It was when all others had thought Atretes dead that she had had another vision prophesying his return . . . and that he would bring peace with him.
Now, she was confused and torn. Part of the vision had already proven true. Atretes had achieved fame in Rome. He had fought as a gladiator and had triumphed over every foe in order to earn his freedom and return home. And he had brought with him a woman with dark hair and dark eyes, a woman of strange beliefs whom he clearly loved.
But peace? Where was the peace she had seen with his return? He brought rebellion and blasphemy and heartache. In one night, her family was being torn apart before her very eyes. A new god? The only god. How could he say such things? How could he believe them?
And what of the storm that would blow across the Empire and destroy it?
Freyja reached the sacred grove and went down on her knees on hallowed ground. Clutching the pendant, she bowed down before the ancient tree that held the golden horns. “I am unworthy. I am unworthy of your possession, Tiwaz.” Prostrating herself, she wept.
* * *
Anomia found Gundrid in the meadowlands to the east of the sacred wood. He was leading one of the sacred white horses in a circle, speaking softly to it, and listening intently to whatever snorts or neighs it uttered.
“What does she tell you?” Anomia asked, startling him. He untied the rope from around the mare’s neck, giving himself time to think before facing the young priestess with an answer. In truth, he had just been enjoying the animal, speaking his affection for her. Running a hand down her side, he patted her haunches and sent her galloping toward the other two white horses grazing in the sunlight.
“Holt will bring back good news,” he said. Whatever news Holt brought with him, he could interpret to fulfill his statement, be it rebellion against Rome or a time of waiting.
Anomia smiled faintly, suspect. “Freyja has had another vision.”
“She has?” He saw Anomia’s blue eyes flicker and knew he should have hidden his pleasure at the news. “Where is she?”
“She’s praying before the sacred emblems,” she said. “And weeping.” Her tone turned acrid.
“I’ll go and speak with her.”
She came closer so that he would have to go around her to depart. “Why does Tiwaz still use her?”
“You must ask Tiwaz.”
“I have! He gives me no answer. What of the sacred horses? What do they tell you, Gundrid?”
“That you have great power,” he said, well aware of what she wanted to hear.
“I want more,” she said with unveiled discontent, then added with less vehemence, “that I might serve our people better.”
Gundrid knew Anomia lied. He was well aware she craved the power for her own purposes and not for the benefit of her people. “Tiwaz will use you as he wills,” he said, secretly hoping the god would continue to speak through Freyja, who longed for the good of her people and not power for herself.
Anomia watched him walk away, the carved staff in his hand. “Atretes returned last night.”
“Atretes?” he said, turning back in surprise. “He’s here?”
“Did not the sacred horse tell you that?” She walked toward him with measured steps. “He brought a Roman with him and a dark woman he calls his wife. Both spoke of another god, a god more powerful than Tiwaz.”
“Sacrilege!”
“Is it any wonder Freyja sees blood and death in the forest?”
“Whose death?”
“She didn’t say.” She shrugged. “I don’t think she knows. Tiwaz only revealed a little to her, a hint of what’s to come.”
Perhaps the god would reveal the whole of it to her if she gave him blood sacrifice. She looked at the old priest and wished she could offer him. He was a fraud, currying the sacred horses’ hides rather than their spirits. He saw nothing. He knew nothing!
“I will see him after I’ve spoken with Freyja,” he said and left her.
* * *
He found her, still kneeling, in the wood.
Freyja rose in respect as he approached her. She took his hands and kissed each in deference to his position as high priest. His heart warmed toward her. Freyja never set herself above anyone, though she could easily have done so. The people revered her as a goddess among them. Yet it was Freyja who often brought him gifts, a woolen blanket in the chill winter, a bowl of roasted pine nuts, a skin of wine, herbs and salves when his bones were aching.
Anomia never showed him reverence. She condescended to show him respect only when it served her purposes.
“I’ve had another vision,” Freyja said, her eyes red from weeping. She told him everything from her waking dream. She told him of her son’s return.