A Voice in the Wind

by Francine Rivers

  When Gundrid finished, Atretes rose and took the dagger that was offered to him. With a swift stroke, he opened a vein in his wrist. In the silence, he held his arm out and spilled his own blood over the sacred horns as an offering.

  Gundrid gave him a white cloth to stanch the flow. Atretes wrapped it tightly, then untied the thin leather strap which held a small pouch against his loins. His mother had prepared it for him as an offering to the gods. As the priest poured the contents into the incense lantern, a small flame hissed and exploded in brilliant reds and blues, drawing a frightened gasp from the men.

  Gundrid swayed and moaned as the air filled with a sweet, heady scent. He threw his hands in the air, worshiping ecstatically, the language he spoke unrecognizable except to Tiwaz and the forest deities. The other priests laid their hands on Atretes, guiding him again to the altar. He knelt and kissed the horns as they cut themselves with sacred knives and spilled their blood over him in blessing.

  His heart beat faster and faster; his breath came rapidly. The sweet odor of the incense made his head swim with visions of winged beasts and writhing bronzed bodies locked in mortal combat within the holy flames. Throwing back his head, he cried out savagely, the excitement building within him until he thought he would explode. His deep voice rang again and again through the dark forest.

  Gundrid came to him, and when he placed his hands on Atretes they were like fire. Atretes tipped his head back and let the mark be drawn on his forehead. “Drink,” Gundrid said and placed a silver goblet to his lips. Atretes drained it, his heart slowing its thunderous beat as he tasted the mixture of strong mead and blood.

  It was done. He was the new chieftain.

  Rising, he took the place of honor and grimly faced his first task: executing one of his oldest friends.

  Wagast was dragged before the council and thrown down before Atretes. The young clansman’s face poured sweat; his mouth jerked nervously. As Atretes regarded him, he remembered that Wagast had received his shield and framea a month before Atretes.

  “I am no coward!” Wagast cried desperately. “The battle was lost! Atretes, I saw your father fall. The Batavi were running for the woods.”

  “He dropped his shield,” Rud said, his hard, shaven face bronzed and uncompromising in the firelight. There was no baser crime of which a man could stand accused, no matter how young or untried.

  “It was knocked from my hands!” Wagast cried out. “I swear it!”

  “Did you try to retrieve it?” Atretes demanded.

  Wagast’s eyes darted away. “I couldn’t get to it.”

  The men murmured rejection of Wagast’s claim. Rud glared at him in disgust, his blue eyes fierce. “I saw you myself, running from the field like a frightened dog.” He cried out to Atretes and the council. “The punishment for cowardice is set. There is no staying it—our law demands his death!”

  Tribesmen brandished their swords, though with no great zeal. None of them relished executing a clansman. When Atretes raised his own sword, the judgment was set. Wagast tried to scramble away, rolling and kicking at the men reaching for him. Screaming for mercy, he was dragged to the edge of a morass. Digging his heels into the soft ground, he struggled violently, sobbing and begging. Sickened, Atretes struck him down with his fist. Then, hoisting him high, he threw him into the mire himself. Two elders set a hurdle over him and held it down with long poles, trapping him in the bog.

  The harder Wagast thrashed, the more quickly he sank. When his head went under, he clawed for any handhold. One elder yanked his pole free and tossed it aside. The others did as well. Wagast’s muddy fingers clung to the hurdle. Finally, loosening, they slipped away as a last few bubbles broke the surface.

  The men stood silent. There was no triumph in such a death. Better to die beneath a Roman sword than to be lost in the shame and foul oblivion of the morass.

  Atretes turned to the lone gray-haired man standing off to one side. He put his hand on Herigast’s shoulder and gripped him tightly. “You were my father’s friend. We all know you to be a man of honor and do not fault you for your son’s cowardice.” The man’s hard face jerked, then became still and emotionless. Atretes felt pity, but showed only grave respect. “You are welcome at my fire,” he said and left the marsh. The others followed him.

  Only Herigast remained behind. When all were gone, he hunkered down, pressed his forehead against his framea, and wept.

  Severus Albanus Majorian had fought this foul tribe of Germans before. For the past two months, they had dogged various Roman legions, striking suddenly and then melting away, after cutting away a chunk of the ranks, like a deadly mist. Even so, though he had fully expected and counted on an attack by the German tribesmen, the Roman commander was stunned by the ferocity he was now facing.

  The instant he had heard the war cry, Severus had signaled a counterattack. These foul Germans played unfair, striking like a venomous snake that appeared out of nowhere then slithered swiftly away to its hole. The only way to kill a snake was to cut off its head.

  Unseen, the cavalry moved into position. The ranks began the practiced turn. As the horde of naked warriors ran from the trees, Severus spotted the leader who, blond hair streaming behind him like a banner, ran ahead of his pack of wolves. Rage flashed through the soldier, then was replaced almost immediately by a grim determination. He would have that young barbarian in chains. Driving his horse forward, Severus shouted more orders.

  Charging straight into the legion, the young barbarian used his bloody framea with such skill that the frontline Romans fell back from him in terror. Undaunted, Severus signaled again, the trumpets giving a command that brought the Roman cavalry in from behind the tribesmen. Having survived the initial onslaught, the Roman ranks tightened again, moving to take what the barbarians could give, thereby drawing them further into the legion’s trap.

  Severus rode his horse into the mass of fighting men, swinging his sword to the right and left, knowing enough of German warfare to realize he only had a few minutes before the ambushers headed for the forest. If they broke free of the legionnaires, they would disappear again, only to attack later. Even now Severus saw that their leader had realized the trap and was shouting to his men.

  “Take the giant!” Severus roared, driving harder. He ducked as a framea just missed his head. Slashing his sword into another attacker, he swore. “The giant! Take him! The giant!”

  Atretes let out a piercing whistle, once again signaling his men to fall back. Rud fell with a dart in his back, Holt shouted madly to the others. A few broke through the lines, but Atretes was caught. He drove the point of his spear into one soldier and brought the back of it up beneath the chin of another who attacked him from behind. Before he could pull the spear free, another soldier rammed him in the back. Letting his momentum take him, keeping his hold on the framea, Atretes rolled and came to his feet, freeing the weapon and bringing the razor sharp spear point into the abdomen of an attacker.

  He saw a flash to his right and shifted, feeling the sting of a sword wound along his right shoulder. A mounted commander was driving his horse toward him, shouting. A half-dozen soldiers closed in on Atretes, surrounding him.

  Letting out a feral war cry, Atretes drove into the youngest soldier coming at him, putting a hard dent into the side of his helmet, then slicing through his groin. When another lunged at him, he ducked sharply and turned, bringing his heel up into the soldier’s face. The Roman commander rode right into him, but Atretes was able to roll and come swiftly to his feet, throwing his hands up and letting out a shrill, warbling scream that made the commander’s stallion rear. Dodging its hooves, Atretes retrieved his framea.

  The Romans drew back as soon as the Chatti’s spear was in his hands again. Fighting for control of his horse, the commander bellowed orders at his troops, his face dark red with fury.

  Atretes saw no way to escape and resolved to take as many of the foul soldiers with him as he could. Baring his teeth, he swung around, waiting for th
e attack. When a soldier stepped forward into the circle, he faced him, holding the spear in two hands. The soldier shifted his sword and moved around to the right while the others called encouragement. The Roman attacked first. Parrying the blow easily, Atretes spit in the man’s face before shoving him away. Enraged, the soldier lunged. Expecting this, Atretes dodged and brought the end of his framea around and into the side of the unwise legionnaire’s head with a hard thud. As the soldier dropped, Atretes made a swift slice through the fallen man’s jugular. The legionnaire twitched violently, but briefly, as he died.

  Another soldier came at him, sword swinging. Atretes ducked to one side and circled, expecting a sword thrust to his back from someone in the tightening group of men. It didn’t come. It seemed these Romans wanted their last kill to be a contest.

  The second soldier was quickly disabled with a deep gash across his thigh. Atretes would have killed him had not another entered the circle quickly and blocked the thrust of the framea. The wounded man was dragged back, and Atretes faced a third opponent, at whom he made swift, sharp jabs, driving him back. The circle broke and then closed quickly again. The Roman facing Atretes brought his shield down hard, clanging it against the long metal head of the spear, at the same time swinging his sword. Atretes ducked sharply and spun around, catching the man in the back of the head with the framea’s long handle. The soldier fell, face in the dust, and didn’t move.

  The men were furious and they shouted in fury, encouraging two others as they challenged the barbarian. Atretes moved so agilely they crashed against one another. Laughing, Atretes kicked dust at them and spit. If he was to die, he would die scorning his enemies.

  Astride his black stallion, Severus watched the young German fight. Though surrounded by soldiers, death assured, the dog mocked his attackers openly. As Severus looked on, the giant swung his weapon in a wide circle, laughing loudly as the Roman soldiers drew back. When another challenged him, he made swift work of him, using his long spear like a sword and club in one. Stepping over the fallen man, he held the weapon between two hands and grinned fiercely, taunting the others in that heathenish language only a German tribesman could understand. When yet another challenger came at him, he moved so swiftly that the soldier passed him altogether. The man tried to check himself, but it was too late. The barbarian slammed one end of the spear into the soldier’s helmet and, bringing the other end around, sliced mercilessly across the exposed neck.

  “Enough of this!” Severus shouted, furious. “Do you plan to die one by one? Take him down!” When three entered the circle, intent upon the young German’s blood, he shouted again. “I want him alive!”

  Though Atretes didn’t understand the orders, he knew something was changing by the look on his attackers’ faces. They used their swords to block his blows, but not to return them. Perhaps they meant to keep him alive long enough to crucify him. Uttering an enraged scream, he lashed out with fury. If death were coming for him, he’d greet it with a framea in his hands.

  More soldiers closed in on him, slamming him with their shields. The biggest caught hold of the spear, while another brought the flat of his sword against the side of his head. Crying out in fury to Tiwaz, Atretes brought his framea down and cracked his forehead hard against his adversary’s face. As the man dropped, Atretes lunged forward over two other men. He dodged a shield, but, before he could raise his weapon again, the flat of a sword hit and briefly stunned him. He brought his foot up hard into the groin of one attacker, but another blow to his back made his knees buckle. Another blow dropped him.

  Instinctively, he rolled and attempted to regain his feet, but four men grabbed his arms and legs. They forced him down while another tried to bang the spear free of his clenched fist. Atretes kept up his savage yell, bucking and struggling. The Roman commander dismounted and stood over him. He gave a quiet order, and the butt of a sword was brought against Atretes’ temple. He gripped the framea until blackness overcame him.

  Atretes awakened slowly. Disoriented, he didn’t know where he was. His vision was blurred and, instead of the clean scent of the forest, the smell of blood and urine filled his nostrils. His head throbbed and he tasted blood in his mouth. He tried to rise and only managed a few inches before the sound of rattling chains sent stabs of pain through his temples and brought back the full realization of his defeat. Groaning, he sank back.

  His mother’s prophecy mocked him. She’d said he would be undefeated by any foe, yet here he lay, chained on a slab of wood, awaiting an unknown fate. He had failed his people; he had failed himself.

  “If we die, let us die free men!” his warriors had cried when he offered them the choice of moving the tribe north or continuing the fight against Roman dominion. How bitterly this pledge stuck in his throat now, for neither he nor they had ever once considered being taken captive. Unafraid of death, they had gone into battle intent on slaying as many of their enemy as they could. All men were fated to die. Atretes and his clansmen always believed their deaths would come in battle.

  Now, chained down, Atretes knew the gut-wrenching humiliation of defeat. He struggled violently against his chains and blacked out. Rousing again moments later, he waited for the dizziness and nausea to pass before he opened his eyes.

  Turning his head, he tried to evaluate his position. He was in a small room built of thick logs. Sunlight streamed in through a small, high window, making him squint as pain shot through his head. He was stretched out and chained down to a large table. Even his sagum had been stripped from him. He moved sluggishly, testing his bonds as pain licked through his shoulders and back. Short, thick chains were attached to iron manacles around his wrists and ankles.

  Two men entered the room.

  Atretes rose slightly, jerking at his restraints. He uttered a short, foul curse, insulting them. They stood placidly, savoring their victory. One, dressed in magnificent armor and a scarlet cloak, held a bronzed helmet beneath his arm. Atretes recognized him as the high-ranking officer who had stood over him, gloating at the battle’s end. The other man wore a finely woven tunic and dark travel cloak, both bespeaking wealth.

  “Ah, so you are conscious,” Severus said, grinning down into the fierce blue eyes of the young warrior. “I am gratified to know you are alive and have some wits about you. My men would like to see you flogged and crucified, but I have other, more profitable plans for you.”

  Atretes did not understand Latin or Greek, but the officer’s insolent manner fanned his rebellious nature. He fought the restraints violently, uncaring of the pain it caused him.

  “Well, what do you think of him, Malcenas?”

  “He growls like a beast and stinks,” the merchant said.

  Severus laughed softly and straightened. “Take a good long look at this one, Malcenas. I think you’ll find him out of the ordinary and the price I have set on him more than fair.”

  Atretes’ rage grew as the merchant moved closer and began an avid perusal of him. When the man reached out to touch him, Atretes lunged, jerking hard against the chains. The explosion of pain in his head and shoulder only incensed him further. He spit on the man. “Foul Roman pig!” He swore and struggled.

  Malcenas grimaced and took a small cloth from his sleeve and dabbed his tunic delicately. “These Germans are no better than animals, and what a heathenish tongue he speaks.”

  Severus grabbed the young man by the hair, forcing his head back. “An animal, yes. But what an animal! He has the face of Apollo and the body of Mars.” The German jerked violently, trying to sink his teeth into his tormentor’s arm. Severus yanked his head back again, holding him tighter this time.

  “You know very well, Malcenas, that one look at this well-formed young barbarian, and the women of Rome will go mad for the games.” He looked at Malcenas’ flushed face, and his mouth tipped cynically. “And some men as well, I think, if I may judge by the look on your face.”

  Malcenas’ full lips tightened. He could not look away from the young warrior. He knew G
ermans to be fierce, but one look into this warrior’s blue eyes sent a shudder of fear through him. Even with him chained, Malcenas didn’t feel safe. It excited him. Ah, but money was money, and Severus was demanding a fortune for this captive. “He is very beautiful, Severus, but is he trainable?”

  “Trainable?” Severus laughed and let go of the warrior’s blond hair. “You should have seen this barbarian fight. He is a better gladiator now than any you have sent to the arena in the last ten years.” His smile flattened out. “He killed more than a dozen trained legionnaires in the first few minutes of battle. It took four seasoned soldiers to hold him down. They couldn’t pry that bloody framea from his hand. Not until I had him knocked out.” He gave a sardonic laugh. “I don’t think he’ll need much training. Just keep him chained until you’re ready to turn him loose in the arena.”

  Malcenas admired the straining muscles of the powerful young body. Oiled, he would look like a bronzed god. And that mane of long blond hair. Romans loved blonds!

  “Nevertheless,” Malcenas said with a regretful sigh, hoping to drive Severus’ price down, “what you ask is too much.”

  “He’s worth it. And more!”

  “Mars himself is not worth your price.”

  Severus shrugged. “A pity you cannot afford him.” He gestured toward the door. “Come. I will sell you two others of inferior quality.”

  “You won’t bargain?”

  “It’s a waste of my time and yours. Prochorus will buy him without quibbling over a few thousand sesterces.”

  “Prochorus!” At the mention of his competitor, Malcenas knew an instant of fury.

  “He arrives tomorrow.”

  “Very well,” he said impatiently, his face darkening. “I’ll take this one.”

  Severus grinned. “A wise decision, Malcenas. You are a shrewd man when it comes to human flesh.”