’s no different than you were when we first met,” Theophilus said with a wry smile.
Varus’ face reddened. “I don’t need the defense of a Roman pig!” He rose and spit in his direction.
Atretes took a step after his brother. Theophilus blocked his way. “Think,” Theophilus said under his breath. “Think from his side before you say another word.”
“You’ve been gone eleven years!” Varus shouted back. “All that time, I’ve held Father’s inheritance together. And now you come back and think you can give it away to this Roman dog and leave me with nothing?”
Atretes started to step past Theophilus, but the Roman grasped his arm. “Your anger will not bring about the righteousness of God,” he said so only his friend could hear.
Clenching his teeth, Atretes strove to calm himself.
As he did so, reason came. It was true—Varus had cause for resentment. He had lost as much as he himself had, and held onto what was left. It was not in Atretes’ mind to strip his brother of all his possessions just because he had the right to do so, and yet he knew his words had implied just that. His anger had only caused more strife rather than bringing some semblance of reason into the discussion.
“I make a gift to you of the eastern half, Varus, as well as all the cattle,” he said with impulsive generosity. “Theophilus’ portion will come from my half. Will that satisfy?”
Varus was stunned into silence.
“You’re giving him the richest portion of farmland,” Freyja said, equally stunned.
“I know that. The eastern half also has the best grazing for the cattle,” Atretes pointed out, still looking to his younger brother for an answer. “Well? What do you say?”
Varus took an unsteady step back. Wincing, he sat down and stared at his brother as though he had never seen him before. Half the land and all the cattle? Atretes could take everything and no one would argue his rights to do so. Instead, his brother gave him the best of his inheritance. It was within Atretes’ rights to leave him with nothing, no matter how hard he had worked to retain it. In truth, that was what he had expected to happen if Atretes ever returned and one of the primary reasons he had hoped he wouldn’t.
“You have a son, Atretes,” Freyja said, astounded by such thinking. “Would you give his inheritance to an outsider?” What had happened to her son? Had this Roman cast a spell upon him?
“The land will remain his, my lady,” Theophilus said, wanting to allay her understandable concerns. Atretes had surprised him as well. “If it’ll set both your minds at ease,” he said, glancing at Varus, “I’ll pay an annual fee for the use of it.”
Varus frowned, wondering where the trick lay in his words. Romans took; they didn’t give.
Theophilus saw his distrust and understood it. “My desire isn’t to take anything from you or your people, Varus, but to earn my own living while I’m here. I have been grateful for your hospitality, but I think you will agree, it’s time for me to leave.”
Varus uttered a cold laugh, hiding how the Roman’s words troubled him.
Freyja searched Theophilus’ face, but saw no sign of subterfuge.
Atretes’ mouth tipped sardonically. “Do you agree to the division of land or would you prefer I hold to tradition and take it all?”
“I agree,” Varus said.
“Come.” Atretes jerked his head at Theophilus. “I’ll help you choose your portion.”
When they selected a suitable site for Theophilus’ house, Atretes gave in to his own curiosity. “What’ll you do with the land? You have no cattle. We’ll have to raid the Tencteri and Cherusci herds to get you a few head.”
Theophilus knew thievery was practiced among the tribes, but had no intention of following the custom—or of encouraging Atretes to do so. “I intend to grow corn and beans.”
“You, a farmer?” Atretes laughed. It was so ludicrous.
Theophilus smiled, undaunted. “I’m going to hammer my sword into a plowshare and my spear into a pruning hook.”
Atretes saw he meant it. “You’d better wait,” he said grimly. “If you do it too soon, you may not live to break the soil.”
* * *
Atretes was helping Theophilus fell trees for the grubenhaus when they heard jubilant shouting from the village. The warriors had returned.
Burying his ax in a stump, Atretes headed for the village. “Stay here until I send for you!” He ran through the woods and between two longhouses, coming into the main street. A throng of warriors mulled around, greeting wives and children. Only a few were on horseback.
“Rud!” Atretes shouted, seeing the older man who had been his father’s best friend.
The gray-haired man turned sharply on his horse. Raising his framea in the air, he gave an ecstatic war cry and rode toward Atretes, sliding from the animal’s back at the last moment and embracing him in a body-bruising hug. “You have returned! Tiwaz is with us!” He embraced him again, pounding his back as the others surged toward them, shouting war cries and all talking at once.
Rizpah watched from the door of the longhouse, Caleb in her arms. The men surrounded Atretes, buffeting him in welcome. Atretes was laughing, shoving several back and taking a good-natured swing at another who dodged and then embraced him. They were rough men of deep feeling and even deeper pride.
Across the street, Anomia emerged from her dwelling. After dismissing Rizpah with a cursory glance, she fixed her gaze upon the returning warriors. Her eyes glowed as she saw how they worshiped Atretes, clamoring around him like excited boys in the presence of their living idol. What power he could wield over his people—and she would teach him how to do so.
The Chatti had never stopped talking about him. Over the past years, he had become a legend, his feats in battle against the Romans retold at hearth and home around the ceremonial fires. How easy it would be for him to yank the reins of power fr
om any who tried to withhold them. Rud would not. He was old and tired, though loyal to her. He had only agreed to the meeting with the Batavi and Bructeri because she wanted it and the younger warriors demanded it. Nor would Holt stand in Atretes’ way, for he had long ago sworn allegiance to Hermun’s son.
She had been a child of twelve when she had hidden herself in the dark shadows of the trees and watched the rites in the sacred grove that made Atretes chief. She could still remember him holding the golden horns above his head, his naked body bathed in firelight. He had looked like a god to her then. He still did. Soon she would stand beside him.
She had always known what she wanted: to be high priestess and wife of the chief of the Chatti. Had her sister, Ania, lived, she would have stood in the way of her ambitions. Anomia believed her death had been an act of Tiwaz, preparing the way for her to be with Atretes.
When he had been taken by the Romans, she had been confused and angry. Why would Tiwaz allow such a thing to happen? Freyja had foreseen his return, and she had clung to the prophecy, awaiting the unfolding of it, setting her intellect to achieving the fullness of her powers in readiness for him. In part, she had done just that, though she still craved more. Together, she and Atretes would make the Chatti the mightiest tribe in Germania. They would take vengeance on all those who had thought to make them slaves. They would destroy the Hermunduri and take back the sacred river and salt flats. They would take retribution for the yoke Rome had tried and failed to put upon them. And as they did these things, other tribes would join with them, until the whole of Germania was driving south to the very heart of the Empire: Rome herself!
Nothing would stand in her way, not the Roman Atretes called his friend, not Freyja, not anyone else—especially not the black-eyed, black-haired Ionian witch who stood in the doorway opposite her.
For your glory, Tiwaz, I will take Atretes from her! Together he and I will rule these people and use them for your purposes.
“Ask him about the Roman he brought with him!” someone shouted, and the din of greeting died down.