Chapter Twenty-Seven
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
For hours after they’d lain together, Julia believed—really believed—that Alaric meant what he said. They were engaged. Lying with her head pillowed on his bicep after the third time they made love, staring up at the clouds, Julia had closed her eyes and lived out an entire lifetime with him behind her shut lids.
They descended the mountain as the sun was setting to find a feast had been laid in the great hall. Everyone had gathered to celebrate. It was sheer, unimpeded joy being at Alaric’s side, aware of his blue eyes on her, glowing with a warmth that made her dizzy. Julia had tried the most expensive opium that Egypt had to offer. She had never been so intoxicated.
But he did not mention that he’d asked her to marry him. She did not bring it up. And when he laughed with Brisca—seemed, in some moments, just as intimate with her—Julia held her sudden, desperate jealousy behind her teeth.
Nobody meant the things they said to lovers. Everyone knew that.
* * *
The next morning, in the cold light of dawn, Julia stood at the northern gate and watched Alaric at the center of the crowd, his smile flashing and his bronze hair glinting in the sun. Everyone had one last story to tell him or one last blessing to lay on his brow.
When Brisca threw her arms around Julia’s neck, she silenced her poor, pathetic jealousy. “Take care of him. And remember to think of us when you are queen.” She slipped her a slim, smooth object. It was a finger-bone flute, like Alaric’s but not so ornate. “I had to make it quickly,” she said with a wry grin. “Play it in the mountains if you have the need, and we will find you.”
There was nothing else to say but thank you .
Julia shivered. A wind screamed down from the peaks, dragging a terrible cold with it. Brisca had gifted her thick leather leggings and high, lace-up boots; a fur-lined tunic; and a soft Phrygian cap with earflaps, but she wondered if it would be enough.
“Are you cold, Julia?” It was Alaric’s voice in her ear, rough and warm.
“No,” she said automatically, even as another burst of wind made her shiver.
“The hat is warmer if it covers your head, Julia.” He pulled it low over her forehead, tied the strings on the earflaps, and then cast a critical eye on her coat. “No wonder you’re shivering. You’ve done it up wrong.”
Julia held herself still beneath his ministrations. It shouldn’t feel so good , letting him fuss over her like this. “I can dress myself,” she said tersely.
“It does not seem so.” He pulled her cloak tight, then brushed his lips against her forehead for one single, transfixing moment. Lighting her up from the inside. “It’s time to go.”
* * *
Julia left the village as she had come, riding Hannibal with Alaric walking beside.
The days ran together in a blur. They climbed steep switchback trails, through forests of spearpoint pines and into vast fields. Mostly Alaric let her ride Hannibal; once, up a particularly treacherous slope, he carried her on his back. Julia shut her eyes and laid her cheek against the play of moving muscles beneath his skin.
As the days passed, the men fell into quiet; their stops were quick and efficient, only long enough to suck down water and check for stones in the horses’ hooves. Alaric withdrew into himself more than the others; Julia recognized the fierce concentration that came over him when he was trying to keep them all alive. She tried not to distract. Instead she stewed in quiet.
She could not stop thinking about what he’d said to her on those cliffs.
In the days afterward, she was convinced only of her own foolishness. But then Alaric would be there at her elbow to offer food and a quiet word of encouragement, or a steady hand to stop her from stumbling. He always seemed to know when she was hungry or tired, and the way he looked at her sometimes—that ferocious tenderness, the same look he’d had on his face when she’d stood too near that cliff—made her question everything.
Surely he would at least try to lie with her again. But he did not. They slept in bare-bones shelters, shepherd’s huts, and one shivering night, a cave full of howling wind. Julia fell into black, dreamless sleep, mindlessly seeking Alaric’s warmth. And it was only there she felt his desire; pressed hard and heavy against hip or thigh as she lay in his arms. He still wanted her. But he did not reach for her in the dark.
Julia had never been so confused in her life. She did not understand him; that was the problem. She did not understand him, and she did not understand his customs.
After what could have been ten days, she found herself on a trail that rose to impossible steepness, wind scouring every inch of exposed skin. She had never been this cold or exhausted, and she almost wept with relief when the path turned a corner and wound behind a screen of sheltering, twisted pines.
Julia slumped against a boulder, sore and out of breath, as the men checked girths and sucked down water. She took two steps and nearly fell, her ankle giving way beneath her.
Alaric was by her side in seconds. “Are you all right?” His eyes swept her from head to toe, taking a brisk inventory. “Is your ankle paining you?”
“They should—put a proper road—up this mountain.”
To her surprise he leaned down and kissed her; a slow, sweet kiss that drove away the cold. “Get what rest you can. We will move within the hour.”
Julia stared after him. Was he trying to drive her mad?
* * *
Alaric followed the sun, skirting vast gulfs, traversing impossible ridgelines, exhausting himself and his men in the endless steeps.
There was no choice but to pass through enemy territory. He was very aware of what Calthrax had told him. If word was already out about that ransom, then they were being hunted. He kept one eye on Julia to make sure she didn’t die of exhaustion, and the other on Thorismund to ensure his stitches held his guts in his body.
Meanwhile, Horsa wouldn’t meet his eyes. Horsa who had left the western gate unwatched.
Alaric often caught himself staring at his wife. When he rode with her, he lost himself in the feel of her body moving with his, the scent of her hair. The clean, graceful sweep of her neck. His wife. He was almost afraid to say it aloud. Afraid if he spoke of it, she would laugh in his face and take it all back.
He was under no illusions. She did not feel what he did, that fierce, tight feeling in his chest whenever he looked at her, or thought of her, or held her close. He told himself it did not matter. There would be time to show her that there was more between them than brute necessity.
Finally they arrived at a great pass, hacked into the rock as if from a giant’s adze. Beyond it, sweeping grassland gave way to stunted forests. They rode all day, swift gallops followed by rest on steep, grassy slopes and sun-dappled groves. They were finally out of enemy territory.
The farmhouse was where he remembered. Its roof rose out of the trees, all rosy stone and timber. Alaric pulled Hannibal to an abrupt stop at the front door.
Calthrax stood in the doorway. Still bleeding from that wound he’d cut in the man’s neck.
Alaric pulled Julia down. She was laughing, her eyes sparking, and he knew she did not see Calthrax. Not even Thorismund did. He looked up into Julia’s breathtaking face and heard Calthrax’s voice clear in his ear. Everyone who loves you dies.
How could he explain to her about Calthrax’s ghost? Or the terror that gripped him at the thought of harm befalling her? He could not tell her these things. He could only spend his life sheltering her, from the dangers she could not see as well as those she could.
“Wait here, Julia.”
* * *
Alaric walked softly with his blade drawn through vast, beamy spaces filled with midday sun and the smell of rot. There were scorch marks on the wall where vagrants had lit a fire, and some large animal had made a nest in the stables. But other than that, no signs of life.
When he and Ataulf had found this place on the way back from Milan, it had been recently deserted. Cups of mead tilted over on the table, a stewpot bubbling over coals. They’d had it outfitted as a place of refuge then, and promised to meet here on their way to Noricum.
But now the farmhouse stood empty, and Ataulf was not here. That did not bode well.
The first floor was one large room, dominated by a hearth of river stones and a scarred long table flanked by benches. Upstairs, there was a loft bedroom. A massive bed hulked in the corner, carved out of a single immense black tree trunk. The air had the stillness of a place long undisturbed.
When he came down from the loft, Thorismund was leaning in the doorway. Alaric halted on the stairs, struck by the gray tinge of his friend’s face, his exhaustion as he sagged against the doorframe.
A terrible, sick dread settled in his stomach.
Thorismund frowned irritably. “Stop looking at me like I’m a corpse you’ve been meaning to bury. I’ve still got life in me yet.”
“No food,” Riga announced cheerfully, striding in from the larder. “I think it’s been looted. There are barrels of mead in the cellars, though.”
Thorismund winced. “How long do we wait for Ataulf?”
“A day.” They did not have more time. Already Noricum might have dissolved into civil war.
“If you say so, Reiks ,” Riga said. Alaric felt a stab of foreboding. Riga never used his title unless he meant to cause trouble. “But if we ride tomorrow, we’ll bury Thorismund the day after.”
“The fuck you’ll bury me. I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. The ride last night opened your wound and you’ve been too proud to admit it.” Riga was uncharacteristically grave. “And you’ve been letting him get away with it, Alaric. You won’t prick his pride.”
“I barely feel it,” Thorismund grumbled. “I can go tonight. Just say the word.”
“Thorismund, we can bury you on the way to Noricum, if Alaric would spare the time. Or we could burn you. Of course we all know how he feels about fire—”
Alaric sucked in a breath. The longer they waited, the more time those ransom rumors had to travel, the more time his enemies had to strengthen their position. Even so. He took in the dotted line of blood across Thorismund’s tunic—his ashen complexion, the way he stood braced against the door. Alaric knew what he ought to do—put his friend’s life in the balance to save the rest of them. Such decisions were a king’s daily bread.
He thought of Julia’s grief if he were to let Thorismund die.
“You’re not going anywhere, Thorismund,” Alaric said flatly. “What does he need, Riga?”
“New stitches, and five days of rest. At least.”
Five days. He thought again of his chieftains in rebellion. Stilicho threatening to come before the snows. “I’ll do the stitches.” He’d done this before, for companions on the battlefield, and once, a deep gash in his own arm.
Thorismund shook his head. “I’ve seen your needlework. You couldn’t sew a straight line in a corpse.”
“So have the torturer do it. Fine.” Alaric resisted the urge to feel insulted. “I’ll go look for sign of Ataulf.” He could tell where he wasn’t needed.
* * *
Julia stood outside the farmhouse, holding Hannibal’s reins while the horse snuffled at her hair. It had seemed the most natural thing in the world to lean down for Alaric’s kiss—only to have him toss her Hannibal’s reins and stalk off toward the house, his blade sliding out of its scabbard with a wicked hiss.
Something was bothering him. She wished he would confide in her.
Horsa approached her. “Has Alaric said anything about me?” He glanced behind, as if Alaric would leap out from the bushes. “I think he’s going to kill me.”
“Why would he do that?”
Nearby, Hengist’s shoulders shook with soundless laughter.
“I was supposed to watch Brisca’s western gate. It was my fault Calthrax came in. At Brisca’s, Alaric told me I’ll deal with you later . That’s Alaric-speak. It means he intends to murder me at this farmhouse, and then bury me in the pig paddocks.”
“This is outrageous.” Julia fumed.
“Will you talk to him? He’ll listen to you. You’re his—”
“ Will you stop saying that?” She was tired to death of it. “I’m not his woman. There has never been anything between us except—” Horsa was staring at her as if she had sprouted a third eye, and a humiliating heat scorched her face. “It wasn’t—we didn’t— stop looking at me like that.”
Alaric came striding out of the farmhouse, his bronze hair loose and his long spear balanced over his shoulders. “I’ll be back before dark,” he told her tersely. “Do not leave the farmhouse.”
Julia readied a sharp retort. Was she worth so little, then, as to only deserve a non-explanation of his absence followed by a brute order? But he was already past her, his attention on the boys. He said something to them in Gothic and Horsa turned to her with an expression of stark terror. “Too late. Pray for me.” Then he disappeared into the woods with Alaric and his brother, sending one last, defeated look over his shoulder.
Julia turned back to Hannibal, who was busy ripping at the grass with his teeth.
Marry me. Be my wife. Stay with me until the world crumbles into ash. What a joke.
She had been turning those words over and over in her mind since he had said them, wearing them smooth like river stones. Trying to glean their meaning. Why not simply ask Alaric about what had passed between them? She tried to imagine how that conversation would go. Are we now engaged to be married, or no? Did you really mean it when you made me swear to be your wife whilst inside me? Is that a Gothic custom, or—
Julia laid her forehead against the horse’s warm flank in mute agony.
The door swung open again and Riga stuck his head out. “Julia. Where is Alaric’s salve? Tell me you did not drop it in a ditch.” Riga did not look like himself, and it took Julia a moment to realize it was because he wasn’t smiling. Julia’s unease grew. Riga had gone quiet and serious the way Alaric did when something was very wrong. Was Thorismund dying?
“Of course not,” she said, thrusting her hand into the leather pouch that hung at her waist.
* * *
Inside the farmhouse, Thorismund sat in the light of a clay lamp, stripped to the waist, a dense thicket of tattoos slashed through by a long, livid line. Beside him, Riga was readying a thread and needle.
His wound gaped like a vermillion mouth.
“Julia. The salve.” Julia handed Riga the jar. She’d seen plenty of wounds in Brisca’s great hall; but it was different with someone she knew. Thorismund tensed as the needle pierced his skin. He gripped the edge of his chair, muscles standing out in sharp relief.
For long moments, there was no sound except his periodic sharp intakes of breath. Then Riga started to whistle through his teeth.
“Riga. Please stop whistling while you sew me together.”
“I could, Thorismund. But when I stop, people die,” Riga said mildly. “I could wait for Alaric to come back—”
“ No. Gods, no.” Thorismund shut his eyes. “Whistle if you must.”
Riga glanced at her. “He will live, Julia. I’ve seen much worse than this. Once I flayed a man alive and he lived. He lost an eyelid, but—”
“Shut up, Riga,” Thorismund growled. “She’s going green around the gills.”
“I’m fine.” She had to keep her hands busy.
They would need a bandage, and water set to boil. Horsa and Hengist had taught her how to light a fire on the road. Julia remembered a particularly painful hour spent rubbing two sticks together until her fingers bled. Now she lit a fire in the stone grate with practiced efficiency, boiling water in an iron pot, ripping an old tunic of Riga’s into strips for bandages.
Suddenly, without warning, she felt an urge to sob.
When had these people become so dear to her? Alaric could be next to take a wound like that. War was coming, and if any of these men died, it would be her fault.
Cornelius rose up in her mind. The howls of wolves. Red gore soaking into the sand.
After a time, Riga declared his work finished, and Thorismund grunted his thanks. Julia drew a breath and turned, wiping at her eyes. Foolish, to weep like this.
Riga missed nothing. “What have you to cry about? You’re not the one with the stitches in your stomach.”
“No. It’s just—” Julia willed the tears gone. “Just not very pleasant to see.”
For a moment he only looked at her, assessing, and she braced herself for some acerbic response. But Riga only grinned. “Come outside,” he said. “I have something for you both.”
* * *
Outside, Riga rummaged in his saddle pack and pulled out a length of red felt. Julia watched with curiosity as he retrieved a cluster of narrow poles piled on the ground and stuck them in the soft earth. Then he stretched the felt over the poles to make a little tent.
Inside Riga’s tent, sun filtered through felt and turned everything a lavish red.
Riga tilted a handful of glowing coals onto the metal dish propped over a small fire. Then he took a generous pinch of seeds from a pouch at his waist and dropped it in the censer. “This will help ease Thorismund’s pain. Yours too. I’ve seen how you favor that ankle.”
Thorismund appeared in the doorway, his abdomen bandaged, holding up the tent flap with one burly arm. “This is a sacred ritual space. Women aren’t allowed.”
“Among your people, perhaps. Among mine, they’re welcome,” Riga said. “Although it is unorthodox to have men and women in a tent together.” Smoke rose up in thin threads from the glowing coals. “This is the same smoke we used in the tower, Julia. It will be stronger in the tent, where the smoke won’t be diluted. And you must excuse the quality, Thorismund. I bought it in Ravenna, and it’s difficult to find good strains in Italy.”
“So that’s where you went when Alaric was off with Stilicho. Ataulf wanted you skinned.”
Riga snorted. “Ataulf should watch who he makes that threat to.”
Julia lay down, watching the light move on the tent walls. She’d come to like the throaty rhythms of Gothic, and this smoke smelled like the language sounded. Earth and pine, with a hint of flowers underneath, tickling the back of her throat.
Hours passed. Riga and Thorismund told stories that took shape on the tent walls—ferocious warriors, clever maidens, and gods who granted or took life on a whim. Somehow Julia felt she knew the stories even when she did not speak the language. She felt buoyantly warm—almost as if she’d drunk wine with the Blue Lotus in it, except her toes had gone numb. “I wish the two of you would speak in Latin so I can eavesdrop properly,” she said.
Silence. “Julia, we’ve been speaking in Latin the whole time.”
Julia rose up on one arm, which proved a mistake. Her head swam. “You have?”
“We were talking about the time Thorismund ran into a burning barn to save a mother cat and her kittens.” Riga’s voice had gone to gravel with the smoke.
Julia’s eyes went round. “Did you save all the kittens?”
“Of course I did. Do I look like a monster?” Thorismund looked scandalized. “There were seven kittens and I had to make two trips.”
Julia felt a sudden, debilitating fondness for him. She gave a light little laugh, exactly the way she would in Ravenna after some shallow witticism, and suddenly she wanted nothing to do with that laugh. That self. “You won’t die, will you?”
“You forget who you’re talking to, girl.” Thorismund glowered fiercely. “I am a prince of the Batavi. Last scion of a line of kings. The trees in the forest that birthed my people are thick as a man is tall, and strong as iron. Such a little cut would not fell me.”
“This conversation calls for drink as well as smoke,” Riga announced, producing a wineskin. “The two of you are very entertaining.”
Julia was thinking of Thorismund hurtling to his death while she galloped off in the dark. Suddenly, in an uncontrollable rush, she was weeping.
“Now, now, girl. This won’t do. Come here.” He opened his great arms to her, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to sob into his battered vest. He smelled of old leather and the medicinal tang of the salve. “I promise I’ll not leave you. I swear upon the ashes of my homeland!”
“Best watch yourself, Thorismund.” Riga laughed. “I did quite a bit of work just now to keep your guts on the inside . If our esteemed leader were to hear of this nonsense—”
“Don’t be crass. He’d have nothing to be angry about.” Thorismund sounded deeply affronted. “Julia is—is Julia.”
Julia cracked an eye open. “And what does that mean?”
“It means you’re—” Thorismund’s brow furrowed. “Not a girl , exactly.”
“Is that an insult? I honestly can’t tell.”
In the corner, Riga laughed.
“I mean—I suppose you are a girl. To Alaric, for instance. But not to me. You’re just sort of a—” He waved a hand at her helplessly. “Riga, what would you call her?”
“Alaric’s,” Riga said promptly, and then cackled.
Alaric’s. Julia straightened. “How does Gothic marriage work? Exactly.”
Thorismund peered at her through the smoke. “Why? You and Alaric having trouble?”
Julia tensed. Had Alaric told them about his fierce promises up on that cliff? And how credulously she’d believed it? A rush of shame twisted her gut. “Must there be a contract? A bride price? A ceremony?”
Thorismund scratched his stubbled cheek. “It’s customary for the man to offer a dowry.”
I will lay the wealth of cities at your feet. “Supposing there was a promise of one later.”
“ That makes you a concubine.” Riga laughed.
“I’m not a concubine.” She glared at them. “Not that this has anything to do with me.”
“Anything could be a marriage vow among these barbarians,” Riga said. “Take what Alaric said in the great hall, Julia. Just before the axes. That could have been a marriage vow, had that been his intention.”
“What did Alaric say in the great hall?”
“Nobody translated for you?” Thorismund frowned. “ If I harm a hair on the woman’s head, give me the honor of the threefold death, and scatter my ashes at the feet of the Roman army. He tied his fate to yours, Julia.”
When had the earth begun to spin this way? “What is the threefold death?”
“It’s an ancient custom among our people,” Thorismund said loftily. “It’s secret.”
“It’s a way these uncivilized louts sacrifice their own kings to the gods.” Riga’s eyes glittered with laughter. “I saw it done once, in Crimea. First you remove the poor sod’s trousers, and then you bring in a sacred goat, pure white with no markings—”
“Riga,” Thorismund rumbled in warning.
“You smear the man’s cock with honey,” Riga went on gleefully. “And the goat—well, goats will eat anything, but they’re particularly fond of honey—”
An angry flush came to Thorismund’s face. “That is enough.” He turned to Julia. “It is a sacred rite, and a secret one. We do it three ways, to appease three separate gods. Hanging, stabbing, and drowning.”
“I thought it was burning, stabbing, and beating.” Riga scratched his cheek. “Or is that slashing, stabbing, and—”
“ No , Riga. Stabbing and slashing are the same thing.”
“Oh, I disagree. A slash to the throat is a far different death than a stab to the heart, or the groin—”
And now they were arguing the semantics of murder. “Gentlemen. If you please ,” Julia interrupted. “I hereby declare that both of you owe me a drink. Riga?” She held out her hand imperiously. Riga passed his wineskin to her.
It was milk wine. Instantly the whole tent took on a fearsome spin.
“You know,” Thorismund said. “I’ve decided I like you, Julia.”
Julia took another sip of the milk wine. “That’s terribly gratifying to hear.”
“I cannot say she is a friend,” Thorismund was saying, more to himself than to Riga. “Because she’s Roman, and the daughter of Theodosius, and of course I couldn’t be friends with such as that. My honor would never recover.” He resembled a very conflicted, very blond bear. “I suppose since she and Alaric came together, she’s family. But not a sister, because we’ve all agreed that she’s not a girl.”
“Since Alaric and I—” Julia blinked. “We’ve agreed I’m not a girl?”
“We have. Which makes her—” Thorismund’s eyes lit up. “A brother!”
That sent Riga into another convulsion of mirth. “Thorismund,” Julia said, trying to get her eyes to focus, “I am extremely certain we are not brothers. For one thing—”
“Not yet! But we will be!” A wild look came to his eyes. He rummaged through Riga’s things and came out with a knife in one hand and a little golden cup in the other, studded with fiery garnets. “Blood oaths all around!” he bellowed. “Riga, you do the honors.”
Riga sat up, blinking tears from his eyes. “And what will your men say, to find out you’ve made the blood oath with a Hun and a Roman woman?”
“They’ll tread quietly or they’ll feel the wrath of my spear,” Thorismund growled. “You do the honors, I said. It’s your custom.”
Riga took the cup and the blade. “Listen well, ye gods,” he intoned. “We are of the same blood, us three. Whatever is done to one of these is done to me. Should I break this oath, let me water the earth with my blood.”
His voice seemed to rumble up from the earth itself. Riga took the razor-sharp blade and sketched lines into Thorismund’s palm. Drops of blood fell into the golden cup. Then Thorismund did the same for Riga, whose grin didn’t fade an inch as Thorismund cut the shape into Riga’s palm.
Then Riga turned to Julia. “Your turn.”
“Uh.” Julia stared at the implements. “Are you actually expecting me to do this?”
“Yes!” Thorismund roared. “Do you want to be brothers, or not?”
They were both looking at her now as though she were one of them , fully capable of it, and she was astonished to realize she did want to. Julia held out a hand. Better not to watch. She shut her eyes tight, and held back a yelp as Riga’s blade broke skin. For the length of three breaths, the pain made her head swim. Then it was over. Julia’s eyes flew open, euphoric. “Is it done?” She squinted at her palm. Riga had drawn a little symbol there, abstract and unfamiliar.
She wanted to do it again, to swear a thousand oaths and live through every one.
“Not yet,” Thorismund said solemnly. “There is one more thing.”
He took Riga’s wineskin from Julia’s hands and poured the remaining liquid into the bowl. Then he held his hand over it and let his blood drip into the bowl, handed it to her and insisted she do the same. Riga took the bowl from her and passed it back to Thorismund when it contained all three of their blood.
The blond man raised it to his lips and took a sip. “Blood of my blood, us three,” he intoned. “Whatever is done to each of you is done to me.”
Riga drank next and made the same incantation, then passed the cup to Julia.
She peered into it, red threads swirling into white. Do it now , she thought to herself. Do it quick. She raised the golden vessel to her lips. “Blood of my blood, us three,” Julia said, looking up at their faces. Thorismund’s, so deeply solemn; Riga’s, amused and knowing. “Whatever is done to each of you is done to me.” She felt the words settle inside her and bind her heart.
Then she drank. Milk wine laced with blood. Salt and iron on her tongue.