As Sure as the Dawn

by Francine Rivers

“What do you mean to do?”

  “That’s none of your concern! Now tell me!”

  Freyja put her hand out for silence. “I doubt any offense was meant by the gift.”

  “Tiwaz will take offense,” Anomia said, trying to regain control. The hot blood pumped through her veins until it was all she could do to curb the rage filling her. This foreigner had no right to such a garment! If anyone was entitled, it was she, not this interloper!

  Varus stared at Anomia, glimpsing for the first time the rabid nature hidden beneath the seductively beautiful face and body. Revulsion and fear filled him.

  “Tell me who it was!” Anomia said, her voice low and trembling.

  Rizpah remained calm, disquieted but not afraid. “Someone who was showing me a kindness.”

  “Kindness! It’s blasphemy!”

  Surprised at the accusation and not understanding it, Rizpah put a hand against her heart. She looked down over the garment she wore in confusion. “What do you mean?” She looked at Freyja for explanation.

  “Take it off!” Anomia screamed, teeth bared.

  Rizpah looked at her, repulsed by her arrogance. It was pride and jealousy that burned in her blue eyes. Simple, childish jealousy.

  “Do as she says,” Freyja said quietly, greatly disturbed. “Please.”

  Dismayed, Rizpah removed the outer garment. Folding it with care, she held it out to Freyja. Before she could take it, Anomia snatched it away and flung it into the fire.

  Rizpah gasped. “How could you burn anything so lovely?”

  “You have no right to it!”

  “And Mother Freyja did not? I’m sure the woman who gave it to me would have been delighted for her to have it rather than to have it so heedlessly destroyed in a fit of childish temper.”

  Freyja was astounded that Rizpah would speak so boldly, and to Anomia of all people.

  Rizpah let out a sigh and watched the garment burn. The stench of burning linen filled the air. She looked at Anomia again and shook her head. How many hours had Helda put into making that beautiful garment?

  “Now tell me who gave that tunic to you!” Anomia said in a low, searing voice.

  Rizpah remembered how furtively Helda had come to her, proffering the gift in secret. She saw now in the young priestess’ face that Helda had risked a great deal in giving her such a gift. “A friend gave it to me,” she said, wishing she understood the full significance. She began stirring the stew again, not wanting it destroyed as well through her own lack of attention.

  “A friend?” Anomia said with venomous sarcasm. “You have no friends among loyal Chatti,” she said, unwittingly setting herself against Freyja who knew her daughter Marta held Rizpah in highest esteem, and with good reason. “Give me the name of the blasphemer!”

  An inexplicable calmness filled Rizpah as she looked into Anomia’s virulent blue eyes. “No.”

  Freyja and Varus were no less astonished than Anomia.

  “No?” Anomia said, her voice trembling.

  “Divine the information yourself if you think you have so much power.”

  Enraged, Anomia took a step toward her, hand raised. Freyja caught her wrist before she could strike. “I’ll handle this,” she said firmly.

  Anomia jerked free, shaking with rage at being defied by a foreigner and then thwarted by a kinswoman. “A curse on you, and your god be cursed!” she snarled at Rizpah, angered all the more because she looked back at her placidly. Casting a rancorous look at Freyja, she left the longhouse.

  Freyja clutched the amber amulet between her breasts, her stomach tightening in fear. Varus was no less affected. The power of Tiwaz had radiated from Anomia. It was as though the young priestess was the embodiment of the god.

  Rizpah let out her breath softly. “I’m sorry, Mother Freyja. How did I give offense this time?”

  Mouth dry, Freyja looked at her, amazed that she was so composed. Didn’t she know what she had just faced? “Whoever gave you that garment wove the emblems of our sacred tree into it,” she said. “Oak leaves and acorns are sanctified symbols of long life and fertility.”

  Varus gave a dismal laugh. “It would seem at least one of our tribe wishes you well.”

  “Varus, please,” Freyja said, giving him a quelling look.

  Rizpah understood all too clearly how her wearing the garment would bring offense. “I’m sorry,” she said, concerned more about the consequences to Helda than to herself. What would happen to her if Anomia found out? “I’m sure the woman meant no offense to you or Anomia, Mother Freyja. As Varus said, she was only wishing me well.”

  “No,” Freyja said, disturbed. “She was doing more than that.” She was sure it was the subtle implications of the gift that had caused Anomia to lose control so completely. “Gundrid wears the symbols, as do Anomia and I.”

  Rizpah was distressed. “But everyone knows what I believe, don’t they?” she said in dismay. “Jesus is my Savior and Master, Mother Freyja, not Tiwaz. Why would anyone give me a garment meant for a priestess?”

  “To cause trouble,” Varus suggested.

  “I don’t think so,” Freyja said and knew Anomia shared the same perceptions. “The woman who gave you the gift honors you as a spiritual leader.”

  47

  “The disease of deception is spreading among our people,” Anomia said, looking around at the circle of men sitting in the lamplight of her house before her altar. “Tiwaz has spoken. The hour has come to act.”

  She had chosen each man carefully, nurturing their animosity and disappointments, stirring their passions until they were enslaved. Some, she knew, came only because of loyalty and not conviction. “You have burned the incense and presented your offerings. You have drunk the blood and eaten the flesh of the sacrifice. Tiwaz has revealed to us what we must do. Now we will learn who among us will have the honor of carrying out his will.”

  Taking the white linen cloth from one side of the carved altar, she loosened the folds with solemnity. Uttering an unholy incantation, she laid it upon the ground in the middle of the circle. With great ceremony, she made sure all the wrinkles were removed and it was stretched out flat and smooth upon her earthen floor.

  Turning again, Anomia took a silver bowl from the left side of the altar. Each man had placed within it a piece of wood inscribed with a rune he held personally sacred. She shook the bowl gently, murmuring another incantation as she did so. Once, twice, thrice, and again. Seven times she shook the bowl. Then she cast the wooden chips upon the white cloth.

  Four bounced onto the earth and were quickly taken up by their owners and restrung and hung around their necks. Three others were turned over so that the runes didn’t show. Anomia turned these and returned them one by one.

  Anomia took the five remaining chips and put them back in the bowl, going through the ritual once again. When she cast the chips onto the white cloth, four were faceup, one facedown. The four were taken up quietly by their owners.

  Eyes glowing, Anomia looked at the young man to whom the charge fell. She took up the piece of wood and held it out in the palm of her hand. “Tomorrow. At sunrise.” She saw his eyes flicker once and recognized doubt. Her own eyes narrowed and chilled. “Tiwaz has given you another chance to redeem yourself,” she said, deliberately bringing up his past failure and raking his pride. “Be grateful.”

  With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, Rolf took the chip and clenched it in his fist. “For our people.”

  “For Tiwaz,” she said and gave him the ceremonial dagger.

  * * *

  Theophilus came out of his grubenhaus and filled his lungs with the pine-scented morning air. Darkness was being eased away with the coming dawn, but the stars still shone in the heavens. Raising his hands, palms up, Theophilus praised God.

  “Bless the Lord, O my soul; and all that is within me, bless his holy name. Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget none of his benefits; who pardons all my iniquities, who heals all diseases, who redeems our lives from the pit;
who crowns us with loving-kindness and compassion; who satisfies your years with good things, so that your youth is renewed like the eagle.”

  His heart felt as though it would burst with joy at the new day. Darkness was passing away. Those who had come to him, hiding themselves, had entered into the light, revealing themselves at last and talking with him face-to-face.

  “As far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us.”

  * * *

  Rolf came out of the woods. He watched and listened, heart pounding. The Roman stood in the middle of the glen, arms raised as he spoke to the heavens. Taking a deep breath to calm his tension, he walked toward him from the woods.

  “The Lord has established his throne in the heavens.”

  Stomach knotting, Rolf kept on, setting his mind to the task he was sent to do.

  “Bless the Lord, O my soul!”

  Rolf felt the sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. Seven times, Anomia had said. Seven times.

  * * *

  Sensing he was not alone, Theophilus turned. He frowned slightly, wondering what brought the young champion. Then he saw him draw a dagger from his belt and knew.

  Now, Lord? O Lord God, now?

  The Chatti champion came on, and Theophilus turned fully, facing him as he had in the sacred grove. He made no move to protect himself or escape, and the young man’s face filled with distress and uncertainty.

  “You can choose another way, Rolf.”

  “There is no other way,” he said bleakly, his throat closing as he looked into the Roman’s eyes. He saw no fear, only a deep sorrow and pity.

  “Anomia deceives you.”

  Rolf felt himself weakening, but he knew Anomia was right about the man. He was dangerous. “I failed my people once before,” he said and struck the first blow, driving the dagger in to the hilt. “I can’t fail them again.” As the Roman stumbled back, Rolf caught hold of the bloodstained tunic and held him. Jerking the dagger free, he raised it again. “I can’t fail them,” he rasped through his tears.

  Theophilus spread his arms wide. “I forgive you, Rolf.”

  Rolf’s heart turned over at the look of compassion in the Roman’s eyes. Uttering a hoarse cry, he plunged the dagger in again. Seven times, Anomia had said. Seven times, he was to drive the ceremonial dagger into the Roman. But his mind rebelled. Why so many when the first would prove mortal? Was he to strike him over and over for the sake of cruelty? Or to prove his loyalty?

  As he withdrew the dagger the second time, blood bubbled from the wound in the Roman’s chest. Sickened, Rolf flung the dagger aside and braced the man, sinking down with him on the morning-damp ground. He remembered the night in the sacred grove when the Roman could have taken his life and didn’t.

  “Why didn’t you defend yourself?” His hands fisted the bloody tunic. “Why?”

  “Turn away from Anomia,” Theophilus rasped, “before it’s too late.”

  Rolf eased him back and wept. “Why didn’t you fight back? Why didn’t you?”

  Theophilus saw his anguish and gripped his arm. “Turn . . .” he rasped, “turn to Jesus.”

  Rolf surged to his feet. He looked at his hands, covered with the Roman’s blood. Turning, he fled.

  * * *

  Rizpah reached the end of the path just as Rolf ran into the forest on the far side of the glen. She frowned when she saw him and entered the glen, looking toward the grubenhaus. Surely Rolf was not one of the ones Theophilus said came to him to learn about the Lord?

  She had awakened the night before, feeling oppressed and filled with disquiet. The scene with Anomia was still fresh in her mind, and she prayed for Helda and the unknown others who had gone to Theophilus in the night. When she had finally slept, she had tossed and turned, troubled by strange dreams. She awakened abruptly in darkness, afraid for Theophilus for no explicable reason. Distressed, she awakened Atretes and said she was going to him.

  “Dawn will be here soon. Wait until then.”

  “I have to go now.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, but I must. Please come as quickly as you can.”

  “What about Caleb?” he said, sitting up and raking his hands through his hair. His head was pounding from the mead he had drunk the night before with Holt and Rud and the others.

  “Leave him with your mother.”

  Now she stood in the cool morning air, the sky sweetening with the hint of sunrise, and scanned the glen for a sign of Theophilus. He wasn’t in the grubenhaus and he didn’t answer her call. She found him on the far side of his garden, lying on the dew-covered grass.

  “No!”

  * * *

  Theophilus rasped in pain, feeling strength flow out of him with each beat of his heart. “Lord . . .” He saw Rizpah above him, the sunrise behind her, and then she was on her knees beside him, pulling him up into her arms.

  “God, no,” she wept. “Oh, Theo.”

  “It’s all right, beloved,” he said. “All is well.”

  “Atretes!” she screamed, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. “O God, please.” She pressed her hand over one of the wounds, but she saw it was no use. “Atretes! Atretes!”

  “Keep . . . Caleb away,” Theophilus managed, having difficulty breathing.

  “He’s at the longhouse. I didn’t bring him with me this morning. Something warned me not to bring him. I knew I had to come. O God, why didn’t I come sooner? Why did Rolf do this to you?”

  “Sent,” he managed, coughing. “He didn’t want to do it.”

  “But he did. He did.”

  “Forgive him, beloved.”

  “How can I when he’s taken you from us?” She wept.

  “Jesus forgave.” Theophilus took her trembling hand. “Tell Atretes. Remember the Lord.” He coughed. Each breath he took made the wound in his chest bubble red, but he gripped her wrist with surprising strength. “Don’t tell Atretes it was Rolf. He’s weak. He’ll want revenge.” The heaviness of his own blood was filling his lungs. “Stand firm.”

  “Don’t try to talk.” She saw her husband running toward her. “Hurry!” she called, weeping, cradling Theophilus closer, feeling him slipping away. “O Jesus, please, please don’t take him from us. Don’t take him. Hold on, Theophilus. Atretes is coming.”

  And then he was there, going down on one knee, staring at his friend, his face ashen. “Who did this?”

  Theophilus gripped his wrist. “Feed the sheep.”

  “I have no sheep!” Atretes said, wanting to understand the ramblings. “Who did this to you?”

  “Feed the sheep.” Theophilus said, fumbling until he caught hold of the front of Atretes’ tunic and held on.

  Grief-stricken, Atretes looked at Rizpah in confusion. “What’s he talking about?”

  “Feed the sheep.” Theophilus’ fingers loosened. He let out a long sigh and relaxed in Rizpah’s arms, his brown eyes still open and fixed on Atretes.

  “He’s gone,” Rizpah whispered, fear coursing through her.

  “Bring him back!” Atretes commanded. “Bring him back the way he brought you back!”

  “I can’t.” Her hand shook as she gently closed his eyes.

  “Why not?” he said desperately. “Try.” He put his hands against Theophilus’ chest, covering the wounds. “Try!”

  “Do you think we can command God to give us what we want!” she cried out. “He’s gone.”

  Atretes drew back.

  Rizpah shook violently, her breath trembling. Father God, what will we do? What will we do without him? O God, help us!

  And with a sudden rush of warmth, an answer came to her. She remembered the word Theophilus had taught her and said it aloud as it came back now when she needed it. “The Lord is our light and salvation; whom shall we fear? The Lord is the defense of our life; whom shall we dread?”

  Atretes’ cry broke her tranquility. She looked up at him, standing above her, his face contorted with grief and rage. She had nev
er seen such a look. He was breathing heavily, as though he had run miles, and his eyes blazed.

  “I’ll kill the man who did this. I swear before God almighty, I’ll find him and do to him as he’s done!”

  “No, Atretes,” Rizpah said, seeing Theophilus knew better than she. “Theophilus told you to feed the sheep. The sheep are your people. Theophilus told me there were two who came to his grubenhaus by night to hear the Word. There may be others hungry for the Lord. We must feed them with the Word.”

  “Maybe it was one of them who did this to him!”

  “No, it wasn’t,” she said, glancing toward the forest where Rolf had disappeared. Blinking back tears, she laid her hand tenderly against Theophilus’ serene face.

  “What do you mean?” Atretes said quietly, his eyes narrowing.

  “Look at him, Atretes. He’s at peace. He’s with Jesus.” She stroked his cheek, realizing how much she had loved him, how much she would miss him.

  “Answer me!”

  She looked up and saw the stillness in him, the cold suspicion—clear warning of the violent storm to come. Her heart trembled.

  “You saw who did it, didn’t you?”

  “Theophilus said he didn’t want you to seek revenge.”

  “You think I can let this go?”

  “Feed the sheep, Atretes. That’s what Theophilus told you to do. Feed the sheep. Don’t let yourself think of anything else but that.”

  “Tell me who did it!”

  “Love, God says. Love your enemies.”

  He swore at her, the look in his eyes no less obscene than what she had seen in Anomia’s face the day before. He was lusting for blood.

  Anomia, came a dark whisper in her mind. Tell him Anomia is behind Theophilus’ murder. Tell him it was her. He’ll take her life and rid the Chatti of her influence. He’ll never look upon her with desire again. Tell him it was—

  She closed off the thoughts abruptly, shuddering that she had even allowed them entrance at all. O God, help me.

  She had to protect Rolf, just as she had protected Helda. She had to strive to make every thought obedient to the love of Christ whatever violent feelings churned within her. She had to take her every thought captive to the obedience of Christ and leave no room for anger and jealousy and thoughts of revenge. If she didn’t, what would become of her husband?