A Voice in the Wind (6 page)

Atretes looked down at her in surprise. Did she know everything that was in his mind?

She touched his face tenderly. “You never spoke of it out of loyalty to your father, but he knew as well as I. Atretes, you have another destiny. I read the signs at your birth. You will lead your people to freedom.“

“Or death,” he said grimly.

“Many will die,” she said solemnly. “I among them.”

“Mother,” he said, but her hand tightened on his arm, silencing him.

“It will be so. I have seen it.” Her blue eyes became vague and disquieting. “Your name will become known in Rome. You will fight as no other man in the tribe of Chatti has done before you and you will triumph over every foe.” Her voice was strange and distant. “A storm is coming that will blow across the Empire and destroy it. It will come from the north and the east and west, and you will be a part of it. And there is a woman, a woman with dark hair and dark eyes, a woman of strange ways whom you will love.” She fell silent, blinking as though coming out of a deep sleep.

Atretes’ heart beat fast. He had seen his mother like this only a few times before, and each time there was a coldness in the pit of his stomach. Had she been anyone else, Atretes would have discounted her words as those of a mother dreaming of greatness for her son. But he could not, for his mother was a respected seer and diviner, revered by some as a goddess.

Her expression cleared. She let out her breath and smiled bleakly. “You must rest, Atretes,” she said. “You must be ready for what is ahead.” She looked away into the glowing embers of the death house. “The fire is almost out. Leave me alone with Hermun,” she said softly, her face like gold in the flickering light.

It was hours before Atretes could sleep. When he arose from his pallet at dawn and came out of the longhouse, he saw his mother collecting his father’s bones from the ashes and placing them in an earthen vessel for burial.

Four more men died of battle wounds before the sun reached its zenith, and new death houses were being built.

Then word was brought to Atretes that a deserter had been caught. Atretes knew the men were looking to him to lead the council. He knew what had to be done, but bringing judgment on a man, even one such as Wagast, sat ill with him.

The men gathered in the oak grove, the high council sitting near the sacred tree. The night air was cool and moist; the sounds of frogs and owls echoed eerily around the gathered men. Atretes took a humble position, half in hopes that leadership would fall to Rud or Holt rather than him. They were able men, older.

Gundrid, the priest, took the images from the hollow trunk of the sacred oak and placed them on the lower branches. Murmuring incantations and prayers, he unwrapped and held high the golden horns, which were adorned with graven symbols.

When he lowered this holy element, Atretes remained motionless. The priest’s pale blue eyes moved slowly from one man to the next and came to rest on him. Atretes’ heart began to pound. The priest came toward him and he felt the sweat breaking out on his skin. Only the priests and the chieftain were allowed to touch the sacred images and great horns. When the priest held them out to him, Atretes saw that on one horn were the images of a three-headed man holding an ax, and a snake nursing her young. On the other was a horned man holding a sickle and leading a goat. Atretes knew if he touched the sacred horns he would be declaring himself the new high chieftain. The men were already cheering and raising their spears in confirmation.

Steadying his nerves, he placed his framea on the ground beside him and held out his hands, thankful that they were steady. As the priest relinquished the holy idol into his keeping, Atretes rose, holding the great horns high. The men cheered louder and shook their spears in acclamation. Atretes cried out to Tiwaz, his deep voice carrying through the woods.

The priest lit the incense lanterns as Atretes carried the horns to the altar. When he placed the horns there, he knelt for the high priest’s blessing. Gundrid called upon Tiwaz to guide the clan’s new high chieftain, to give him wisdom and to give his fighting arm strength. Atretes felt his face and body go hot when the priest prayed that a wife would be found for him and that their union would be fruitful.

When Gundrid finished, Atretes rose and took the dagger that was offered to him. With a swift stroke, he opened a vein in his wrist. In the silence, he held his arm out and spilled his own blood over the sacred horns as an offering.

Gundrid gave him a white cloth to stanch the flow. Atretes wrapped it tightly, then untied the thin leather strap which held a small pouch against his loins. His mother had prepared it for him as an offering to the gods. As the priest poured the contents into the incense lantern, a small flame hissed and exploded in brilliant reds and blues, drawing a frightened gasp from the men.

Gundrid swayed and moaned as the air filled with a sweet, heady scent. He threw his hands in the air, worshiping ecstatically, the language he spoke unrecognizable except to Tiwaz and the forest deities. The other priests laid their hands on Atretes, guiding him again to the altar. He knelt and kissed the horns as they cut themselves with sacred knives and spilled their blood over him in blessing.

His heart beat faster and faster; his breath came rapidly. The sweet odor of the incense made his head swim with visions of winged beasts and writhing bronzed bodies locked in mortal combat within the holy flames. Throwing back his head, he cried out savagely, the excitement building within him until he thought he would explode. His deep voice rang again and again through the dark forest.

Gundrid came to him, and when he placed his hands on Atretes they were like fire. Atretes tipped his head back and let the mark be drawn on his forehead. “Drink,” Gundrid said and placed a silver goblet to his lips. Atretes drained it, his heart slowing its thunderous beat as he tasted the mixture of strong mead and blood.

It was done. He was the new chieftain.

Rising, he took the place of honor and grimly faced his first task: executing one of his oldest friends.

Wagast was dragged before the council and thrown down before Atretes. The young clansman’s face poured sweat; his mouth jerked nervously. As Atretes regarded him, he remembered that Wagast had received his shield and framea a month before Atretes.

“I am no coward!” Wagast cried desperately. “The battle was lost! Atretes, I saw your father fall. The Batavi were running for the woods.”

“He dropped his shield,” Rud said, his hard, shaven face bronzed and uncompromising in the firelight. There was no baser crime of which a man could stand accused, no matter how young or untried.

“It was knocked from my hands!” Wagast cried out. “I swear it!”

“Did you try to retrieve it?” Atretes demanded.

Wagast’s eyes darted away. “I couldn’t get to it.”

The men murmured rejection of Wagast’s claim. Rud glared at him in disgust, his blue eyes fierce. “I saw you myself, running from the field like a frightened dog.“ He cried out to Atretes and the council. ”The punishment for cowardice is set. There is no staying it—our law demands his death!“

Tribesmen brandished their swords, though with no great zeal. None of them relished executing a clansman. When Atretes raised his own sword, the judgment was set. Wagast tried to scramble away, rolling and kicking at the men reaching for him. Screaming for mercy, he was dragged to the edge of a morass. Digging his heels into the soft ground, he struggled violently, sobbing and begging. Sickened, Atretes struck him down with his fist. Then, hoisting him high, he threw him into the mire himself. Two elders set a hurdle over him and held it down with long poles, trapping him in the bog.

The harder Wagast thrashed, the more quickly he sank. When his head went under, he clawed for any handhold. One elder yanked his pole free and tossed it aside. The others did as well. Wagast’s muddy fingers clung to the hurdle. Finally, loosening, they slipped away as a last few bubbles broke the surface.

The men stood silent. There was no triumph in such a death. Better to die beneath a Roman sword than to be lost in the shame and foul oblivion of the morass.

Atretes turned to the lone gray-haired man standing off to one side. He put his hand on Herigast’s shoulder and gripped him tightly. “You were my father’s friend. We all know you to be a man of honor and do not fault you for your son’s cowardice.” The man’s hard face jerked, then became still and emotionless. Atretes felt pity, but showed only grave respect. “You are welcome at my fire,” he said and left the marsh. The others followed him.

Only Herigast remained behind. When all were gone, he hunkered down, pressed his forehead against his framea, and wept.

Sever us Albanus Majorian had fought this foul tribe of Germans before. For the past two months, they had dogged various Roman legions, striking suddenly and then melting away, after cutting away a chunk of the ranks, like a deadly mist. Even so, though he had fully expected and counted on an attack by the German tribesmen, the Roman commander was stunned by the ferocity he was now facing.

The instant he had heard the war cry, Severus had signaled a counterattack. These foul Germans played unfair, striking like a venomous snake that appeared out of nowhere then slithered swiftly away to its hole. The only way to kill a snake was to cut off its head.

Unseen, the cavalry moved into position. The ranks began the practiced turn. As the horde of naked warriors ran from the trees, Severus spotted the leader who, blond hair streaming behind him like a banner, ran ahead of his pack of wolves. Rage flashed through the soldier, then was replaced almost immediately by a grim determination. He would have that young barbarian in chains. Driving his horse forward, Severus shouted more orders.

Charging straight into the legion, the young barbarian used his bloody framea with such skill that the frontline Romans fell back from him in terror. Undaunted, Severus signaled again, the trumpets giving a command that brought the Roman cavalry in from behind the tribesmen. Having survived the initial onslaught, the Roman ranks tightened again, moving to take what the barbarians could give, thereby drawing them further into the legion’s trap.

Severus rode his horse into the mass of fighting men, swinging his sword to the right and left, knowing enough of German warfare to realize he only had a few minutes before the ambushers headed for the forest. If they broke free of the legionnaires, they would disappear again, only to attack later. Even now Severus saw that their leader had realized the trap and was shouting to his men.

“Take the giant!” Severus roared, driving harder. He ducked as a framea just missed his head. Slashing his sword into another attacker, he swore. “The giant! Take him!
The giant
!”

Atretes let out a piercing whistle, once again signaling his men to fall back. Rud fell with a dart in his back, Holt shouted madly to the others. A few broke through the lines, but Atretes was caught. He drove the point of his spear into one soldier and brought the back of it up beneath the chin of another who attacked him from behind. Before he could pull the spear free, another soldier rammed him in the back. Letting his momentum take him, keeping his hold on the framea, Atretes rolled and came to his feet, freeing the weapon and bringing the razor sharp spear point into the abdomen of an attacker.

He saw a flash to his right and shifted, feeling the sting of a sword wound along his right shoulder. A mounted commander was driving his horse toward him, shouting. A half-dozen soldiers closed in on Atretes, surrounding him.

Letting out a feral war cry, Atretes drove into the youngest soldier coming at him, putting a hard dent into the side of his helmet, then slicing through his groin. When another lunged at him, he ducked sharply and turned, bringing his heel up into the soldier’s face. The Roman commander rode right into him, but Atretes was able to roll and come swiftly to his feet, throwing his hands up and letting out a shrill, warbling scream that made the commander’s stallion rear. Dodging its hooves, Atretes retrieved his framea.

The Romans drew back as soon as the Chatti’s spear was in his hands again. Fighting for control of his horse, the commander bellowed orders at his troops, his face dark red with fury.

Atretes saw no way to escape and resolved to take as many of the foul soldiers with him as he could. Baring his teeth, he swung around, waiting for the attack. When a soldier stepped forward into the circle, he faced him, holding the spear in two hands. The soldier shifted his sword and moved around to the right while the others called encouragement. The Roman attacked first. Parrying the blow easily, Atretes spit in the man’s face before shoving him away. Enraged, the soldier lunged. Expecting this, Atretes dodged and brought the end of his framea around and into the side of the unwise legionnaire’s head with a hard thud. As the soldier dropped, Atretes made a swift slice through the fallen man’s jugular. The legionnaire twitched violently, but briefly, as he died.

Another soldier came at him, sword swinging. Atretes ducked to one side and circled, expecting a sword thrust to his back from someone in the tightening group of men. It didn’t come. It seemed these Romans wanted their last kill to be a contest.

The second soldier was quickly disabled with a deep gash across his thigh. Atretes would have killed him had not another entered the circle quickly and blocked the thrust of the framea. The wounded man was dragged back, and Atretes faced a third opponent, at whom he made swift, sharp jabs, driving him back. The circle broke and then closed quickly again. The Roman facing Atretes brought his shield down hard, clanging it against the long metal head of the spear, at the same time swinging his sword. Atretes ducked sharply and spun around, catching the man in the back of the head with the framea’s long handle. The soldier fell, face in the dust, and didn’t move.

The men were furious and they shouted in fury, encouraging two others as they challenged the barbarian. Atretes moved so agilely they crashed against one another. Laughing, Atretes kicked dust at them and spit. If he was to die, he would die scorning his enemies.