Rizpah uttered a startled gasp as Atretes released her abruptly and sat up. “What is it?” she said with a rush of frightened concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Give me a minute,” he said, his voice ragged. When she sat up and reached for him, he was harsh. “Don’t get close to me!”
That’s what he felt, and Anomia had roused it. He couldn’t be near her and not see what she wanted, not feel the desire mount in him as well. The realization stunned him. What was worse, he knew it would happen again.
Was it only because she looked so much like Ania?
Raking his fingers into his hair, he held his head. Already, he hurt with what he had started and not finished. And he wouldn’t finish, not with what was going on in his mind.
He loved Rizpah. He cherished her. He’d die for her. How could he be holding her in his arms and making love to her while thinking of another. It was the worst kind of betrayal. It stank of adultery.
“God, forgive me.”
Rizpah heard him mumble something, but not what it was.
“God, deliver me.”
She heard that and went to him, putting her arms around him. He shook her off and shoved her back from him.
Hear my cry, Lord, Atretes prayed fervently. Wipe that witch from my mind. Wipe every woman I’ve ever touched from my mind. Make me clean for Rizpah. Make me clean.
Calmer, his mind clearing, he turned to reassure his wife. But the damage was already done.
43
Winter agreed with Anomia’s cold blood. She chose her time and listeners carefully. Those who were among her chosen carried grudges and unfulfilled desires, discontent and disappointment. She invited them to her dwelling place of shadows and poured honeyed wine into their drinking horns and bittersweet vitriol into their hearts. They went away parched and came back over and over again, thinking she could slake their thirst.
“Atretes speaks of guilt. The guilt of sin, whatever sin may be,” she said, her beauty sharpened by derision. “Why should we feel guilty? The Bructeri betray us by fornicating with Rome, do they not? The Hermunduri stole our sacred salt flats, did they not? He is deceived.”
The men readily agreed, their eyes moving over her in ardent fascination.
She smiled, feeling the power she had over them, the power they gave her of their own free will.
“We are the greatest among the German tribes. Chatti led the forces against Rome. We were first into the field and last to leave. And now, this Roman and this Ionian woman have worked upon Atretes, the greatest of all our warriors, and turned his heart away from Tiwaz. What would they have us believe about ourselves? That we are nothing. Nothing?”
A growl came from the men, their pride burning.
She fanned the flames of their discontent and added the fuel of ungodly desires.
“They claim we’ve sinned.” She gave a derisive laugh and a wave of her hand. “How can I or any of you be held responsible for what one man or one woman did thousands of years ago in a garden none of us have ever known existed? It’s ludicrous. It’s laughable! Is Herigast responsible for his son dropping his shield in battle? No. Is Holt accountable for the men who died to defend our land? No. None of us are responsible for what someone else has done. And we are not responsible for the sin of this nonexistent Adam and Eve.”
She moved around the circle, serving them, staying close enough to see the look in their eyes, to encourage their passions. “It’s a fable they tell us, a repulsive little tale with a dark purpose. And I’ll tell you what it is.”
She saw she held them in her hand and relished their rapt attention to her every word. They soaked each one in like dry earth drinks in rain.
“They want us to believe we carry the sin of this Adam and Eve because by believing it, we become weak. They want us to feel like worms before this god of theirs. They want to conquer us without even having to send a legion.”
She gave a soft, disquieting laugh. “Are we worms in the eyes of Tiwaz? No. But if we listen to them, we will be worms. Worms in Roman eyes.”
“Atretes swears on his sword that his wife was raised up from death,” one man said, uneasy.
“A trick,” she said, dismissing it airily, and poured more wine. She brushed hands as she poured, moving close so the small gathering of men would inhale the scent of sweet herbs she had rubbed on her skin. Let them hunger. Let them thirst.
“They’d like us to swallow this invented religion of theirs. They say they want to save you. But do they? Do they really care? From what do you need to be saved? From the pride of being Chatti? We are Chatti. We are the fiercest, bravest of all the people of Germania. We are a race above all others. Is it any wonder they come to us in the disguise of peace, bringing with them poisonous ideas?”
She filled them with the bile of suspicion and anger, and then told them to keep it secret within them.
“Where we go, other tribes will follow, right over the Alps to rip the heart from Rome. Ah, but if we listen to them and accept this new god as a weak few are doing, Rome will have conquered us without raising a finger. And then we will be low and weak and unworthy, just as they already think we are.”
“We should kill them.”
“No,” she said, seeing her words take root and spread like nightshade and belladonna. “No, we won’t kill them. Not yet. We must be as cunning as they in order to win Atretes back,” she told them. “The time will come when both will be destroyed, but we must wait for now and be wise.
“When you speak with Atretes, pretend to listen while closing your ears and hearts to what he says. Use the opportunity to remind him of the acts of atrocity that Rome has perpetuated upon us. Remind him of his father’s death. Remind him of the countless others who have died or been taken as slaves. Ask him about his life in Rome. He was used as entertainment. Let him remember what it was like to be treated as an animal. Remembering will turn him back to himself. We need him. Go cautiously.”
She smiled. “We will prevail.” She instilled her arrogant confidence into them. “Remember, we are many, they but a few. Now go and do the will of Tiwaz.”
44
Anomia’s words had a devastating effect. The men followed her instructions skillfully, seeming to listen to the truth while asking questions that stirred up memories Atretes had fought so hard to bury.
Rizpah saw how the questions plagued Atretes. He never talked about his life in the ludus or what it was like to fight in the arena. She had never asked. The men, sensitive to pride, had avoided asking him before. Yet now they seemed unduly curious, intent on knowing.
They weren’t satisfied with or sensitive to the brevity of Atretes’ answers. They wanted more. “I’ve heard that . . . ,” one would say, prefacing a question that sent Atretes back into slavery.
“What was it like to fight in the arenas of Rome?” a young warrior asked.
“Is it true they dress you up in shiny armor and fancy, colored plumes and make you parade around so the Roman mob can look at you?”
Rizpah would see that look come into Atretes’ eyes. “Sometimes less.”
“How much less?” Rolf said with a frown.
Atretes turned his head slowly and looked at the younger man. Rolf said nothing more.
But others did.
“I’ve heard the lanista gives you a woman if you perform well enough.”
Atretes’ eyes flickered to Rizpah and away.
“Like a bone for an obedient dog,” another said softly from the opposite side.
Atretes’ face whitened in anger.
The remarks surrounded him like a pack of wolves. They snapped and growled and tore away chunks of his peace of mind. Doubts, like hot coals beneath a camouflage of gray ash, began to surface, their hot breath blowing away the thin blanket and fueling the dark memories underneath.
He tolerated their questions with uncharacteristic control, but the next morning, in Theophilus’ grubenhaus, he let his anger show.
“They ask questions about God I
can’t answer.” Closed in the warmth of Theophilus’ home, he felt free to give in to his frustration. “Answer this! If God’s so merciful and loving, why does he let evil exist? Why didn’t he destroy Satan instead of allowing him free reign on the earth?”
Rizpah held Caleb in her lap and watched Atretes. He acted like a caged animal. Last night, he had lain awake for hours, and when he did sleep, he was restless with nightmares. He had cried out once and sat up, but when she tried to talk to him, he told her to leave him alone.
“Sit down, Atretes,” Theophilus said calmly.
“‘Sit down,’” Atretes growled. “I’ve been sitting for weeks! I forgot how much I hated winter.” He glowered at his friend. “Just answer the questions, if you can.”
“God permits evil so that he can demonstrate his mercy and grace through the redemption of sinners. All things work to good purpose—”
“Don’t talk to me of good purpose! What good purpose is there in being branded? What good purpose in beatings and constant training? Tell me!”
Theophilus saw what was happening. “It wasn’t God who made you a slave, Atretes. It was men. It wasn’t God who did those things to you. The heart of man is wickedness.”
Rizpah watched the old anger stirring in her husband. Too often, lately, his temper erupted over the smallest incident, the most innocent remark. He would lash out at her over trivial matters after the men had had their long evening together. Even a soft answer brought his temper to the surface.
“Maybe Rizpah’s right,” Atretes said. “Maybe I should listen to them more.” He left, slamming Theophilus’ door so hard it banged twice. Setting Caleb aside, Rizpah rose and watched him stride through the snow and into the woods.
“I wish we could go back,” she said. “I wish we could take Caleb and go back to Rome and find the others.”
“God wants us here.”
“Why?” She was as agitated and incensed as Atretes had been. His anger seemed to rouse her own. “None of these people want to hear the truth. You should hear the men each night in the longhouse, going on and on about the battles they’ve won or want to win. They boast and gloat and they drink until they can hardly stand up to go home. None of them have a heart for the Lord, Theophilus. Not one!”
“Two do,” he said, “and probably others, though they haven’t the courage to show themselves. Not yet.”
She stilled in surprise. “What do you mean?”
He told her about his night visitors. “Trust in the Lord, Rizpah. His Word doesn’t go out and come back empty.”
“Well, God is taking too long,” she said, hugging herself against the cold. “Atretes’ faith is crumbling.”
“All the more reason for you to remain strong, beloved.”
She turned and looked at him. She had hoped for reassurance, but Theophilus saw as well as she did what was happening to Atretes. “Be strong, you tell me.” Her eyes welled. “I’m not strong, Theophilus, not like you are. If we couldn’t come here and speak with you, we’d both fall apart.”
Theophilus stood and took her hands in his. “You must listen to me, Rizpah. Look to the Lord, not to me.”
“I’m afraid of what’s happening to him. They won’t relent,” she said. “They torment him with questions and debate. Sometimes I think they do it deliberately, just to make him hate Rome and the Bructeri and the Hermunduri and everyone who isn’t Chatti. They make me so angry. And that woman . . .”
“You know the Word of the Lord. Don’t let yourself be moved by their words. God is allowing Satan to sift Atretes, just as the apostle Peter was sifted. Each one of us is sifted. We go through fire.”
“For some, it’s worse.” She took her hands from his and went outside. Drawing the cold air into her lungs, she wondered if she should follow Atretes and talk with him.
“Leave him alone, Rizpah,” Theophilus said quietly from the open doorway. “Let him think.”
“Sometimes he thinks too much and all about the wrong things.”
“He’s going to have to choose.”
She knew he was right. Atretes needed to be alone. He needed to be away from the clamor of men and her. Everyone was pulling at him. “They want their leader back, Theophilus,” she said bleakly. “They want him the way he used to be, a warrior to lead them into battle.”
“Atretes put himself in God’s hands when he believed in Christ and was saved.”
“You don’t understand. I think he wants to lead them.”
“To God.”
“That was true when we first came here. I don’t know if it is anymore.”
“He’s learning the hard way that he can’t employ the same methods of persuasion he always has used. Strength and pride won’t work. Weakness and humility are the only way.”
“Atretes doesn’t know how to be weak and humble.”
“Then let go of him, Rizpah, and let God teach him.”
She closed her eyes. “Sometimes I see a look on his face . . .” She looked out at the stark white snow again.
Theophilus came outside to stand beside her. He could see the struggle going on within her and wanted to put his arms around her and comfort her. But there was trouble enough brewing without creating further tensions. Atretes wasn’t in a rational mood, and he doubted he had gone far.
Rizpah sighed. “Holt said to him last night that a man feels more alive when he’s facing death. Is that true?” When he didn’t answer, she glanced up at him. Her lips parted in surprise. “You miss the fighting, too, don’t you?”
Theophilus gave her a rueful smile. “Sometimes. Less as I get older.” His expression became solemn. “Less as I draw closer to the Lord.”
“I wish I could understand.”
“You do, in part. You don’t contend with Atretes the way you once did. The Lord has softened you.”
“Softened my head, perhaps.”
He laughed. “Softened your heart, beloved.” He touched her shoulder. “Let him soften you more. Pray for these people, especially the ones who are trying to pull Atretes back to the old ways. Even Anomia.”
“I do, but I don’t see any answers coming on the horizon.”
Looking toward the woods where Atretes had gone, Theophi- lus became pensive. “Give thanks for what’s happening.” He knew worse was coming. He could feel the darkness gathering force around them. “Tribulation brings about perseverance; and perseverance, proven character. Proven character brings hope.” He looked at her. “Hope never disappoints, beloved, because the love of God is being poured out within our hearts through the Holy Spirit. And it will be that love, the love of God, that turns these people to Christ.”
“Two, maybe more,” she said with a smile.
He felt a bond with her that had grown stronger over the past few months. He had watched her grow in Christ. She said she wasn’t strong, but she was stronger than she realized, and the Lord would give her even more strength when the time came to stand. She thought she had no influence, that nothing was changing, that God wasn’t working. What other reason had Satan for attacking her from all sides?
Theophilus ran his hand lightly over her hair. He loved her, maybe a little too much.
“Put on your armor, beloved. The battle is coming.”
“What should I do to help Atretes?”
“Give him time.”
45
Spring came early, bringing with it an exuberance and trembling excitement that swept the Chatti. Hunting was good and feasting lasted far into the night. The younger warriors stripped off every scrap of clothing and danced over the swords and frameas while the men and women laughed and shouted encouragement.
Rolf left the bachelor’s longhouse and built a grubenhaus of his own. When he disappeared without a word, some of the warriors went looking for his body, but found no trace of him.
A fortnight passed and Rolf appeared, a Hermunduri girl with him. Her hands were bound in front of her, another loop of rope around her neck. Rolf held it firmly in his hand.
/> “What’s she look like under all that dirt?” Rud laughed.
The men surrounded Rolf and his captive and began teasing him with ribald remarks.
“I’ll give you a horse for her,” Reudi said, grinning as he looked the girl over from head to foot. “She may be dirty, but she has a nice shape.”
Rizpah stood just outside the longhouse, filled with pity for the girl.
Anomia watched as well, gloating over the fruition of her plan. Rolf had glimpsed the girl during the battle with the Hermunduri the spring before, and Anomia had encouraged him to go back and get her. She hoped her father or brothers would come after her. An attack would serve to rouse the winter-lethargic Chatti into fighting spirit again.
“I’ll give you two horses!” an older man called out.
Rizpah’s anger grew as she listened to the men taunting the poor girl and bidding over her like they would an animal.
Rolf, normally able to take ribbing, was thunderous. “She’s not for sale!”
The girl uttered a frightened cry and swung around as one of the warriors took liberties. Rolf knocked the man back, to the loud guffaws of the others.
“Don’t be selfish. Share her!”
“Touch her again, Buri, and I’ll cut your hand off.”
The warrior barked out a laugh. “She looks as dark as Atretes’ woman.” He caught the front of her tunic and ripped it. “But she’s white under the dirty rags.”
Rolf lunged at him.
Gasping at the violence of the fight, Rizpah wished Atretes were there to stop the fracas, but he was hunting with Theophilus. Freyja was in the sacred woods gathering herbs, and Anomia, who could have done something to stop it, stood in her doorway, laughing and deriving obvious pleasure from seeing the men pounding one another.
Buri went down amidst shouts and more laughter.
The Hermunduri girl was crying hysterically and slapping at another warrior who sought to fondle her. Rolf made swift work of Buri and turned on him.
Rizpah shifted Caleb and set him on his feet. Kneeling before him, she gripped his shoulders. “Stay right here and don’t move.” He nodded. “Pray for Mama,” she said and kissed him. He nodded again. She left him in the doorway of the longhouse and walked quickly down the street toward the jostling men who were shouting challenges. She was affronted by their crude laughter.