As Sure as the Dawn(111)

“I’m happy for you,” he said with a sneer. “But don’t expect anything from me.” The dagger felt like lead in his hand. He slipped it into the sheath tucked in his belt. “I forgive nothing.”

The muscles in her face jerked, but she didn’t speak. She didn’t protest or argue or plead, all of which he’d expected her to do. “I need to think what I’m to do now,” he said flatly.

“What about Caleb?” she said, and her voice trembled slightly.

“Wean him. Starting now.”

She closed her eyes, and he saw his words had been harder to bear than any blow he might have given her.

He went to the door. “Don’t leave this room. Do you hear me? If you do, I swear by Tiwaz, I’ll hunt you down like a dog and kill you.”

* * *

Theophilus returned and found Rizpah sitting on the floor, Caleb asleep in her arms. He could tell things hadn’t gone well with Atretes. “Where is he?”

“He was here earlier and then left.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

She shook her head.

Considering Atretes’ disposition, the German might do any number of things to get himself into more trouble. Get drunk. Pick a fight with some Roman soldiers. Or worse. He’d find himself a harlot and spend the night with her, very likely breaking Rizpah’s heart.

“I’ll take you back to the baths.”

“Atretes told me to stay here.” Her voice broke and she looked up at him bleakly. “I told him about my past. I told him everything.” Her eyes welled and spilled over. “Everything.”

“God help us.” He knelt down beside her and put his arms around her, feeling her body shaking with sobs.





25


Atretes wandered the streets of Grosseto until he found an inn at the northern end of town, far from the fort and legionnaires. He ordered wine and sat at a back table. It was a mean place, a far distance from the fort, which drew dockworkers and wagon drivers who wanted quantity rather that quality in their drink. They were loud and profane, but no one bothered him.

Rain pounded the roof, adding to the din. He drank heavily, but couldn’t seem to drive what Rizpah had said from his head.

Liar, thief, harlot.

He kept seeing her eyes, dark with grief as she told him. She bore no resemblance to the person she had described. She had left all she knew to go with him to Germania for his sake and Caleb’s, and not once complained over the physical hardships. She had saved his child from death. She withheld herself from him despite his efforts to make her compromise her morality.

Liar? Thief? Harlot?

He groaned, pounding his fists on the table.

The place grew quiet and still. He lifted his head and saw everyone was staring at him. “What are you looking at?” They turned their backs, pretending interest elsewhere, but he could feel the tension in the room. No doubt they thought him mad. He could feel the hard, heavy beat of his heart, the heat of his blood. Maybe he was mad.

He ordered more wine. It was brought quickly by the proprietor himself, who didn’t dare make eye contact before departing. Atretes filled his goblet and clutched it in his hand.

What was he supposed to do about what Rizpah had told him? In Germania, he would have killed her. It would have been demanded of him by the elders. He broke out in a cold sweat just thinking about it and veered off from why he reacted that way.

Liar, thief, harlot. It kept repeating in his mind.

He buried his face in his hands. And what was he? A butcher of men.

He wanted to go home, home to Germania! He wanted to go back to the life he had known before he had ever heard of Rome. He didn’t want to think about anything else. He wanted life to be simple again. He wanted peace.

But was life ever simple? Had he ever known peace of any kind? From the time he was old enough to hold a knife and then a framea, he had been trained to fight. He had gone to war against other German tribes who entered their territory and then against the Romans who thought to enslave them. And hadn’t they?

Ten years he had lived with their hand around his throat, fighting for his life, all the while entertaining them.

Shoving the stool back, he got up and headed unsteadily for the door. The rain was pounding outside. As he went out, he stumbled over something and heard a soft groan. Swearing, he braced himself against the door frame and looked down. Someone small and thin scrambled out of his path. A young girl. She huddled against the wall, staring up at him with wide, dark eyes. Her face was pale and thin, her dark hair tangled and unkempt. He judged her no more than ten or twelve and grimaced at the dirty rags she wore.

“I lived where I could. Under bridges, in crates near the dock, in doorways . . .”