As Sure as the Dawn (51 page)

The first time the god had come upon her, she had been a child. She was sitting in her mother’s lap when everything around her faded and other things had taken their place. She had seen a woman having a child. The vision only lasted a moment and had not manifested itself in any unusual way. When the vision ebbed, she was still sitting on her mother’s lap before the fire in the longhouse. Everyone was talking around her. Her father was laughing and drinking mead with his friends.

“Sela is going to have a baby,” she said.

“What’s this you say?”

“Sela is going to have a baby,” she said again. She liked babies. Everyone rejoiced when they came. “A baby will make Sela happy, won’t it?”

“You’ve had a dream,
Liebchen,”
she said sadly. “Sela would be very happy to have a baby, but she’s barren. She and Buri have been married five years.”

“I saw her have a baby.”

Her mother looked across at her father, and he lowered his drinking horn. “What’s Freyja saying to you?”

“She said Sela is going to have a baby,” her mother said, perplexed.

“A child with a dream,” he said, dismissing it.

No one thought much about the vision. Only Freyja knew the truth of it. She sought out Sela and told her what she had seen. The dream only seemed to increase the woman’s sorrow, and so she stopped talking about the baby, though continuing to spend time with the woman.

In the fall of the following year, Sela conceived, to the amazement of everyone in the tribe. She bore a son in early summer. Everyone treated Freyja differently after that. When she had visions, they listened and believed.

The early visions were good. Babies were born. Marriages took place. Battles were won. When she foresaw Hermun, only a few years older than she, would be chief one day, her mother and father had arranged her marriage with him. It was only later that the visions became dark and foreboding.

The last portent of good had come in the wake of disaster. Rome had destroyed the alliance between the tribes, crushing the rebellion. Hermun was dead; Atretes, the new chief of the Chatti. She had seen her son’s future. He would become known in Rome. He would fight as no other Chatti had fought, and he would triumph over every foe. A storm would come that would blow across the Empire and destroy it. It would come from the north and the east and the west, and Atretes would be part of it. And there would be a woman, a woman with dark hair and dark eyes, a woman of strange ways whom he would love.

It was when all others had thought Atretes dead that she had had another vision prophesying his return . . . and that he would bring peace with him.

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.”

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 cap~tivity.

While others might covet the power of the chief, Atretes didn’t want the responsibility of leadership 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!”