B007IIXYQY EBOK (89 page)

It was in these times that Sigreda was driven off forever, barely escaping with her life. It happened that a severe ague broke out in the camp, causing violent shivering, chills and swift death. First Thrusnelda was called on to build a need-fire. She carried out the task with rigorous attention to the laws of ritual, using nine varieties of wood for tinder and kindling it with the friction of two sun wheels. When the fire burned hotly, the sick were passed quickly through the healing heat. But in spite of this, over two thousand perished. And so Auriane went round from tent to tent and laid the sword of Baldemar on the sick. When five of these died immediately following her ministrations, Auriane’s suspicions were roused, and she called Thrusnelda’s medicine women to look at the bodies. They pronounced that the victims had been poisoned. Thrusnelda then forced her way into Sigreda’s tent and found great quantities of yew juice and monkshood stolen from the herb-stores. She declared before all the people that Sigreda was a poisoner; the young priestess’s actions, Thrusnelda maintained, were a desperate attempt to destroy the people’s belief in Auriane’s holiness.

A savage cry was raised against Sigreda. Even Geisar dared say no word in defense of his chosen successor. In the end Geisar was forced to break the staff and condemn her himself, although it was obvious he did not wish to. He and Sigreda shared one mind, Auriane often observed, just as she and Baldemar had, only this mind schemed to harness others to its will.

The people set upon Sigreda and would have bludgeoned her to death, but Geisar took her into his own tent, promising them justice on the next day. Then he set a light guard about her, and at midnight she escaped. The following day Geisar too quit the camp, outraged that the people reverenced him so little that they forced him to condemn his successor. And so old Geisar abandoned the host—he who for three generations had propitiated Wodan and determined his will. To compensate for the loss of the favor of Wodan—the people feared the god might punish them for their harsh treatment of his first priestess and priest—Auriane arranged for the sacrifice of a white cat and a white sow to Fria, imploring the great, burning Sun Mother to serve as protectress of the host.

Before the time of the next quarter-moon, the tale went round that Sigreda had sought refuge at Mogontiacum and revealed to the Romans the location of Five Wells, their fort of final refuge. Some thought this unthinkable, but Auriane believed Sigreda capable of it for there was a darkness in Sigreda whose boundaries were unplumbable as bog-lakes at night. Privately Auriane uttered prayers of thanksgiving that Sigreda and Geisar, her longtime enemies, were put to flight. But she found she sometimes half missed them; troubling as they were, they yet were part of the hearth and bedding of the old life, and their passing seemed one more sign of the coming of the shrieking winds of chaos.

When one moon had passed since the attack upon the Eighth Augusta, the main body of the Chattian army abandoned the three hill forts they had occupied since the war’s beginning and began to march northeast, for scouts of the legionary cavalry were steadily encroaching on the native strongholds, and Auriane feared they would be besieged. As the army retreated along the Taunus ridge, often they came upon multitudes of black kites with their squealing cries, gliding above heaps of rotting dead—most were refugees from villages, caught and slain by outriding cavalry.

The army took refuge in a more northeasterly fort on the Taunus crest. Auriane began to grow anxious that there was no news of Sigwulf, and prayed the cause was only that his runners could not find them. In these times no one remembered their one small victory. They strove constantly to arrange a second ambush, but conditions were never again right. The legions camped always on high, open ground that favored their methods of fighting, staying well away from thick forests and treacherous marshes that allowed her people the opportunity to steal close under shelter. And the number of native auxiliaries and cavalry that covered the legions’ advance was greatly multiplied. Auriane knew with fatal certainty that the legions now owned the Taunus, though she would never say it before others.

The provisions wagons traveled on ahead of them, making torturous progress toward Five Wells, where the supply-women would winter along with the tribespeople who could not fight. The way was treacherous, the trails no more than deer paths; she feared the provisions carts would be caught in the snows. The wagons moved forward only by night; by day, Romilda ordered them disguised with brushwood. Though every day put more distance between the wagons and the legions, Auriane worried over them continuously. She knew Roman ways too well: They will do what is efficient, no matter how dishonorable, and if they destroy the provisions wagons the war will be over.

At the new moon the messenger from Sigwulf came at last. She knew at once Sigwulf lived and was victorious—the youth shouted it out to the whole of the camp as he galloped his dun pony beneath the hill fort’s timber gate.

The freckled youth grinned as he gave his report to the leading warriors, flushed with importance at being called to deliver messages to such a legendary personage as the daughter of Baldemar and the illustrious elders of Baldemar’s old retinue, Witgern and Thorgild.

“Odberht’s brigands overran the Village of the Boar,” the messenger related. “They lapped up the wine like thirsty hounds and staggered into the forest to sleep. Sigwulf’s men fell on them and slaughtered them to a man.
Sigwulf is camped now on the grasslands to the north and will rejoin you before next the moon is full.”

This was met with muted murmurs of approval, for everyone’s capacity for rejoicing seemed to have worn thin. Auriane regarded the youth critically. “And what was the name of the warrior who slew Odberht?”

There came into the messenger’s eyes the hesitation of an animal that does not know which way to dart. He decided it was better not to disappoint this audience.

“Sigwulf himself…I think.” Then he thought better of this. “Well, in truth,” he admitted, speaking forcefully to cover his uncertainty, “I was not told. That is all I was given on the matter, like it or not.”

“Who viewed the corpse?” Auriane persisted.

“Everyone.
I do not know all their names! He must have seen slain, or I would not
have been given that message,” he said with growing unease.

Auriane met Witgern’s gaze. “Something is wrong in this.”

“I agree,” Witgern replied. “Whoever carried out this deed is the most celebrated warrior of our age. Everyone would know his name—he would make certain of it.”

The boy looked perplexed and hurt, as if he had offered them a gift that had been pushed back at him.

When the messenger had spoken all his news, he sought Auriane out privately and said, “There is a message for my lady alone, from the foreigner called Decius, sent to Sigwulf from the Cheruscan camp.”

She felt a sickness and a complicated pain, sharp and tearing as broken glass. Decius must actually be traveling with the raiding Cheruscans.

As the warriors departed, Fastila rose to leave with them.

“Fastila,” Auriane objected, “not you. Stay.” She caught at Fastila’s gray robe. There was a comfort in Fastila’s presence that was a mystery to Auriane; it was more than the sum of that unjudging resilience, that swift understanding of her pain, which she might expect from a woman who also lived a life away from family and hearth. The bond was strong in spite of the fact that Fastila was not particularly of like mind—the younger woman was far more of a nature to be content to let things be. Fastila since the war’s beginning had attached herself to Auriane as a voluntary bodyguard, though as one of the armed Holy Ones she was expected to pitch her tent with her fellows. She looked at Auriane with concern, then sat on the hollowed log they used as a drum, her battered round shield slung across her back.

The youth spoke Decius’ words in the monotone of those who memorize.
“I would give my freedom and all my property to pass a single night with you
…
.”

Property? she thought. Decius had never had anything of worth.

“
Beloved, we’ve only one life that I know of. Know this, you are doomed. I beg you, save yourself. Do not come to me—it is too perilous. And do not try to return to Ramis and the child—the enemy expects you, and there are traps set for you there. You must flee to a village called Thurin on the River Elbe, in the territory of the Semnones. There I will meet you when this sorry mess is done.”

Auriane rose, turned, and looked off at the far pines.

Decius, she thought, you never did understand, even after all my attempts to explain. My people and I are not separate. You might as well tell one of my limbs to flee east.

“And two more words only, my lady,” the boy went on,
Forgive me.
He expects a reply.”

Auriane shut her eyes.

Even now, she thought, we are fighting against Decius’ tactics. I recognize them. The Cheruscans harry our foraging parties continuously, just as he would advise.

And yet even now, Decius, you work your own aggravating magic. You benefit from the idea you seeded in my mind, that a man is not to be blamed for the circumstances into which the Fates drop him. You do what you must to live. By our law, your crime is near as great as Odberht’s. But love is clever and deft; it flies round all that and behaves as if your deeds were not.

I know your heart even if I’ll never know your mind. I cannot be the one to break a staff and condemn you.

“Tell him—” she began, and stopped.

Tell him what? That love and hate are mixed in me like honey and poison? That I am half starved for the rough feel of his cheek, his firm, gentle hands—but that if he comes through that gate, I would have to give him to the priests because he aids our enemy? He suffers. Life is simpler than that. End that suffering.

“Tell him yes,” she whispered hoarsely. “I forgive.” She cut a lock of her hair and put it into a white linen purse. “Give him this.”

The boy’s eyes widened in wonder. A woman’s hair was alive with holiness, and Auriane’s was holier than his own mother’s—yet she gave a lock of it to a foreigner. Reverently the lad took it, bowed, and departed.

On the following morning a tribal spy came to Auriane, a woman of the Bructeres called Hwala. She traveled among the camp followers of the Eighth Augusta and dealt in dubious wares, selling aphrodisiacs to the legionary soldiers, while peddling the coveted red Arretine-ware stolen from Roman officers to barbarian chiefs. She was a squat creature almost broader than she was tall, who walked with a turtle’s methodical waddle. Her hair was snarled as a bramble thicket, her skin strangely mottled, and her eyes wide-set and bulging, giving her the look of a demonic toad. Witgern said of her she was the safest creature abroad in the land, for she scared even the wildcats away. Her sources of information were generally the young, fair native girls of the
canabae
bedded by the Roman officers.

“My lady,” Hwala said, bowing lower than was necessary. Her attitude was carefully respectful, but Auriane knew Hwala did not hold her—or anyone—in reverence. “The Romans have declared Odberht officially dead. The commander of the Eleventh was heard to say it himself.”

Auriane felt a quick, exhilarating flush of relief. “That is well! Very well.” She rose and began to nervously pace, aware relief never lasted long.

Surely, she reasoned with herself, the Romans would know if their ally were dead or alive. “Did they view a body?”

Hwala shook her head quickly with a rapid birdlike motion, indicating she did not know. Auriane felt a small throb of disappointment.

“And…of the other matter?” Auriane asked. Hwala knew Auriane wanted to know if any sign had been given that an attack on their provisions wagons was imminent.

“They’re either cleverer than we know,” Hwala replied, “or they’ve changed their spots. However, the tribune that Mara serves was heard to say:
‘We are one ambush away from going home. We’ve just got to wait for his cursed birthday.’”

“Domitian’s birthday?”

Hwala slowly nodded.

“Nine days after their Ides of October,” Auriane said to herself. “The ogre. A small gift to himself after the Roman fashion, I suppose.” In all likelihood, Auriane supposed, Domitian’s augurs had told him this day would be an auspicious one for such a vital maneuver.

Fastila made calculations with her calendar stone that marked both lunar and solar cycles, and reported that Domitian’s birthday fell on the morrow. The provisions wagons could not be reached before three days’ hard ride, if no raiding parties were met and the weather remained mild.

“If that is what your tribune’s words meant, Hwala,” Auriane said, “then we are warned too late.” The safety of the provisions wagons was left to war-luck of Romilda.

Hwala remained impassive. If this woman ever knew fear or regret, Auriane never saw evidence of it. She gifted Hwala with a gaudily embroidered, amber-studded riding cloth for her mule, then dismissed her.

Auriane tried gamely to convince herself Odberht was indeed dead.

In the next five days Sigwulf’s victorious men began to trickle into the camp. A kinsman of Coniaric’s, an unkempt beast with odd yellow eyes who was called Walest, proclaimed
he
had slain Odberht. He was brought to Witgern’s tent to be closely questioned. Walest answered their eager questions, but Auriane thought his replies suspiciously vague. He claimed to have done the deed with an axe.