Текст книги "The Divining"

Автор книги: Barbara Wood

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     As Sebastianus surveyed the camp, assessing damage and nerves, he saw two legionaries approach Ulrika's tent, where she stood her ground, tall and proud. He quickly made his way across, and as he neared, he heard her say, "There is no one in this tent."

     "Sorry, miss, but we have to see for ourselves."

     Ulrika did not budge. "I harbor no criminals."

     "Just step aside."

     She tipped her chin. "On what authority do you act?"

     "Is General Vatinius good enough for you? Now just—"

     Her clasped hands fell away. "Who did you say? General Vatinius? But he is miles from here, to the south—"

     "The commander is at Colonia, with his legions."

     Ulrika gasped. "Vatinius is here? Already?"

     Sebastianus saw the color drain from her face. Before he could speak, Ulrika surprised him by suddenly standing aside and saying to the soldiers, "Search. You will find nothing."

     As the legionaries conducted a quick sweep of the tent's interior, Ulrika wrung her hands. Sebastianus had never seen her so agitated. "You're worried about your father's family," he said, wishing he could offer something more. Sebastianus knew few details of the legions newly garrisoned at Colonia. He had heard conflicting reports, information being based more upon imagination and wishful thinking than fact.

     Ulrika's eyes met his, and he saw fear there. "I must warn them," she whispered.

     "Warn them—?"

     The legionaries emerged from the tent, and Ulrika, without another word, quickly went inside. Sebastianus stood there for a moment, puzzled, then he turned on his heel and called out for Timonides.

     AS SOON AS HE had seen his master enter the camp to stop and talk with the centurion, Timonides had tossed aside his unfinished lamb chop and rushed to the tent he shared with his son, Nestor, to prepare himself for the morning's astral reading. It was the first thing his master saw to when he returned to camp, before breakfasting even. When Sebastianus called for him, Timonides would be ready with the horoscope.

     As he pored over his charts, using his instruments by lamplight, scribbling equations on a scrap of papyrus, Timonides felt a pang of guilt over the falsehoods he had uttered in the past few weeks. But he had wanted to keep the girl with them, in case his jaw acted up again, or another ailment befell him. He tried to assuage his conscience by reminding himself that in all his years of serving the gods and the stars, he had never asked for anything in return. Surely they would not mind this one small reward for faithful service, but the feelings of guilt—

     He froze. Something was wrong.

     He read his notes again, reset his protractor, made certain of degrees and houses and ascendants. And felt his blood run to ice. Great Zeus. There was no doubt. Yesterday, his master's horoscope had been as clear and uneventful as a summer's day. But now, unexpectedly...

     A catastrophe lay ahead. Something great and fearsome that had not been there in prior days. Timonides licked his lips. Why now? What had changed? Had it something to do with the soldiers searching the camp?

     Or is it my punishment for falsifying readings?

     Timonides broke out in a sweat. He knew that when he reported this new reading, Sebastianus would demand an explanation as to why his horoscope had suddenly changed. If Timonides told him the truth, that he had lied back in Rome about bringing the girl along, what would Sebastianus do to punish him? Timonides did not mind for himself—he was an old man and had lived a good life and would accept any punishment within reason. It was Nestor he worried about. For his son's sake he must stay in his master's good graces. Pudgy and pie-faced, with the sweet temper of angels and the innocence of doves, Nestor would be helpless on his own.

     Timonides wrestled with his conscience and indecision.

     The day the newborn had been placed in his arms, the look of disgust on the midwife's face, the sisters and cousins all declaring it would be best for the child to leave him exposed on a garbage heap ... Timonides had almost agreed, until he had felt that tender flesh, the tiny bones, the utter helplessness of the creature. His heart had turned upside down in that moment and Timonides had known he could not do to this infant what had been done to him. And so he had kept the son who had come late in life to the Greek and his wife, a surprise really, as Damaris had thought herself beyond childbearing age. And when Damaris had died when Nestor was only ten, Timonides had pledged himself anew to care for the boy at any cost.

     Now, twenty years later, Timonides was being put to the test. And there was no question. He could not tell his master the truth—that a great catastrophe now lay before them because his faithful astrologer had committed sacrilege by falsifying horoscopes. For Nestor's sake, Timonides must save himself with yet another lie.

     Rubbing his belly and wishing he hadn't dipped his lamb chops in so much garlic sauce, Timonides went out into the smoky morning to deliver the reading.

     He found Sebastianus sitting at a table in front of the tent where the wealthy trader never slept, a scroll containing financial records opened before him, the ever-present abacus in his hand. The young Galician smelled of soap. He had changed into a clean white tunic, the close-cropped beard was freshly trimmed, his hands and feet were scrubbed clean. Timonides knew that, with his blue cloak fastened at his throat, Sebastianus was ready to break camp and make the last leg of the journey.

     "The stars have a new message this morning, master. Something big is about to happen to you."

     Bronze eyebrows arched. "Big? What does that mean? Nothing was said of this last night, in the evening reading."

     "Things have changed," Timonides said, averting his eyes.

     "Changed?" Sebastianus thought about this. "The soldiers," he said. Then he turned in the direction of Ulrika's tent, where he could see her silhouette moving about inside, and a strange new thought fluttered at the edge of his mind.

     The soldiers ...

     Something about the soldiers and the girl named Ulrika. "I must warn my people," she had said.

     What had she meant by that? Warn them of what? He had thought she was simply going home. That was all she had told him.

     But ... in the past few weeks, a word here, a comment there. "My people's land surrounds a sacred, hidden valley embraced by two small rivers that form half-moons. In the heart of this valley lies a sacred grove of oak trees, where it is said the goddess Freya wept red-gold tears." And another time, proudly, "My tribe are warriors."

     Now, recalling her reaction to news of Commander Vatinius being in Colonia, Sebastianus wondered: was it her people who were behind the new uprising? Were they the rebels Vatinius had been sent to vanquish once and for all?

     And were those insurgents at that moment camped in the hidden valley Ulrika had spoken of?

     Sebastianus rose to his feet, carefully considering his next words as new thoughts formed in his mind. "Old friend," he said to Timonides, "this great thing you speak of that lies in my path—could it be that I am about to meet someone very important?"

     Timonides hesitated. What in the name of Great Zeus was his master talking about? The old Greek had no idea, but there was suddenly a look of hope, even excitement in his master's eyes, and so Timonides said, "Yes, yes, that is it," eagerly bobbing his head, hating himself for the lie, the sacrilege. But he had no choice. And if the gods struck him dead in that moment, he would not blame them. "You are about to meet someone very important who will change your life."

     Sebastianus felt his blood suddenly run hot with excitement. It could only be Gaius Vatinius, commander of six legions! For who was more important in this region than he? And I have precious information to give him. I know where the Barbarian insurgents are headquartered!

     With such information, Sebastianus knew, General Vatinius would be assured a victory. And Emperor Claudius would grant a handsome reward to the man who had brought it about. The imperial diploma to China.

     I will ride north immediately and inform the General of a hidden valley embraced within two half-moon rivers ...

     ULRIKA HASTILY BOUND HER HAIR up in ribbons and reached for her travel packs. She decided she was not going to wait for Colonia. She must leave now. Vatinius was already here, and she alone knew of the secret trap he planned to set for her people.

     Slipping out of her nightdress, she chose a practical traveling gown of plain white cotton with a matching palla, and as she dressed she thought of the myriad small vessels she had observed on the Rhine, local merchants plying their trade up and down the river under the eye of the Roman galleys. Ulrika spoke the dialect and had enough coins, she knew, to bribe one of them to carry her to the other side.

     As she wrapped bread and cheese in cloths, she thought of Sebastianus Gallus. She should let him know that she was leaving the caravan this morning. But then she realized he might not allow her to leave, might even assign a guard to her to see that she stayed safely in his charge until he delivered her to Colonia—as per their agreement.

     Saying a mental farewell to him, doubting she would see him again, Ulrika stepped out of her tent and headed for the Rhine.

9

SHE WAS LOST.

     Ulrika had been walking for days, following the map, trying to recall the details her mother had told her long ago—so many small rivers shaped like half-moons!—and now she was deep in the forest eastward of the Rhine, and she had no idea where she was.

     When Ulrika had made her way down to the Rhine, she had been able to bribe a boatman to take her across to the other side. And during the crossing, she had asked him if there was news of Vatinius and his legions, but the boatman had spoken quickly, his accent unfamiliar to Ulrika, so that she had garnered only bits and pieces.

     One thing she did know: a major battle was about to take place.

     But where?

     She scanned the sunlit forest, where firs and oaks cast dark shadows, and birds called from overhead branches, and the silence was broken by the occasional snap of a twig, reminding Ulrika that creatures were watching her. Hungry creatures ...

     Where was she? As she had headed eastward from the river, leaving civilization behind, she had encountered fewer and fewer people until now she was alone in the deep woods, armed only with a dagger and inner fortitude. She knew she was moving in a northeasterly direction, but to where precisely, she no longer knew. Unlike in the city of Rome, there were no signposts in this wilderness.

     She was dreading spending another night in this hostile terrain. Although the summer solstice lay just two weeks away and the days were warming up, the nights were cold. Ulrika had slept in hollows stuffed with leaves, against logs, and in the protection of boulders, wrapped in her palla and praying that tomorrow she would find her father. Her food was gone. Her dress was torn, her sandals falling apart. And now she trekked wearily through a forest that looked the same as the forest the day before, and the day before that.

     With each gnarled root that caused her to trip, each thorny bush that snagged her skirt, each owl that screeched and each shadow that menaced, Ulrika felt herself drawing closer to tears. She had thought that the land of her ancestors would feel like home. After years of not knowing where she belonged, of feeling like an outsider, even in the house she shared with her mother in Rome, Ulrika had been so certain that Germania would feel safe and familiar and comfortable. Instead, this wild, unpredictable forest frightened her.

     She was appalled at her naïveté. How could she have thought it would be so simple to find her father, when all the experienced spies and agents that made up Caesar's intelligence network could not?

     She paused to lean against a tree and catch her breath. The sun was directly overhead. How many hours of daylight were left before she had to find a safe place to spend the night? Should I turn back? Do I even know the way back?

     The map, purchased from a cartographer in Lugdunum who had hawked his wares from a booth in the marketplace, guaranteeing "the latest precise geographic details," had proven useless. Rivers and streams indicated on the map did not exist, while those Ulrika had drunk from were not drawn at all. As for the valley between two half-moon rivers—she could have already passed through it without knowing it.

     She wished belatedly that she had not snuck out of the caravan camp, that she had at least told Timonides where she was going. Instead, when she had packed her bags and was ready to travel, she had made sure no one saw her as she made her way down to the riverbank. Were Sebastianus Gallus and the Greek astrologer worried about her at this moment? Or did Gallus assume she had gone in search of her family? Was Sebastianus Gallus at that moment in Colonia, resting up for the return trip to Rome?

     Is he even thinking about me?

     Ulrika was not surprised that the Galician should appear in her thoughts, in this place and at this time, because she had dreamed about him every night since leaving the camp.

     Reminding herself of her mission, and that time was growing dangerously short, she paused to listen to the forest and imagined the thousands of troops wheeling war machines into place, officers riding to and fro shouting commands, foot soldiers and cavalry being positioned into columns and lines. She knew that the battle would begin with the release of missile weapons—javelins, crossbows, and spears.

     She resumed her trek. A chilly wind blew through the forest. A sandal strap broke and suddenly Ulrika was barefoot. Pain shot through the sole of her right foot, causing her to cry out. Her travel packs grew heavy on her shoulders, and her legs became sluggish. She had never known such hunger. A voice from the past, Aunt Paulina's, whispered, "A young lady never cleans her plate. It is always ladylike to leave food."

     Aunt Paulina was like a second mother to Ulrika because her own mother, Selene, was so busy with her healing practice and her many patients. "A well brought up Roman girl," Paulina would say, "never exposes her hair in public. She never fidgets. She never speaks out of turn. She works quietly at her loom every afternoon. She is always nice and polite and looks forward to the day she will marry and have children."

     As Ulrika stumbled over the uneven forest floor, sharp twigs and rocks cutting into her foot, she thought: Is this my punishment for breaking the rules?

     The wind shifted, rustling overhead leaves and branches, but this time bringing into the forest the smell of smoke. Ulrika stopped and lifted her face. Yes! There were campfires nearby! Perhaps a hearth with food in a pot, meat turning on a spit. But most of all—people ...

     As she stumbled through the trees, she heard voices. She came through the pines and into a vast, green meadow. Ulrika scanned for huts, signs of life, and saw a man lying in the tall grass. She approached him with caution. The man was sprawled in a strange position.

     She slowly reached down and touched him. He was stiff and cold.

     Ulrika snatched her hand back. She looked around the meadow.

     And then she saw—

     Another body.

     And then another ...

     Ulrika lifted her eyes to the edge of the meadow, where she saw the beginning of blackened earth—a shocking landscape of misshapen trees, many still giving off wisps of smoke. The earth had been set afire, a trademark of victorious Romans, whose policy was slash and burn after a battle.

     Numbness creeping through her body, she continued into the meadow, where she found more corpses, until soon she came into a valley that was strewn with hundreds of dead, perhaps thousands.

     She continued through the stench, the flies, the mutilations and bloated bodies, disembodied heads among decapitated corpses, a grotesque scattering of limbs and internal organs. She saw bulging eyes and tongues gaping up at her as if angry that she should see them in this condition. Ravens were pecking at faces, flying up, startled, with swollen tongues in their talons. Squawking and fighting over exposed testicles, ripping and devouring the tender flesh. Wolves chewing on bones.

     Nausea swept over her as she staggered among the dead. She sobbed to find men impaled on trees, their arms hacked off, blood that had run in rivers now congealed black. She heard groaning. Some were still alive!

     She followed the soft groans and came upon a German warrior lying in an unnatural position. His legs were twisted in an impossible way, as if his torso had snapped. The upper half of his body lay supine while his legs were almost prone. His eyes were open. Ulrika couldn't move. She stood over the dying warrior, frozen, not breathing, her eyes wide with shock and horror.

     His lips parted. Bearded chin moved. He whispered something. He wanted her to kill him, to end his misery.

     Unsheathing her dagger and clasping it tightly in both hands, Ulrika raised the weapon above her head and, with a strangled cry, drove the blade into his breast. His eyes remained open, but she saw the light fade and he stopped breathing.

     Sobbing, blinded by tears, Ulrika fell back and looked around the battlefield. At the thousands of dead. Was her father among them?

     She desperately searched for the hero named Wulf. But she saw only decomposing bodies nailed to trees. The remains of women who had been raped—women who had joined their husbands and sons in battle and suffered terrible fates.

     Ulrika stood frozen to the spot. She had misunderstood the boatman who had carried her across the Rhine. He had not warned of a battle about to be fought, but one that had already been fought. Vatinius had not just arrived in Colonia with his legions! He had already marched into battle—and won.

     I could have saved them! I came too late!

     She sobbed, tears rolling down her cheeks as she staggered among the butchered dead. "I am sorry," she whispered to the slain warriors. "I am so sorry. Please forgive me."

     The sun dipped behind the tall pines, casting the battlefield in gloomy shadow. Ulrika was suddenly engulfed in an eerie silence. She turned in a slow circle, her eyes sweeping over the corpses, and felt a strange chill invade her bones. It was death, she thought, coming to steal her soul.

     The silence was suddenly broken by a loud snap. Ulrika spun around. Her eyes widened as she saw movement in the forest. She could not move as shapes shifted among the pines. Cold sweat sprouted between her shoulder blades. The ghosts of the dead!

     Finally, white apparitions came voicelessly through the trees—tall figures with long, flowing hair. Ulrika felt her heart rise to her throat. Terror gripped her. When the figures emerged from the trees and into the clearing, Ulrika's eyes widened. Not ghosts—women. Stepping silently among the corpses, bending, retrieving, gesturing to the sky. What were they doing?

     Ulrika watched as two stunningly beautiful women paused in their queer posturing, looked at Ulrika, and then, straightening, walked toward her—tall women, long-limbed and robust in full skirts and colorful blouses, thick blond tresses draped over generous bosoms. Ulrika knew who they were: "victory women," or "shield maidens." In the local dialect, they were Valkyries, handmaidens of Odin who singled out those heroes slain in battle to take them to sit in the great Val Hall and drink mead for eternity.

     As the two approached, stepping over severed limbs, bending to touch cold foreheads, murmuring, chanting softly, moving among the fallen dead to whisper—what?—their images shifted and changed until Ulrika realized they were not young and robust at all, but old women, their heads crowned with white braids, their aged bodies draped in belted tunics and long skirts, coarse shawls around bony shoulders. Despite advanced years, however, they walked with erect spines, straight shoulders. Years had aged them, she thought, but pride had kept them strong.

     When the first came near, Ulrika saw that around the crown of her head lay a handsome circlet of twisted silver, twined and curled with silver leaves and stems, coming together on the old woman's forehead to support a tiny silver owl resting on two silver oak leaves, a pale moonstone between the leaves, like an egg, as if the owl were waiting to hatch it.

     The two women paused to give her close scrutiny. When the second of the two saw the Cross of Odin on Ulrika's breast, she pointed and murmured, while the other pursed her wrinkled lips. Milky blue eyes peered at Ulrika from beneath white brows. "Are you lost, daughter?"

     It was a dialect Ulrika understood. "I am looking for—" Ulrika could barely breathe.

     "You should not be here," the woman said gently, "among the dead."

     "I need to find—"

     The old woman had sharply chiseled cheekbones and jaw, a thin aquiline nose, making Ulrika think that in her youth she must have been a very striking woman. But now the young flesh was gone, leaving her with bone and sinew, but an air of strength all the same. She reached out and laid a hand on Ulrika's arm. "You are weary. Come, daughter. Away from all this death."

     "I am looking for my father. He is Wulf, the son of Arminius."

     The old woman shook her head in sadness. "Wulf is dead. His family all perished. Come now, you must eat and rest."

     "Dead! No, you are mistaken. I am searching for him. He cannot be dead."

     But the women turned to lead the way, lifting their skirts as they stepped over corpses, allowing Ulrika a glimpse of leather boots lined with fur. She fell wordlessly into step behind them, carrying her travel packs, her burdens, her pain as she walked with one sandaled foot and one bare foot over ground that was soaked with blood.

     At the edge of the meadow they approached an area of blackened earth where the Romans had set fire as they had retreated with captives and weapons looted from the dead. Nearby, Ulrika knew, the legionaries would have given their own slain a decent burial, in mass graves with prayers and offerings to the gods.

     As she followed the two old women over scorched ground where not a blade of grass had survived, she realized that they had entered what was left of a village. All that remained after the Roman fires were the charred foundations of what had once been sturdy log halls. Ulrika's eyes stung with smoke as she passed places where embers still glowed, and straw and wood smoldered. Trees that had once been magnificent pines and oaks were now stunted and black, twisted and grotesque. The stench was overwhelming.

     The old woman with the silver circlet around her head stopped in front of what appeared to be a pile of grass and twigs but which turned out to be a crude shelter. "Inside is food and drink."

     Ulrika bent to enter the hut, finding darkness inside. But when her eyes adjusted, she saw a bare, earthen floor with fur pelts, waterskins, woven baskets holding vegetables and fruit.

     She gratefully accepted what she suspected was the last of their food, and so although she was ravenous, she ate sparingly, and then drank from the proffered waterskin.

     "Who are you?" she asked of the two women who sat watching her.

     "We are the caretakers of a sacred grove. We have been so for countless generations, ever since the Goddess Freya wept her red-gold tears among the ancient oaks. You must sleep now," the old woman said, "while we return to the task of burying our sons and husbands."

     "Yes," Ulrika said wearily, laying back on a blanket made of thick bear skin. "I am so very tired ..."

     She did not know how long she slept, but when she awoke it was dark and the two caretakers of the sacred grove were lighting torches and stirring something in a hot cooking pot. As Ulrika struggled to sit up—every bone and muscle ached—the one with the owl and moonstone circlet came to her side. "Here," she said with a smile. "Mushroom broth. It will give you strength."

     Ulrika rubbed her eyes as, once again, the two elderly women seemed to grow young. In the flickering torchlight, their wrinkled skin became smooth, their milky eyes turned luminous, their white hair was miraculously black.

     "Why did you come here?" the one with the moonstone asked. So far, her companion had yet to speak.

     Ulrika blinked. They were old again. "I came to warn my father's people of the coming invasion. But I was too late."

     Ancient eyes filled with wisdom settled on Ulrika's face and stayed there for a long moment while outside, night birds called and the wind whistled. Finally, the caretaker of the grove said, "That is not why you came here. That was not your purpose. You were brought here for a different destiny, daughter." She pointed to the wooden cross that hung about Ulrika's neck. "You wear the sacred symbol of Odin. You are the servant of the gods, you are doing their bidding."

     "Why would they choose me to be their servant?"

     "Because, daughter, you have inherited a special gift." She paused. "You do have a special gift, do you not?"

     The old woman waited, while her companion sat in watchful silence.

     The bowl of broth stopped at Ulrika's lips. She lowered it to her lap and said, "What special gift?"

     A long bony arm reached out, and for an instant Ulrika glimpsed smooth skin and strong muscles. The old woman touched Ulrika's forehead and whispered, "It is called the Divining."

     The smoke from the sputtering torch seemed to grow stronger. Ulrika's head swam for a moment, and then she said, "Do you mean my visions? But it is an illness."

     The woman shook her head, casting platinum highlights off her white hair. "It is a gift, daughter. You are afraid of the visions. You must not be. You must embrace them because they came from the gods and are therefore sacred."

     "How do you know this?"

     "You say you are the daughter of Wulf. The Divining is in his bloodline."

     "But my visions make no sense. Nor can I command them. They are like random dreams that come and go and are beyond interpretation. What sort of gift is that?"

     "You will learn to control them and read them."

     "To what purpose? I have no wish to know the future."

     "That is not the purpose of your visions."

     "Then what?" Ulrika set the bowl aside. "What good do such nonsensical visions do for me?"

     "They are not for you, daughter. You must use your gift to help others, not yourself."

     Ulrika massaged her temples. "I still do not understand."

     "Your gift has been handed down to you from a long line of women who possessed it. But your gift is young and undisciplined, which is why your visions make no sense. You must learn to tame your gift, control it. Learn to use it to help others."

     "But what is the Divining?"

     "That you will learn when you learn discipline."

     "Who will teach me this discipline?"

     "It must come from within yourself. But there will be teachers. You will not know them. Only when you have left them behind will you know who they were. That is why you must open your mind and heart to all whom you encounter in your life's path. Sleep again, child. Rest. Tomorrow you must return to where you belong. Tomorrow you begin a new and special journey."

     Beneath the soft comfort of wolf pelts, in the coziness of the forest hut, Ulrika closed her eyes and slipped away into deep, welcome sleep.

     When she awoke to find sunlight streaming through the overhead twigs and branches, her memory of the night before came back. As she bathed in a nearby stream and refreshed herself on a humble breakfast of mushrooms and acorns, Ulrika pondered the mysterious words the old woman had spoken.

     When she was ready to leave, the senior caretaker of the grove supplied Ulrika with nuts and berries, a waterskin, and fresh boots for her feet. "Do not go back by way of the battleground," she cautioned. "Directly south of here, you will come to another stream. Follow its current and it will take you to the river your people call the Rhine. You will be safe along the way, daughter, for the spirits of the stream will protect you."

     As an added precaution, the caretaker of the grove reached into a leather pouch on her belt and withdrew a handful of curious stones, flat and variously shaped, each with a symbol drawn on it. She cast these stones onto the ground and studied the symbols for a long moment while birdsong filled the air. She frowned, white brows coming together, then she straightened and said, "The runes say that you have strayed from your destined path. You must go back to the beginning of your path and set out upon it again. This time you will stay true to your destiny."

     Ulrika looked down at the flat stones. "Where is the beginning?"

     "At the place where you were conceived, for that is when your life began."

     "But that is in Persia, which is a vast land! How will I find such a place?"

     "It is where you must go. There, you will find your destiny."

     Her mind filled with puzzled thoughts, Ulrika thanked the two women, and struck off southward.

     As they watched her go, the other old woman, who had not spoken, rested her gnarled hand on the first one's arm and said, "Sister, how can you be so calm about this?"

     "I am not calm, Hilde. I wanted to embrace her, but I had to hold myself back, for her sake."

     "Did Wulf know she was coming?"

     "Wulf does not even know she exists."

     As they watched Ulrika disappear through charred trees, the second of the old women said, "But why did you lie to her? Why not tell her the truth?"