As Sure as the Dawn (49 page)

“I speak the truth, Mother. Tiwaz is powerless compared to Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God. Tiwaz can kill. Christ raises the dead.” He looked at Theophilus, his eyes fiery with excitement. “Tell them!”

“Tell us nothing, Roman,” Anomia said, in a voice cold with authority.

Incredulous, Atretes looked at her again. His face reddened with anger. Who was this girl to speak thus in his own home? “Theophilus will speak and you will listen or leave.”

“You are no longer chief of the Chatti, Atretes,” she said smoothly, in complete control. “You no longer command.”

Atretes rose slowly. Anomia merely smiled, seeming almost pleased to see his anger flaming higher.

“You’re in my home, Anomia,” Freyja said.

Anomia turned her head. “Do you wish me to leave?”

It was a quiet question, spoken in feigned surprise, but Rizpah felt the atmosphere grow cold. She sensed the subtle challenge.

Freyja raised her chin in grave dignity. “He is my son.” She put her hand over the pendant she wore, meeting Anomia’s cool look with studied intensity.

Anomia gave a nod. “So he is.” She rose gracefully from the thronelike chair. “As you wish, Freyja.” She looked at Atretes again, noticing with satisfaction the way his gaze moved down over her body and back up again. He was a man of earthly passions, and those passions could be used to cloud his thinking and serve her purposes. She smiled at him.

Atretes watched her leave. The sway of her hips conjured lustful thoughts and roused strong memories of times with women in the cold stone ludus cell. He frowned, disturbed, then turned and sat down again. Varus was staring after Anomia with hungry eyes, his gaze lingering on the door she closed after herself.

“Isn’t she a little young to be a priestess?” Atretes said dryly.

His mother looked at him in faint warning. “Tiwaz chose her as a child.”

“She’s a seer?”

“She hasn’t experienced visions as I have. Her gifts lie in sorcery and the black arts. Pay her respect, Atretes. She has great power.”

“You mustn’t challenge her,” Marta said, clearly frightened of the younger woman.

“She hasn’t the power of God,” Atretes said disdainfully.

“She has the power of Tiwaz!” Varus said, his emotions still running high.

“Our people revere her as a goddess,” Freyja said, her slender hands loosely folded on her lap.

“A goddess,” Atretes snorted. “You want to hear of power? Rizpah was killed by Mattiaci warriors. I watched her die, Mother. With my own eyes.” He saw their doubts, felt them. “If there’s one thing I’ve seen in plenty the last eleven years, it’s death.” He pointed to Theophilus. “This man laid his hands upon her and prayed in the name of Jesus Christ. I watched her awakened from death. The wound sealed. I swear on my sword, it’s the truth! Nothing I have ever seen in the sacred grove matches Jesus Christ. Nothing even comes close!”

Filled with anxiety, Freyja stared at her son. What was it about this name, Jesus, that made her insides shake? “There are many gods, Atretes, but Tiwaz is and has always been the only true god of our people.”

“What has Tiwaz brought the Chatti other than death and destruction?”

Marta gasped, eyes wide with fear. Even Usipi drew back. Varus’ eyes flamed.

“You must not speak so,” Freyja said. “You offend our god.”

“Let him be offended!”

“Atretes,” Theophilus said softly.

He ignored the appeal for silence, giving vent to his rising anger. “Where was Tiwaz when our people cried out to him in battle against the Hermunduri? In your father’s time, Mother, did the Chatti win the battle for the river and salt flat? No. The Hermunduri butchered us. They almost wiped us out, by your own telling. Where was Tiwaz then? What power did he show? Where was this great god when Father and I fought against Rome? Did he or Dulga or Rolf or a hundred others achieve victory over the enemy? No! They fought valiantly and died while crying out the name Tiwaz. And I was put in chains!”

“Enough!” Varus said.

Atretes ignored his brother, his gaze riveted to his mother. Her face was stark white. Atretes calmed, regretting his harshness, but he would not be silenced. “I believed, Mother. I was his disciple. You know of my devotion. I bled for him and drank the blood from the sacred horn. I sacrificed. I killed for him and proclaimed his name aloud in every battle I fought from Germania to Rome to Ephesus. And all I’ve ever known is death and destruction. Until seven days ago.”

Varus stood. “You are here and alive by the power of Tiwaz!”

Atretes looked at him. “Not because of Tiwaz, brother. Jesus Christ kept me alive so that I could come home with this man and this woman and tell you the truth!”

Varus’ face reddened. “What truth? The truth this Roman has fed you?”

“You doubt my word?” he said in a dangerous tone.

Varus, incensed, still reeled with jealousy over the way Anomia had looked at his brother. “You’re a fool if you believe what any Roman says!”

“Enough,” Freyja said.

Atretes rose.

Rizpah grasped his arm. “Atretes, please. This isn’t the way.” He shook her hand off and stepped forward.

Freyja stood between her sons. “Enough, I say! Enough of this!” She held her hands out.
“Sit down!”

The two men sat slowly, glaring at one another.

“Atretes has been gone for eleven years, Varus. We will not quarrel on his first night home.”

“He will bring a curse upon us with his talk of forsaking Tiwaz!”

“Then we will speak no more of gods this evening,” she said, giving Atretes a look of anguish and appeal.

Atretes wanted to convince them and glanced at Theophilus for help. Theophilus shook his head slowly. Annoyed and feeling deserted, Atretes glanced at Rizpah, expecting encouragement from her. Her head was bowed, her eyes closed. Their silence angered him. Shouldn’t they be proclaiming the name of Jesus Christ? Hadn’t they done so the moment they arrived? Why were they silent now? Why weren’t they shouting the truth for Varus to hear?

“Please,” his mother said, beseeching him, “no more quarreling tonight.” She had waited so many years to see her son again, expecting peace to follow, and within an hour of his arrival home, her family was at war within itself. She looked at Rizpah, beautiful and dark. What of the vision all those years ago? Had she been wrong?

“As you wish,” Atretes said, mouth set. He gestured impatiently for one of the slaves to fill the horn again. When it was, he held it between both hands. He let out his breath and glanced at his brother. “Are you chief?”

Varus’ mouth curved bitterly. “With my crippled leg?” he gave a harsh laugh and looked at Theophilus. “I’ve Rome to thank for it.” Atretes saw hatred as dark and violent as his own had ever been.

“Rud leads,” Usipi said when Varus volunteered no further information. “And Holt stands as his under-chief.”

“They are good men,” Atretes said. Though older than he, both men had been loyal to him in the past. “I didn’t see them outside.”

“They left a few days ago to meet with the Bructeri and Batavi chiefs,” Usipi said, mentioning two tribes that had been allied with the Chatti against Rome.

“Another rebellion?” Atretes said.

“The Romans burned our village last year,” Usipi said. He started to say more but Varus gave him a quelling look. Usipi ruffled his son’s hair and fell silent. Varus made a point of glancing at Atretes and then looking straight at Theophilus before he drank from his horn. They would not discuss Chatti matters before a Roman.

Theophilus knew enough from past experience with Germans to see the way of things. These men had more courage and pride than common sense. Domitian lacked the military glory of his father, Vespasian, now dead, and his brother, Titus. He lusted for any opportunity to prove himself. If the Chatti were foolish enough to join with other tribes and start another rebellion against Rome, they would play right into Domitian’s hands. He wanted to warn them, but held his tongue. Anything he said now would merely rouse further suspicions.

He had come for one purpose: to present the gospel of Jesus. Before he could warn Atretes, the man had taken the sacred bull by the horns, proclaiming Christ with all the grace and love of a warrior slashing his blade. It would take a long time to overcome the damage done this night.

Caleb slid from Rizpah’s lap and toddled over to a cousin not much older than himself. Plopping down before the little girl with blonde braids, he flapped his arms and let out a gusty cry. Marta laughed.

Freyja turned the conversation to the children and then on to the simpler things of life. They reminisced about better times, retelling stories about Atretes’ childhood. The laughter lessened the tension. The slaves kept Varus’ and Atretes’ and Usipi’s horns full. Theophilus set his own aside. He was well aware that Germans like their beer and mead. He had been told once by a fellow centurion that some tribes debated only after they were so drunk they were incapable of pretense, but reserved their decision making for a time when they were sober.

Rizpah felt Freyja studying her and smiled at her mother-in-law. Though the woman was high priestess for a pagan god, Rizpah did not feel the misgivings she did when she had looked upon Anomia. She saw no enemy when she looked at Atretes’ mother. She saw instead a woman who was deceived by a cunning adversary.

Lord God of mercy, help us to open her eyes.

“Sunup comes early,” Usipi said. “The burning is over and we’ve fields to plow.” He embraced Atretes. “We have need of you,” he said quietly, his words full of hidden meaning. “We’ll fight as we did in Hermun’s time.” Marta gathered the children, who didn’t want to leave Caleb. She kissed Atretes and let him hold her for a moment, then followed her husband from the longhouse.

Varus rose. Supporting himself with a walking stick, he made his way to a sleeping bench. “Let the Roman sleep in a stall.”

Atretes took offense, but it was too late. Varus sat heavily on his sleeping bench and fell back. Freyja covered him with a blanket. “You can sleep over there,” she told Theophilus, nodding toward a far corner.

“A stall will do, my lady.” He took up his pack and slung it over his shoulder. Pushing open the gate dividing the animal shelter from the family’s quarters, he entered the corridor.

Freyja watched him close and latch the gate. She was surprised by his mild manner. He looked at her before turning away. There was no threat in his look, but she felt a sudden certainty that this man would turn her life inside out.

She didn’t look away until Theophilus went into a back stall. “Your Roman friend walks like a soldier.”

Atretes looked at her but said nothing. Telling his mother that Theophilus had been a centurion and a personal friend of Emperor Titus up until a few months ago would make an already grim situation deadly.

Everyone settled for the night. Crickets chirped. Mice scurried in the hay.

The fire burned low, casting soft flickering light. Atretes lay for a long time, staring up at the beamed ceiling, watching the shadows dance as he had when he was a boy. He had imagined then that they were spirits sent by Tiwaz to guard him.

He breathed in the smell of dirt, straw, manure, and wood ash. Rizpah moved closer, her body curved into his side. He turned and took a handful of her hair, breathing in her scent. She moved at his touch, and he knew she was awake. Smiling, he raised up slightly and pressed her shoulder back. “What are you thinking about?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said.

“Tell me what’s bothering you.”

“Anomia. She’s very beautiful.”

He had looked overlong at Anomia, he knew. It would have been impossible not to look at her, and foolish now to deny it. “She is beautiful,” he conceded.

“And she looks like Ania.”

“She’s more beautiful than Ania.”

“Oh.”

He turned her face toward him. “And within, she is like Julia.”

Rizpah thanked God. “I love you,” she murmured, tracing his face in the darkness. “I love you so much I think I’d die if I lost you.”

He slipped an arm beneath her and drew her close. “Then close your eyes and rest easy,” he said softly. “For you’ll never lose me.”

Theophilus awakened with the dawn’s light coming through a narrow break in the roof. Rizpah and Atretes were still sleeping. He shook Atretes’ shoulder, awakening him. “I’ll be out in the woods, praying.”

Atretes sat up and rubbed his face. His head ached from too much beer, but he nodded. “Give us a minute, and we’ll go with you.”

Theophilus, Atretes, and Rizpah with Caleb in her arms walked out into the forest and prayed together as the sun came up. The air was crisp, dew heavy upon the grass. Theophilus surprised Atretes by praying for Varus. “He gives you a stall near the pigs, and you pray for him?”

“I prayed for you from the day of our first meeting, Atretes, and you hated me no less than your brother. When Varus looks at me, he sees Rome, just as you did.”

“When he insults you, he insults me.”

Theophilus’ mouth curved. “A man who is slow to anger is better than the mighty, Atretes, and he who rules his spirit is greater than any warrior who captures a city. You did battle with your brother last night. What did you win by it?”

“I told him the truth!”

“You beat him over the head with the gospel, and he heard and understood none of it.”

“All the while you sat silent,” Atretes said through his teeth.
“Why?”

“You were saying too much,” Theophilus said as gently as he could. “Listen to me, friend. Lay aside your pride or it will entangle you in sin. Anger is your worst enemy. It served you well in the arena, but not here. When you give in to it, you’re like a city without walls. A man’s anger doesn’t bring forth the righteousness of God.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Fix your eyes upon Jesus, the author and perfector of faith. Be zealous, but be patient. It was love that made the Lord give up his heavenly throne to walk among us as a man. It was love that held him on the cross and raised him from the dead. And it is love that will win your people to him.”

“My people don’t understand love. They understand
power.”