As Sure as the Dawn

  “I’m not like you.”

  “You’re more like me than you know. You must listen. There’s little time. Christ’s divine power has granted to you everything pertaining to life and godliness through the true knowledge of Jesus Christ who called you. Be diligent to present yourself approved as a warrior who doesn’t need to be ashamed.”

  “I am a warrior and will act as one.”

  “You’re speaking as a man, Atretes. Live for God.”

  “So I’m to do nothing?”

  “Everything. Love your people.”

  “Love them!” he snarled, casting a dark look at those around them. “After this night?”

  “Despite it.”

  “I was chief.”

  “Just so. And as such, were you ever part of these rites?”

  Atretes gave him a bleak look. “You know I was.”

  “Then remember the life out of which Christ called you. Remember what it felt like to live in darkness.” He saw his friend’s stubborn pride. “Atretes, listen to me for God’s sake. Let these people see the fruit of the Spirit at work in you. Let the Lord break Tiwaz’s hold on your people. Give yourself wholeheartedly to God and let him produce in you the love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self- restraint that proclaims him almighty God. No law, no empire can stand against these things.”

  “I will think on it.”

  “Don’t think on it! Do the word I’ve taught you. Walk in a manner worthy of Jesus Christ. Please God in all aspects of your life.”

  “I could easier die for him myself than stand by and watch you butchered!”

  “Satan knows that better than you. You’ve got to resist him. Hold to your faith and rest in Christ. If I die tonight, rejoice. I will be with our Lord! There’s no power great enough to separate me from Christ Jesus. You know death cannot.”

  The men in the forefront stopped. Holt came back to them, the torchlight revealing his anger and fear. “Be silent!” He glared at Atretes. “You know the law.”

  Atretes stiffened at the reprimand, but Theophilus nodded and said no more.

  As they came to the sacred grove, Theophilus saw a fire was burning in a protected casement. An old priest was waiting for them, his heavy white linen tunic interwoven with purple designs. An ancient oak was at the center, and when all were seated, he removed the emblems of Tiwaz hidden within its trunk.

  Reverently, Gundrid held up the golden horns for all to see. He always relished this moment and the power he felt come with it. He chanted and swayed as he placed them upon a rough stone altar near the fire that was kept perpetually burning.

  Atretes untied the rope from around Theophilus’ wrists and ankles. Rolling it up, he set it to one side.

  Taking a dagger from his belt, Gundrid cut his own arm and let his blood drip over the sacred horns. Rud came forward and did likewise, then passed the ceremonial dagger to Holt. When Holt finished the rite, Gundrid took the dagger. Placing it flat on both palms, he turned and held it out expectantly to Atretes.

  “We have waited long for your return. Atretes, son of the great Hermun, high chief of the Chatti, Tiwaz awaits the renewal of your vows.”

  Atretes remained sitting. He looked at Gundrid and said nothing.

  The old priest stepped closer. “Take the dagger from my hand.” Anomia had warned him Atretes had lost faith. “You are a man of honor,” he said, wanting the glory of bringing him back. “Remember your vow.”

  Atretes stood slowly. “I recant Tiwaz,” he said loud enough for all to hear.

  Gundrid drew back from him. Clutching the dagger’s handle, he held it at his side. “You dare speak thus before the altar of our god?” he said, his voice rising with each word he uttered.

  “I dare,” Atretes said calmly, his countenance as fierce as any other man present. He looked from face to face, seeing men who had been his friends and who now looked at him with wary distrust, anger, and fear. “I dare more. I proclaim Jesus Christ is Lord of all!” he shouted, his voice carrying through the sacred wood.

  A dark wind blew, shaking the leaves and branches as it came on like the approach of a malevolent being. Fear filled Gundrid, and he called out a frantic prayer, beseeching Tiwaz to withhold his wrath from them. Even Atretes felt dread as the frogs and insects went silent in the woods around them, and a coldness crept into the circle that had gathered before the eternal flame. He felt a presence, one so cold that it was hot.

  Gundrid cast something into the fire, and colors exploded around him, sparks flying upward. The smell of burning sulphur drifted on the air, mingling with other stranger smells. His eyes rolled back in his head as something seemed to take possession of him. Words, incomprehensible, came pouring from his lips, his voice deeper and guttural, a savage growl.

  “Tiwaz speaks,” Rud said, and all those watching sat in terror, banging their weapons against their shields and shouting. The baritus rose, filling the darkness. “Tiwaz! Tiwaz! Tiwaz!” The name sounded like a drumbeat, building until the priest uttered a scream that made Atretes’ stomach tremble and his hair stand on end. Whatever had come upon Gundrid departed.

  The men fell silent, watching and waiting.

  Dazed, Gundrid looked at Atretes standing before him. He saw with keener insight the doubt and fear flickering in the younger man’s eyes. Tiwaz had not lost his hold entirely.

  “You have been deceived, Atretes,” Gundrid said and pointed an accusing finger at Theophilus. “Tiwaz has revealed this man’s hidden motives to me!” He looked around at the warriors gathered. “The Roman speaks peace,” he shouted, “but brings to us lies and a false god in an attempt to weaken our people!” He spread his arms, encompassing all present. “If you listen, you will be destroyed!”

  The Chatti warriors shouted vows to Tiwaz. Gundrid listened, raising his hands again and encouraging them to shout even louder. He was triumphant as he looked at the Roman sitting beside Atretes. He knew a more fitting end for the Roman’s life than an honorable contest with a Chatti warrior.

  Righteous anger filled Theophilus as he looked into the gloating eyes of the old priest. He saw with a clarity that came from the Holy Spirit that Gundrid didn’t want the match to take place. He intended to circumvent it by making the warriors believe Tiwaz craved a human sacrifice instead.

  Lord, I’d rather die fighting than on an altar to Satan! And what of these men? If they make a tribal alliance and revolt against Rome now, they’ll be annihilated like the Jews.

  The baritus was deafening.

  Theophilus stood abruptly. “I was brought here to fight your champion over the matter of a tribal alliance!” he shouted in challenge. The deafening roar quieted as he stepped boldly into the center of the circle and faced Gundrid. “Or is your god afraid of the outcome?”

  Men began to shout against their shields.

  Young Rolf jumped to his feet and strode into the circle, eager for the battle. “You will die, Roman!”

  “For Tiwaz! For Tiwaz!”

  Theophilus removed his belt. “Christ Jesus, be with me. Give me strength and endurance,” he said and pulled his gladius from its sheath. “May this battle be for your glory, Lord.” He heaved the belt out into the darkness.

  The sword as well, came a still, quiet voice.

  Theophilus felt as though the air had been punched from him. His palm went slick with sweat, his heart pounding.

  “Lord?” he whispered in disbelief.

  The sword.

  “Jesus, do you want me to die?”

  The young Chatti warrior advanced on him, grinning savagely, eager to use the deadly spatha in his hand.

  Those who live by the sword, die by the sword.

  Theophilus inhaled a lungful of air through his nose and then released it out his mouth. “So be it.” He flung the gladius out into the darkness.

  Rolf stopped in surprise and straightened, frowning.

  “What are you doing?” Atretes cried out as what little hope he had had die
d. Theophilus paid him no heed.

  Lord, Lord! Theophilus prayed. Do I just stand here and die? Do I let him cut me to pieces like a lamb for the slaughter? I thought I came to stop a war.

  Joshua. Samson. David. The names became like a drumbeat in his head. Joshua. Samson. David.

  “Kill him!” Gundrid screamed, the spirit within him full of fear. “Kill him now!”

  The warriors rose en masse as Rolf charged, crying out, “Tiwaz!” He swung the spatha with enough force to split Theophilus’ body in half. Theophilus dodged left, turned sharply, and brought his fist down hard on the back of Rolf’s head. He dented the helmet and sent the young warrior staggering to one knee.

  Theophilus stepped to one side of the circle and waited. Atretes stared in disbelief. “Finish him!”

  But Theophilus didn’t. Rolf rose, shaking his head. Theophilus didn’t move. Rolf turned, eyes unfocused. He was breathing hard, his face flushed. Before his head cleared, he brought the spatha up and lunged forward.

  With the agility of a seasoned athlete, Theophilus dodged, dipped, and punched him hard in the sternum. Rolf staggered back, but didn’t go down. Exhaling hard, Theophilus punched him again with his full strength. The young champion went down like a toppled tree. He fought for breath and, after a few seconds, sagged back and lay still, arms and legs splayed.

  Not a Chatti warrior moved or breathed. The battle hadn’t even lasted a minute and their champion lay as though dead on the ground.

  “All glory to you, Lord God,” Theophilus said aloud. He raised his head and turned, looking squarely at the priest.

  Gundrid shook with fear. No one breathed.

  Theophilus went down on one knee beside Rolf and put his hand against the young warrior’s neck. He felt a strong pulse. He put his hand on Rolf’s chest and felt it rise. He was breathing again. Theophilus took the spatha from Rolf’s hand and rose. He glanced at Atretes and saw his friend’s emotions were torn. It was a Chatti warrior lying helpless, after all, a kinsman.

  Theophilus’ gaze moved slowly around the circle of men standing. He could see in their faces how they tried to harden themselves for Rolf’s death. Holt closed his eyes, for it was his dead brother’s son who lay at Theophilus’ feet. Not a warrior present would move to stop the Roman from taking Rolf’s life. It was a matter of honor.

  He tossed the spatha on the ground before Rud.

  Surprised, the high chief searched his face. After a moment, he gave a stiff nod. “There will be no alliance.”

  37

  Though the men and women still avoided Theophilus after that night, it wasn’t long before all noticed the children had no fear or distrust of him. He sang as he worked, and the younger children came to listen. At first they kept their distance, hiding behind trees or climbing up into them and peering at him from the branches. Gradually, they lost their timidity. One brave little soul called out a question from a high branch, and Theophilus paused to answer. His manner was warm and friendly, and so they came down from lofty perches and out from behind trees, and sat on the grass in the sunshine to listen to him.

  Theophilus told them stories.

  An anxious young mother came looking for her son. “You shouldn’t be here. Anomia told you we were to stay away from this man. Do you want the wrath of Tiwaz to fall upon us?”

  The child balked and whined. “I want to hear the end of the story.”

  “Obey your mother,” Theophilus said gently from where he sat. “The story can wait for another time.”

  “You others,” the young mother said, waving her hands. “Go home and leave this man alone before Anomia finds out you’re here. Go!”

  Theophilus sat by himself for a long while, his head down. With a sigh, he rose and went back to his work stripping bark and splitting lumber for his grubenhaus. He sensed someone watching him. Pausing, he looked around and saw a man standing in the shadows some distance away. He couldn’t make out who he was, and the man made no move to approach him. Theophilus returned to his work. When he glanced up a moment later, the man was gone.

  * * *

  Rizpah was tired of hearing Varus and Atretes shouting at one another. Her head ached. It seemed to be the Chatti custom to drink before carrying on a serious debate. Other men had joined them until the longhouse was crowded with warriors, most drunk on beer, some on honeyed mead. Even the young warrior Rolf was in attendance, sitting near the wall, his expression morose, his blue eyes glittering as he listened, but he didn’t join in.

  Varus’ stubborn refusal to listen met head-on with Atretes’ stinging sarcasm. Rizpah cringed inwardly as his remarks succeeded only in driving Varus into a towering rage. Had Atretes forgotten everything Theophilus had taught him?

  She wished Freyja was present, for Atretes’ mother would’ve known how to soften this maelstrom into rational debate, but she was in the sacred woods, meditating and praying to Tiwaz.

  God, help her to see!

  Rizpah wanted to cry out for them to stop, but she knew it would be to no avail. Whenever she spoke, no one listened, not even Atretes when he was this caught up in his emotions. At first, she thought it was because she was a woman. Yet others were treated with respect. They were heard. Their words were heeded.

  Atretes told her Chatti men brought a dowry of livestock to the woman, and the woman gave the man weapons. Marriage was a partnership made for a lifetime, and the woman shared in the man’s adventure. She carried supplies of food to the battlefield and even remained to encourage her husband and sons in the fighting. Chatti men believed there resided in women an element of holiness and a gift of prophecy, which explained why Freyja and Anomia were held in awe.

  It wasn’t until Rizpah accidentally overheard a conversation between Freyja and Varus that she understood why no one listened to what she had to say. Anomia made sure no Chatti would listen, for the young priestess had warned everyone that she was an Ionian witch who had come to deceive them.

  Rizpah said nothing to Atretes about this for fear of what he would do. Anomia roused passions in him that were best left untapped, and the less he had to do with her, the better.

  Rizpah could do nothing but accept the situation. She listened as they shouted back and forth, praying with quiet dignity and perseverance all the while she served them.

  God, show me what to do. Show me how to do it. Give me your love for these people. Let me hide myself in your peace and not let the storm shake my faith.

  Even as she served food to the men debating with Atretes, she meditated on the Scriptures Shimei and Theophilus had taught her. Around her, other men filled their horns with honeyed wine and beer. She went over psalms that spoke to her of God’s sovereignty, his provision, his love—all while the men argued.

  The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. Over and over, she said the words in her mind, slowly, to calm her nerves, then even more slowly, to savor and treasure them as they brought forth the peace she craved, a peace beyond understanding.

  She didn’t think anyone noticed.

  “Guilty! How am I guilty?” Varus raged, standing on his good leg, his face contorted.

  “Sit down and hear me out!” Atretes shouted.

  “I’ve heard enough! Bow down to this weakling god of yours, but I won’t. Forgive? I’ll never bend my neck to him.”

  “You’ll bend your neck or go to hell!”

  Frightened, Caleb put his hands against his ears and started to cry. She picked him up and held him close, speaking quietly to allay his fears. Atretes became impatient. “Take him outside! Get him out of here!”

  She left the longhouse, thanking God for the respite. She let her breath out in relief and nuzzled her son’s neck. He smelled so good to her. “He’s not angry with you, little one,” she said, kissing him. “He’s angry at the world.”

  Marta’s children ran to her, eager to play with their little cousin. Laughing, she put Caleb down. Most of the children in the village ran about naked and dirty. Other than to make sure they didn’t wa
nder off too far, the mothers left them to roam and play at will. Caleb delighted in their exuberant company, as did she. What a blessed change from the gathering of angry men in the longhouse.

  “Elsa! Derek!” Marta called from where she worked at her loom just outside the doorway of her longhouse. “Come away from Rizpah and stop bothering her.”

  “They’re no bother, Marta,” Rizpah said, smiling.

  Marta ignored her. “Derek! Come here!”

  Rizpah’s smile faded as the children walked glumly back to their mother. Others were called away until she stood alone in the street, Caleb bobbing up and down and chattering excitedly. Marta spoke to her children briefly and nodded toward the woods. They argued, but were quickly silenced and sent on their way. Elsa looked back at Rizpah, her expression poignant.

  “Go, Elsa!”

  Caleb wanted to go with them. “Sa! Sa! Sa!” he said, toddling after his older cousin. Crying, Elsa started to run. Caleb fell. Pushing himself up, he cried. “Sa . . . Sa . . .”

  Hurt, Rizpah knelt down and set him aright. Brushing off his linen tunic, she kissed him. Straightening, Rizpah lifted Caleb and looked across at Marta. How could she do this?

  Pressing her face into Caleb’s neck, she prayed. “God, take my anger away,” she murmured, fighting back tears. Raising her head, she saw Marta was sitting with her head down, her hands still in her lap.

  Her anger toward her sister-in-law evaporated. Marta wasn’t cruel. She was afraid. When she looked up again, Rizpah smiled at her gently to show she held no ill will against her. She remembered what it was like to live in darkness and be afraid.

  “We’ll go for a walk and visit Theophilus,” she murmured to Caleb and started down the street again.

  “Theo . . . Theo . . .”

  “Yes, Theo.” She set him down and took his hand, pacing her steps to his much smaller ones.

  Theophilus’ grubenhaus was almost finished. A small fire was burning in the open area in front of it, but their friend was nowhere around. Curious, she stepped down into the sunken hut to see inside. He had done more digging since the last time she came to see the house. The hollow was five feet deep and ten by twelve feet in size. In the far corner was a pallet of straw and two thick, woolen blankets. Nearby was his gear, neatly stacked.