The cavalrymen had concluded this was the attack of a lone madwoman. Two sharp blasts on a trumpet called them to order. All stopped in place—three hundred soldiers looked on as she froze in plain sight, armed with a single ash spear. She was aware of the men’s scattered laughter. They regarded her with amazed curiosity, as though some rare wild animal, contrary to all its habits, had dashed confusedly into their midst.
One called out to her with the soft, stern patience he might use with a dumb beast, and she guessed, but was not certain—they used none of the phrases Decius had taught her—they ordered her to lay down her weapon. Another quietly dismounted and approached her from behind, meaning to disarm her by force.
She started to run toward Baldemar, with some half-formed idea of leaping astride the horse with him and making a desperate attempt to escape, not heeding the cavalrymen, who with brisk, unified movements formed about them in a tight ring.
Baldemar vigorously shook his head, stilling her with his eyes. It was as though his gaze had a muscular strength greater than her own. She halted.
The next moment seemed longer than a cycle of the moon, though in was brief as the time it takes to drive a sword into a man’s chest.
Baldemar nodded meaningfully at her once, indicating her spear; that look was a silent command that could not be disobeyed. In his eyee was the maddened ecstasy of the condemned man who sees one last chance to escape.
She resisted knowing his wishes for a fraction of an instant, then collapsed within. They had known one another’s thoughts ahead of speech all their lives; she understood precisely what he ordered her to do.
He commanded her to kill him.
To be taken alive by the Romans would mean a living death, a niding’s end, so shame-ridden and ignoble he would not be admitted to the Sky Hall where one so noble as he naturally belonged. There was no true life outside the ring of kin; in Roman hands he would waste away piteously in barren darkness. But were he to die now, he would preserve the heaped treasure of a lifetime of deeds of valor. His spirit would abide forever with the tribe; on this night he would fly back to his own hall and sit among them, his hand round Athelinda’s.
She lifted the last spear, shivering like a trembling dog, while the Romans watched in a seeming trance, not believing she prepared to do what it seemed she meant to—until it was too late.
The spear felt heavy as a man. Her muscles locked in place. She could not stop the heart that started her own.
How can I fail him in this? How many spears have I thrown? Throw one more. Of what matter is it? Both our lives are done.
He held his gaze firmly, insistently, to hers, willing her strength. Do it, beloved child.
The Eastre drums throbbed, sounding malignant, unearthly. There was a small trip in their rhythm now so they seemed to say: You must kill, you must kill…this, this is the sacrifice we want.
Her spear-arm shot forward. Distantly she heard shouts of outrage. Of course!—the thought flashed in her mind. I steal the Roman wolves’ quarry from their trap, right before their eyes.
The spear struck high in Baldemar’s chest, toppling him from the horse.
She sank to her knees, her soul no longer able to support her body, herself a sacrifice, a creature with its still-beating heart torn out.
You are victorious, darkness. Hertha, your will is done. Ramis, you must be rejoicing.
Bear me off to lands below, black dogs of Hel. Why was I cursed to rip the greatest of souls from its earthly housing, to stop my own blood….
Accursed one, she heard Hertha screech over the flames that consumed her. You shall commit a crime so great, there is no punishment for it.
She fell unconscious onto stone.
The soldiers rushed toward Baldemar, then slowed, discipline faltering in the face of the ghastly scene, suddenly uncomfortably aware this land was not theirs, nor were its spirits friendly to them.
Life left Baldemar quickly; soon that slack face was only the soul’s shadow. And then a stern peace settled over it. The Centurion, a man named Licinius Paulinus, rode close and dismounted.
So ends the life of the bane of the border for decades, Paulinus thought, the man who was the fortress of his people.
He then turned Auriane’s body over to get a closer look. She felt like no woman he had ever touched—smoothly muscled, flexible as a limp cat. In the starlight her face was that of Artemis.
“It is the maid, his daughter,” Paulinus said softly to the men at large. “How could she do this thing?”
“What’s to be done with her?” inquired the unit’s flag-bearer as he dropped from his horse and crouched beside Paulinus. Both regarded her as a poisonous thing. Paulinus knew the maid must somehow be disposed of, but he was reluctant to have her destroyed here, before his men’s eyes—they would worry over her curse.
Paulinus came to a swift decision. “Let her blood be on the hands of her tribesmen. Bring forward the barbarian, and quickly.”
The barbarian was Odberht, who had served as pathfinder to this remote place. He approached with a majestic swagger, chin lifted in a farcical show of pride, his red-blond hair, greasy with bear’s fat, swept dramatically back from a brutish forehead. He was careful not to move too quickly, lest they think him their lackey instead of what he was—chief over an intertribal retinue of four hundred warriors, a free chieftain who inscribed his own law in blood, who surpassed his father Wido in wealth and deeds. His belt and scabbard glowed with gold; his cloak was secured with the royal raven’s head brooch of the king of the Cheruscans, the Chattians’ ancestral enemies to the north, awarded to him instead of the king’s wastrel son. Odberht expected one day to be named the king’s heir.
Odberht’s smugly triumphant smile died when he saw the corpse of Baldemar. He stood still a moment, stout leather-clad legs planted apart, staring stupidly, as if Baldemar, not living, were a thing that could not be. In uncouthly accented Latin he declared with great affront, “He is dead!”
“Well, good, we see these northern beasts do know the living from the dead,” Paulinus retorted.
Odberht took a cautious step closer. “You did not say you would kill him!” He contemplated with dread the implications of a blood-debt with Baldemar. No one must know his hand was in this.
“We’ve no account to give to you, son of Wido,” Paulinus retorted.
Odberht then saw that Baldemar had been felled with his own spear—yes, there was no mistaking the red-outlined runic marking on the shaft.
Then he saw Auriane, lying as though dead nearby. Slowly he began to comprehend the whole truth.
“Quickly, answer me,” Paulinus said, nodding crisply at Auriane. “What is the meaning of this? She slew him. What will your people do with her?”
“She—she is a murderer of kin,” Odberht said at once, suddenly greatly relieved. The people will be so unsettled by the horror of what Auriane has done, they will explore the deed no further and never uncover my own role. “Hand her over to the high priest of Wodan called Geisar—it is his place to try her. You can be assured the Assembly of the Moon will condemn her to death.”
Paulinus nodded and rose to his feet. Meditatively he asked, “Can you say why she has done this?”
Odberht knew quite well why. But he indicated Auriane with a gesture of dismissal and replied, “At her her birth, the unholy spirits outnumbered the good.”
The Centurion hesitated a moment more, then declared, “Well, then, so it shall be. Odberht, you will remain with us. Detail four of your men to take her to her father’s village. Make them a gift of Baldemar as well, we’ve no use for him now.”
Decius fought gamely to remain conscious. The dawn that followed the night of Baldemar’s death found him bound to an oak within the great open-air temple to Wodan that lay one Roman mile southeast of the Village of the Boar; here Geisar carried out sacrifices. Decius did not know how much longer he could save himself from the rope and the spear. The bodies of eighteen of his fellow thralls hung like bun
dles of pitiful rags from neighboring trees. They had been slain in the manner of the god when Wodan submitted to nine days of torment while hung from a tree so he might learn the highest wisdom: First they were hanged, then speared in the side. The ground reeked of sacrificial blood. Decius’ wrists were swollen and bleeding; the bonds cut like knives.
The first news of the disaster was brought to the people by Asa, an Ash Priestess who survived the ambush. Geisar retaliated at once by giving the order that all Roman thralls held at the Village of the Boar were to be sacrificed to propitiate Wodan for the Holy Ones slain by the soldiers.
As the whole of the village was roused by Asa’s tale, Decius was sleeping in his thrall’s hut alongside Athelinda’s barley field. He was awakened by a piercing wail that he thought would crack open the earth and rend the sky, a cry so desolate it brought him shivering out into the night. Later he learned it was Athelinda’s wail. Further into the night, rival warriors, not men of Baldemar’s Companions, began ransacking the hall of Baldemar and all the grounds about it.
At first Decius did not understand, but Athelinda did. They came to search for the sword of Baldemar—a thing they would dare do only if Baldemar were dead. They found no sword, but they did find Decius, a despised Roman, and dragged him off to Geisar.
Decius thus far had saved himself by his wits. Geisar’s priests promptly carried out their grisly task, sparing only Decius—for he had managed to convince them he knew how to find Sigwulf’s missing son.
Decius listened closely to the priests’ talk during that ghastly night, struggling to learn the fate of Auriane. He inferred that at dawn a cart bearing the body of Baldemar, abandoned by its driver, had been found just outside the gate of the Village of the Boar. And shortly after, Auriane was delivered, bound, to Geisar. But he heard nothing more of her other than one tale too bizarre to credit: The Oak Priest called Grunig claimed Baldemar had been murdered by Auriane. Surely, Decius thought, this was a trick of his own delirium.
When Decius heard the same preposterous tale twice more from fresh messengers, he paid it more attention and felt the first throb of fear for her. Why was this monstrous thing being said? Some sinister plot was being hatched; surely this was Geisar’s attempt to destroy her. He knew now that even if he succeeded in escaping, he could not leave her to this vile accusation and her tribespeople’s barbarous punishments.
At midmorning, through closed eyes, Decius heard a fresh and welcome voice.
“Butcher that sack of swine droppings along with the rest of them. I speak with men, not cozzening Roman wolves.”
Sigwulf. At last. Decius forced open heavy lids. Lightning bolts of pain forked through his arms. The first rays of the sallow sun were small, sharp nails driven into his sleep-starved eyes. Nevertheless, hope struggled up.
Perhaps the ruse that had spared him would now set him free.
“But the thrall speaks of your first son, Eadgyth,” the priest called Grunig protested in his hissing voice, making practiced appeasing gestures with blood-caked hands.
Sigwulf’s grunt betrayed frustrated anger mingled with sharp interest. His second son had been born with no strength; the medicine-woman claimed the babe had fewer breaths left in him than white calves born in spring. Had he hope of finding his firstborn, whom for four moons he had counted lost to slavery?
“If this be a ruse to busy me while Gundobad ferrets out the sword of Baldemar,” Sigwulf retorted, “I will paint that altar with your blood.”
“Never, beloved of Wodan,” Grunig responded. “We do not favor one man over another.” Sigwulf’s volatile nature terrified Grunig; the priest handled him like a vicious stallion to be petted and cajoled into calm.
“I believe that like I believe maggots shun rotted meat.”
Sigwulf wheeled his horse about and rode past the corpses in the trees, feasting on the sight of Roman dead; vengeance was the only mead he wanted now. He refused to dwell even a moment on how desolate he felt, passing this first morning of his life without Baldemar; with Sigwulf, despair habitually became rage. He came to Decius’ tree and put the point of his sword beneath the thrall’s chin, slowly lifting it. Decius’ long black hair was matted to his forehead with sweat and blood. His eyes were muddy pools, stagnant with fatigue.
How small and weak are these Roman swine, Sigwulf thought. How could this miserable race, nothing in themselves, be steadily destroying our people?
“Speak, thrall. What is the hold you have on these priests that they refuse to give your stinking body to the god?”
“You are Sigwulf?” Decius’ voice was a dry rattle.
Sigwulf gave an affirmative grunt. Even half dead and slung from an oak, the Roman vermin managed to sound insolent.
“I have records of slave sales taken from the villa of the slave-merchant Feronius,” Decius said. “The name of your son Eadgyth is there.”
Sigwulf flinched at the name.
“Take me to the first fort south of Mogon Spring…” Decius struggled on, his frail voice scarcely audible.
“Set free this meat for flies? Never!”
“You will arm me with lance and sword—” Decius continued as if he had not heard.
“Arrogant wretch. Half our own people do not possess swords.” But fierce hope for his son kept undermining Sigwulf’s wrath.
“…and I will read to you the name of the farmholder who bought your son and the name of his village and estate,” Decius finished.
Sigwulf looked doubtfully at Grunig. The priest held out a soiled roll of papyrus for Sigwulf’s inspection. “It is written here, Sigwulf, or so he says,” Grunig explained, apology in his voice. “Auriane brought it with the spoil from the villa. Truly, these could well be the markings of the slave-dealer. I would pay heed, Sigwulf.”
Decius thought wearily—Auriane, your irrepressible curiosity may have saved my life. Can I now save yours?
“Why should we do this thing,” Sigwulf said, looking to Grunig, “when we can torture the thrall with fire until he interprets these signs for us here and now?”
“It’s called reading, Sigwulf, and I’m the only one you bastards left alive who can do it.” Vaulting hope lent strength to Decius’ voice.
Sigwulf whipped about to face Decius, eyes simmering dangerously, not catching Decius’ whole meaning—his speech as always was sprinkled with Latin—but certain it was not respectful.
“If you torture me,” Decius continued, meeting Sigwulf’s eye in his goading way, “certainly you’ll get me to say something, but how will you be able to prove I’ve spoken the truth? You’ve killed any others who could attest to it. And your son’s freedom is at stake. You are somewhat dependent on my honor in this matter. If you do as I say, still you will not be certain I am telling the truth…but I will say to you, torture does tend to put me in a foul temper, and in such a state my natural sense of honor is not so much in evidence.”
“What is this long-winded wretch saying?” Sigwulf muttered.
“The thrall is a liar,” Grunig interpreted freely, nodding placatingly and smiling, “but he will be somewhat less likely to lie about your son if you set him free.”
Sigwulf hurled his spear to the ground in fury. It might be some time before they could capture another slave who could read, and in the meantime his son might be sold again, and all trace of him lost. And he still could not dispell the thought that all this was Geisar’s plot to get him out of the way during the ongoing hunt for the sword of Baldemar—for Geisar fervently wanted Gundobad to to take possession of it, because the red-bearded giant was the sort of man Geisar could easily bring to heel.
“Tell this sack of dog-dung he has his wish,” Sigwulf said at last. “Feed him and strengthen him, then we set out at once.”
Decius’ joy was marred with bitterness. This was the best chance at freedom he had yet been given, and he had waited long for it. But once free, he would have to return. He could not abandon Auriane to this brutal tribe.
Auriane awakened to
find herself in a small, darkened pen; from the smell she guessed it a place in which goats were kept. At first there was only smooth blackness in her mind. Then with brutal swiftness the memory came. Baldemar’s face, stiff with agony. His bound hands. His eyes, emptied of life. A small moan escaped her lips.
She grasped her right hand, wanting to cut it from her body.
Hertha’s will should have been carried out at my birth. Mother, you should have let her drown me. And of you, Mother, I cannot bear to think. Were I to come before you now, would you spit on the child you once held to your breast?
From snatches of talk she realized she was in Geisar’s hands and that this boarded-over goat shed lay somewhere within the Village of the Boar. She learned also of the sacrifice of the Roman prisoners and presumed Decius hung dead from one of the sacred oaks.
But in the next moment she was curiously devoid of sorrowing and scarcely felt the horror—her senses had been flooded with too much of it in the last day. It was as though she no longer had a heart; her breast was a black gaping wound, a numbed nothingness. Her spirit had shrunk to that of a house-thief in the night, wretched, cowering, caring about little. She never thought of attempting escape, for her enemy was not Geisar. The old priest was only the instrument of her true tormentor, who lived within herself—her own foredoomed soul.
A special meeting of the Assembly was called to unravel the disturbing circumstances of Baldemar’s death. Auriane had killed a kinsman, and by ancient law, intent was irrelevant, for such an act was held to taint the doer. It was the Fates’ determination that her hand was on the fatal spear, so the deed was counted one with her nature and fate. Since Baldemar’s kin could exact no blood-price in payment for the slaying—for kinspeople could not avenge themselves upon their own—this was the most devastating of crimes, causing a wound in the collective soul of her kin that could not heal.
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