B007IIXYQY EBOK (52 page)

When they finally reached the riverbank with their sacks of treasure, panting and coated in mud and ash, Fastila laughed softly. “All is well, very well! None opposed us!”

Each took a swallow of the villa’s wine, then Auriane poured some of it into the Rhine as a gift to the river nixes, then sprinkled some on the air as an offering to Wodan.

They then launched the treasure-laden boats; two would row, the rest would paddle across on their shields. They would have to hurry; the smoke of the fire was easily visible from the fortress at Mogontiacum; at any time cavalry might be dispatched to investigate.

Before immersing herself in the water Auriane looked back once to view their handiwork and gave a small cry of dismay. Others turned to look.

The villa was spewing bats—first the smoke was speckled with them, then blackened by their numbers; they spiraled out, maddened by the heat. She realized those loathsome night creatures animated by spirits of the unholy dead must have long colonized the crevices beneath the roofs.

Fastila turned away, shielding her eyes. Wulfstan’s surliness dissolved to terror, and he fell to his knees in the water, making the sign against sorcery. Auriane watched with a throb of hopelessness; the old specter of her coming doom embraced her with dark arms.

It must be close, she thought, for such a dread omen to appear. A multiplication of evil, as many sorrows as there were of those leathery sprites, would be released upon them in the coming year. And as it was she who set them on the villa, she would be its cause.

There was little talk as the company of thirty-one traveled at their best speed to the Village of the Boar, hoping to be home in time for the hallowing of the ground. The sight of the bats caused a gloom to settle over them. Rains and mud and swollen rivers slowed them; fifteen days had elapsed and they had lost half their treasure at river fords, when at last they came to the River Fulda and began following it downstream to the River Weser.

Auriane rode her bay mare, the mount of a Roman cavalryman felled in an attack on a river patrol; Decius rode beside her as always. Her people generally believed the Roman slave accompanied the band to see to the horses and do thrall’s chores such as foraging for firewood, skinning game and raising the tents. Her band saw that she spent as much time in Decius’ company as in their own, and knew she asked his advice in matters of strategy—but with the exception of Wulfstan, they did not question. She was a bringer of victory, and her acts were blessed. But because of Wulfstan she was careful, always staying within the Companions’ sight when she spoke to Decius.

On the last day of the journey Auriane watched with pleasure as Fria revealed her Eastre face: Flowers spilled over every steep hillside; the softly rolling earth, far as they could see, was fully clad in all shades of green, from pale soft yellow tones to the near-black of the yew groves. She was aware of how the forest pulsed and teemed with life, from the scuttling beetles in the earth to the naked white fungi, deathly pale but so very swift-growing and alive, to the furry, sharp-toothed creatures stirring in violet faun-filled shadows, to the winged ones flitting through the canopy of trees, to the leaf caterpillars, some gaudy, some plain, to the squirrels rippling up pines, skimming their surface, seeming not to touch the tree as they ascended. All were sheltered by the solemn trees themselves, with their muted consciousness, their lofty serenity, those pillars of life that made the whole of the land a temple.

The greater part of the band rode ahead of them with Wulfstan in the lead. Fastila rode closest, and was just out of hearing. The air was penetratingly cold; Auriane was wrapped in a voluminous gray wool cloak that draped to the horse’s belly; to Decius she looked like some forest creature with bold, curious eyes, not quite certain it was ready to emerge from its burrow.

“You’re passing by ripe fruit ready to fall,” Decius said with weary annoyance, unmoved by the beauty all about. “The fort at Mogon will be without a commander for at least ten more days, and they drew heavily from it to defend the south. If we do not quickly follow up what we’ve done, when that festival’s done, they’ll have regrouped.”

“You are a magpie, making the same ugly noise over and over. We must return now. You’ve no understanding of sacred things.”

“This cursed festival comes every year, and it is always the same.”

“It should not surprise me a foreign spawn of a wolf has no reverence for Eastre.”

He grinned. In that moment she looked so queenly and so dear, with that stubbornly raised head, those clear gray eyes critically examining him. The spring sunlight burnished her chestnut hair to gold. So vulnerable did she appear then—she who worked so hard to make herself invulnerable—that he felt a jolt of love for her painful in its intensity. But he could not tell her of it; when he tried, he became speechless as a dumb beast.

“Eastre’s gift for me is that another year passes and I escape being offered in sacrifice. Who is the lucky wretch this year?”

“Our sacrifices are
willing,
at least,” Auriane replied. “Yours are
not.”

“I have told you, we do not offer men in sacrifice.”

“That is not true. Your people set men to fight to the death. Your sacrifices are to a lesser god, that is the one difference.”

He shook his head with a patient, indulgent smile as if any attempt to explain her error would be beyond her capacity to understand.

“The gods want us back,” she said. “I will hear no more words about it.”

He was quiet for a time, lapsing into thoughtfulness. Then he said, “Auriane, do you believe in the gods? All the time, I mean?”

She frowned, truly surprised. “You might as well ask if I believe in the earth. Of course.”

“Some men do not, you know, where I come from. It is not a silly question.”

“But…I
see
them. They are quite noisy and noticeable. Look—there.”

“It’s just a stand of ash, in flower and quite beautiful, granted, but—”

“What is
just?
Do you not see their magic? The trees are Fria’s face, and the wind through them is her breath. She is content and pleased today, to show us that face.”

“I suppose there are moments when I could believe that. But you’d never catch
me
taking a child leading a procession in a hare’s costume for a divine being. For me it takes more than donning a mask to make a god.”

“But you do not understand. The child who leads the Eastre procession is only
possessed
with the great Hare spirit, and for a short time. All peoples worship the Hare. It is a mild and modest animal, with powerful birth magic, and it will die for you. If you are starving, a hare will come to you and ask you to cook it and eat it. Decius, you’d better be smiling because you’re glad to learn this, and not because you’re laughing at me.”

“By Minerva, you should be used to it by now, my pet.”

“I should not tell you,” she went on defensively, warily, “you don’t deserve to know…but a chosen few of those who follow the Hare through the forest have a chance to…to leave sickness and sorrow behind, and walk on through the rest of their days in holy peace. On Eastre’s final day, when the Blessed One rises…”

“You mean the poor wretch they killed.”

“He is a fortunate man, and he does not die!”

Auriane was frustrated but still hopeful of making him understand. “Do you not see the flowers that open in the places where death ruled in winter? It is the same. He lives again because Fria raises him up from the winter underground. Does not the moon die at its cycle’s end, only to be raised up again on the third day? So it is with the Blessed One, and so it is with all the earth
when Fria comes as Eastre. It is the one time of the year that
any
of us, no matter how bitter or old, can come upon the Place of No Sorrowing. That is why the people call her Darling and Dearest Beloved and go up to the high places to couple freely in her name. Many have
seen
her, Decius. She is made entirely of flowers, and she rides round the fields in a silver cart drawn by white cats, and she sheds a soft spirit-light that heals suffering souls, for which they call her Light Bearer. The hares, because of their holiness, herald her and help her carry all that godly light. If that light touches you, then you will find the way you will be at death—it is a bright peace, the Holy Ones all say, and a firm knowing that all are one creature, that all are cherished, even the rats and worms.
I
knew it once, for an instant, so I know it is true.”

Desolation came briefly to her face as she remembered the state Ramis had shown her, then snatched away. Decius noticed her sudden sadness, and his mocking smile softened.

“Charming. It sounds to me like a primitive form of the Eleusinian mysteries for which Greece is famed. I always
wished
I could believe such things.” But then Decius shrugged, and all too quickly she thought, put it out of mind. Auriane felt a strange new gulf between them, and she disliked the feeling. Was it that she realized that, though outwardly his world might be larger than hers, in spirit matters it was not, and might even be smaller? That for all his seeming vitality, in some ways his soul was shriveled like dried fruit?

“Auriane, Sigwulf’s young son, the one taken captive, was he called Eadgyth?”

“Yes, he was Eadgyth. Why do you ask?”

“His name is in the books you brought me, or I think it is. Barbarous names have barbarous spellings, and it is hard to tell. I’ll have to take another look.”

“What is in those books, Decius? Secret spells? Stories of elves and heroes and ravening wyrms?”

“They are fascinating, my little sparrow. You brought me records of slave sales. I shall cherish them always.”

“You are never happy with what I bring you.”

“If you would let me teach you our alphabet, at least, and perhaps a few words—”

“Never. Words do not belong on paper, they die like captured birds.”

After a long silence her spiritedness gave way to a clouded look. “I have a whole crop of enemies now, Decius. It weighs upon me. Wulfstan, when he saw me take those books, looked at me as if I were a Roman spy. There are those who say I have fallen under your influence and that I like foreign ways better than our own. I know we have been seen practicing, and still I do not know by whom. Geisar watches me like a starved vulture. Only so long as my father lives am I safe.”

“Well, you know my answer to
that.
Let us be quit of this damp, rotting pesthole. We could found a farm in Gaul. How I despise this country!” Twice now, she had helped him escape. On the first try, her tribespeople recaptured him and brought him back; on the second, one of the senior officers at the fort of Mattiacorum recognized him as “Decius the traitor” and he had fled for his life back into the dark pine forests. “…a farm, yes, and then we could properly marry—”

Her troubled look gave way to one of sharp sorrow. He knew the idea was not wholly unattractive to her. At last she steeled herself and said with forced severity, “Are your laws more binding than ours? How many times must I tell you, I am married already.”

“Perhaps if I made the acquaintance of your husband, it would help.”

“If you ever do make the acquaintance of my husband, you will
need
help. Silence with your sacrilege.” Their mounts sailed over a crumbling stone wall covered over with playful, climbing vetch-plants studded with violet blooms.

They rode in silence. Once Auriane jerked her horse to a halt, eyes intent on the ground. The rest of the band traveled on at a trot; only Decius and the ever-solicitous Fastila slowed their horses.

“Look. Sorcerer’s mushrooms,” Auriane exclaimed, dropping lightly from the bay mare to the mossy path. “Can you wait? I promised Thrusnelda…,” she said while rapidly picking mushrooms, “…I would gather these for her if I saw them. You know, they say that when you eat these, the things that Ramis says make sense.”

“Give me some—maybe you
will make sense,” he said, smiling through his impatience as she dropped handfuls of mushrooms into her provisions sack. She tossed one of the mushrooms at him and vaulted back onto her mare. He smiled at her teasingly until, grudgingly, she returned the smile.

“I’ve some questions for you before we are home, and I can’t have words with you any more,” Auriane said after a time. “First tell me, do you know why your people abducted our greatest Holy One? Was it to learn her secrets of giving oracles?”

Immediately after they broke camp, one of Baldemar’s messengers overtook them and related the tale of a strange act of aggression—two Roman legions had marched far into the county of the Bructeres, their neighbor tribe to the east, and surrounded the tower of the Veleda on the River Lippe, seizing the great prophetess with the intent of taking her as hostage to Rome. To the tribes it was a terrifying and incomprehensible act.

“Nothing like that, I would wager,” Decius replied. “My guess is that it was because she never stopped exhorting your people to go to war, and she made vicious enemies out of even the more peaceful tribes. I would call it a brilliant tactic—one simple abduction, one holy woman removed—and the northern hordes are left in confusion, without shedding a drop of blood, Roman
or
barbarian. And then that council of sorceresses chose this woman called Ramis to fill her place, who inveighs relentlessly against war. I wonder if the military command knew her
nature as well? If the government had shown as much wisdom in my
day, that great massacre in Britannia might have been avoided.”