As Sure as the Dawn

by Francine Rivers

  Rizpah was at a loss. What did Freyja think she could do that hadn’t been done? She had been praying for Marta since she had become ill, but knew telling Freyja that would bring no comfort at all. More likely it would exacerbate her worry. “I know of no cures, Lady Freyja. I’m sorry. Only the Lord heals.”

  Freyja swayed, and Rizpah quickly came to her. “Atretes! Come quickly!”

  Atretes came at a run from the stall he was mending. “What is it?” Seeing his mother in her arms, he shoved the gate open and strode across the room. Catching his mother up in his arms, he carried her to her bed and laid her upon it.

  “Has she a fever?” Rizpah said, greatly concerned.

  Atretes put his hand on her head. “No.”

  Freyja’s eyelids quivered and she moaned softly. “I need to go back.”

  “She’s exhausted. She needs to rest.”

  “She will rest. I’ll see to it.” He looked around and saw Caleb playing with some blocks of wood he had made for him. “The boy’s fine and occupied. You see to Marta.”

  Rizpah took up her shawl and went out quickly. She crossed the street and knocked at Usipi’s door. When he opened the door slightly, she was filled with compassion at the weary despair etched into his face. “May I come in?”

  Usipi hesitated for a moment, scanning the street quickly before opening the door just wide enough for her to come inside. As soon as she entered, she felt the oppressiveness of their home. It was dark and filled with shadows. She sensed the presence of something malevolent within the confines of the longhouse walls. The odor of garlic made her head swim. If it was difficult for her to breathe without feeling faint, how much worse must it be for Marta and Usipi and the children?

  Lord, Lord, drive out the evil I feel surrounding me. I feel devoured by eyes.

  “Please remove the garlic, Usipi,” she said, taking off her shawl. “It’s overpowering.”

  “It keeps evil spirits away,” he said, making no move to do her bidding. He looked worse than Freyja.

  “It would drive anything away. At least allow me to open the doors and let air pass through.”

  He was too tired to argue or even care about garlic. All he cared about was Marta, and he was losing her. Without a word, he went back and sat beside his wife’s bed.

  Rizpah quickly opened every door and window. Light streamed in, bringing with it a welcome scent of pine and fresh air. She spoke briefly to Elsa, and the girl went out, taking little Luisa with her. Returning to Usipi, Rizpah put her hand on his shoulder. “Sleep for a while, Usipi. I’ll sit with Marta.”

  “No.”

  Compassion filled her. If Atretes were lying ill, she wouldn’t leave him, either. “Then lie down on the bed on the other side of her.” She helped him rise and do as she asked. He was asleep as soon as he put his head down.

  Marta’s eyes opened. Rizpah smiled down at her as she put a blanket over Usipi. She came back around the bed and sat in his place. “Don’t be afraid,” she said and took Marta’s limp hand in both her own. She rubbed it, praying silently that fear would depart. After a few minutes, Marta relaxed a little, and Rizpah praised the Lord.

  Rizpah rose and put her palm gently against Marta’s forehead. It was hot and dry. “Would you like a cool cup of water?”

  Marta nodded.

  Pouring some, Rizpah helped her sit up enough to drink it. Marta sipped a little at first and then drank deeply. She lay back weakly. “I haven’t been able to hold anything down,” she said in a weak, raspy voice.

  “Then I pray this time you will.” And she did, silently.

  Rizpah dampened a cloth. Marta felt all the fear ebb from her as Rizpah washed her face as gently as she would a baby. “Where are my children?”

  “Derek is outside, sitting by the wall. Elsa is with Caleb. She took Luisa with her. I hope you don’t mind, but I asked if she would help Atretes watch Caleb while I’m with you.”

  Marta smiled tremulously. “No, I don’t mind. She’s been pleading with me . . .” A frown flickered. Regret. Shame. She looked at Rizpah and saw no ill feelings, though she had due cause for them. “She’ll enjoy it.” Why had she listened to Anomia when she had known the moment she met Rizpah that she was kind and trustworthy?

  “So will Caleb,” Rizpah said as she wrung out the cloth again. She dabbed it gently to Marta’s face, smiling. “He adores Elsa, but I think it’s Luisa who’s stolen his heart.”

  Casting away Anomia’s warning, Marta smiled back. She forgot her fears. She forgot everything but how tired she was. Rizpah’s touch was as gentle as her mother’s, her voice and manner as soft and loving, somehow even more so. Marta relaxed within it, feeling safe, feeling hope. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m so glad.” The terrible anxiety that had filled her for days dissipated like a thin mist beneath the warmth of the sun. Just for an instant, she thought she heard a sound like the keening of bats fleeing.

  Beads of perspiration broke out on Marta’s face. “I think your fever’s breaking,” Rizpah said, stroking her gently. “All is well, Marta.” She sat beside her again and took her hand. “Sleep.”

  “Will you stay?”

  “I’ll be with you until you tell me to go.” Lord, be with us. Protect us from the evil I felt in this house when I entered. Put angels around us. Father God, keep us safely in the palm of your hand.

  She prayed silently all the while she watched over Atretes’ sister.

  And for the first time in many days, Marta wasn’t tormented by dreams. She slept peacefully, dreaming of a beautiful garden where she and Usipi and their children walked together in the company of a man who shone like sunlight.

  * * *

  “Of course she cured her,” Anomia said, trembling within at the news that Marta was well and that the fever had broken within an hour after that dark-eyed Ionian witch had been given entrance to the house. “It was probably that woman who cast the spell in the first place.” Jealous fury burned within her.

  “It does stand to reason that the one who cast the spell would naturally have the power and knowledge to stop it,” Freyja said and was surprised by the flash of venomous anger in Anomia’s eyes, “but I doubt it was Rizpah who cast it.”

  “Why do you doubt it?”

  “She wouldn’t do such a thing,” Freyja said.

  “How do you know she wouldn’t?”

  Freyja’s brows flickered at Anomia’s sharp tone. “Because I’ve seen nothing but compassion flow from her.” She suffered herself to look straight into Anomia’s eyes. “Besides, it was you who told Marta the sickness was brought on by Tiwaz. It was you who said Tiwaz had revealed this to you in a dream. It was you who said she had been disobedient and had displeased him and that Tiwaz wanted her to listen to you. Are you saying now that wasn’t so? Or are you telling me now that you were wrong in your interpretation?”

  Anomia felt hot and cold with every word Freyja spoke. She was trapped, and her mind worked furiously to find a way to lay the blame elsewhere. She wanted to insist Rizpah was the cause of all the trouble, but her own proclamations prevented her from doing so. “It was Tiwaz. He did speak to me,” she lied and then plowed the ground for more seeds of destruction. “It just seems very curious that Tiwaz would release Marta with an outsider present.”

  Freyja had thought it curious as well and come to her own conclusions. “Rizpah isn’t an outsider. She’s my son’s wife.”

  Jealousy wrenched Anomia’s heart at her words. Wife. The title ripped at her pride. Atretes’ wife. Her blood sizzled. Wife! The word circled in her mind like a carrion bird, mocking her. Used in connection to that woman, it was an abomination. Yet one look into Freyja’s eyes and she knew to speak against the Ionian now would bring suspicion upon herself.

  “I’m going to the sacred wood to give a sacrifice of thanks- giving,” Freyja said. “Would you like to come with me?”

  Anomia could think of nothing she would detest more. Give thanks? For what? She had revealed her power in casting the spel
l on Marta, and no one could know of it. Instead, the foreigner’s mere presence in the household was enough to convince the villagers she had appeased Tiwaz in some way. It didn’t matter that it made no sense. She couldn’t argue without casting suspicion on herself.

  The whole thing had turned back on her! Why, Tiwaz? What game are you playing with me now? That Ionian witch is as much your enemy as mine. And she’s being held in higher esteem than before the spell. She’s no longer being treated as an outsider. Do you see how she stands in plain view of me, talking with Herigast’s wife?

  “Of course I’ll go with you,” Anomia said, her beautiful face showing none of her inner turmoil.

  But Freyja sensed it, and was given further cause to doubt.

  42

  “Roman!” came the whispered voice. “Are you awake?”

  “Awake and waiting,” Theophilus said, yawning hugely. He had spent most of the day hunting. The Lord was provident, for he had been hunting for a meal and now had enough meat to last through the coming winter. Even now, the strips of venison were hanging above alder smoke. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

  “I brought my wife.”

  A wife. That narrowed the possibilities of who the man of shadows was. His late-night visitor couldn’t be Rud as he had begun to suspect. Rud was a bachelor. Nor could he be Holt, who was a widower. Nor could the night visitor be any one of a dozen younger warriors who had not yet taken wives.

  “You are both welcome,” Theophilus said. “Bring your children next time.” He knew he had erred with the remark, for a tense silence followed his words.

  He heard the woman whisper something, and the man responded in a sharp whisper, “Do not speak of it. Not a word about it.” His whisper dropped again. “He’s a friend of Atretes’. . . .” The words became indistinct as the trees rustled from a breeze.

  It was cold tonight. Theophilus knew he was far more comfortable in the warmth of his grubenhaus than the man and woman crouching outside in the late autumn night air. His remark had caused them needless alarm. He regretted trying to satisfy his curiosity.

  These are your children, Lord. Let them settle long enough to hear your good news. Let love cast out their fear.

  “I want you to tell my wife about Jesus.”

  Theophilus could hear the woman’s teeth chattering. “Your wife is cold.”

  “Then tell her quickly.”

  “The Word of the Lord isn’t something to be rushed. If I put on a blindfold, will you both come inside where it’s warmer?”

  He heard the woman whispering.

  “Yes,” the man said.

  Taking his dagger from the shelf, Theophilus cut the edge of his blanket and ripped off a strip. He tossed the dagger beside the lamp he had placed in the center of the room to allay other possible concerns. Closing his eyes, he tied the blindfold securely.

  He heard them enter and close the door he had finished yesterday. The woman’s teeth continued to chatter, perhaps less from cold than tension.

  “Be at ease, my lady,” Theophilus said, feeling to the left of him until he found the fold of his extra blanket. “Take this and put it around you.” He heard movement, and then the blanket was taken cautiously from his hand.

  “Go back to the beginning,” the man said, no longer whispering. “Tell her about the star in the heavens that proclaimed the birth of the Savior.”

  * * *

  A party of Bructeri came with goods for trade. They displayed Celtic brooches, pins, shears, and pottery items, as well as silver and gold vessels from Rome. The Chatti bartered with furs and animal skins as well as amber, the fossilized resin much in demand in the Empire’s capital markets.

  “The merchants who brought this north will hurt from the loss,” one Bructeri was heard to say, but few Chatti believed these traders had come by their goods through the honorable means of attack and plunder. Pride pinched less with no questions asked.

  Roman traders were infiltrating Germania, seducing tribes with gifts and bribes in order to open commerce. Boats sailed north on the Rhine, carrying goods to Asciburgium and Trier. A brave few brought caravans, tempting death as they followed the Lippe, Ruhr, and Main, entering the valleys of the north by way of the streams of Weser and the Elbe, knowing their lives would be avenged if they failed.

  When several Romans had come to the Chatti two years before, they had met with a quick and violent end, and their goods were confiscated. Roman retribution had followed swiftly, leaving the village burned and eighteen warriors, three women, and a child dead. The others would all have been taken as slaves had not they fled to the woods and remained hidden there until the legion had departed.

  They only returned once to the old village site, to honor their dead in quickly constructed funeral houses. In the months that followed, the Chatti rebuilt the village on land northeast of the sacred wood.

  And now, Rome came again, encroaching ever northward, this time through the representation of the Bructeri, supposed allies to the Chatti cause against Rome. Chatti warriors talked of war when they left.

  “We should’ve killed them while they were here!”

  “And have another legion breathing down our necks?” Atretes said.

  “We’ll take the war south this time.”

  Despite Atretes’ counsel, a band of warriors set off to make their ire known. Atretes remained behind, watching them leave with mixed feelings. He knew enough now of God’s way that his conscience forbade him accompanying them. Yet another part of himself longed to ride with them. How long since he had felt that hot rush of excitement in his blood? The closest thing to it was when he held Rizpah in his arms, yet it wasn’t the same.

  “You miss the thrill of battle,” Theophilus said, seeing his restlessness, recognizing it.

  Thrill was too feeble a word to describe what he had felt. “Sometimes,” Atretes said grimly, “but it’s far more than that.” As mad as it sounded, he missed the feeling he had had in the arena, staring death in the face and overcoming it by the sheer instinct to survive. His blood had hummed, hot and fast. Sometimes, in a rage, he had a feeling close to it. Exhilaration, a wildness that made him feel alive. It was only afterward that the deception was revealed and the cost made known.

  Theophilus understood all too well. “You’re in battle now, Atretes. We both are, and we’re standing against a foe more dangerous and cunning than any we’ve ever faced before.” He could feel the forces of darkness at work around them, closing in.

  When the Chatti warriors returned with plunder and good cheer, Atretes’ mood grew even more grim. He drank with his friends and listened hungrily to every detail of the battle, part of him coveting their memories of personal exploits during the valorous enterprise.

  Theophilus reminded him that what had been done was anything but valorous.

  “And Rome’s thievery is right?” Atretes snarled, defensive.

  “Sin is sin, Atretes. Where’s the difference between what Rome did to the Chatti and what the Chatti now do to the Bructeri?”

  It was a mark of how much Atretes’ heart had changed that he even listened. Theophilus’ words made sense to him. But no one else was listening.

  Drunk on beer and triumphant, Holt, Rud, and the others were intoxicated with bloodlust and eager for another battle. Peace had no appeal to them, not with victory still racing in their veins and plunder piled up around them. This time, they attacked the Cherusci. Six warriors returned on their shields.

  The funeral fires that burned long into the night had a sobering effect on those watching, more so for the mothers who bore those who had died than the fathers who brought them home. Death made the men crave blood even more.

  Rizpah prayed for winter snows to cool Chatti tempers and silence the talk of war. And the storms came, one upon the other, until the Chatti had no choice but to remain within the confines of their own borders. Rizpah thanked God, but learned another kind of hardship.

  Feeding the cattle was more diff
icult during the winter months, and, despite Atretes’ help, Varus invariably returned exhausted, his bad leg aching past quiet endurance, and in a foul temper. Only Anomia could soothe him. She came to visit often, bringing with her a salve made of arnica, which she massaged into Varus’ leg.

  Rizpah wondered at her acts of kindness, for when Anomia finished her ministrations, Varus was less in pain, but more restless and short-tempered than before.

  “He needs a wife,” Atretes said, having watched Anomia. She had looked at him while working her magic on Varus’ scarred thigh, and he had felt as though she was stroking his flesh instead of that of his brother with those bold, skillful fingers of hers. The knowledge had sunk deep and hot, rousing him in a way he hadn’t felt since Julia.

  He unleashed the beast upon his wife, shocking and frightening her with his passion. It wasn’t until she uttered a soft cry that he even realized what was happening to him and broke off his mindless race to his own satisfaction.

  Atretes was appalled and awash with shame. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, burying his face in her hair. He had never hurt her before, and the feel of her body trembling scared him as much as her. God, forgive me, his mind cried out. “I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely and caressed Rizpah tenderly, afraid of the dark forces that had so easily gripped him again.

  While lying with his wife, his mind had conjured the image of another. Even now, while comforting Rizpah, memories of lustful encounters came back. They rose like rotting corpses from unclean graves. In an instant, unbidden, those other women were with him, polluting his marriage bed.

  Once, long ago in Ephesus, he had seen a man stumbling along the road outside the gates of his villa, the body of a dead man tied to his back. The rotting corpse was strapped to him in a way that he could never be free of it, not until the decay began eating into his own flesh as well. “Why’s he doing it?” he had said, and Gallus had answered. “It’s the law. He carries the body of the man he murdered.”

  Put aside the old self.

  Atretes had taken him up again. He could feel the weight of sin on his back, the filth of it soaking into him through his pores.