Anomia saw an opportunity to destroy one adversary and grasped it. “Let Tiwaz reveal his will for our people!” she called out.
The warriors turned as she walked toward them with the full confidence of Tiwaz on her side. They held her in high esteem and waited for her to speak further. She let them wait until she was close enough to see into their eyes, and then she gestured derisively toward Theophilus.
“Tonight is the new moon. As he speaks for Rome, let him fight for Rome. Pit him against our champion. Let Tiwaz tell us what to do. If this Roman survives, we wait. If not, we pursue the alliance.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Atretes said, glaring at the young priestess.
“If your Roman friend is right, Atretes, he’ll prevail,” she said. “And if not . . .” She let the words hang.
Rud looked at Theophilus and measured him again. “Anomia’s words have merit.” Her suggestion offered a quick solution to the problem Atretes had created by bringing this Roman home with him. “Have him bound.”
“I’ve never run from a fight yet,” Theophilus said before anyone sought to touch him. “Tell me when and where you want the contest, and I’ll be there.”
Rud was surprised that the Roman showed no fear. But then, perhaps the fool didn’t know what he faced. He smiled coldly. “Make peace with your gods, Roman. An hour after nightfall, you’ll be dead.” He looked at Atretes. “The Thing will meet tonight in the sacred grove. Make sure he’s there.” He walked away, followed by a contingent of young warriors in his service.
The others dispersed, joined by wives and children.
Anomia smiled disdainfully at Theophilus and turned away, ignoring Atretes’ look of fury.
Atretes didn’t take his eyes off of her until she disappeared inside her small house. Swearing under his breath, he went after Theophilus who had headed back to the woods.
“Are you out of your mind? You’re forty years old! They’ll pit you against a warrior half your age and twice your strength!”
“You think simple reason would’ve swayed them otherwise?” Theophilus said, yanking his ax from the stump where he had left it.
“If you think I can get you out of this, you’re wrong. That witch made it a point of augury.” Atretes knew all too well that the Chatti put great store in this practice of trusting signs and omens for making decisions.
A loud crack echoed through the woods as Theophilus chopped a deep cut into a spruce. “I’m not dead yet, Atretes.”
“You don’t understand. It’s not going to be a contest of strength. It’s a fight to the death!”
“I know.” He brought the ax around again and sent a thick chunk of wood flying.
“You know?” Atretes wondered how he could be so calm. “What am I supposed to do?”
Theophilus smiled as he brought the ax around again. “You could start praying.”
36
The whole village was eager for Theophilus’ blood, and more than a few were celebrating his death before it was accomplished. Only Freyja was distressed at the news of a contest between the Chatti champion and Theophilus.
“You must stop this, Rud. If you kill a Roman centurion, you’ll bring war on us.”
“We’re already at war with Rome.”
“What of Atretes?”
“Yes! What about Atretes?” Rud said, angry. “What’s happened to your son that he’d bring this Roman cur home with him?”
“The man saved his life.”
“So he said, but that doesn’t change the blood that runs in his veins. Romans killed your husband. They killed my brothers. Don’t defend that centurion dog to my face.”
“I don’t speak for him. I’m afraid for our people if he dies. You must think of the consequences.”
“We’ve been living with the consequences of Roman domination for decades and will continue to do so until we can drive every one of them back over the Alps! Except for Atretes, there isn’t a man in this tribe who doesn’t want to see Rolf hack this Roman cur to pieces. For myself, I’m going to enjoy watching it!”
She spoke to Gundrid, but Anomia had already convinced the old priest augury would settle important questions. “The outcome of this fight will decide many factors,” he said, dismissing her objections. “Tiwaz will speak to us through Rolf.”
“And what if Rolf fails and dies?”
“He won’t.”
Desperate, she sought Theophilus, hoping to convince him to leave before it was too late. She found him in the forest, on his knees, his hands outstretched, palms up. A twig snapped beneath her foot as she approached, and he rose and turned to her, perfectly at ease. “Lady Freyja,” he said and inclined his head in respectful greeting.