Four bounced onto the earth and were quickly taken up by their owners and restrung and hung around their necks. Three others were turned over so that the runes didn’t show. Anomia turned these and returned them one by one.
Anomia took the five remaining chips and put them back in the bowl, going through the ritual once again. When she cast the chips onto the white cloth, four were faceup, one facedown. The four were taken up quietly by their owners.
Eyes glowing, Anomia looked at the young man to whom the charge fell. She took up the piece of wood and held it out in the palm of her hand. “Tomorrow. At sunrise.” She saw his eyes flicker once and recognized doubt. Her own eyes narrowed and chilled. “Tiwaz has given you another chance to redeem yourself,” she said, deliberately bringing up his past failure and raking his pride. “Be grateful.”
With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, Rolf took the chip and clenched it in his fist. “For our people.”
“For Tiwaz,” she said and gave him the ceremonial dagger.
* * *
Theophilus came out of his grubenhaus and filled his lungs with the pine-scented morning air. Darkness was being eased away with the coming dawn, but the stars still shone in the heavens. Raising his hands, palms up, Theophilus praised God.
“Bless the Lord, O my soul; and all that is within me, bless his holy name. Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget none of his benefits; who pardons all my iniquities, who heals all diseases, who redeems our lives from the pit; who crowns us with loving-kindness and compassion; who satisfies your years with good things, so that your youth is renewed like the eagle.”
His heart felt as though it would burst with joy at the new day. Darkness was passing away. Those who had come to him, hiding themselves, had entered into the light, revealing themselves at last and talking with him face-to-face.
“As far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us.”
* * *
Rolf came out of the woods. He watched and listened, heart pounding. The Roman stood in the middle of the glen, arms raised as he spoke to the heavens. Taking a deep breath to calm his tension, he walked toward him from the woods.
“The Lord has established his throne in the heavens.”
Stomach knotting, Rolf kept on, setting his mind to the task he was sent to do.
“Bless the Lord, O my soul!”
Rolf felt the sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. Seven times, Anomia had said. Seven times.
* * *
Sensing he was not alone, Theophilus turned. He frowned slightly, wondering what brought the young champion. Then he saw him draw a dagger from his belt and knew.
Now, Lord? O Lord God, now?
The Chatti champion came on, and Theophilus turned fully, facing him as he had in the sacred grove. He made no move to protect himself or escape, and the young man’s face filled with distress and uncertainty.
“You can choose another way, Rolf.”
“There is no other way,” he said bleakly, his throat closing as he looked into the Roman’s eyes. He saw no fear, only a deep sorrow and pity.
“Anomia deceives you.”
Rolf felt himself weakening, but he knew Anomia was right about the man. He was dangerous. “I failed my people once before,” he said and struck the first blow, driving the dagger in to the hilt. “I can’t fail them again.” As the Roman stumbled back, Rolf caught hold of the bloodstained tunic and held him. Jerking the dagger free, he raised it again. “I can’t fail them,” he rasped through his tears.
Theophilus spread his arms wide. “I forgive you, Rolf.”
Rolf’s heart turned over at the look of compassion in the Roman’s eyes. Uttering a hoarse cry, he plunged the dagger in again. Seven times, Anomia had said. Seven times, he was to drive the ceremonial dagger into the Roman. But his mind rebelled. Why so many when the first would prove mortal? Was he to strike him over and over for the sake of cruelty? Or to prove his loyalty?
As he withdrew the dagger the second time, blood bubbled from the wound in the Roman’s chest. Sickened, Rolf flung the dagger aside and braced the man, sinking down with him on the morning-damp ground. He remembered the night in the sacred grove when the Roman could have taken his life and didn’t.
“Why didn’t you defend yourself?” His hands fisted the bloody tunic. “Why?”
“Turn away from Anomia,” Theophilus rasped, “before it’s too late.”
Rolf eased him back and wept. “Why didn’t you fight back? Why didn’t you?”
Theophilus saw his anguish and gripped his arm. “Turn . . .” he rasped, “turn to Jesus.”
Rolf surged to his feet. He looked at his hands, covered with the Roman’s blood. Turning, he fled.