Ichthus: Sign of the Fish

By Henry A. Fischer

The title itself is the Greek word for fish. The sequence of the Greek letters of the word forms an acrostic for Jesus Christ Son of God Saviour used by the early Christians as a secret symbol to identify themselves to one another. The focus of this historical religious novel is the letter the Apostle Paul wrote to a slave owner named Philemon on behalf his runaway slave Onesimus. Probably one of the least read and underappreciated portions of the New Testament. It is Onesimus’ story which becomes the vehicle to explore and discover the dynamics of the life, expansion and early history of the Christian faith and its development, using the best of biblical scholarship as well as historical research.

From his capture as a youngster by the Romans along the Rhine frontier following the defeat of the Chatti tribe and his subsequent separation from his mother who is sent to Rome, he is taken to the East to be sold into slavery in Ephesus in the province of Asia. But in his leave taking from his mother she gives him her amber amulet that bears the crude outline of a fish, the symbol of their clan to remember her and in turn he vows that someday he will find her. In the years that follow he grows up and serves in the household of Philemon, a wealthy estate owner in Laodecia and establishes a quixotic relationship with his young master Archippus that has a long lasting effect on his life that becomes ruptured and eventually leads Onesimus to risk to run away in search of his mother in Rome. That search becomes central for what follows and his eventual encounter with the Apostle Paul.

His search for his mother is also a search for his own identity and the meaning of his life in the midst of a society in which he is an outsider, fugitive and very much alone. Unknown to him he is on a spiritual quest despite being devoid of any need or attraction to the religiosity of his time. All of this becomes a preparation for the “good news” of the crucified risen Christ and a coming Kingdom that meets the needs and longings of his search.

It turns out to be a double search in which he not only finds his mother but also enters upon a new life that will lead to his return to his former master, leaving Rachel the love of his life behind. What follows is set up against the background of the great fire of Rome and the persecution unleashed by the Emperor Nero as recorded by the Roman historian Tacitus. The final phase of Onesimus’ life and his preservation of the writings of the Apostle Paul ends with his martyrdom recorded by the Christian historian Eusebius and the rather miraculous preservation of the Letter to Philemon, “the Gospel in a nutshell.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665539951

Henry A. Fischer

Henry A. Fischer is the author of several genealogical and historical studies of the descendants of German families that migrated into the Kingdom of Hungary during the early 18th Century. Born in Kitchener, Ontario in Canada, he is a graduate of the University of Western Ontario and Waterloo Lutheran Seminary. Following over forty years in the pastorate he began research on his own family history that led to his career as an author. He is married to his wife Jean, the father of Stephen and David and the grandfather of Julianna, John, Evan and Luke the next generation of the Children of the Danube now transplanted to Canada.

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© 2021 Henry A. Fischer. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 09/28/2021

ISBN: 978-1-6655-3988-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-3987-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-3995-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021920254

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expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter Fourty

Chapter Fourty One

Chapter Fourty Two

Chapter Fourty Three

Chapter Fourty Four

Chapter Fourty Five

Chapter Fourty Six

Chapter Fourty Seven

Chapter Fourty Eight

Chapter Fourty Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty One

Chapter Fifty Two

Chapter Fifty Three

Chapter Fifty Four

Chapter Fifty Five

Chapter Fifty Six

Chapter Fifty Seven

Chapter Fifty Eight

Chapter Fifty Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty One

Chapter Sixty Two

Chapter Sixty Three

Chapter Sixty Four

Dedicated to Wilma Marie

Whose encouragement

Led me to finish

What I began long ago

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CHAPTER ONE

Some loose rocks clattered down the slope of the steep hill as the young boy scampered to the top. With eager anticipation Cotto raised his hand to shield his ice blue eyes from the glare of the noon day sun as he surveyed the sight before him. He saw that another steep climb lay ahead as the swirling green serpentine river down below rushed on towards its destination. After getting his bearings he doggedly trudged along the top of the rolling ridge high above the river bank. He paused and glanced down at the swift flowing water, tempting and inviting him to slip out of his sweated linen tunic but he knew that would be wasting time.

After wiping the perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand he plunged down through the thick underbrush ahead to gain the momentum he needed in order to propel himself to the top of the heavily forested slope ahead. Running and sometimes stumbling he dodged in and out among the sprawling trees, avoiding their gnarled exposed roots and then encountered the thick underbrush once again at the crest of the ridge. His last few faltering steps were the most difficult. Then there before him was his first view of the Rhine as it met its tributary the Main then known as the Rhenus and Menus rivers by the Romans.

The course of the fast flowing winding river that Cotto had followed all morning arrived at its mouth and he had reached his objective.

A strong refreshing breeze blew his unruly, long, blonde hair into his eyes as he stood there for a brief moment rather pleased with himself. A grin came to his lips as he swept back some bothersome strands of hair and his eyes lit up as he took in the scene before him.

It’s the Rhine! And I got here all on my own! he thought to himself. I can hardly wait until Adalric hears about this!

Cotto had done it again!

How often he caught himself doing it.

Why had he said, Adalric? He should have said, Father.

But hopefully, now things might change.

He left those thoughts behind as his gaze now swept up and down the river until his attention became focussed on the west bank farther upstream. There the wooden palisades and watch towers of a Roman fortress and sprawling settlement came into view.

Mogontiacum! Cotto said out loud rather proud of his ability to pronounce it correctly. At least he had learned something worthwhile from his grandfather’s Roman slave Marcus after all. He had also taught him that something known as civilization and Rome lay somewhere beyond it. This was the entranceway into another world.

Perhaps his time spent learning Latin and what Marcus called gutter Greek, was not being wasted after all, although it remained much of a sore point with Cotto. The son of a Chatti warrior was expected to spend his time with his father learning the manly arts of warfare. Instead he was being tutored by a cowardly Roman soldier who had not had the decency to take his life rather than becoming a prisoner and a slave. If the Romans were all like Marcus then Mogontiacum and the fertile lands that lay beyond it would soon fall into the hands of the Chatti.

A spiral of white smoke rose above the distant fortress. Cotto surveyed the timbered palisades that formed a barrier along the river front. High fortified towers stood as sentinels where the palisades turned to encompass the settlement and then retreated from sight. Meadows and fields of early sprouting grain stretched out beyond the citadel only to be surrounded by a virgin forest of stout oak trees which formed another obstacle just as impregnable.

Mogontiacum had originally been a Celtic settlement consisting of crude circular reed huts that had been transformed into a Roman fortress. Along with Bonna and Colonia to the north, this string of fortresses was established to confine the Germanic tribes to the lands beyond the east bank of the Rhine. This fast flowing river cut a deep course between high ridges that rose and fell abruptly on both sides of the waterway creating an expansive broad deep valley. The river formed a natural barrier that separated civilization as it was known in Rome from the hordes of migrating nomadic tribes moving westward from deep within the German forests. There were successive invasions by wave after wave of Suevi, Batavi, Alemanni, Cherusci and Hermunduri tribesmen that were held back as a result of the fighting skills, valour and discipline of the Roman Legions. The Roman soldier, Roman ingenuity and Roman diplomacy had kept the fierce warlike tribes at bay. The Pax Romana, the Peace of Rome was preserved. The frontier was secure but the borders of the Roman Empire were not extended.

An uneasy stalemate now existed.

The barbarians, as the German tribes were called, were held in check but the Romans could not gain or maintain a foothold on the east bank of the Rhine. Expeditions like that of Varus, some forty years earlier had ended in total disaster. Three entire Legions were lost never to be reconstituted. In the past few decades other Roman incursions followed but without success. The Romans discovered that the forest was the natural ally of the German warrior. In this type of warfare military tactics were secondary, cavalry was useless and a high price in lives and prestige had been paid by the Romans. The east bank of the Rhine harboured perpetual danger and the Roman forts were on constant alert for any sign of new raids or full blown invasions.

Mogontiacum had weathered the storm. Repeated attacks by the Cherusci and Hermunduri in several recent campaigns had all been repelled. Often as was the case, what the Romans failed to accomplish militarily they achieved diplomatically. Publius Pomponius Secundus, the new field commander and Legate of Upper Germany was the personal choice of the Emperor Claudius and was an expert in both fields. The Cherusci and Hermunduri had proven to be no match for him and then the advance guard of the Chatti put in their appearance and panic broke out all along the Rhine.

It was not only the Romans who were alarmed. Although they were blood brothers of the Chatti, the Cherusci and Hermunduri feared them even more than the Romans. The council of elders of both tribes, the so-called Moot, decided to attempt to seek asylum on the Roman side of the river before the Chatti annihilated them. The German warrior was a ruthless adversary in battle against an unknown enemy but at war with his own kind he knew and gave no quarter. It was victory or death. The objective was liquidation not subjugation.

The long harsh winter was over. With the coming of an early spring the river overflowed its banks but now with the warmth of the new season the floodwaters began to recede. Constant vigilance was maintained by the Romans. The troops stationed in Mogontiacum drilled daily and were kept in battle readiness on a constant war footing. The fortifications were inspected, repaired and strengthened. Sentries in the watchtowers kept their eyes fixed firmly on the far bank of the Rhine for the first sign of any intruders always at the ready to raise the alarm.

At first, Cotto thought it was a wayward log or a long piece of driftwood floating down the river. As it drew nearer he could distinguish the vague outlines of some men. There was a flash of light as the rays of the mid-day sun were reflected on the armor or shield of one of the occupants in the crude dugout.

Cotto counted, One, two, three men. Then decided there might even be a fourth.

The river’s fast current carried them along swiftly. The men seated at both ends of the dugout manoeuvred their craft towards the landing docks at the base of the fortress. They were met by some running figures coming out of the lowered main gate. Only one man, wearing a scarlet red cape and a glistening golden helmet emerged from the dugout. The others remained seated pausing for a few moments and then continued on their journey downstream.

That was all that Cotto had a chance to see.

The twelve year old had become so absorbed by what he was witnessing that he did not notice the approach of the two men behind him. They crept forward stealthily and once they were in range of him the larger of the two threw himself on top of the boy. His large framed muscular assailant pinned him down on his back. Cotto tried to cry out but a large paw of a hand was clamped over his mouth. He tried to bite the hand as he struggled to breathe because of the tremendous weight of the man on top of him. Looking directly at his attacker he was startled when he recognized that it was his father Adalric. The look of terror in his blue eyes vanished the moment he saw the astonished look on Adalric’s face.

Cotto smiled after Adalric removed his hand that had covered his bruised lips. Then suddenly without warning his father raised his calloused hand and slapped Cotto across the face with the back of it. Tears filled Cotto’s eyes and ran down his cheeks as a result of the blow while blood began to flow from his battered nose.

Adalric rose to his feet. He looked at his companion Fridolf and shook his head and shrugged his shoulders as he pointed to the boy lying there at his feet. Fridolf merely grunted in reply.

Bending over, Adalric retrieved his wooden shield he had abandoned along with his short spear while Fridolf handed him his leather helmet that he had discarded while crawling on his stomach up the jagged slope. Adalric placed the helmet on his head while his long unkempt red hair struggled to stay out of confinement. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand to clear the spittle that had formed in a corner of his mouth. This was his unique personal ritual to announce he was about to speak. Scarcely looking at Cotto he barked, Come! Then he charged down the slope with Fridolf close behind.

Cotto rose to his feet. His chest heaved. He found it hard to breathe as a result of the impact of his father’s weight when he had been pinned beneath him. His light brown linen tunic was torn and splattered with blood as well as his hand as a result of his attempts to staunch his bleeding nose. Despite the lingering pain in his chest and his hurt pride and humiliation he stumbled down the slope after them but keeping at a safe distance.

He desperately wanted to complain to his father about the injustice he had just suffered. But if he raised the issue he knew from past experience that it would be pointless to try to bring up the matter with him. Cotto swallowed what little pride he had left. With downcast eyes he stumbled along angrily kicking loose stones ahead of him getting rid of some of his frustration. Neither of the Chatti warriors looked back to see if Cotto was following them.

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CHAPTER TWO

Birga did not raise her eyes from Cotto’s linen tunic which she was mending. There was very little natural light in the long rectangular timbered dwelling. The air was stifling and filled with wisps of smoke from the fire crackling in the centre of the lodge. Her eyes were blue like her son’s but radiated a kind of warmth that was spellbinding. But now, they were clouded. Not from the biting acrid smoke but the hurt that was gnawing away at her heart.

A tear slowly trickled down one cheek and became a moist dark spot on the tunic. She did not pay any attention to it. The tunic was mended. She crumpled it into a ball and hugged it to her breast and finally let the tears flow as the anguish in her heart sought relief.

Like any other day in her married life she had followed her daily routine that morning. She rose at the first sign of dawn and had gone to the entranceway of the lodge for some kindling and wood to re-awaken the smouldering ashes in the fire pit. Unlike her neighbours she did not have to gather her own firewood. Marcus, her father’s Roman slave, was lent to her for that purpose, befitting the rank of the daughter of the Chatti war chief and wife of the tribe’s most outstanding warrior.

Birga caught a glimpse of Marcus as he passed by carrying a bucket of water towards her father Talto’s long, rambling, timbered enclosure at the centre of the tribal compound. The sight of him had its familiar effect upon her but she could not allow herself to follow where her thoughts would lead her. There were already thick wafts of smoke rising from the opening in the reed covered roof of her father’s lodge, a sign that preparations for the Moot were in motion. In a day or two her father would be holding a council and was awaiting word from Adalric and his scouts.

She caressed the long silken strands of her honey blonde hair that reached down to her waist that she began to braid. As she did so, she glanced down into a puddle at her feet and paused to straighten a few unruly tufts of hair across her brow. She looked closely at her oval face in the reflection the puddle provided. Her unwrinkled brow, her curly eyelashes, finely tapered nose, high cheek bones and her moist full lips all added to her overall beauty. It was hard to believe that she had given birth to a son twelve winters ago. There was something maidenly about her. She was as lithe, slender and statuesque as she had been before marrying. There were no dark hollows beneath her eyes, no sign of loose skin under her chin. Unlike most of the Chatti women she was fair skinned which heightened the golden aura created by her blonde hair.

Most of the Chatti men and women were auburn or red haired but a few like Birga and her son Cotto had retained the blonde strain from some far off distant inter-marriage during the wanderings of their people from the lakes, forests and steppes in the east. The Chatti were tall, both the men and women. Birga was no exception and Cotto already gave evidence that he would attain a significant height when he was older. Despite of all of her physical attributes Birga failed to measure up when compared to the most desired trait of a Chatti woman from a man’s perspective. It was fertility not physical beauty that determined a woman’s ultimate worth and appeal. In that regard she had failed her husband. One son was an inadequate expression of his sexual prowess and her fecundity. Adalric was not hesitant in expressing her fatal flaw both to her and others, especially his fellow warriors.

Although spring had long arrived an early morning chill was in the air. Birga entered the lodge and reached for her cloak, a simple coarse woolen garment that was now a faded blue. Adalric had given it to her after a raid on another tribe, shortly after Cotto was born. He had never brought her a gift since. After stoking the fire she prepared some barley gruel. She did all of this hurriedly. She rearranged the fur skins that served as Cotto’s covers and kissed him on the brow and left his portion of gruel by the fire for when he awoke.

As she passed through the main gate of the wooden stockade that encircled the settlement she proceeded down the path that led to the small plots of ground that were under cultivation. Barley was the chief crop that she raised along with rye and oats. The rye and oats would provide feed for her two cows, several pigs and a handful of chickens kept in the reed addition attached to the back of the lodge. She would grind the barley into a kind of flour to make bread and barley also served as the basis for making beer. The Chatti warriors like the other German tribesmen were notorious for their drinking and their drunkenness. Adalric was no exception to the rule and a wooden vat of fermenting beer always needed to be on hand. She paused and noted that the sprouting cereals gave every indication of a good harvest to come in the future.

Birga was surprised by the sound of someone running to catch up to her. She turned and saw that it was Veleda. She was hardly a welcome sight. Unlike Birga she favoured wearing animal skins and furs as her mode of attire as did most of the Chatti women. They lasted much longer than the sleeveless linen tunics that Birga wore and did not require washing. Not to mention that they were much warmer and more practical and did not require learning skills like spinning and weaving flax into linen not to mention the time and effort that involved. Veleda had other kinds of more pressing interests in her life than that: gossiping in particular.

The fact that Veleda was up so early came as a surprise to Birga and she knew that did not bode well. The Chatti were rather late sleepers and Birga was considered eccentric because she was an exception in that regard. She knew she was being singled out for something.

There was a strange expression on Veleda’s face. It was almost sinister. She was out of breath but managed to blurt out her news through her thick pursed lips. You’re a sly one aren’t you? You’ve been keeping the news all to yourself!

What news?

Now come on Birga. The news about Elita of course, Veleda countered.

I still don’t... Birga began to say.

You don’t have to be coy with me, Veleda broke in. We all know about her and your Adalric.

From the puzzled look on Birga’s face Veleda finally realized Birga had no idea of what she was talking about. This was almost too good to be true.

You mean you don’t know that your Adalric is going to put you aside and take her as his new wife? She chuckled as her tongue quickly ran over her thick lips.

Birga paled noticeably much to Veleda’s delight. Just to see the pained expression on Birga’s face almost made the effort of rising early worthwhile. Birga tried to regain her composure as Veleda continued to prattle on.

Elita told us all about it last night while a bunch of us were drinking mead over at her place. Old Dolfina didn’t believe her and taunted her saying, that poor Adalric needs a woman and if all he has to comfort him is her he’ll soon go back to you Birga because as she put it: One sapling is better than none at all! And then she began to cackle and you know how that old crone can cackle, continued Veleda almost breathlessly and Birga merely nodded in reply unable to give verbal expression to what she was hearing and feeling.

Elita giggled and told us that there’s small chance that Adalric will find what he’s looking for at your side Birga. If I remember rightly she said, Soon my belly will show what comfort he’s already found. While she spoke she clutched her stomach and just grinned at us from ear to ear. Well, you can just imagine how we carried on after that. Your Adalric’s a lusty fellow and many a wink was passed on knowingly and I got a jab in the ribs from one or two myself. You’ve had him to yourself for far too long Birga, many a woman would’ve been only too glad to comfort him for you. Our young Elita is a handful now but just wait ‘til she’s weathered a few years of Adalric’s rutting and I’m sure she’ll sing a different tune. Just you mark my words Birga...

Almost incoherently Birga asked, When?

Very soon I suppose, Veleda replied fully understanding what Birga was asking.

Afterwards as she sat on the large rock at the entrance of the grove Birga could not recall much of Veleda’s later conversation or how she had managed to bring it to a close. She only had a vague recollection of aimlessly walking away into the thick dark forest.

She loved the fresh damp smell of the woods and black earth in the early morning. Fluttering birds alighting in the trees would catch her attention. She would whistle back to the warble of a thrush and envied him his freedom and carefree life. But today she noticed nothing and was startled when she found herself in the oak grove.

She stared at the remains of a river trout impaled on a spear standing upright in the centre of the dark copse. A few rays of sunlight managed to infiltrate the thick foliage of the overhanging branches of the large oak trees. They were reflected on the few shreds of silver scales remaining on the rotting carcass of the fish. Each day a new sacrifice would be made on behalf of the tribe but the old feeble priest was still in the comfort and warmth of his hut down by the nearby river. He would be along later after his first catch of the day.

Birga found no comfort in the religion of her tribe. The only religious concerns of the Chatti were victory in warfare and the fertility of their women coupled with a distrust and a healthy fear of the forces of nature. They adored the sun and moon, oak trees and rivers, sprites and spirits that dwelt in groves and caves. They built no altars, raised no places of worship, erected no distinct object to venerate or adore. Dark and ancient groves like this one served as their holy places where invisible powers were said to reside.

Birga unconsciously clutched at the amulet she always wore around her neck. It was a smooth piece of amber on a leather cord. It was a gift from her father when she attained maidenhood. The symbolic outline of a fish was scratched on the amber. The various clans among the Chatti venerated different species like the fish, bear and fox. Each clan chose the one with which to identify and developed ritualistic symbols for them to distinguish themselves from among the other wandering people of the forest. It was only their guttural speech and quest for new land that united the Chatti. The clans followed an independent course of action often even feuding with one another. They were not a nation but a people on the move in search of a world beyond themselves, in a search to find their own identity.

In the hushed stillness and quietness of the grove, Birga often found it easier to see things in a clearer light and gain some perspective. Being alone here she could gather her thoughts and tried to make some sense of the complicated riddle that was her life. The conflicts and tensions with which she lived had left deep inner hurts that others could not even begin to comprehend. People like Veleda. She had simply opened a festering wound. Birga’s reaction to her news had left no doubts in Veleda’s mind about the state of her relationship with her husband Adalric. It had merely confirmed what Veleda had long suspected and her circle of friends would soon benefit from her newly discovered insights that she was most eager to share with them.

Regardless of what had transpired between them, Birga was more annoyed with herself than anything that Veleda had said. It should not have come as a surprise to her. She had anticipated such an announcement for months now. But when she finally heard it verbalized out loud the reality of her situation simply overwhelmed her. She had been living her life knowing full well that it was all a lie but needing to hide the fact because of those she loved.

She would be the first to admit that Adalric was not a brutal man. He was simply insensitive. If truth be told, outside of his prowess as a warrior, he was rather dull witted. Warfare and combat were his real passions. He sought only his own sensual pleasure and sexual gratification in his copulating. A woman simply performed a necessary function. That was all there was to it. Her duty was to give him numerous sons and find her fulfillment in that way.

Adalric was a man of few words and referred to Birga as woman. The only words he often spoke to her were, Woman come! as he pointed to the pile of furs that served as their bed. Birga simply obeyed. She submitted. She endured.

Cotto was the only apparent result of their union. He was Birga’s only comfort and Adalric’s chief regret. Birga was able to tolerate her situation but her growing boy’s attempts to surmount his father’s indifference was deeply wrenching for her. Again and again Adalric thwarted every effort the boy made to gain his attention or to win his affection. Even his open admiration of his father was met with distain on Adalric’s part because he was incapable of the kind of relationship that Cotto craved. The more Cotto tried to win some kind of affirmation from his father, the more Adalric ignored and ridiculed him calling him the woman’s brat! Yet in the face of all of this, the boy still worshipped the man.

Birga was the audience to the tragedy being acted out in the family circle. She could only observe, never interfere, interject or advise. In Cotto’s earlier years she was the haven where the distraught youngster found sanctuary in her embrace after another rebuff by Adalric. His sky blue eyes that were reminiscent of her own gradually turned to ice as he looked up at Birga and the tears flowed down his cheeks. And those eyes looking into hers pleaded, Why? What is it that I’ve done? Why does my father reject me?

Birga would cry within as she held her son in her arms and tried to comfort him. Just wait until you’re older Cotto. Your father has no time for you now because you’re still a little boy. He needs time to hunt and because he’s a warrior he needs to train with other men but when you’re older things will change and you can join him.

But things did not change. They only grew worse.

The growing bitterness and resentment Cotto felt towards his father but could not express was reflected in the way he worked out his frustrations on others. This was especially true in terms of his treatment of his mother in particular and for no apparent reason Marcus the Roman slave who he attempted to humiliate and scorn in every way at every turn. When he hurt his mother Cotto would feel deep remorse because he began to understand what he was doing but he refused to admit it. To ease his conscience he would apply himself to his lessons with Marcus which he knew would somehow please and placate her.

Before the first snow of the previous winter Adalric’s visits to their lodge became less and less frequent. Even less frequent was the wave of his hand towards the pile of furs in the corner and his crude, Woman come! Now when he came, he merely sat down by the fire and tore into his food and drank his fill of beer before crawling among the furs and shortly afterwards began to snore. The next day when Birga would return from her fields or with a catch of fish with Cotto he would be gone. At first he was absent for a few days. Then it was weeks. With the onslaught of winter he did not come at all. It became common gossip among the women and soon Birga’s limited contact with them ceased entirely. That is, until today.

Time seemed to pass by so quickly for Birga as she sat in the silence of the grove. She realized that she had to face whatever future she still had for Cotto’s sake. She had no god to turn to for solace for her gods were preoccupied with war and not the pathetic concerns of humanity. But in the silence she desperately longed to cry out to someone. But no one was there.

The old deformed priest hobbled up the path leading into the grove. Birga caught a glimpse of him through the open patches of underbrush and gnarled trunks of majestic oak trees. He did not notice Birga, or if he did, he did not acknowledge her presence. He approached the upright spear and flung the remains of yesterday’s sacrifice to the ground. Reaching into the bucket that he carried he captured hold of a slippery resistant slithering fish thrashing about to be free. The struggle that occurred was short lived and totally in vain. The fish went limp once impaled on the point of the spear. Its mouth was open as if it wanted to cry out. The tail offered a series of feeble jerks as some of its innards began to slither down the shaft of the spear. Dipping his finger in them the priest drew the outline of a fish on a nearby sacred rock and the gods of the Chatti and the forces of nature were appeased for another day.

Birga could not take her eyes off of the unwilling sacrifice. She was a victim herself and felt a close kinship and bond with the suffering creature. She felt somehow at one with it and wanted to cry out on its behalf and give expression to the horror and pain it experienced as death pierced its very life and being as if it were her very own.

Cotto was not in the lodge when she returned. His fur covers were heaped in a corner. The light brown tunic he wore at night lay on the floor in the centre of the room where he had slipped out of it. The gruel she had prepared for him remained untouched and some milk was spilled on the earthen floor.

That boy is always in such a hurry, Birga said to herself as she began to bring some order to the interior of the lodge. While doing so she picked up the soiled tunic and noticed a large tear under one arm. He was just growing too fast. It was as if he was becoming all arms and legs and bursting out of his clothes. She toyed with the idea of discarding the tunic altogether and making him a new one. Weaving linen was a skill she had acquired but it was very time consuming. She thought better of it and made a mental note to mend it later in the day. Cotto would soon be coming from his lessons and Birga looked about for some food to appease his wolfish appetite. She had gathered some wild berries on her way home. There was some smoked venison, barley bread, honey and some curds but not much more. Then she remembered the fresh butter and cheese she had made yesterday.

Marcus suddenly staggered into the lodge. His right hand clutched his forehead. Blood streamed through his fingers and ran down his arm. He slumped to the floor groaning, Cotto.

When he regained consciousness the throbbing pain in his head was still there. He reached up to touch the source of the pain but met Birga’s warm comforting hand. Her hand caressed his forehead and wiped his brow with a damp cloth. A linen bandage covered the deep gash and blotted the congealing blood. Marcus’ head was cradled in Birga’s lap. He smelled the sweetness of the rosemary and spices she used when she bathed. He tried to raise his head only to fall back in anguish in response to the sharp pain in his temple. Marcus attempted to speak but Birga motioned for him to remain silent. He closed his clouded dark brown eyes and drifted off into unconsciousness again.

Birga gazed down at him. She could not resist running her fingers through his thick, curly, dark, short-cropped hair. His hair was always cut short as a sign of his status as a slave. She felt the smoothness of his face with one hand and with the other she tried to staunch the flow of blood under the bandage. The stubble on his square chin was dark, but not as dark as his eyebrows and thick eyelashes. The servile look and grim determination that he presented to the world as a slave were now somehow transformed into the handsome young Roman soldier who had stolen Birga’s heart so many years before. She imagined she now saw the trace of a smile as he parted his inviting moist thin lips that she longed to meet with her own.

With a start, he opened his eyes. He stared into Birga’s soft blue eyes that were a testimony to her deep feelings for him. After all these years it was hard for him to believe that her feelings for him had not changed. He blinked trying to convince himself and shook his head as he forced himself to his feet.

Birga glanced up at him. Marcus was tall for a Roman but among the Chatti he was no more than average in height. But clothed in his knee length dark brown sleeveless tunic his broad shoulders, muscular arms and upper torso and sturdy straight legs made him appear the equal of most of the tribesmen.

He reverted to his slave persona and bowed to Birga. The servile look was back in place. As she rose to her feet he looked down at the earthen floor to avoid her eyes. Neither spoke. Birga assumed the role she had been playing these many years. This man before her was simply a slave who could not address her first. She gathered together the most impersonal tone she could manage when she spoke.

What is the meaning of all of this?

Despite all of her efforts stinging hot tears came to her eyes. She abruptly turned her back on him so that he would not see them and pretended to be engaged in preparing Cotto’s meal and then knelt down by the fire pit and stoked it. She could still feel Marcus’ haunting eyes stabbing her in the back.

Mistress, he said breathlessly. My young master, Cotto has run away.

Marcus spoke slowly and chose his words carefully not to undo the subterfuge they had been forced to develop in speaking to one another over the years. The guttural Chatti language sounded almost musical when he spoke. His speech was no longer punctuated by Greek and Latin words whenever this barbarous tongue failed him. The last thirteen years had seen to that.

Birga rose and turned to him as he quickly looked down in his familiar servile manner.

Well, what was the problem this time? Was there too much Latin for his liking?

Birga could not hide a hint of a smile as she spoke. She showed almost a total lack of concern over Marcus’ report of Cotto’s latest misconduct. Knowing how much Cotto detested these lessons that her father had ordered she was hardly surprised or upset except for Marcus’ injury. She knew that Cotto would rather be racing through the forest battling imaginary Romans than sitting down with a quill in hand and painfully tracing out those mysterious lines and curves that enabled Romans to communicate with one another. She knew the other boys taunted him and called him, the little Roman because of it. On occasion even Adalric called him that. But her father Talto was adamant. Cotto must learn, it was the way for the future for the tribe.

Marcus did not answer. Birga took the initiative again and matter-of-factly commented, Well then, where did he run off to this time?

The Rhine I think! Marcus blurted out raising his eyes and looked directly into hers.

I don’t know what you mean, she responded. It made no sense to her.

Cotto did not come for his lessons and my master Talto sent me to find him, Marcus replied hesitatingly.

Please go on, Birga urged him.

I found him at the training grounds fighting with some of the boys. Three of them were on top of him while the others crowded around encouraging them to beat up the little Roman, Marcus paused before he went on. I’m sorry but that is what they call him.

I know, Birga responded. Please go on.

I felt I had to interfere, Marcus replied.

Is that when? Birga asked pointing to his bandaged head.

No Mistress. That came later. Marcus indicated. After I pulled him out from under all of the other boys and led him away they teased him. They called him names and one boy went so far as to call him a bastard. Then Cotto threw himself at the boy and fought with two other boys who joined the melee while Cotto screamed, I am Adalric’s son! They laughed and taunted him saying, little Roman over and over again and then started to leave. Cotto raised his fist and shouted, Just wait, I’ll show you whose son I am! Then he ran off into the forest.

Marcus paused hoping he had not offended her by anything he had said or how he had said it.

I followed after him at a distance, Marcus continued. I know that a young boy needs some privacy at a time like that, so I simply waited. Finally he stopped and sat down on the bank of the river where we often have our lessons. He picked up some pebbles and was tossing them across to the other side. I left him alone for awhile and then I came and sat down beside him. He ignored me at first and so I simply waited. He clenched a rock in his fist and pounded it into the earth. He did so over and over again and kept muttering, I’ll show them I will! When he finally decided to acknowledge I was there he told me to go and leave him alone. As I rose to my feet he looked up at me and pleaded, Why Marcus? Why did they say that?"

Birga stiffened noticeably. She paled and nodded for Marcus to go on.

I didn’t know how to answer or what to say to him. So I suggested we could continue our study of Roman fortifications that we had begun the other day if he liked. For some reason that seemed to interest him and he indicated I should sit down beside him again. He asked me what I remembered about Mogontiacum. How high were the palisades? How many towers were there? How many men would be stationed in them? What kinds of weapons did they have? When I admitted I only had a vague knowledge of particulars like that because it had been over thirteen years ago since I... Marcus stammered.

Was captured, Birga said completing his sentence for him anxious for him to continue.

Then Cotto asked me if was true that Chatti scouts were reconnoitering Mogontiacum.

Noticing the puzzled look on Birga’s face Marcus realized he had just used a military term that she did not understand.

That scouts were observing the fortress and gathering information in preparation for an attack. On hearing that Cotto asked me if I thought it would happen soon and I said possibly. He seemed to weigh that over in his mind for a few moments. Then he blurted out, Scouting could be dangerous couldn’t it? I said that I agreed and before I could go on, he grabbed the rock he had been pounding into the earth before and rose to his feet and I felt a crushing blow to my head. I tried to rise but fell forward and I vaguely remember seeing him running downstream.

Birga could not wait any longer.

"But where could he have gone?

From the anguished expression on Marcus’ face she discovered the answer. She raised her hands to cover her mouth, her eyes filled with alarm as she moaned, Not Mogontiacum!

She looked into Marcus’ eyes. The fear she saw there was the same as the terror that was beginning to grip her own heart.

Hearing the shouts from outside her lodge brought Birga back to the present. She lay Cotto’s mended tunic aside and strained to hear what was being said amidst the shrieking and the babble of excited voices. Only a few words became clear and audible. Adalric has returned!

Birga was afraid to leave the lodge. She hesitated. More running feet went by. Young boys screamed Chatti war cries. Before she could decide on a course of action of whether to tell her father of her fears for Cotto and his latest escapade or to wait, Cotto was thrust headlong into the lodge and lay sprawled at her feet. Adalric stood at the entrance. No word was spoken between them. He raised one hand to his mouth to clear the spittle. No words came. He turned abruptly and stomped off to the cheers of his adoring followers waiting outside.

Cotto lay inert face down. Birga knelt at his side and raised his chin. His lower lip was cut and his mouth and nose were bruised. He tried to speak. Birga placed a finger against his lips while shaking her head for him not to speak. I know Cotto. I know, she sighed. He threw himself into her arms as tears ran down his cheeks from his pain racked ice blue eyes.

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CHAPTER THREE

It was a chilly morning again the next day which was out of the ordinary for late spring. Birga coaxed the fire in the pit to greater effort by adding more wood. Cotto had gone off by himself earlier. She knew he needed time to be by himself before his lessons with Marcus. He had not been willing to share what had happened yesterday nor was Birga yet prepared to disclose her own devastating news. Her whole world seemed to be crumbling all around her. What kind of future now lay ahead for her and Cotto?

Birga!

She was startled by the sound of the familiar voice that came from behind her and turned to see her father Talto lowering the cowhide that covered the entrance to the lodge as he entered.

Father you startled me! Come and sit here beside me here by the fire, she said brightly as she offered a pile of wolf furs to him as he sat down. I have some warm barley beer, she added invitingly.

Talto signalled with his hand and shook his head indicating he declined her invitation as he settled in by the fire at her side.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Birga surveyed her father’s wrinkled brow and saw Talto bite his lower lip. His tall lean frame seemed fragile by the light of the fire but Birga still remembered him as Talto the Terrible; a legendary hero among his people that their sages and bards sang about around their camp fires at night.

Like his daughter, Talto’s face was oval shaped. He had heavy set dark brows and his nose was almost hawk-like. The deep scar across the bridge of his nose and down his left cheek became redder with the passing of time as his tanned skin turned to an ashen grey as a sign of his old age. Yet his square jaw and thin lips still gave him a rugged and commanding look.

He rubbed the scar with his thumb and cleared his throat before he spoke.

Where’s Cotto? he asked rather absentmindedly.

By now he should be over at your lodge with Marcus for his lessons, Birga responded rather surprised by his question.

Oh yes, yes I remember now, he responded thoughtfully.

What is it Father? Birga inquired looking intently into Talto’s deep blue eyes taking his hand into her own.

The old chieftain sighed and almost smiled.

I knew you would make it easier for me my child. I didn’t know where to start and you know my heart and I can keep nothing from you, Talto confessed as a tear unsuccessfully tried to escape from one eye but simply remained there.

Birga waited for him to continue knowing full well what he was about to say and share. It was seldom that her father displayed any feelings like this. But it was more frequent now since her mother had died the previous winter.

His wife, Birga thought and not Woman come!

Talto now squeezed Birga’s hands tightly in his own. Then he stammered, Adalric is casting you aside and taking another wife. He paused and waited for her to speak.

I know Father, she replied quietly. What will become of Cotto?

"He will become a son of my house. You must have no fears about him. It is you I am worried about. The shame, the gossip you will have to live with. And you the daughter of Talto to be put aside by that upstart! But my hands were tied by the decision of the Moot. The young men all look up to Adalric and we will have to depend on him for leadership against the Romans."

That war was on the horizon came as news to Birga.

And this woman of his, this Elita is a horse of a woman and before all of the warriors he dared to say that you... Talto began but could not continue.

That I could not bear him any sons, Birga added to finish his sentence for him.

When I mentioned Cotto, he only glared at me, Talto indicated angrily. "He addressed the Moot and said, I have no real son. Not if he learns the tongue and the ways of the Romans! So what could I do Birga? What could I say?"

You had no choice Father. But who will tell Cotto?

Talto avoided looking at her.

I’ll tell him Father.

It’s a lie, Mother. I don’t believe you. You’re trying to turn him against me. I’m Adalric’s son. Nothing can change that! If you had not been so cold to him and offered him your bed he would have stayed, Cotto reprimanded Birga as he paced the floor angrily.

From this moment on, you are not my mother! He snapped. Adalric is my father!

Birga covered her face with both of her hands as she began to sob. Cotto kicked at a large log in the fire pit and it rolled out on the earthen floor shooting sparks and smouldering ashes onto an old fur close by. Then he burst into tears and rushed into his mother’s arms and kissed her tear stained face over and over again. Forgive me Mother. Please forgive me. Help me. Why? Why does he hate me?

Holding him in an embrace Birga whispered, He doesn’t hate you Cotto. It’s just that...

In that very moment Adalric’s huge frame was silhouetted in the entrance of the lodge. A tall buxom woman stood close beside him. Her auburn hair seemed askew and her flashing blue eyes seemed to take in everything she saw in the room. The animal pelts she wore were red fox and grey wolf and she wore long leather leggings. She glared at Birga and ignored the boy.

Woman has the old man told you? Adalric grunted.

Cotto left his mother’s embrace and turned around abruptly and faced Adalric, wiping his eyes and nose with the back of his hands. He was embarrassed that he had found him in his mother’s arms and crying. Birga’s grip on her son’s arms tightened trying to hold him back as he stood in front of her.

Yes, my father has told me, she replied.

This is your lodge woman. I will build another for my new woman, Adalric said pointing proudly to Elita.

Elita grinned, showing large white teeth and clasped an arm on Adalric’s shoulder possessively. Her gaze shifted from Birga to Cotto and she shook her head disapprovingly.

Now I know why you were so eager to bed me, she said to Adalric.

Cotto almost spoke, but the pressure of his mother’s fingers digging into his arms told him to remain silent. Adalric grabbed some furs, a few personal belongings and then approached the entranceway to leave while Elita tried on Birga’s faded blue cloak. Birga pretended she didn’t notice. Elita unceremoniously tossed it on the floor showing her distain for the garment.

Woman come! Adalric ordered impatiently.

The expression on Elita’s face hardened. She looked sternly at Adalric.

Come Elita, Adalric grunted but now somewhat subdued.

When Birga and Cotto found themselves alone they began laughing despite all that had taken place. With the deepest tone he could muster Cotto mimicked Adalric.

"Come Elita...please won’t you?"

Then he chuckled and winked at his mother.

Don’t worry Mother, he’ll be back soon!

Adalric would never come near the lodge again.

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CHAPTER FOUR

"I tell you, the time to strike is now!" Adalric shouted with his fierce green eyes flashing.

He waited for a reaction from the assembled warriors and chieftains of the tribe. Spittle trickled down from the corner of his mouth as he glared defiantly at Talto and then sat down. A handful of his loyal henchmen and sycophants responded with a murmur of guttural grunts of approval accompanied by the banging of their shields. All eyes then turned to Talto as he rose to speak.

Pausing first to make eye contact with those in the Moot the old chieftain knew he could rely on he then returned Adalric’s glare before he spoke.

To make war and to win wars are two entirely different matters, he began.

The older men nodded affirmatively, the younger men listened passively and respectfully due to Talto’s position and renown as a warrior.

In my own time, now over a decade ago we finally fought our way to this side of the Rhine. Many years, many battles, many deaths and yet the river still stands between us and the lands beyond. Not because Rome is too strong but because we are too weak!

Not too weak! Adalric shouted. But not brave enough!

A hushed murmur enveloped the assembly at Adalric’s effrontery in interrupting Talto. The expression on the chieftain’s face altered little as he continued as if he had not even heard the challenge to his authority.

"Not brave enough you say. Not brave enough? No. We are too brave and much too reckless. We have no discipline. No strategy. This is where we have failed. We have only seen the weaknesses of our enemy and not his strengths and his strengths have defeated us."

Talto paused and waited for his words to have their desired effect on his audience. Adalric simply scowled. The young men avoided the eyes of the old chieftain.

The tribal seer and soothsayer Clondicus and the older chieftains from the various clans were with him now as they had been with him in countless battles both in retreat and in victory. Talto and Clondicus’ gaze met before Talto continued.

"We remain a divided people. The Romans know that only too well. We spend our time feuding among ourselves and betraying one another for Roman gold or promises. Constantly warring among ourselves we become weaker and Rome becomes stronger. This is not the time for war against the Romans but a time to unite our people. Then together with the Cherusci and Hermunduri we can drive the Romans back from the Rhine and take the lands beyond but none of us can do that alone."

Talto had addressed the obvious difficulty the Germanic tribes had failed to tackle and upon which the Romans had capitalized for several generations. Their jealousies, mistrust and feuds had made a united front impossible. No one doubted the bravery and the fanatic savagery of the German warrior, least of all their Roman enemy. But the Romans realized military defeats could be turned into political victory by pitting tribe against tribe and in this game they had become the chief beneficiary. No one knew this better than Talto. The enmity between the Chatti and the other tribes was disastrous for all and was the greatest advantage the Romans held over them.

When Talto finished speaking he seated himself in the council circle among the chieftains. No one spoke. They weighed the arguments they had heard in order to make a judgement. Would it be caution and restraint working towards an alliance or outright war against the Romans now? Would they endorse the fervour and exuberance of youth or the practical wisdom and experience of old age? Was it to be the stalemate for which Talto pleaded or a concession to the craving for battle for which the Chatti naturally longed. Talto or Adalric? Peace or war?

"I tell you the time to strike is now!" Adalric shouted once more.

His impassioned appeal was answered by the crashing of shields and spears against each other in approval. The ballot had been taken. The council was for war. They remained true to the character of the Chatti: reason once again fell victim to the hoped for glory of the battle to come.

Talto submitted to the will of the Moot and raised his shield.

The time to strike is now and death to the enemies of the people!

Adalric’ placid face attempted a triumphant grin but with little success. The young men chanted Adalric! and Victory! alternately. He relished the