Decius approached on the ragged pathway left by the seated warriors. Auriane at first recognized only that confident stride in the gloom. Then he came into the light of Geisar’s pulsing torch flame. Decius looked dear to her then and so out of place. He appeared mildly overwhelmed, though she supposed this discernible only by one who knew him well—a look of one who ventured too far, thinking a thing safe, then too late changed his mind.
She had secured Berinhard to a birch tree that could be reached by moving through the part of the crowd most loyal to her. Beyond was deep forest. It had seemed a perhaps unnecessary precaution earlier in the evening; now she wondered if it was enough to save her life.
Decius unrolled the papyrus and began reading; earlier, he had practiced with the edict lest he mistranslate, so he had had leisure to become fearful over its contents. He moved quickly over Domitian’s many titles and the opening salutations, which would mean nothing to them.
“Hear now, the words of your Lord and God,” he began. Decius’ voice was naturally soft, so Geisar screeched each line after him. After Decius, Geisar sounded like a maddened magpie; it was as though Decius produced an outlandish echo.
“In spite of your rebelliousness, your raiding, your pillage and murder, and your many impious misdeeds, we are yet prepared to show clemency if the following commands are obeyed.
“First, you shall not cross the Rhine by day or by night, even at those places formerly designated lawful for trading.”
Here Decius was forced to pause as the throng simmered with angry mutterings. Geisar shouted for silence.
“Secondly, you must leave thirty miles of land uncultivated on the east bank of the Rhine. All villages along this line of cultivation must yield up their arms. Soldiers will be sent to receive them on the Kalends of November. Thirdly, you will not molest the lands and property of the Hermundures, who are under our protection. And you will cede the salt springs to the Hermundures, who shall be granted sole rights to them because of their greater loyalty and service to us.”
This brought the simmering to a raucous boil; Decius was forced to silence for long moments.
Did the Romans truly believe they would quietly lay down their weapons while their ancestral enemies poisoned their wells, spirited off prize horses, and hoarded for themselves the precious salt springs, leaving them no means for preserving meat through the long winter snows?
“And fourth, for her long record of criminal acts, and her degradation of the Divine Image, you will deliver up for punishment the woman called Aurinia.”
Auriane was hardly surprised at this; yet still blood hammered in her temples and for a long moment she knew the cold, melting terror of a cornered hare.
“Tell the swine we’ll turn in our own mothers first!”
The shout was Witgern’s. It was greeted with a rousing thunder of approval punctuated with the nerve-jangling music of weapons crashed against shields. She was their Daughter of the Ash, their living shrine. The passionate energy of this response surprised her and flooded her with gratitude; she felt the beginnings of tears.
But then she noticed a thing that caused her powerful unease. A great group of warriors near the oak, close on her right hand, remained starkly silent. Among them were men of Gundobad’s, who chafed still at the impoverishment Auriane caused him after his attempt to marry Athelinda; and her old enemy Wulfstan, son of Geisar, who at Baldemar’s death had started a band of his own, and men of Wido’s old ally, Unfrith, who after all these years still held her family accountable for Wido’s death. She saw Geisar’s gaze rest meaningfully on this sector of the throng and was seized with a sense that some trap was being sprung. She had always known she had enemies, but why were they seated all together—and so near to her?
When the tumult died, Decius continued. “You will not gather more than once a month in your Assemblies. At each Assembly after this night, Imperial representatives will be present to record all that passes among you. We wish for peace, but its continuance rests in your hands.”
Wulfstan strode forward and ripped the edict out of Decius’ hand. He bellowed, waving it aloft, “What do they propose to shackle us with? This?”
Brutish laughter arose all around. Sigwulf strode forward and snatched the edict from Wulfstan. “Season after season we defeat them,” he cried. “And now they tell us where we may go, like a mother to a suckling! Shall we meekly lower our heads for their yoke?”
A mountainous clamor of approval arose, punctuated by shouts of “No! Never!” and the blunt, pounding noise of spears striking shields. Wulfstan tore the edict from Sigwulf’s hand and ground it under his heel. When he held it up to view, mutilated and muddy, the shouts became one unified upsurge of rebellious noise.
Fools. Do you not see how the world has turned? Auriane thought. This is not the time to mock.
Auriane started to rise, but Witgern pulled her back. “Not now,” he begged. “Wait until they’ve settled back into an even temper.”
When the throng had quietened, Sigwulf shouted, “This is my answer to the wolf-spawn. I say burn the edict. Let us swarm over them like hornets. We will flood over their towns and villas as sea-foam rushes over sand!” Through the next round of cheers Auriane watched Decius; he struggled to conceal an expression of amazed contempt.
Sigreda struck a bronze bell for silence. “Do any present mean to speak against this course? Do any oppose the common will?”
Geisar met Sigreda’s eyes approvingly, then his gaze made a token journey about the throng, stopping abruptly at Auriane. “Speak, Auriane, it’s plain to see you’re of a different mind.” Speak, Auriane read into his alert calm, and make yourself despised before I see you destroyed.
Auriane rose slowly, as if bearing all the weight of her sorrow and dread. Turning their minds now would be like slowing a bolting horse. The nausea she had felt earlier came strongly once, then mercifully subsided. As she walked to the place beneath the oak, she was aware of the rough wool of her sheath moving over her invisibly changing body. How many eyes took note of how loosely the rope about her waist was tied? She felt Geisar’s malevolent gaze upon her, probing beneath her clothes, feeling her body as he might a mare’s to discover if she were in foal.
I must drive away such thoughts. I am bound to say what I came to say.
In the gloom, most saw only the firelit outline of her long, tangled hair, the thin, brave spear upright in her hand. Geisar noticed with displeasure that somehow she seemed more imposing in stature than Sigwulf and Wulfstan together; her very presence brought an intrigued quiet, a sense of peace and comfort.
Witgern thought—she does not know her own courage or her ability to encourage others. She is like the hand of Fria softly laid over us.
Auriane began quietly, with a hesitant catch in her voice. “It is hard to speak against the will of the people, but I must accept the lot that has fallen to me.
“I believe Sigwulf is wrong. We are not invincible, despite our many victories of the last years, despite our wagonloads of longswords.” As she spoke on, her voice gradually became more supple and strong. “I, as you, until recently believed we had warred them down. But what I have come to see is this: In all these years, never have they retaliated with all their strength.”
The words felt, to many, like a rude push from a comfortable perch. Yet who listening to her, Witgern thought, could believe she meant to do other than fight for them with all her spirit?
“I do not think you understand the size and might of the enemy, for you have seen so little of him. I have seen their drawings of the world. It is vast beyond your imagining—and most of it belongs to Rome. I have seen where their soldiers are quartered. Some are set in places so distant that were you to travel there, three moons would come to fullness before you reached them. Some are arrayed beyond the sea.
“Among the Gallic traders who live in the shadow of Mogontiacum, all speak of a mysterious calling of great numbers of their soldiers from the Island of Albion. They say this si
gnifies a great war is planned, next to which all we have suffered so far is a mere skirmish. None are certain what nation will fall victim to this attack. We know only that the plans progress day by day.
“But it is the character of this new Emperor that should cause you to see how grave our circumstances are,” she went on, her voice coming now to full strength, binding their spirits in solemn silence. “He is for certain no god, despite his demands for worship—we would not even call him a man. He is unblooded in battle because his own father thought him unworthy and kept him home. ‘So, that is well, we will defeat him all the more easily,’ you might say. And you would make a fatal mistake, for their people are not like ours. The strength of their magic comes not from the power and holiness of their chieftains but from their curious habits of obedience and of fighting as one. If their Emperor orders every last man of their soldiers sent out against us, they will come.”
Again she paused, allowing time for the words to settle like a garment and fall in place in their minds.
“Remember that this new Emperor searches for a war desperately as a niding searches for honor,” she continued. “Wherever in the world he scents spirited disobedience, there he will strike. If we are quiet now, perhaps he will turn to other prey. For this reason I hold we should feign obedience to the edict for a time, and war upon no one, and allow their spies to observe our assemblies—and tell them you intend to yield me up. Should the day come when I must be sacrificed to save us, I must be willing. I cannot refuse, if it saves so many.”
A soft chorus of “No! Never!” rose up. She waited appreciatively until they quietened. She hoped fervently that if she must be delivered up to the enemy, her surrender could be somehow delayed until after the child was born.
“There is no dishonor in this,” she went on. “One man need not be shamed that he could be felled by one hundred. Our strength lies in not allowing ourselves to be goaded into wrath. This is the time for the wise retreat. I beg you consider these words, in the name of our bright and all-giving Fria.”
She inclined her head, suddenly emptied of words. The calm of first awakening, when all appears blurred, benevolent, settled over the throng. One of Sigwulf’s Companions said loudly, “She speaks truly.”
Another broke the silence with, “She speaks the words of Baldemar.”
“Well done! The Veleda speaks through her,” came the voice of one of Romilda’s women.
Geisar was astounded by how quickly Auriane had neutralized the people’s battle frenzy. He knew even one season of peace would seriously weaken his hold over the people. The money he paid out in bribes to the chiefs who did his bidding, attacking targets chosen for the plunder they would yield, he reclaimed threefold in the rich sacrifices these same chiefs made to him for victory in battle. Without war, the system collapsed.
This battle, by all the gods, she shall not win.
Geisar nodded to Sigwulf, who longed to speak, his eyes afire with discontent. Sigwulf liked this turn of sentiment no better than Geisar, but for the sole reason that by nature he hated peace.
But at the last Sigwulf declined to speak; he felt too great an allegiance to Auriane to present a case against her himself. So Geisar nodded to Wulfstan, who brimmed with eagerness to put forth the argument for a hostile response to Rome. If Sigwulf had known, however, the exact words Wulfstan planned to say, he would never have allowed it.
Wulfstan got slowly to his feet. He was the tallest of men, though he did not appear so because he stooped. Tangled black hair fell into staring eyes that appeared not entirely sane. He had a long, bony face, a drooping mustache, a sour twist to his mouth, and skin mottled by some affliction. Auriane thought he looked like a man who had been poisoned.
He gestured dismissively toward Auriane while slowly shaking his head. “This is one who has come to rule over you as a queen. Where there is no war, there is no life and no honor. She has always loved Roman ways better than our own. I have seen her look with reverence upon the artifacts these Wolf-Men make. And I will tell you why. It is because she has fallen prey to the spell-workings of this foreigner called Decius.”
Wulfstan took a step forward and his voice rose to a crescendo. “Witness how she counsels us to spare our enemy. It is because she lies with him. Will you be bewitched by the twisted counsel of one who beds down with a foreign dog?”
For long moments there was only stifling silence, as if the indrawn breath of a god sucked away all the air. Auriane could hear the wind softly, steadily soughing through the leaves of the ancient, creaking oak. Witgern, Fastila and a half dozen of Auriane’s Companions stirred to life first; they got slowly to their feet and began to ring themselves about Wulfstan, readying their spears.
The first sound came from Geisar. A moment passed before people realized he was laughing—a muffled, snuffling sound somewhat like a dog on the trail of game. Auriane stood absolutely still, feeling nothing yet, mind and spirit braced to fight to the end. Decius was well-schooled in life-and-death situations; he displayed no fear, though his every muscle tautened and his right hand felt for the grip of his dagger.
Then began the mutterings of disbelief. What Wulfstan charged many had long suspected, but always steadfastly refused to credit. He pressed them to ferret out a truth most preferred to leave hidden. Geisar shook his staff at Witgern and the Companions who stood with spears poised at Wulfstan. “If Wulfstan lies, he will be punished, and more severely than any of you can manage. Stand off from him.”
Witgern and Auriane’s Companions did not move.
Geisar looked hard at Auriane. “Deny it, Auriane,” he said, “and we will believe you.”
Geisar knew that as daughter of a long line of noble ancestresses Auriane dared not speak an untruth within the hallowed precincts of the Assembly; she would poison the soul all her kinspeople shared.
Auriane longed to be free to speak falsely, so life would go on as always and she could protect the life of her child. But her tongue was made of stone; it was held in the spell of the ancient ways if her mind was not.
I have violated ancient law. My punishment is just.
Time slowed; she felt too light, as if some liquid medium bore her up. A mallet pounded in her head.
“The charge is true,” she responded at last. Her voice was clear and without shame.
The words sounded out of place, spoken by that god-infused voice so long trusted. Geisar sensed with acute irritation that many still did not believe, so great was their need of her, so powerful their affection. Some looked about in sad, desperate confusion, as if a beloved mother had turned on them.
But Geisar was prepared for this. With the barest of nods, invisible to the throng, he gave a signal.
And they heard the croaking voice of Ulfina, a kinswoman of Gundobad’s.
“She is with child.”
Auriane said nothing, looking bravely, evenly, ahead as she struggled to control her trembling.
Ulfina, for her betrayal, earned twelve sturdy cattle from Geisar. Many were so disturbed by her words they began to strike at her and shout curses; she was forced to scurry off and take shelter among her kin. The old woman realized Geisar had made her a bad bargain; it was not worth the cattle to be forever despised.
Auriane saw sympathy melt quickly from the faces of those nearest; some averted their eyes. It was Witgern’s reaction that seared like fire—his face soured and he faintly withdrew from her while lowering his spear. It might not have been utter revulsion, but it seemed so then.
“Try her!” came a shout from the part of the crowd thickest with her enemies. “She poisons us all.”
“Geisar! Give us a judgment!” Wulfstan shouted. Even now the majority of the people, though terrified by the implications of such a transgression, wished fervently to be shown a way to allow her to escape. But those most loyal to her were disheartened and disoriented, and her enemies were, as Geisar planned, loudly and energetically crying out with one voice.
Auriane felt her spiritedness s
tart to rise.
Geisar is not fit to judge me. I accept only the judgment of the ancient Fates, and so far they are silent.
“She is judged guilty,” cried Geisar, eyes glittering like a fox’s near a fire. He cracked his knotted staff in two, symbolizing condemnation to death, and held the broken ends aloft. “Wulfstan. Unfrith,” he commanded. “Seize her and take her to the priests’ house.”
Her enemies rose up all at once, meaning to surround her; the maneuver was obviously timed and planned. Her Companions shot up to meet them.
Auriane and Decius sprang forward at the same instant, as if they knew each other’s thoughts. Decius knocked Geisar to one side and wrested one half of the oak staff from him, to the horror of the attendant priests. Who but a madman would dare lay a hand on such a god-filled thing? Geisar was too stunned to protest.
A dozen or more of Gundobad’s men rushed at Auriane. Decius struck one in the face with the staff’s broken end, bloodying him and blinding him. Auriane whipped about to face Gundobad himself, who lunged at her from behind, brandishing an ax. She charged him with her spear, using it as a lance, and drove it deep into his chest.
Even with the madness all about, a moment of sickness seized her; she thought she felt Gundobad’s heart jump like a harpooned fish. He sank slowly down, watching her reproachfully. She abandoned the spear—there was no time to disengage it from Gundobad’s body—and unsheathed the sword of Baldemar.
Now the whole of the Assembly was in furious motion like a lake surface agitated by storm winds. Her enemies, hundreds strong, turned en masse on her Companions—from everywhere came battle shouts and the furious staccato of spears cracking together. A few drew swords and added the ring of iron on iron to the din. Soon everyone was either battling or caught perilously in between; the priests’ shrieks for order went unheard.
As Decius dropped to the ground to recover the axe from Gundobad’s clenched fist, Auriane deflected a club-blow that would have finished him. Friend and foe swarmed so closely about she feared she might strike down one of her own Companions. Her horse—and safety—seemed half a world away. She started fighting her way in that direction; in such close quarters her sword was more effective than the spears most carried, and she made good progress—until an iron hand seized her arm.
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