As Sure as the Dawn (52 page)

“I can and I will. It’s within my rights to take back everything, no matter how hard Varus has worked to protect it. And he knows it!”

“Take nothing for my sake,” Theophilus said, seeing the breach a few words could make between the brothers. “He has reason not to trust Rome, and you’ll add cause to injury.”

“Do not defend him!” Atretes said, incensed.

“He’s no different than you were when we first met,” Theophilus said with a wry smile.

Varus’ face reddened. “I don’t need the defense of a Roman pig!” He rose and spit in his direction.

Atretes took a step after his brother. Theophilus blocked his way. “Think,” Theophilus said under his breath. “Think from his side before you say another word.”

“You’ve been gone eleven years!” Varus shouted back. “All that time, I’ve held Father’s inheritance together. And now you come back and think you can give it away to this Roman dog and
leave me with nothing?”

Atretes started to step past Theophilus, but the Roman grasped his arm. “Your anger will not bring about the righteousness of God,” he said so only his friend could hear.

Clenching his teeth, Atretes strove to calm himself.

As he did so, reason came. It was true—Varus had cause for resentment. He had lost as much as he himself had, and held onto what was left. It was not in Atretes’ mind to strip his brother of all his possessions just because he had the right to do so, and yet he knew his words had implied just that. His anger had only caused more strife rather than bringing some semblance of reason into the discussion.

“I make a gift to you of the eastern half, Varus, as well as all the cattle,” he said with impulsive generosity. “Theophilus’ portion will come from my half. Will that satisfy?”

Varus was stunned into silence.

“You’re giving him the richest portion of farmland,” Freyja said, equally stunned.

“I know that. The eastern half also has the best grazing for the cattle,” Atretes pointed out, still looking to his younger brother for an answer. “Well? What do you say?”

Varus took an unsteady step back. Wincing, he sat down and stared at his brother as though he had never seen him before.
Half
the land and
all
the cattle? Atretes could take everything and no one would argue his rights to do so. Instead, his brother gave him the best of his inheritance. It was within Atretes’ rights to leave him with nothing, no matter how hard he had worked to retain it. In truth, that was what he had expected to happen if Atretes ever returned and one of the primary reasons he had hoped he wouldn’t.

“You have a son, Atretes,” Freyja said, astounded by such thinking. “Would you give his inheritance to an outsider?” What had happened to her son? Had this Roman cast a spell upon him?

“The land will remain his, my lady,” Theophilus said, wanting to allay her understandable concerns. Atretes had surprised him as well. “If it’ll set both your minds at ease,” he said, glancing at Varus, “I’ll pay an annual fee for the use of it.”

Varus frowned, wondering where the trick lay in his words. Romans took; they didn’t give.

Theophilus saw his distrust and understood it. “My desire isn’t to take anything from you or your people, Varus, but to earn my own living while I’m here. I have been grateful for your hospitality, but I think you will agree, it’s time for me to leave.”

Varus uttered a cold laugh, hiding how the Roman’s words troubled him.

Freyja searched Theophilus’ face, but saw no sign of subterfuge.

Atretes’ mouth tipped sardonically. “Do you agree to the division of land or would you prefer I hold to tradition and take it all?”

“I agree,” Varus said.

“Come.” Atretes jerked his head at Theophilus. “I’ll help you choose your portion.”

When they selected a suitable site for Theophilus’ house, Atretes gave in to his own curiosity. “What’ll you do with the land? You have no cattle. We’ll have to raid the Tencteri and Cherusci herds to get you a few head.”

Theophilus knew thievery was practiced among the tribes, but had no intention of following the custom—or of encouraging Atretes to do so. “I intend to grow corn and beans.”

“You, a farmer?” Atretes laughed. It was so ludicrous.

Theophilus smiled, undaunted. “I’m going to hammer my sword into a plowshare and my spear into a pruning hook.”

Atretes saw he meant it. “You’d better wait,” he said grimly. “If you do it too soon, you may not live to break the soil.”

Atretes was helping Theophilus fell trees for the grubenhaus when they heard jubilant shouting from the village. The warriors had returned.

Burying his ax in a stump, Atretes headed for the village. “Stay here until I send for you!” He ran through the woods and between two longhouses, coming into the main street. A throng of warriors mulled around, greeting wives and children. Only a few were on horseback.

“Rud!”
Atretes shouted, seeing the older man who had been his father’s best friend.

The gray-haired man turned sharply on his horse. Raising his framea in the air, he gave an ecstatic war cry and rode toward Atretes, sliding from the animal’s back at the last moment and embracing him in a body-bruising hug. “You have returned! Tiwaz is with us!” He embraced him again, pounding his back as the others surged toward them, shouting war cries and all talking at once.

Rizpah watched from the door of the longhouse, Caleb in her arms. The men surrounded Atretes, buffeting him in welcome. Atretes was laughing, shoving several back and taking a good-natured swing at another who dodged and then embraced him. They were rough men of deep feeling and even deeper pride.

Across the street, Anomia emerged from her dwelling. After dismissing Rizpah with a cursory glance, she fixed her gaze upon the returning warriors. Her eyes glowed as she saw how they worshiped Atretes, clamoring around him like excited boys in the presence of their living idol. What power he could wield over his people—and she would teach him how to do so.

The Chatti had never stopped talking about him. Over the past years, he had become a legend, his feats in battle against the Romans retold at hearth and home around the ceremonial fires. How easy it would be for him to yank the reins of power from any who tried to withhold them. Rud would not. He was old and tired, though loyal to her. He had only agreed to the meeting with the Batavi and Bructeri because she wanted it and the younger warriors demanded it. Nor would Holt stand in Atretes’ way, for he had long ago sworn allegiance to Hermun’s son.

She had been a child of twelve when she had hidden herself in the dark shadows of the trees and watched the rites in the sacred grove that made Atretes chief. She could still remember him holding the golden horns above his head, his naked body bathed in firelight. He had looked like a god to her then. He still did. Soon she would stand beside him.

She had always known what she wanted: to be high priestess and wife of the chief of the Chatti. Had her sister, Ania, lived, she would have stood in the way of her ambitions. Anomia believed her death had been an act of Tiwaz, preparing the way for her to be with Atretes.

When he had been taken by the Romans, she had been confused and angry. Why would Tiwaz allow such a thing to happen? Freyja had foreseen his return, and she had clung to the prophecy, awaiting the unfolding of it, setting her intellect to achieving the fullness of her powers in readiness for him. In part, she had done just that, though she still craved more. Together, she and Atretes would make the Chatti the mightiest tribe in Germania. They would take vengeance on all those who had thought to make them slaves. They would destroy the Hermunduri and take back the sacred river and salt flats. They would take retribution for the yoke Rome had tried and failed to put upon them. And as they did these things, other tribes would join with them, until the whole of Germania was driving south to the very heart of the Empire: Rome herself!

Nothing would stand in her way, not the Roman Atretes called his friend, not Freyja, not anyone else—especially not the black-eyed, black-haired Ionian witch who stood in the doorway opposite her.

For your glory, Tiwaz, I will take Atretes from her! Together he and I will rule these people and use them for your purposes.

“Ask him about the Roman he brought with him!” someone shouted, and the din of greeting died down.

“What is this you say, Herigast?” Holt said to the accuser. “What Roman?”

Atretes looked at the man standing at the outer edge of the warrior’s circle. Long ago, Atretes had been forced to make a judgment against Herigast’s son, Wagast. The young warrior had dropped his shield and fled the battlefield, a crime demanding execution. The vote of the Thing had been unanimous, leaving Atretes with no choice but to order Wagast be drowned in the bog. The young man’s father had aged greatly in eleven years. Though still robust, his hair was white, his face deeply lined.

“My wife just told me,” Herigast said and put his arm around the woman beside him in a gesture of protection, his expression challenging.

Rud turned to Atretes. “Is what he says true?”

“Yes.”

Rud’s face tensed in anger. “We make an alliance against Rome, and you bring one of the murdering dogs among us!”

“He comes in peace.”

“Peace!” a young warrior said and spit on the ground with as much brass and pride as Atretes had ever possessed.

“We want no peace with Rome!” another shouted. “We want blood!”

Men shouted angrily.

“. . . burned our village . . .”

“. . . killed my father . . .”

“. . . took my wife and son for slaves . . .”

Rizpah closed her eyes and prayed as Atretes shouted them down. “I have as much cause to hate Rome as you. More! But I tell you this! If not for Theophilus, I’d be fighting in an arena or hung up on some foul cross for Domitian’s entertainment!
Three times
he saved my life. He led me home!”

“No Roman can be trusted!”

Others shouted agreement.

“Where is he?”

“Let’s get him and throw him in the bog!”

“Make him a blood sacrifice!”

Herigast’s wife pointed. “The Roman is building a grubenhaus just beyond those longhouses. He intends to make his home among us.”

One of the warriors started in that direction. When Atretes blocked his way, he took a swing at him. Atretes ducked and brought his fist up into his chest, knocking him from his feet. Before the warrior hit the ground, Atretes had his gladius in his hand and at the fallen warrior’s throat.

“Stay down, or by God, you’ll never get up again!”

The maelstrom died as quickly as it had erupted.

The warriors moved back slightly, staring while the young warrior gasped for air. “You will all listen,” Atretes said, glaring down at the young man, whose eyes had widened when he felt the sword beneath his jaw. One swift jerk and his jugular would be laid open. Atretes raised his head enough to look from face to face around him. “Kill my friend and you will answer to me!” He looked down again, the blood pounding hot in his veins. “Do you want to be first to die, boy?”

“Let him up, Atretes!”

The men turned and saw a tall man striding toward them.

Atretes didn’t move, but cursed under his breath.

“Look!” Herigast’s wife said. “The Roman comes, gloating over the trouble he’s brought upon us!”

Theophilus walked toward them calmly, his demeanor one of authority and purpose. “Put your sword away, Atretes. Those who live by it, die by it.”

“As will you, if I listen,” Atretes said, not moving the blade an inch.

Theophilus heard the threatening rumble that went through those gathered. There was no time to dissuade Atretes. He needed to speak now while he still had opportunity. “I’m not here as a Roman or for Rome!” he addressed the men. “I ask your forbearance until I can prove myself trustworthy. If I play you false, do with me as you will.”

“You look like a soldier,” Holt said, measuring him with burning eyes.

Theophilus looked at him squarely, without fear. “I served in the Roman army for twenty-five years and held the rank of centurion.”

A stunned silence fell. Holt gave a surprised laugh of derision. What man would admit to such a thing in the midst of a hundred Chatti warriors? He was either very brave or very stupid. Perhaps both.

Theophilus stood his ground calmly. “I fought here twelve years ago when the German tribes rebelled against Rome.”

“He fought against us!” one of the men shouted for all to hear.

“Roman dog!” Other names far more profane and insulting were hurled at him.

“I know the Chatti to be a valiant people!” Theophilus shouted over them. “But I know this as well: If you rebel against Rome at this time, you will fail. Domitian waits for an opportunity to send the legions north. A tribal alliance for war will give him exactly the excuse he needs to do it.”

“He speaks for Rome!”

Atretes withdrew his gladius and turned slightly.

Theophilus saw doubt flicker in his eyes. “I speak the truth, Atretes. You know the lengths to which Domitian will go to get what he wants. He covets the power and prestige of his father and brother, and the only way to get it is to fight a military campaign and win. This is the only frontier where Domitian had relative success.”