As Sure as the Dawn (58 page)

Theophilus came awake in darkness. He sat up slowly, so as not to make any noise, and listened intently.

A scuffling sound at the doorway made him peer that way. Squinting, he made out a hulking shape and thought it was the bear he had seen the evening before. Moving slowly, he took his dagger from the shelf he had cut into the wall beside his pallet.

“Roman,” came a deep whisper, urgent and demanding.

Relieved, Theophilus put the knife back. “Who is it?”

The man moved back out of sight. “You don’t need to know,” he whispered.

“What do you want?”

The silence lengthened until crickets began to chirp again. Frowning, Theophilus moved so he could see out the open doorway to the stars. “Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Then speak as you will, stranger,” he said in a calm voice. “I’m listening.”

“Shhh!” There was a rustling sound, a restless movement near the doorway. “I want to know about this god of yours,” the man whispered.

The voice was indistinct, but vaguely familiar. “Why do you come asking questions in the middle of the night?”

“I don’t want to be seen by . . . I don’t want anyone to know I’m speaking with you.”

“Because I’m a Roman?”

There was a snort of derision. “No.”

Theophilus tried to put a face to the voice and couldn’t. “Are you afraid?”

“Not of you.”

The remark was said with such confidence, Theophilus didn’t doubt it. He laughed, until a surprising possibility occurred to him. “Are you a member of the
Thing?”

The man didn’t respond.

Theophilus didn’t press for an answer. “What does Atretes say to you about Jesus?”

The man gave a hoarse laugh. “He says too much. And not enough.”

“He’s new to the faith, but his heart’s good.”

“I didn’t come to hear Atretes praised.”

Animosity. Jealousy? An old grudge? Theophilus took the small clay lamp from the shelf above him and set it in the middle of the room. “Come into the light and we’ll talk.”

“No one is going to know I’ve been here.”

Theophilus frowned slightly. “I won’t tell anyone you were here.” When the man said nothing, he tried to reassure him. “I give my word what passes between us will be in complete confidence.”

“Your word. You’re a
Roman.
I’ll stay where I am.”

Theophilus reached for the lamp, intending to put it away. “Put it beside you,” the man whispered sharply.

Theophilus did so, fully cognizant the intruder wanted to be able to see his face. “Will that do?”

“It’ll do.”

Theophilus waited for the man to ask his questions. The silence lengthened. Crickets chirped. A bullfrog somewhere in the grass near the western wall croaked.

“I want to know the truth about God,” the man whispered. “Just tell me everything from the beginning.”

“Marta’s sick,” Freyja said, entering the longhouse and going to her shelves of herbs and oils.

“Sick?” Atretes said, surprised. “Since when? She was fine yesterday.”

“Since last night. Usipi came for me early this morning.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“I can’t be sure, other than she’s in pain and has a high fever.”

“Probably something she ate.” Varus took the bowl of hot grain porridge Rizpah filled for him without looking at her. “You know how she loves berries.”

“She said she’s eaten no berries.”

“If you’re not sure what’s wrong, have Anomia take a look at her. She’ll know.”

Varus spoke as though Anomia was an oracle. “Anomia’s with her now.” She didn’t tell her two sons that Marta seemed worse with the young priestess present. Varus was enamored by the sorceress, and Atretes’ temper was volatile. He wouldn’t hesitate to order Anomia away from his sister, and that would only serve to make the brothers even more antagonistic toward one another.

She looked over her larder of herbs, trying to decide what best to use. Bitter dock tea would purge her system. Ground daffodils would make her vomit. Elderberry would promote sweating. If something in Marta’s body was causing the intestinal pain, headache, and fever, a strong draught of these herbs would eliminate it quickly enough.

But what if the sickness was caused by something else, something more malevolent?

She pressed the thought away.

Meadowsweet, white willow, five-fingers, and balm were all useful in reducing fevers. So were basil-thyme, holly, and yarrow. Heliotrope eased pain, and chamomile and red poppy tea would make her sleep.

She took dried daffodil and began to grind it.

Usipi had whispered to her before she left that Marta had been troubled all night by terrible dreams in which winged creatures had swooped down upon her and dug talons into her flesh and bone.

“She said she hurts everywhere the creatures touched.”

The fever had risen with the sun.

As Freyja had watched the way the illness manifested itself, she grew afraid Marta was under the attack of spirits.

“How can I help you?” Rizpah said, startling her from her troubling thoughts.

Glancing at the beautiful Ionian, the dark thought gripped Freyja.
What if a curse had been cast upon Marta?

Anomia.

The name came to mind almost as though spoken, and with it, her own quick denial. Never. Anomia wouldn’t lay a curse upon one of her own people. If Marta had been cursed or a spell was cast upon her, it was someone else, an enemy. Or someone who envied her or wanted revenge.

She searched the Ionian’s face, using all her powers of perception to try to discern evil.

“What is it, Lady Freyja?” Rizpah said softly without looking away. Why was she staring at her like that, searching her face as though looking for something there? Rizpah came closer. “Tell me what I can do to help you.” She reached out and touched her arm.

Freyja saw only kindness and compassion in Rizpah’s eyes. Still, in self-defense, she shook off her hand. She was high priestess of Tiwaz! She must remember that. She could not allow herself to trust this young woman, whatever she seemed to be. The fact was that her son’s wife was an outsider, a proclaimed believer and servant of a foreign god who sought the destruction of Tiwaz. Freyja knew she couldn’t weaken where Rizpah was concerned.

“Look to your child,” she said, turning her back on her. “I will look to mine.”

Hurt by Lady Freyja’s harshness, Rizpah said no more. Turning, she encountered Atretes’ look. He had heard his mother’s words and was angered by them. “I’ll watch my son,” he said. “Take Rizpah with you.” It was a command, not a suggestion.

“There’s nothing your woman can do,” Freyja said, grinding herbs, “and her presence would upset Marta.”

Your woman?
Atretes’ offense deepened. “Upset her?” He set his bowl aside and rose. “Why should
Rizpah’s
presence
upset
her? She’s offered to
help.”

“Atretes,” Rizpah said in a tone of appeal to be calm. “It’s natural Marta would rather have her mother with her than a stranger.”

“You’re not a stranger. You’re
my wife.
It’s time they accepted you.”

She put her hand on his arm. “Please,” she whispered. “This isn’t the way.”

Varus set his empty bowl aside. “Let Mother see to our sister.” Grasping his walking stick, he rose and limped toward the gate to the animal stalls. “And keep your witch away from her,” he muttered under his breath.

Atretes’ face went red and then white. “What did you say?”

Varus slammed the gate and glared at him from behind it. “You heard me!”

Atretes took a step toward him.

Rizpah clutched his sleeve.
“Don’t,”
she whispered desperately, but Atretes jerked his arm free. “For the love of God, Atretes,
think
what you do,” she pleaded softly. “Remember what we talked about.”

The interlude they’d shared in the forest came back with a rush of clarity.
Be angry, but do not sin.
It took his entire will to check the rage that had come upon him like a wild storm, but he stayed where he was.

Varus frowned. Troubled, he looked between them before he turned away and limped down the corridor, banging stalls open as he went.

Freyja’s hands trembled as she ground herbs. Fear shivered in her, and she didn’t know the cause for it. She poured honeyed mead into a cup. Marta liked the taste. Adding the ground herbs to it, she stirred, beseeching her god to make the brew work. She reached into a basket and took four cloves of garlic to turn back the evil forces of black magic.

Turning, she saw her son looking at her solemnly. He took Rizpah’s arm and pulled her in front of him. Putting his hands on her shoulders, he drew her against him. The gesture was deliberate. He was putting his wife before her and all the rest. “If you need us,” he said, a muscle jerking in his cheek, “you know where to find us.”

Disturbed, Freyja left them without a word. Crossing the street, she entered her daughter’s home.

“Lady Freyja’s here,” Usipi said, and Anomia rose from beside Marta’s bed.

“I will go to the sacred grove and pray for her,” the young priestess said solemnly, her quiet statement suggesting Tiwaz was visiting this illness upon Marta. She took Marta’s hand and patted it. “Your mother will try to make you more comfortable.”

Marta looked into Anomia’s pale blue eyes and saw no hope. “I don’t want to die.”

Anomia smiled. “Who said you were going to die?”
You will just suffer. Oh, you will suffer until I’m satisfied you’ve suffered enough.

“You’re not going to die,” Freyja said, determined to instill hope in her daughter. She came closer, so close Anomia had to release Marta’s hand and move back from her. Freyja sat down beside her daughter.

“It hurts, Mama,” Marta said, gripping her stomach. “It hurts so much. It’s as though something is chewing at me.”

“Drink this.”

“I can’t.”

She saw how Marta’s eyes were still fixed upon Anomia. “Drink it,” she said, helping her rise enough that she could. “All of it.” She shifted her body so her daughter could not see the young priestess standing nearby. “That’s it,
Liebchen,”
she said soothingly, brushing her daughter’s thick blonde braid back over her shoulder. “The brew will purge you.”

“A purge will only make her hurt more,” Anomia said tonelessly, moving back, gloating inside.

Freyja glanced back at Anomia in the shadows. “Before you leave, tell Derek to find and pick a bunch of squill.” The plant with narrow leaves and bell-shaped blue flowers would ward off evil spells.

“As you say, my lady,” Anomia said, her opaque eyes once again on Marta. She was secretly amused. “If you think it can help, I will go myself.” She turned away.

Marta shuddered violently.

“Bring pans and cloths,” Freyja told Usipi. “Quickly.”

Usipi did as he was told and then stood by to help. The purging was swift and fierce, leaving his wife drained and weakened. The cramps and spasms continued long after everything had been eliminated from her body.

“It’s not helping, Mother,” he groaned, feeling his wife’s every pain as though it were his own.

“Ohhh, Mama . . .”

Trembling, Freyja washed Marta like a baby. Sweat poured from Marta’s slender body. Surely the impurities were being expelled with it. But the pain, the pain was so intense. “I’m going to brew something to ease your discomfort and help you rest,” she said, kissing Marta’s brow. She turned to Usipi, his face white and strained. “Try to help her stay calm. And you, as well.”

As Freyja left, he lay down beside his wife, drawing her close as she began to shake with chills.

Over the next two days, Freyja brewed teas of cowslip and chamomile to ease her daughter’s pain, and chickweed, heliotrope, and devil’s bit to treat internal inflammation. Red poppy and wild thyme brought drugged sleep, but still the fever raged. Even teas of sweet coltsfoot, feverfew, and meadowsweet did nothing to cool it.

Marta’s skin was hot and dry as the dying leaves of fall that were even now dropping to the ground. Winter and death approached.

Derek climbed high in an ancient oak and cut fresh mistletoe for his father. Usipi hung the sprigs through the longhouse in an attempt to ward off witchcraft. Freyja searched frantically through the woods until she found squill. She hung the the bell-shaped red flowers over Marta’s bed to protect her from evil spells. Usipi hung so much garlic, the air reeked of it.

Nothing helped.

“You spoke with the Ionian,” Freyja heard Anomia tell Marta quietly one evening. “I warned you Tiwaz would not be pleased, didn’t I?”

Freyja went cold listening to her. She looked at Anomia’s hand stroking Marta’s arm and wanted to tear her away from her daughter. Instead, she moved into the lamplight and saw the start of surprise in Anomia’s eyes. Clearly, the young priestess hadn’t wanted her close enough to hear.

“I would speak with you, Anomia.”

“Of course, Mother Freyja.” As Anomia rose gracefully and followed her outside, she brushed her fingers along Marta’s arm. “We’ll talk more later.”

Fury rose in Freyja, but wisdom held her silent. She turned to the younger woman when they were outside the longhouse, keeping her expression calm with effort. “Do you truly believe this illness is brought on by the wrath of Tiwaz?”