“You, a farmer?” Atretes laughed. It was so ludicrous.
Theophilus smiled, undaunted. “I’m going to hammer my sword into a plowshare and my spear into a pruning hook.”
Atretes saw he meant it. “You’d better wait,” he said grimly. “If you do it too soon, you may not live to break the soil.”
* * *
Atretes was helping Theophilus fell trees for the grubenhaus when they heard jubilant shouting from the village. The warriors had returned.
Burying his ax in a stump, Atretes headed for the village. “Stay here until I send for you!” He ran through the woods and between two longhouses, coming into the main street. A throng of warriors mulled around, greeting wives and children. Only a few were on horseback.
“Rud!” Atretes shouted, seeing the older man who had been his father’s best friend.
The gray-haired man turned sharply on his horse. Raising his framea in the air, he gave an ecstatic war cry and rode toward Atretes, sliding from the animal’s back at the last moment and embracing him in a body-bruising hug. “You have returned! Tiwaz is with us!” He embraced him again, pounding his back as the others surged toward them, shouting war cries and all talking at once.
Rizpah watched from the door of the longhouse, Caleb in her arms. The men surrounded Atretes, buffeting him in welcome. Atretes was laughing, shoving several back and taking a good-natured swing at another who dodged and then embraced him. They were rough men of deep feeling and even deeper pride.
Across the street, Anomia emerged from her dwelling. After dismissing Rizpah with a cursory glance, she fixed her gaze upon the returning warriors. Her eyes glowed as she saw how they worshiped Atretes, clamoring around him like excited boys in the presence of their living idol. What power he could wield over his people—and she would teach him how to do so.
The Chatti had never stopped talking about him. Over the past years, he had become a legend, his feats in battle against the Romans retold at hearth and home around the ceremonial fires. How easy it would be for him to yank the reins of power from any who tried to withhold them. Rud would not. He was old and tired, though loyal to her. He had only agreed to the meeting with the Batavi and Bructeri because she wanted it and the younger warriors demanded it. Nor would Holt stand in Atretes’ way, for he had long ago sworn allegiance to Hermun’s son.
She had been a child of twelve when she had hidden herself in the dark shadows of the trees and watched the rites in the sacred grove that made Atretes chief. She could still remember him holding the golden horns above his head, his naked body bathed in firelight. He had looked like a god to her then. He still did. Soon she would stand beside him.
She had always known what she wanted: to be high priestess and wife of the chief of the Chatti. Had her sister, Ania, lived, she would have stood in the way of her ambitions. Anomia believed her death had been an act of Tiwaz, preparing the way for her to be with Atretes.
When he had been taken by the Romans, she had been confused and angry. Why would Tiwaz allow such a thing to happen? Freyja had foreseen his return, and she had clung to the prophecy, awaiting the unfolding of it, setting her intellect to achieving the fullness of her powers in readiness for him. In part, she had done just that, though she still craved more. Together, she and Atretes would make the Chatti the mightiest tribe in Germania. They would take vengeance on all those who had thought to make them slaves. They would destroy the Hermunduri and take back the sacred river and salt flats. They would take retribution for the yoke Rome had tried and failed to put upon them. And as they did these things, other tribes would join with them, until the whole of Germania was driving south to the very heart of the Empire: Rome herself!
Nothing would stand in her way, not the Roman Atretes called his friend, not Freyja, not anyone else—especially not the black-eyed, black-haired Ionian witch who stood in the doorway opposite her.
For your glory, Tiwaz, I will take Atretes from her! Together he and I will rule these people and use them for your purposes.
“Ask him about the Roman he brought with him!” someone shouted, and the din of greeting died down.
“What is this you say, Herigast?” Holt said to the accuser. “What Roman?”
Atretes looked at the man standing at the outer edge of the warrior’s circle. Long ago, Atretes had been forced to make a judgment against Herigast’s son, Wagast. The young warrior had dropped his shield and fled the battlefield, a crime demanding execution. The vote of the Thing had been unanimous, leaving Atretes with no choice but to order Wagast be drowned in the bog. The young man’s father had aged greatly in eleven years. Though still robust, his hair was white, his face deeply lined.