Anvil of God

by J. Boyce Gleason

  “By daybreak?”

  “Won’t do any good by noon.”

  Heden put every available hand at the man’s disposal. Within the hour, he had the interior wall lit and scores pulling on ropes lashed to the rampart. Others levered the portions of the wall with planks. In the end, they had to use their own rock throwers to weaken the forward rampart. “It’s all about leverage,” the engineer said.

  Two hours before dawn, a number of stone blocks came loose roughly halfway up the wall.

  “Pull!” shouted the engineer from the top of the opposite rampart, and the ropes snapped taut. The entire forward section collapsed into the breach, burying the bodies of those who had fallen that day. A cheer rose from the men, and the engineer did a little dance from his perch on the rampart.

  Heden ordered the men to throw everything they could find into what was left of the breach: planks, wheels, carts, beds, pews from the church, even the altar.

  “It will give you some time,” the engineer said when Heden joined him, “maybe a week, no more.”

  ***

  Once it was clear that the repaired breach would hold, Carloman silenced his trebuchets. Under a flag of truce, he led scores of men back onto the field, not with weapons and shields, but with wagons and litters to carry away the broken and mutilated bodies they had left behind from the previous day’s battle.

  He had risked much, seeking to overwhelm the Thuringian, and instead had taken horrendous losses. A sliver of doubt pierced his thoughts. What if he failed? The thought surprised him. Never before had he felt such doubt on a battlefield. But then, of course, Charles had been in command.

  Carloman’s eye caught a piece of red cloth wedged into the armor of a corpse. Dismounting, he knelt beside the body. It was Friedrich. An arrow pierced his neck. Carloman closed the man’s eyes, said a short prayer, and tucked the pennant behind his chest plate. Regaining his horse, he circled the battlefield to acknowledge those who had died at his command. The trip was long, his corpses many.

  Regaining his tent, Carloman closed the flap behind him. He took off his armor and placed the red pennant beside his makeshift altar. Despite the early hour, exhaustion swept over him, and he sat down. He had trouble catching his breath, almost as if he had just been in battle, and struggled to regain his composure. He found himself staring at the red pennant and wondered at its ability to hold him transfixed.

  “I am not my father.” The words came unbidden to his lips. Yet he heard the truth in them. All his life, he had been so assured, so righteous in his faith and his family’s destiny. Now he was not. And in his hour of greatest need, everything that made him secure in purpose had come untethered: Charles, Pippin. Trudi, Boniface, the Church, his faith. He never felt more alone. He was not his father. His father would know what to do.

  Atone. Boniface’s voice echoed in his mind, and Carloman bowed his head in acknowledgment. Faith was the key to his salvation. He must find a way to restore his path to the light. Until then, he was lost.

  Hands trembling, Carloman knelt before the makeshift altar and began to pray. His voice sounded strained, even to his own ears. “Confitéor tibi in cíthara, Deus, Deus meus: quare tristis es, ánima mea, et quare contúrbas me?”

  He bent his mind to the meaning of the words and tried to capture the cadence of the prayer. “Confiteor Deo omnipoténti—” The words had always swept him up in their power and their beauty. He used his voice to punctuate each phrase.

  “—Beatæ Mariæ semper Vírgini, beato Michaeli archangelo, beato Joanni Baptístæ, sanctis apostolis Petro et Paulo et omnibus sanctis: quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo et opera …”

  As his passion rose from within him, he tried to ignore the trickle of fear that accompanied it. His skin flushed with expectation. His right hand closed around the holy icon he wore around his neck, and he clutched it to his chest. The swell of emotion surged through him. He extended his left hand before him, humbly offering his soul to God.

  “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.” With his right hand still holding the relic, Carloman bowed and struck his breast three times. He waited for the fervor to take him.

  It never came.

  Choking back his desperation, Carloman whispered, “Please, Lord. Restore me to the path of righteousness; show me the way.”

  He bent to the right of his prie-dieu, his hand reaching for the instrument of his devotion. He felt the soft leather handle of the flagellum, and he shuddered at the menace of its tongues. Again, he began to pray.

  “Deus, tu conversus vivificabis nos. Et plebs tua lætabitur in te.” This time, as the cadence of the prayer moved him and the passion of the words surged within him, he held out the flagellum and lashed it over his left shoulder to punctuate the prayer.

  “Ostende nobis, Domine, misericordiam tuam. Et salutare tuum da nobis.”

  The tongues snapped against his skin, ripping the scabs off welts not yet healed and raising new ones beside them.

  “Domine, exaudi orationem meam. Et clamor meus ad te veniat.”

  His body stiffened, and Carloman drew the force of pain into the throes of his passion. “Oramus te, Domine, per merita sanctorum …” He struck again, this time over his right shoulder. “… tuorum, quorum relíquiæ hic sunt, et omnium sanctorum …”

  With each blow, he thrust the sacred words through his clenched teeth until his body convulsed. “… ut indulgere digneris omnia peccata mea.”

  Again he stretched out his hand. “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.” But the touch of the Savior again was withheld. It took him a long time to withdraw his hand. When he did, Carloman nodded in obeisance. “Thy will be done,” he said, tears welling in his eyes.

  ***

  Johann ducked his head into the tent, his eyes taking in the flagellum and the blood on Carloman’s back. “Father Daniel requests an audience.”

  Although exhausted, Carloman nodded. “I’ll need a minute.” He dried himself with a towel, pulled a chemise over his head, and sat down to wait for the priest.

  From the moment the man entered the tent, Carloman sensed that something was different about him. Gone was the dirty cassock that Carloman had come to associate with the priest. The garment had been washed and allowed to dry in the sun. He had bathed and run a brush through his long, white hair and beard. The priest stood erect and dignified, waiting for Carloman’s permission to enter. That, too, was different. Father Daniel had the unnerving habit of strolling into Carloman’s tent unannounced. He waved the holy man toward a chair.

  The priest didn’t move. His eyes had a strange cast to them as if he gazed at some remote place rather than at the confines of Carloman’s tent. His pupils were almost nonexistent against the pronounced blue of his eyes. The effect was unnerving. It was, Carloman suspected, the look of fervor.

  “I have had a vision,” Father Daniel said. “I have been sent by Michael the Archangel to bring you strength and purpose. The time has come to strike a blow against the pagans.”

  It was too much. Carloman stood and turned his back on the priest. “Tell me, Father, what more would you have me do? Two thousand men died yesterday trying to storm the city. And we failed! Now before we can attack again, they somehow have resealed the breach. Another attack would be foolhardy, and I can’t just pray my men inside the wall. I’ve got to let the trebuchets do their work. Now if you will excuse me—”

  “There are blood stains on the back of your chemise, Carloman.” Father Daniel’s words were soft, almost a whisper. “You seek strength through the flagellum?”

  Surprised by his tone, Carloman turned back to face the priest. “I have sinned,” he said.

  And with that acknowledgment, the anguish and despair overwhelmed him. It was as if the abyss of hell yawned wide before him. His eyes welled with tears, and he knelt before the priest, the words tumbling from him, raw with trepidation. “I have fallen from His path and am unworthy to receive His grace. I have fasted. I have prayed. I have mortified my flesh.
Yet His touch eludes me. And I am lost without it.”

  Father Daniel bent to take him by the shoulders. “Rise, Carloman. You need not kneel before such a humble priest. You carry the Lord’s burden. It is I who should kneel before you.”

  Carloman shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

  “You flay yourself just as the Romans flayed Christ. And like our Savior, you suffer from the same doubt He suffered on the cross. Your Father has not forsaken you, Carloman. But neither will He let this cup pass.”

  Carloman clung to the priest’s words, trying to grasp their meaning.

  “I had a vision,” the priest repeated. “I’ve been sent by the Archangel Michael to give you strength and purpose. God’s hand is withheld because your task is yet unfinished. You will not feel His touch again until your duty is complete.”

  A test, Carloman thought, hope stirring within him. I am being tested.

  “You among men have been chosen by God to redress the desecration of His church. You are His sword.” The priest paused. “It is true that the pagans have won the day. Now you must show them the price of standing against the legions of Christ.”

  “I don’t know what else I can do.”

  “You have the son of the pagan general.”

  Carloman nodded.

  “You must show them the wrath of God’s hand.”

  Carloman shuddered. The boy was younger than Drogo.

  “He is no innocent!” the priest thundered. “He desecrated God’s mass, riding into church on horseback. He took to the field of battle, nearly destroying your catapults. He openly worships the pagan faith. He is an affront to all who are holy.

  “While your men and The Faithful starve and die of disease outside these walls, the pagans remain inside, comfortable and content in their sin and safe from your prosecution. It is not enough to defeat them Carloman; the pagans must be made an example for all those who would think to desecrate His holy ground.”

  He offers me penance, thought Carloman, blanching at its weight. “I must pray for guidance,” he told the priest.

  “Don’t pray too long. The day of our salvation is upon us. Only in victory will you return to grace and sit in the palm of our Lord’s hand.”

  14

  Choices

  Those nearest Trudi backed away and formed a semicircle around her. On the open side, the sibyl stood confronting her. No one spoke. Still affected by the smoke, Trudi was swaying slightly. She didn’t know what was expected from her. Bradius started to say something but was silenced with a wave of the sibyl’s hand. Trudi started to speak and then closed her mouth as well. She could think of nothing to say.

  The sibyl approached Trudi. She walked with the seductive grace of women endowed with great beauty or great wealth. Calmly, she lifted Trudi’s hand to examine it, exploring her palm, her knuckles, and her nails. Next she felt Trudi’s forearm and bicep. She took Trudi by the chin and looked deep into her eyes. The sibyl’s eyes widened in surprise. Releasing her, the sibyl walked around Trudi slowly. Trudi felt like a mare being evaluated for sale. She stood very still and tried to maintain as much dignity as possible.

  “You are a contradiction,” the sibyl said in a voice all could hear. “You are a woman but have a soldier’s strength and hands. You dress like a peasant, yet your eyes are noble. You are church born, yet are conscious.”

  The sibyl moved toward Bradius, her hips undulating as she walked. The crowd’s eyes never left her. Her eyes never left Trudi. “And there is something about this man,” she said, running her fingers seductively along Bradius’s arm. “Your fates are intertwined. Like lovers. Or siblings. It is yet unclear to me. There is love and death in him, violent death. And the blood of it,” she said, nodding to Trudi, “taints you as well.”

  The sibyl returned to Trudi and crossed her arms. Trudi had the sense that the sibyl was debating something. When she spoke, she spread her arms and raised her voice to embrace the crowd.

  “All life exists on one of three worlds: Asgard, the home of the gods, Midgard, the home of humanity, and Utgard, the home of the dead. Our life force is connected to the other worlds through the tree of life, but powerful wards protect us from them. If these wards are damaged or broken,” she glanced at Bradius, “the result is madness.

  “Your life force,” the sibyl looked at Trudi, “is a whirlwind. Its power is strong, so strong that it disrupts the lives of those around you. You are the center. The wind of your choices steers their choices. And all of your choices are of consequence. You will choose life, you will choose death, or you will choose absolution.”

  The sibyl shuddered and closed her eyes. “But you do not belong here,” she said. “Your path lies elsewhere.” She looked at Bradius. “You both must leave. The blood of your past stains these fields as well as your heart.”

  Some of the villagers shifted their weight from one foot to another. It was nothing overt, a change in posture, no more. But it caught Trudi’s eye. The villagers were no longer spectators. They were tense and hostile, waiting for some signal.

  “You will come with me,” the sibyl said. “The stain needs to be cleansed and—” The sibyl looked as if she was about to say something more but shook her head. Looking to one of the villagers, she said, “Bind their hands. Find their horses. I must take them to the tree.”

  A murmur of assent rippled through the villagers.

  Trudi tensed. She could not stand the thought of being bound again. She searched for a route to escape. But Bradius stood near her, offering the villagers his wrists to bind. At a nod from him, she mimicked his gesture and proffered her wrists.

  With a clatter of bones and a tinkle of bells, the sibyl threw back her head and strode sinuously through the crowd toward the town. The villagers gave way before her, bowing as if she were royalty. She never looked back. Behind her, they fell into two broad phalanxes, one beside Trudi, the other beside Bradius. They marched back to town over the fields, across the roads, and down the streets into the village where Trudi and Bradius were promptly put on their horses. The two women who had played the drums in the field also found horses for themselves and the sibyl and joined the party. The sibyl, who had by this time covered her nakedness with a shawl, led them east out of the village. Several miles later, they reached the foot of the mountains.

  Only then did the villagers leave them.

  The five rode most of the day in silence, following a narrow path up that forced them into single file. The sibyl led. Trudi and Bradius followed. The two women brought up the rear. They came to a small clearing, and the sibyl drew reins. She gave a signal to the women, who dismounted and untied Trudi’s and Bradius’s hands.

  “You are free to go,” the sibyl said. “But I would suggest you avoid taking the road back. If you return to that village before I pass this way again, you will most certainly be killed. People here take their harvest very seriously. And blood is a bad omen. I took you captive in part to gain your freedom.”

  Trudi shuddered. She wasn’t sure if it was from dread or relief.

  “We weren’t in any danger until you started talking about our blood staining the fields,” she said. “If you were worried about saving us from the villagers, why did you say anything at all?”

  “I see what others cannot. The villagers come to me to understand their lives. ‘Will the harvest be plentiful?’ they ask. ‘Will my baby be healthy? Is this love true?’ I could see none of these things today. My visions were only of death and the whirlwind. I am bound to the truth I see. And the truth must be spoken. They came to hear about their lives. Instead, they heard about yours.

  “Everything I said today was true. To cleanse the stain, I must take you to the tree. But that is a path only you can choose. I will not take you unwillingly to the tree. I cannot help you unless you ask to be helped.”

  Trudi hesitated.

  “If you do not come,” the sibyl said, pointing to Bradius, “he will die.”

  Trudi looked to Bradius. His face w
as red. He clearly believed the sibyl. Trudi took no more than a moment to decide.

  ***

  She took them far into the mountains. They scaled several, suffering steep climbs and dramatic descents. Although there were no markings on the path, the sibyl led them confidently through fork after fork, frequently stopping to collect grass and dirt into a small cloth rag that she bound tightly with twine. Singing softly over the newly formed sack, she hid it in the limbs of a tree at the crossroads.

  “What is she doing?” Trudi whispered to Bradius.

  “Protecting our path,” he said. “She thinks we are being followed. She leaves a spell to make our pursuers choose the wrong path.”

  “Does it work?”

  Bradius shrugged.

  Along the way, the sibyl stopped to pick mushrooms and to harvest wild plants. Sometimes she took leaves, other times the roots. Some plants she kept on her person, others she kept in sacks tied to her horse. Often, she would take the two women with her into the woods, instructing them on how to find the right plants and the best way to preserve them.

  At night, the sibyl allowed a small fire but forbade Bradius his ritual with wine. She asked them to eat nothing but bread and water and made them each a necklace consisting of thin pieces of twine held together by a series of complicated knots. These she made by firelight, mumbling incantations over her work as each knot was finished.

  “This wards off the shadows of Utgard,” she told Bradius, tying the thick cord around his neck. “It will not prevent their passage because the path is well trodden. But it should help you to sleep.”

  To Trudi, she gave a thinner necklace with many more knots. In several places, human hair and flowers were woven into its design. She also had attached to it a bone that had been removed from her hair. “This,” she said, tying the necklace around Trudi’s neck, “honors the three eternal sisters. They are the Fates. Einbet gathers the fibers of our existence, Barbet spins them into the thread of our lives, and Wilbet weaves the pattern of our passage. Together, they shape our past, our present, and our future. Each of them reaches out for you. The pull of their hands creates the whirlwind of your life. This necklace offers homage to all three in hopes that their touch will be kind.”