“We can rejoice,” Theophilus had said during a time of tribulation. “We can pray. We can praise God.”
And she set her mind and heart upon doing these things, no matter what came against her.
50
“It’s been ten days, Atretes,” Freyja said and saw the flash of anger in her son’s eyes, clear warning he didn’t want to speak of his wife. But she had to speak of Rizpah. Ten days was too long for a woman to be on her own at the edge of the forest. And he knew it. She had watched his tension increase with every day that passed. Rizpah had no food other than what little might be growing in the Roman’s garden, and how long would that last? She had no protection, and Freyja felt the spiritual forces moving until the air trembled.
“You can’t leave her out there on her own.”
He was pale, his emotions raw. He continued staring into the fire, the muscle working in his jaw.
“You must bring her back.”
“No.”
“Caleb needs his mother.”
“He has you.”
“He misses her. You miss her.”
Swearing, Atretes stood abruptly. “Leave it be!”
She saw the pain behind his fury. He had expected Rizpah to capitulate. When he had returned from the funeral fire, he had thrust Caleb into his mother’s arms and sat before the fire. She had asked where Rizpah was, and all he had said was, “She knows who did it, but she won’t tell me. Until she does, she’s not welcome in this house.” He sat before the fire, leaving her stunned and filled with questions. “She’ll come,” he said, punching his right fist into his left palm. “She’ll come before morning.”
He had waited all night for her. When morning had come, he was still sitting before the fire, staring so intently into the flames that he didn’t even hear the pitiful wailing of his hungry son. She had taken Caleb to Marta who was still nursing Luisa. She had milk enough for two.
Now Atretes looked around the room. “Where’s Caleb?” he said, eyes blazing. “Did you take him to Rizpah?”
“I took him to Marta. He hasn’t been weaned.”
“He’s old enough.”
“He’s confused and frightened enough without doing that to him.”
“I don’t care,” Atretes said, running his fingers through his hair. “Do what you think best, only don’t give him to Rizpah. No matter how much she pleads, don’t let her touch him.”
“She hasn’t come to me. She hasn’t pleaded. She—”
“Enough! See to the boy and leave me alone!”
Varus spread the word through the village that Atretes had cast Rizpah out because she refused to tell him who had killed the Roman. No one understood her reasoning, least of all Varus, who carried the news. Why would the Ionian set herself in the path of vengeance over a man she had loved as much as Atretes? It made no sense. Her logic defied reason. Had the Ionian gone mad with grief?
Only Atretes knew it was not madness. It was her stubborn will that kept her from giving in. And knowing made him all the more angry.
People could talk of little else, though they didn’t dare do so in Atretes’ hearing.
On the twelfth day, Freyja waited until Atretes went out with Usipi to hunt. She took the path that had been worn from the back of the longhouse to the glen and Theophilus’ grubenhaus. Crossing the open space, she saw Rizpah working in the garden. She looked like any other young woman going about her daily chores, but as Freyja came nearer, she heard Rizpah talking to herself as she loosened the soil and plucked weeds. The poor woman had gone mad.
“Rizpah?” she said cautiously.
She glanced up in surprise, and Freyja saw the ugly yellowing bruise on the left side of her face. “You startled me,” Rizpah said and straightened. She brushed back a few loose tendrils of dark hair with the back of her hand. “Did Atretes send you?”
Freyja’s heart sank at the look of hope in her dark eyes. “No.”
“Oh,” Rizpah said softly and looked toward the village. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, fighting back the tears, and then looked at Freyja again. She felt the older woman’s discomfort and sympathy and smiled. “How is Caleb?”
“Marta’s taking care of him.”
Rizpah nodded. “I knew I could depend on you to see to his needs,” was all she said, her smile filled with gratitude. She made no protest, uttered no heart-wrenching appeal or angry accusations, but Freyja felt the terrible toll of separation. Rizpah was not mad at all. She was resolved. She had set her course, and no wind would change it. Freyja wished she could understand.
“Why won’t you tell Atretes who killed Theophilus?”
“Because he would kill the man.”
“Is that so hard to understand?”
“Are you eager for more blood?”
“Of course not, but neither do I condone murder.”
“Nor do I, Mother Freyja.” She thought of the ceremonial dagger hidden in the tree. She searched Freyja’s face for subterfuge and saw none. She thought of showing her the dagger and finding out whether it was Gundrid or Anomia behind Theophilus’ death, and then decided against it. Not only Rolf would die. How many others were involved?
“I want to understand,” Freyja said.
“Theophilus told me not to tell Atretes who it was,” she said simply.
“But why? Surely the Roman would want his life avenged.”
“No.” Rizpah smiled gently. “Jesus forgave those who crucified him. Theophilus forgave as well. I can do no less.”
“Atretes can’t.”
“He can if he so chooses.”
“He won’t. It’s not in his nature to forgive the way you mean. It’s not the Chatti way.”
“It’s not in anyone’s nature, Lady Freyja, but it’s the will of God.” Her eyes filled again. “In Christ, anything is possible, even changing a man’s heart. I pray for that constantly, that God will change Atretes’ heart. And mine.” She couldn’t ask God to do something in Atretes’ life that she wasn’t willing to have done in her own.
Freyja wished she had brought her something—bread, cheese, a shawl to keep her warm.
Rizpah saw her dilemma and smiled. “The Lord is with me, Mother Freyja.”
Freyja felt a shivering warmth within her at Rizpah’s words and saw a look of serenity that was beyond anything she had ever felt in her life. How was it possible? “It’s not right that you’re the one punished.”
“I thought that at first, but it was deception. This isn’t punishment. It’s war. Theophilus battled against the forces of darkness that live and breathe in this place, and now I must stand in his place.”
Freyja paled and drew back.
Rizpah saw her fear. “You know what I mean, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes that you understand. And you’re afraid. But I tell you this: Christ’s love casts out fear, Mother Freyja. If you will let Jesus redeem you, you need never be afraid again.”
“I didn’t come to speak of your god,” Freyja said, disturbed by the feelings that gripped her, wondering yet again what it was about the name Jesus that made her shake inside. She clutched the amber pendant to protect herself, praying the spirit would not come upon her again.
It had not since Theophilus touched her.
Rizpah was saddened to see her so afraid. “The Lord will bring to light the things hidden in the darkness and disclose the motives in a man’s heart.” Or that of a woman. She wondered if Freyja had played an unwitting part in the tragedy, and knew if she had, it would distress them both to know it. “I can’t set Atretes’ feet on the path to murder. I won’t. If he goes that way, he will go of his own free will and not with my assistance.”
Freyja knew there was no use in talking to her. The young woman was set upon her strange task. However misguided she was, she sought only to protect Atretes from himself, not hurt him. Perhaps, given time, she would come to understand and accept that feuding and revenge were ingrained in their lives.
“I am sorry your friend was killed,” s
he said with all sincerity. “He was not like other Romans.” Seeing Rizpah’s eyes fill again, she wished she hadn’t spoken. “It wasn’t my intent to hurt you more, Rizpah, but to see if I could help bring about reconciliation.”
“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy,” Rizpah said softly, her eyes aglow with love.
Stifling the soft cry that welled within her, Freyja turned and hurried away.
“Tell Atretes I love him, Mother Freyja,” Rizpah called out to her. “Tell him I always will.”
Freyja paused and looked back. Tears running down her cheeks, Rizpah crouched again and plucked at some small weeds at the base of a small stalk of corn.
“I will tell him.”
But when she did, Atretes wouldn’t listen. “Even my mother betrays me!”
He took his possessions and moved into Rud’s longhouse with the warriors who had no wives.
51
Anomia was vexed by the amount of interest expended on the Ionian, but hid her feelings. She had called together the secret council twice since the Roman had been killed, and each time fewer came. Neither time had Rolf appeared. When she asked where he was, the men laughed about a young man’s lust, but Anomia sensed it was more than that.
Rolf should have sought her out. Several times she had seen him in the village since the night the lot was cast and the dagger was given to him. He always avoided her. If he didn’t come to her soon, she would have to seek him out. Pride chafed at the thought, but she needed the dagger. It must be returned to the sacred tree where it was kept with the other emblems of faith in Tiwaz. And it had to be placed there before the new moon.
She thought of threatening him with exposure, but knew she couldn’t. Just as the sacred vow of secrecy and blood prevented the men from revealing who the Roman’s killer was, it bound her, too. If she exposed him, she would lose the others’ trust.
She wanted the dagger in her hands again.
Frustrated, she turned her thoughts away from it. It didn’t really matter. It was only a matter of time now before everything fell into place and she had all she deserved. Even if the woman revealed Rolf now, Anomia doubted Atretes would forgive her. He was Chatti through and through. It wasn’t in him to forgive. She smiled.
She had won already. Oh, if they but knew. The war was almost over. Soon, they would know it. All of them. A few careful hints, and Atretes would take his revenge. Rolf would die in punishment for his lapse. When Atretes killed him, the loosening hold the Ionian and her weakling god had upon him would be broken. Tiwaz would reign supreme in his life again. He would be their warrior chief. No mention would ever be made of the Chatti needing a savior or bowing down to another god. She would see to that.
Anomia laughed in profane delight, reveling in the knowledge that she, and only she, had accomplished the task Tiwaz had set before her. The Roman was dead, the Ionian cast out.
What more could Tiwaz ask of her?
Soon she would have the power she craved, and with it, the man she wanted. Atretes.
* * *
A tapping awakened Rizpah in the predawn hours.
“Woman,” came a gruff whisper, “I’ve left something for you. You’d best get it before the animals do.” She heard running footsteps.
Rising sleepily, she opened the door and went outside to see who had come, but they were already gone. Bread, cheese, a skin of honeyed wine, and a dead rabbit had been left for her on a woven reed mat. She thanked God for the food and for the heart that had been moved by him to give it.
Two, at least, Theophilus had told her. Perhaps more.
Were they praying for her? She prayed for them all morning as she made a fire and roasted the rabbit. Whoever they are, Lord, watch over them and protect them. Let their faith deepen. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. Green beans and squash had sustained her, but this was a feast straight from heaven.
Needing to wash, she headed for the small stream nearby. She found the place where she always took Caleb to bathe. Wading in, fully clothed, she let the tears come as she bathed. Marta was good with Caleb, and he loved little Luisa. He was safe. She was comforted in knowing that, though she would never stop missing him. He was part of her, just as Atretes was, and the separation was as painful as if flesh had been torn away.
Who will teach my son about you, Lord? If Atretes doesn’t turn back, who will teach Caleb the truth? Will he grow up the way Atretes did, trained to be a warrior, schooled in feuding among neighbors and his own people? Will he be like Rolf or Varus or Rud and a hundred others? Lord, please be with him. Make him a man after your own heart. Please, Lord.
When she came out of the stream, she wrung the water from her hair and loosened the folds of her garments. Her mind was so occupied with praying that she didn’t hear the man approaching, nor see him standing in the trees. When she did, she stumbled back, fear her immediate reaction, then anger swiftly following.
“Did you come to kill me, too, Rolf?”
He said nothing. He just stood there in the shadows, silent, motionless, but she saw in his face what no words could have expressed. Fear and anger dissolved as she was moved by deep compassion. She came up the bank until she stood within a few feet of him. He looked so young, so wounded.
“You can talk to me. I’ll listen.”
His throat worked. She waited, tears brimming in her eyes as she saw the suffering in his.
“I was deceived. I . . .” He looked down at the ground, unable to look into her eyes. She saw his hands clench and unclench at his sides. “I let myself be deceived,” he amended and looked at her again. “He just stood there and let me do it. He said . . .” His face worked. “He said . . .”
“He said he forgave you,” Rizpah said in a trembling whisper, when he couldn’t finish. She saw clearly how love had broken through his walls.
Rolf started to cry. “He spared my life, and I took his.” He hadn’t wanted to give in to unmanly tears, but they came, hot and heavy. He couldn’t restrain them. Remembering Theophilus’ face as he stabbed him the second time, he sank to his knees, his head in his hands, sobs wracking his body.
Rizpah put her arms around him. “I forgive you, too,” she said, stroking his hair as she would a hurt child’s. “Jesus forgives you. Take your heavy burdens to the Lord, for he is gentle and humble in heart; and you will find rest for your soul. His yoke is light and easy, Rolf, and he will give you rest.”
52
Atretes came awake abruptly, breathing heavily as he stared up at a beamed roof. His heart slowed from its racing pace as he realized he lay in the straw of the bachelors’ longhouse, surrounded by the rattling snores from the others who lay strewn nearby, blown down by whatever wind of passion had come upon them. Too much ale, too much living.
His body ached and his head throbbed from too much wine. He had drunk until he couldn’t stand the night before, but not enough to drive the dreams away, nor fill the emptiness he felt.
He thought about Rizpah. He could still see the look on her face after he had hit her. Something else he couldn’t forget. He tried to justify himself. If she had told him who the murderer was, everything would be settled by now. Theophilus’ death would be avenged, and they could go on as they had.
The Spirit within him revolted at such thinking. It wouldn’t give him peace, plaguing him constantly. He tried to lie to himself, but the truth was there, inside him.
“Feed the sheep.”
He groaned. Sitting up, he rubbed his face. The headache intensified, his stomach churning. The dream was still too vivid in his mind, vivid enough to bring physical consequences. Stumbling to his feet, he barely made it out the back of the longhouse before he vomited. When the spasms were over, he leaned heavily back against the building, squinting against the afternoon sunlight. What time of day was it?
And what did he care? He wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t doing anything.
He had forgotten what it was like to live without hope, without love.
The strength of his body was wasting away. He seemed to spend every day lamenting. He felt a heavy hand upon him. His vitality was draining away as though the fever of rage sapped his strength. Not a night went by that he didn’t dream of death or of life so painful he didn’t want to live it. He saw the countless faces of men whose lives he had taken. He saw Bato dying by his own hand. He saw Pugnax chased down and torn to pieces by dogs. Sometimes he ran with him, heart in his throat, hearing the growls and feeling the snapping teeth behind him.
Then there were the dreams of Julia putting Caleb on the rocks and laughing when he couldn’t get to him before the waves did. She always vanished as he ran into the crashing surf, trying desperately to find his son in the cold, frothing water. And then he’d see Caleb, always out of reach, swirling and dipping and sucked under by the dark currents.
Worst of all, he dreamed of Rizpah standing outside the grubenhaus, weeping. “Why didn’t you do what he asked of you? Why didn’t you feed the sheep?” And everywhere he looked were people he knew, lying dead—in the meadows, beneath the trees, in the longhouses, along the streets of the village, as though struck down during normal chores and living. Rud, Holt, Usipi, Marta, Varus, his mother, the children, all of them, dead!
“Why didn’t you feed the sheep?” Rizpah would weep as she had this morning before he had awakened. And then she, too, was gone, swallowed by the encroaching darkness, and he was left alone, facing unspeakable terror.
Atretes wanted to shake away the memory of the dream.
“Feed the sheep.”
“I tried!” Atretes groaned aloud. Angry, he looked up into the sky. “I tried, and no one listened!”
“Are you talking to yourself now, Atretes?”
He turned sharply at the soft, faintly mocking voice and saw Anomia standing at the corner of the longhouse. She smiled at him, a slow, provocative smile, and came into the open. As she walked toward him, he couldn’t help but notice her body, lush and graceful. “A long night of drinking?”
“What are you doing here?”