“Give me a minute,” he said, his voice ragged. When she sat up and reached for him, he was harsh. “Don’t get close to me!”
That’s what he felt, and Anomia had roused it. He couldn’t be near her and not see what she wanted, not feel the desire mount in him as well. The realization stunned him. What was worse, he knew it would happen again.
Was it only because she looked so much like Ania?
Raking his fingers into his hair, he held his head. Already, he hurt with what he had started and not finished. And he wouldn’t finish, not with what was going on in his mind.
He loved Rizpah. He cherished her. He’d die for her. How could he be holding her in his arms and making love to her while thinking of another. It was the worst kind of betrayal. It stank of adultery.
“God, forgive me.”
Rizpah heard him mumble something, but not what it was.
“God, deliver me.”
She heard that and went to him, putting her arms around him. He shook her off and shoved her back from him.
Hear my cry, Lord, Atretes prayed fervently. Wipe that witch from my mind. Wipe every woman I’ve ever touched from my mind. Make me clean for Rizpah. Make me clean.
Calmer, his mind clearing, he turned to reassure his wife. But the damage was already done.
43
Winter agreed with Anomia’s cold blood. She chose her time and listeners carefully. Those who were among her chosen carried grudges and unfulfilled desires, discontent and disappointment. She invited them to her dwelling place of shadows and poured honeyed wine into their drinking horns and bittersweet vitriol into their hearts. They went away parched and came back over and over again, thinking she could slake their thirst.
“Atretes speaks of guilt. The guilt of sin, whatever sin may be,” she said, her beauty sharpened by derision. “Why should we feel guilty? The Bructeri betray us by fornicating with Rome, do they not? The Hermunduri stole our sacred salt flats, did they not? He is deceived.”
The men readily agreed, their eyes moving over her in ardent fascination.
She smiled, feeling the power she had over them, the power they gave her of their own free will.
“We are the greatest among the German tribes. Chatti led the forces against Rome. We were first into the field and last to leave. And now, this Roman and this Ionian woman have worked upon Atretes, the greatest of all our warriors, and turned his heart away from Tiwaz. What would they have us believe about ourselves? That we are nothing. Nothing?”
A growl came from the men, their pride burning.
She fanned the flames of their discontent and added the fuel of ungodly desires.
“They claim we’ve sinned.” She gave a derisive laugh and a wave of her hand. “How can I or any of you be held responsible for what one man or one woman did thousands of years ago in a garden none of us have ever known existed? It’s ludicrous. It’s laughable! Is Herigast responsible for his son dropping his shield in battle? No. Is Holt accountable for the men who died to defend our land? No. None of us are responsible for what someone else has done. And we are not responsible for the sin of this nonexistent Adam and Eve.”
She moved around the circle, serving them, staying close enough to see the look in their eyes, to encourage their passions. “It’s a fable they tell us, a repulsive little tale with a dark purpose. And I’ll tell you what it is.”
She saw she held them in her hand and relished their rapt attention to her every word. They soaked each one in like dry earth drinks in rain.
“They want us to believe we carry the sin of this Adam and Eve because by believing it, we become weak. They want us to feel like worms before this god of theirs. They want to conquer us without even having to send a legion.”
She gave a soft, disquieting laugh. “Are we worms in the eyes of Tiwaz? No. But if we listen to them, we will be worms. Worms in Roman eyes.”
“Atretes swears on his sword that his wife was raised up from death,” one man said, uneasy.
“A trick,” she said, dismissing it airily, and poured more wine. She brushed hands as she poured, moving close so the small gathering of men would inhale the scent of sweet herbs she had rubbed on her skin. Let them hunger. Let them thirst.
“They’d like us to swallow this invented religion of theirs. They say they want to save you. But do they? Do they really care? From what do you need to be saved? From the pride of being Chatti? We are Chatti. We are the fiercest, bravest of all the people of Germania. We are a race above all others. Is it any wonder they come to us in the disguise of peace, bringing with them poisonous ideas?”
She filled them with the bile of suspicion and anger, and then told them to keep it secret within them.