B007IIXYQY EBOK

by Gillespie, Donna

  Critical Acclaim for

  The Light Bearer

  “For anyone interested in this tumultuous period of Roman despotism and Germanic tribes, Gillespie’s epic is an intriguing recording of everyday detail, national issues and, more impressively, overarching influences of religion and psychology.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY (STARRED REVIEW)

  “Gillespie’s grasp of the daily social, religious and political lives of Germanic tribes and urban Romans alike, and her understanding of the way human deeds are woven by time into myth, keep The Light Bearer rooted in historical plausibility … keeps the reader engaged … The Light Bearer taps into one of the most popular themes in historical fiction today, the unsung woman who takes a hand in the shaping of history.”

  —THE SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE

  “Much has been written of the cold-blooded shenanigans of the Roman way of life, but Gillespie weaves her tale in a way that brings new color and excitement to the era … [She] gives crisp and detailed descriptions of the fighting methods of the well-trained Roman legions … as powerful as Gillespie’s action writing can be, she shows a deft and almost musical quality in more passionate interludes … Throughout this monumental story, Gillespie constantly increases the excitement and intrigue. There are no flat passages in The Light Bearer, only a fast-flowing stream that erupts into a full-scale torrent in the book’s conclusion.”

  —WASHINGTON POST BOOK WORLD

  “A time capsule journey into a world of richly embroidered adventure … Richly flavored with historical references, the plot, the action, the painstakingly developed characterizations make it a treasure—even for those who don’t put historical tomes high on their reading list. Gillespie’s greatest gift is the way she crafts descriptive passages—phrases never sit static on the pages. These words are fluid grace points that translate instantly into living, active images in the reader’s imagination.”

  —NORTHWEST FLORIDA DAILY NEWS

  “Gillespie immersed herself in the lore and legends of the Roman way of life and emerged with The Light Bearer … sure to entertain readers in a manner they will not soon forget.”

  —ORLANDO SENTINEL

  “Gillespie spent eleven years bringing this magnificent book to completion … replete with excitement … Gillespie’s love of the written word is evident.”

  —THE MARINA TIMES

  “Auriane is a true heroine, a woman who stands out from the crowd and who makes a journey of growth and discovery. Her innocence and faith make her trials more poignant, her choices more stark … The Light Bearer weaves a strong picture of life in the first centuries … There are plenty of details that give a feel for the coarse and glorious realities of the ancient Roman world … This is epic historical fiction, centering on one larger-than-life woman.”

  —ALL ABOUT ROMANCE

  “…you are in for a treat when you discover [Gillespie’s] Lady of the Light, and its predecessor, The Light Bearer, two of the most stunning, mature and intelligent historical/magical novels I have ever read. …its themes—the cost of love, the weaving of destiny, and the way our choices have unexpected consequences—are as contemporary as today’s headline news.”

  —SAGE WOMAN

  “Ms. Gillespie writes with a fluid power. Her characters are strong, clear, three-dimensional and totally believable. Her action leaps off the page; her description of life in Rome around the time of Nero is authentic; and her feel for the mysticism and the magic of primitive religions makes one almost want to believe. How the fate of Marcus becomes entwined with that of Auriane is another facet of this wonderful novel never falters or slows its pace.”

  —THE BOOK REPORT

  “(Auriane) is a brilliantly written character…Gillespie is an extremely gifted author who effortlessly and seamlessly weaves together historical facts and fictional twists and turns… The Light Bearer is a monumental work of fiction, history and adventure.”

  —UNDER THE COVERS

  Copyright

  The Light Bearer

  Donna Gillespie

  Copyright © 2012 Donna Gillespie. All rights reserved.

  Cover art and design copyright © 2012 by Virginia Lindsay

  ISBN (eBook Edition): 978-1-937572-29-7

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Publishing History

  Berkley trade paperback edition / September 1994

  Jove mass-market edition / November 1996

  Berkley trade paperback reprint / 2006

  Also by Donna Gillespie: Lady of the Light

  The Light Bearer

  by

  Donna Gillespie

  For my parents

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to warmly thank my writing instructor, Leonard Bishop, a brilliant teacher who first made me believe I could write a novel. And I owe more than I can express to Joe Capello, whose steady encouragement through all the years helped me through moments when finishing this book seemed impossible. And I owe an enormous debt to Donna Levin, for all her timely advice, and to Bruce Hartford, for all those times he drove across town to bail me out of my latest computer crisis. Others whose help and understanding were indispensable were my editor, Susan Allison, and my agent, Robert Stricker.

  I was also fortunate enough to be coached and encouraged by an amazing writing group. I’d like to thank them for their friendship and support through the years, and their insightful critiques of the manuscript—Victoria Micu, Marilyn Day, Trisha Johnson-Reece, Christine Gross, Phyllis Holliday, William Buford, Lynn Allen, Julie Whelly, Robert Hunt, Brad Newsham, Karen Carolina, Gloria Suffin, Margaret Cuthbert, Leigh Anne Varney, Donal Brown, and Gene Corning. And I’m greatly indebted to the San Francisco Public Library, which became a second home through the years, and to the Goethe Institute.

  A Note on the Revised Edition

  In preparing this book for the electronic edition, I found it necessary to do a little rewriting—probably inevitable when you take a close look at something you wrote seventeen years ago. Some of these changes have to do with an evolving writing style; others I made in order to incorporate new research. The changes are minor, and do not affect the original shape and intent of the story.

  THE SACRED EARTH

  CHAPTER I

  IT WAS A WOLF-RIDDEN NIGHT. EARLY spring in the wastes of Germania was not kind to creatures of warm blood. Wind, snow and stars ruled here, not man. Night wind played the land like a bone flute, its desolate tones gently rising and falling with the hills. This country was home to the Chattians, the most warlike of the Germanic tribes dwelling beyond the Rhine, and the most independent of their all-conquering neighbor to the south, imperial Rome. To the Roman world this was the sunless side of the Rhine, ruled by spells and dreams, where limbs of trees might spring to life and reach down to strangle a man, where bottomless bogs waited with gaped mouths, eager to swallow their bones.

  On this eve the oaken doors of the rude dwellings of the Chattians were barred shut against night-spirits and elves. But at the hall of their most celebrated war-leader Baldemar, the smoke-hole was pulled open, the door flung wide. For within, his young wife Athelinda writhed on a rush mat, losing a grim struggle to push out her first child. The women thralls who served her unfastened the gates of the animal pens as well, and unbraided their thick red-blond hair—for anything knotted, closed or bound might hold the child back.

  A
s Roman historians reckoned time, this was the eleventh year of the reign of the lame Emperor Claudius—or two years before Claudius’ wife Agrippina sent him the dish of poisoned mushrooms that ushered in the rule of her son Nero. But to the Chattians, who knew only the wheel of the seasons and daily struggle with the earth, the intrigues of the Roman court would have seemed a village madman’s tale. The tribe knew too well, however, the Roman soldiers of the Rhine frontier, who had lately kidnapped a hundred of their young warriors to be trained for the Roman army. Baldemar on this night was encamped three days’ ride to the south near the confluence of the Rhine and Main, poised to attack the Roman settlements near the great fortress of Mogontiacum in retaliation for these frequent abductions. And so he left his fierce old mother Hertha, mistress of the wide fields ringed about the Village of the Boar, to receive the child into the clan.

  Hertha first sent to the Village for the midwife Sigdrifa, who used all her arts to no avail. When the midwife decided no mortal woman could safely deliver Athelinda, she waited until Hertha dozed with the exhausted Athelinda cradled in her arms, then slunk off into the night—Sigdrifa had no wish to be held to account by one so protective of his honor as Baldemar for the death of his wife. And so as dawn tinted blue the last stubborn patches of old snow, Hertha ordered Mudrin, youngest of the thralls, to travel to the lodge of Thrusnelda, a holy woman said to be able to sing a child from the womb.

  But Mudrin got no farther than the threshold when she stopped abruptly as though some enchantment had frozen her heart. The basket she carried as a gift for the medicine woman slid from her hands; honeyed hazelnuts, baked apples and dried plums rolled out onto the earthen floor.

  Hertha gave her a pitiless look. “Mudrin, you shy at your own footfall. What is it?”

  Then Hertha noticed what she had not before. The whole of the homestead was oddly still, and it was the unholy quiet of the burial ground. The field thralls had not yet come forth from their huts, though she knew they had risen as usual with the mournful baying of the hound-keeper’s horn. Even the wild things of the forest hushed their twitterings and rustlings. The wind ceased its keening and seemed to listen. From the yard she heard a dog’s growl give way to a fearful whine.

  Hertha rose. “Mudrin. Speak. What do you gape at?”

  Hertha made her way to the door, her spine stiff with disdain. She was dressed scarcely differently from the thralls—all wore a shift of fine wool woven into a plaid of many hues of brown; the loose garment was girded with a hemp rope and draped with a heavy cloak of rough undyed wool. The sole sign of Hertha’s rank was the silver fibula inset with garnets that secured her cloak; the thralls’ cloaks were fastened with thorns. Yet anyone could have seen at once that Hertha was the one who was noble and free. Her black eyes were harsh with pride, betraying a ferocious soul too large for her withered body. She had the look of one who would be transfixed by a spear before she allowed an enemy to come near the stores, or perish of starvation before she would consent to share meat with one who failed to avenge a murdered kinsman. “Speak, or I’ll have your tongue.”

  Mudrin was still silent. Fredemund, one of the loom-women, came grumbling up behind the younger woman, moving minimally, painfully; her middle was thick as a barrel.

  “Mother of the gods,” Fredemund exclaimed softly. “Mudrin, what mischief have you done?”

  “No sacrilege…” Mudrin took an ill-planned step backward and stepped on a chicken that flapped noisily into the air, then crashed into a willow-withy screen. Her voice was a whelp’s whine. “…I committed no sacrilege…”

  Hertha swept past them and looked out.

  Where forest gave way to field, before the broken stone wall, she saw the solitary form of a woman. No horse, no snapped branch, no stirring of sparrows announced this traveler’s coming; she might have materialized there from another world. Her hooded cloak was strikingly white against the forest gloom. With grave steps the woman began to move toward them, swaying slightly like some image of the gods carried in a procession. At her back a raven erupted from the forest, arced upward and gave a raw cry, as though in attendance upon her.

  “Ramis,” Hertha exclaimed softly.

  “Fredemund,” Mudrin whispered, “draw the door.”

  “Be still,” Hertha commanded. “You’ll not keep her out. She sees straight into your bones.”

  No common seeress or priestess of the settlements could have evoked in them such dread. The multitudes of Holy Ones whom they saw every day, crowded about the village sanctuaries or attending the divine springs and hallowed groves scattered over their lands, inspired respect but not terror, for these mingled often with the people, and no tales were spread of their awesome gifts. But Ramis was one of a dark, reclusive sisterhood called the Holy Nine, the most feared seeresses of all the northern tribes. It was said they could raise their own from the dead and foretell the fall of nations. They conversed with the elder Fates as familiarly as they spoke with their own kin. Their veins ran not with blood but with the blue ichor of deathless beings. Ramis was answerable only to their highest one, a prophetess called the Veleda, whose title meant “the One Who Sees.” The Veleda dwelled hidden away from all humanity in a lofty wooden tower on the River Lippe and handed down her oracles through servants. As the Veleda’s counsel could sway tribal assemblies and ignite wars, the Roman Governor always demanded she be present when he made treaties with the tribes.

  “She cannot be here,” Mudrin muttered to Fredemund. “She is with Baldemar and the army.”

  “It’s not difficult to travel so far so quickly when you lope through the wood in the shape of a black wolf,” Fredemund answered darkly.

  “You chuttering hens, I warn you for the final time to silence,” Hertha cried out in a ringing voice that betrayed her own unease. Ramis could not be halted, frightened into obedience, bartered with, or understood. Hertha felt she faced an armed stranger in the dark. Had the great seeress come to curse them all, or to save Athelinda? Or had she been drawn by the destiny of the child? It was whispered in the village that Ramis sometimes stole babes from their cradles to raise as apprentices. What finer one to steal than the firstborn of Baldemar?

  Now they could see her face, austere as bone, with its fine brow, smooth as the moon, and the grim hollows of her cheeks; Hertha could with disturbing ease imagine the skull beneath the skin. Ramis’ eyes were mild and gray-blue, opaque as river ice, but with a darkness underneath hinting at the black water surging beneath the ice. Her mouth was severe and neatly formed; on a gentler woman it might have been beautiful but on Ramis’ face it was a finely chiseled instrument. Though she was not much past middle years, she seemed never to have been young; envisioning her as a maid was as difficult as imagining the grand and gnarled oak as a sapling.

  In her right hand was a staff of hazelwood; its brass knob was inset with glowing stones of amber. The thralls felt their hearts clutch at the sight of it, for this was the staff of condemnation; when Ramis broke it at the Law-Assembly, she sentenced the accused to death. But her staff was not more dreadful than those supple hands, adept at drawing ropes taut about human necks. To Ramis fell the sacred duty of offering a human life to the gods in the spring rites held at the edge of the hallowed lake. Though the one who gave his life always did so willingly, still to look on those hands was to gaze on a source of terrifying mystery. The hood of her cloak and her hairy calfskin boots were lined with white cat fur. White cats were sacred to the goddess she served, whose many names changed with the place and season but who was most often called Fria, the Lady. A circlet of silver lay on Ramis’ head; from it hung a delicately worked crescent moon.

  Ramis halted before the door and inclined her head. Mudrin and Fredemund quietly panicked, not realizing what was wrong.

  “The axhead,” Hertha reminded them. “Mudrin, quickly, dig it out.”

  It was the custom of the people to bury an axhead in the earth of the doorway with the blade facing the sky, to give protection against lightnin
g. But a tribal seeress could not come near any implement fashioned of iron, for this metal was too profane and new; its presence was jarring to the subtle powers of the Holy Ones, passed down from the age of giants when implements were fashioned only of living stone.

  Mudrin dug it out with a broken potsherd. Ramis stepped gracefully through.

  “Greetings to the noble Hertha and blessings on this house.” Ramis’ voice, at least, inspired no terror; it was womanly and kind, though with a hint of power held back.

  “Greetings, High One.” Hertha smiled wanly. “Stay as long as we please you. Honor us by sharing our meat and mead.”

  Ramis inclined her head in acknowledgment, then wordlessly she walked toward Athelinda. As she passed over the threshing floor, then down the long hearthfire, past the tall grain-storage jars and the brightly painted warriors’ shields mounted along the walls, Hertha followed at a respectful distance. Mudrin and Fredemund sought safety behind Athelinda’s warp-weight loom. From Ramis drifted the scent of fertile earth mingled with spikenard and thyme.

  The only sounds in the hallowed silence were the flitting of birds in the thatch of the roof and the soft jingling of the many sickle-shaped tools of bronze that hung at Ramis’ belt. When she came to the bed of sheepskins on which Athelinda lay, she withdrew a leather pouch from her cloak and ordered the thralls to put the herbs it contained into a bronze vessel and boil them with goat’s milk. Then she drew back the hood of her cloak, revealing unbound hair of dark blond with long streaks of silver, and sat on the weaving stool next to Athelinda.