“What is this you say, Herigast?” Holt said to the accuser. “What Roman?”
Atretes looked at the man standing at the outer edge of the warrior’s circle. Long ago, Atretes had been forced to make a judgment against Herigast’s son, Wagast. The young warrior had dropped his shield and fled the battlefield, a crime demanding execution. The vote of the Thing had been unanimous, leaving Atretes with no choice but to order Wagast be drowned in the bog. The young man’s father had aged greatly in eleven years. Though still robust, his hair was white, his face deeply lined.
“My wife just told me,” Herigast said and put his arm around the woman beside him in a gesture of protection, his expression challenging.
Rud turned to Atretes. “Is what he says true?”
“Yes.”
Rud’s face tensed in anger. “We make an alliance against Rome, and you bring one of the murdering dogs among us!”
“He comes in peace.”
“Peace!” a young warrior said and spit on the ground with as much brass and pride as Atretes had ever possessed.
“We want no peace with Rome!” another shouted. “We want blood!”
Men shouted angrily.
“. . . burned our village . . .”
“. . . killed my father . . .”
“. . . took my wife and son for slaves . . .”
Rizpah closed her eyes and prayed as Atretes shouted them down. “I have as much cause to hate Rome as you. More! But I tell you this! If not for Theophilus, I’d be fighting in an arena or hung up on some foul cross for Domitian’s entertainment! Three times he saved my life. He led me home!”
“No Roman can be trusted!”
Others shouted agreement.
“Where is he?”
“Let’s get him and throw him in the bog!”
“Make him a blood sacrifice!”
Herigast’s wife pointed. “The Roman is building a grubenhaus just beyond those longhouses. He intends to make his home among us.”
One of the warriors started in that direction. When Atretes blocked his way, he took a swing at him. Atretes ducked and brought his fist up into his chest, knocking him from his feet. Before the warrior hit the ground, Atretes had his gladius in his hand and at the fallen warrior’s throat.
“Stay down, or by God, you’ll never get up again!”
The maelstrom died as quickly as it had erupted.
The warriors moved back slightly, staring while the young warrior gasped for air. “You will all listen,” Atretes said, glaring down at the young man, whose eyes had widened when he felt the sword beneath his jaw. One swift jerk and his jugular would be laid open. Atretes raised his head enough to look from face to face around him. “Kill my friend and you will answer to me!” He looked down again, the blood pounding hot in his veins. “Do you want to be first to die, boy?”
“Let him up, Atretes!”
The men turned and saw a tall man striding toward them.
Atretes didn’t move, but cursed under his breath.
“Look!” Herigast’s wife said. “The Roman comes, gloating over the trouble he’s brought upon us!”
Theophilus walked toward them calmly, his demeanor one of authority and purpose. “Put your sword away, Atretes. Those who live by it, die by it.”
“As will you, if I listen,” Atretes said, not moving the blade an inch.
Theophilus heard the threatening rumble that went through those gathered. There was no time to dissuade Atretes. He needed to speak now while he still had opportunity. “I’m not here as a Roman or for Rome!” he addressed the men. “I ask your forbearance until I can prove myself trustworthy. If I play you false, do with me as you will.”
“You look like a soldier,” Holt said, measuring him with burning eyes.
Theophilus looked at him squarely, without fear. “I served in the Roman army for twenty-five years and held the rank of centurion.”
A stunned silence fell. Holt gave a surprised laugh of derision. What man would admit to such a thing in the midst of a hundred Chatti warriors? He was either very brave or very stupid. Perhaps both.
Theophilus stood his ground calmly. “I fought here twelve years ago when the German tribes rebelled against Rome.”
“He fought against us!” one of the men shouted for all to hear.
“Roman dog!” Other names far more profane and insulting were hurled at him.
“I know the Chatti to be a valiant people!” Theophilus shouted over them. “But I know this as well: If you rebel against Rome at this time, you will fail. Domitian waits for an opportunity to send the legions north. A tribal alliance for war will give him exactly the excuse he needs to do it.”
“He speaks for Rome!”
Atretes withdrew his gladius and turned slightly.
Theophilus saw doubt flicker in his eyes. “I speak the truth, Atretes. You know the lengths to which Domitian will go to get what he wants. He covets the power and prestige of his father and brother, and the only way to get it is to fight a military campaign and win. This is the only frontier where Domitian had relative success.”
Theophilus’ reminder of the battles eleven years ago didn’t sit well. Atretes put his sword into its scabbard, ignoring the young warrior as he jumped up from the ground.
Anomia saw an opportunity to destroy one adversary and grasped it. “Let Tiwaz reveal his will for our people!” she called out.
The warriors turned as she walked toward them with the full confidence of Tiwaz on her side. They held her in high esteem and waited for her to speak further. She let them wait until she was close enough to see into their eyes, and then she gestured derisively toward Theophilus.
“Tonight is the new moon. As he speaks for Rome, let him fight for Rome. Pit him against our champion. Let Tiwaz tell us what to do. If this Roman survives, we wait. If not, we pursue the alliance.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Atretes said, glaring at the young priestess.
“If your Roman friend is right, Atretes, he’ll prevail,” she said. “And if not . . .” She let the words hang.
Rud looked at Theophilus and measured him again. “Anomia’s words have merit.” Her suggestion offered a quick solution to the problem Atretes had created by bringing this Roman home with him. “Have him bound.”
“I’ve never run from a fight yet,” Theophilus said before anyone sought to touch him. “Tell me when and where you want the contest, and I’ll be there.”
Rud was surprised that the Roman showed no fear. But then, perhaps the fool didn’t know what he faced. He smiled coldly. “Make peace with your gods, Roman. An hour after nightfall, you’ll be dead.” He looked at Atretes. “The Thing will meet tonight in the sacred grove. Make sure he’s there.” He walked away, followed by a contingent of young warriors in his service.
The others dispersed, joined by wives and children.
Anomia smiled disdainfully at Theophilus and turned away, ignoring Atretes’ look of fury.
Atretes didn’t take his eyes off of her until she disappeared inside her small house. Swearing under his breath, he went after Theophilus who had headed back to the woods.
“Are you out of your mind? You’re forty years old! They’ll pit you against a warrior half your age and twice your strength!”
“You think simple reason would’ve swayed them otherwise?” Theophilus said, yanking his ax from the stump where he had left it.
“If you think I can get you out of this, you’re wrong. That witch made it a point of augury.” Atretes knew all too well that the Chatti put great store in this practice of trusting signs and omens for making decisions.
A loud crack echoed through the woods as Theophilus chopped a deep cut into a spruce. “I’m not dead yet, Atretes.”
“You don’t understand. It’s not going to be a contest of strength. It’s a fight to the death!”
“I know.” He brought the ax around again and sent a thick chunk of wood flying.
“You know?” Atretes wondered how
he could be so calm. “What am I supposed to do?”
Theophilus smiled as he brought the ax around again. “You could start praying.”
36
The whole village was eager for Theophilus’ blood, and more than a few were celebrating his death before it was accomplished. Only Freyja was distressed at the news of a contest between the Chatti champion and Theophilus.
“You must stop this, Rud. If you kill a Roman centurion, you’ll bring war on us.”
“We’re already at war with Rome.”
“What of Atretes?”
“Yes! What about Atretes?” Rud said, angry. “What’s happened to your son that he’d bring this Roman cur home with him?”
“The man saved his life.”
“So he said, but that doesn’t change the blood that runs in his veins. Romans killed your husband. They killed my brothers. Don’t defend that centurion dog to my face.”
“I don’t speak for him. I’m afraid for our people if he dies. You must think of the consequences.”
“We’ve been living with the consequences of Roman domination for decades and will continue to do so until we can drive every one of them back over the Alps! Except for Atretes, there isn’t a man in this tribe who doesn’t want to see Rolf hack this Roman cur to pieces. For myself, I’m going to enjoy watching it!”
She spoke to Gundrid, but Anomia had already convinced the old priest augury would settle important questions. “The outcome of this fight will decide many factors,” he said, dismissing her objections. “Tiwaz will speak to us through Rolf.”
“And what if Rolf fails and dies?”
“He won’t.”
Desperate, she sought Theophilus, hoping to convince him to leave before it was too late. She found him in the forest, on his knees, his hands outstretched, palms up. A twig snapped beneath her foot as she approached, and he rose and turned to her, perfectly at ease. “Lady Freyja,” he said and inclined his head in respectful greeting.
“You must go. Now.”
“Atretes told you about the contest.”
“He didn’t have to tell me. The whole village knows. You won’t survive the night if you stay here.”
“If it’s God’s will I die, then I die.”
“And what of my people? Will they die also because of your Roman pride? How far will you drive us into the forest? How many lives will you take before you relent and leave us to live in peace?” She struggled for self-restraint. “Why did you ever come here?”
“No one knows I’m here among the Chatti. When I resigned my commission, Titus suggested Gaul or Britannia. I didn’t inform him otherwise.”
She was perplexed. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying if I die tonight, no one will come to avenge me.”
She was troubled by his words. Did he welcome death? “Have you forgotten my son? He calls you his friend and has sworn to protect you. Your death will set Atretes against his own people.”
Theophilus had considered that and had spoken with Atretes. He had also spent the afternoon praying for him. “Atretes’ battle isn’t against his people, but the power that holds you all captive.”
She didn’t understand and shook her head. “You speak in riddles. The only power that tries to hold us captive is that of Rome.”
“It’s not the power of Rome of which I speak, Lady Freyja.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Stay with me for a time and I’ll explain.”
“How much time will it take?” she said, wary of him.
He held his hand out toward an inviting patch of sunlit green. “I’ll keep you no longer than the time it takes for the shadows to come across the glade.” An hour. One hour, Lord. Please.
She sat in the sunshine and listened to him tell of beginnings, of earth and man created by God, and of an arch deceiver who entered a garden.
Freyja began to tremble. She broke out into a cold sweat at his words, her heart pounding out a warning. “I can’t listen to you,” she said and rose.
He rose as well, looking at her with kind eyes. “Why not?”
She clutched the pendant between her breasts. “You are the serpent in our garden, not Tiwaz.”
“I never spoke the name Tiwaz.”
“Veil your words as you will, I know you speak against him.”
“You tremble, my lady.”
“Tiwaz is warning me not to listen to you.”
“Indeed, he would, for the good news of Jesus Christ will set you free.”
Her knuckles whitened on the pendant. She drew back further from him. “You will die tonight. Tiwaz will rain his wrath down upon you for trying to turn me against him.” She turned, wanting to flee the glade and him, but forced herself to walk with dignity.
“And if I live, Lady Freyja?” Theophilus called out to her before she reached the edge of trees.
She turned, her face pale and strained. “You won’t.”
“If I do, will you listen to me then? Will you hear me out to the end of what I have to tell you?”
Conflicting emotions warred within her. “You’re asking me to betray my god.”
“I’m asking you to listen to the truth.”
“The truth as you see it.”
“The truth that is, my lady. The truth that has been and always will be.”
“I won’t listen to you! I won’t!” She turned away again and hurried through the woods, putting as much distance between herself and this Roman as she could.
Closing his eyes, Theophilus lifted his head. “Jesus, help me.”
* * *
Atretes came for Theophilus at dusk. “I’ve prayed as you asked,” he said grimly, “but I think you’ll be with Jesus before this night is through.”
“Your confidence instills me with hope, my friend,” Theophilus said with a dry laugh.
“Rizpah won’t eat. She said she’ll pray until it’s over.”
Theophilus wondered where Freyja was, but didn’t ask. He took up his belt and put it around his waist, adjusting it so that the gladius was at the proper angle. “I’m ready.” He said no more as he strode through the woods, Atretes at his side. With every step, he sent a prayer to heaven.
The men were gathered at the boundary of the sacred wood. Some were drunk and shouted insults at his approach. Others laughed, excited at the prospect of seeing Roman blood let. Theophilus could feel Atretes growing more and more angry the closer they came. The men saw and felt it also, and the gathering grew quieter because of it.
Young Rolf stood beside Rud, eyes as blue and fierce as Atretes’. His long red hair was partially covered by a galea, a leather cap, as well as the metal cassis that covered it. The helmet bore runes of victory, carrying the name Tiwaz. Rolf held a long, broad slashing weapon called a spatha in his right hand, and in his left hand, an oval shield made of wood on which was carved the image of the god he served. The horned, twofold being, bearing an ax in one hand and a scythe in the other. The pagan god, Tiwaz.
Youth and strength were clearly on Rolf’s side, and there was no lack of intelligence in his direct, assessing gaze. His bearing was proud, his mocking grin full of self-confidence and disdain. He reminded Theophilus of Atretes.
The Roman felt dismissed. He knew what Rolf saw: a man twice his age armed with a shorter sword and bearing no shield. An easy kill. “At least we know one thing for certain,” he said with a faint smile at Atretes. “If I win, it’ll be by the grace of God.”
“What did he say?” Rud demanded, taking offense, for Theophilus had spoken in heavily accented Greek.
“He fights in the name of Jesus Christ,” Atretes said loud enough for all to hear.
“And he’ll die in the name of his god as well,” Rud said, giving his under-chief a nod.
Holt tossed Atretes a rope. “Bind him,” he said and turned his back on them.
“Do they think I plan to run away at this late hour?” Theophilus said under his breath as Atretes tied his wrists.
>
“Only the chiefs enter the sacred wood unfettered,” he said quietly and Theophilus noticed then that others were being fettered. “It’s a reminder that Tiwaz binds us to him,” Atretes said under his breath and gave the ropes a hard tug making sure they were secured properly. “Don’t fall.”
Theophilus raised his brow at Atretes’ low, ominous tone. “What happens if I do?”
Atretes glanced around at the others and lowered his voice. “If they’re feeling merciful, you’ll be allowed to roll to the sacred grove. If not, they’ll string you up by the ankles and send for my mother or that blonde witch to slit your throat and drain your blood into a bowl as libation for Tiwaz.”
“Jesus, preserve me.” Theophilus looked around at the Chatti warriors. He had always known the Germans were a bloodthirsty race, but he never guessed the extent of their religious practices. “I don’t see anyone in a particularly merciful mood, do you?” he said, smiling wryly.
Atretes gave a humorless laugh. “No, but then they’d rather see Rolf put an end to your life than give that honor to a woman.” He hobbled Theophilus’ legs.
Rud and Holt, bearing torches, led the procession into the woods. Warriors fell in behind and in front of Theophilus and Atretes. Theophilus kept pace with difficulty. The small steps within the confines of his rope hobbles made him feel clumsy. He looked around at the warriors near him and felt compassion for their plight. Their spirits were bound as surely as were their bodies. His concentration focused on them, he tripped over tree roots and barely managed to keep his balance.
Atretes swore under his breath.
Theophilus felt his tension. “Friend,” he whispered, “whatever happens tonight, remember this: The Lord is sovereign. God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God and are called according to his purpose. Whether I live or die doesn’t matter.”
“It matters. This is murder,” Atretes said darkly. “You won’t stand a chance against Rolf. Holt would’ve taught his son everything he knows, and he was champion in my father’s time. I swear your death will be—”
“Listen to me, Atretes. Do God’s will. Do not be conformed to your people, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind that you may prove what is the will of God, that which is good and acceptable and perfect. Remember what I’ve taught you.”