Somewhat to his surprise, Cassius slept soundly that night. Perhaps because the boy again slept with them, lying contentedly between himself and the girl. Perhaps because he had not let himself sleep soundly for days. Whatever the reason, when he woke he felt rested, and was grateful.

But as he rose, as the others in the long, upper chamber stirred around him, he knew that one unpleasant task remained to him before they set out.

Cornelius.

Dressing himself quietly that Ariel might sleep a little longer, he went to find Ezekiel, that the Jews would have a witness to what was done. He found him already up and about. After a few words of explanation they set out together, to the last small building on the end.

Turning the key in the heavy iron lock, Cassius lifted the latch and pushed the door open a crack. As he expected, Cornelius tried to widen, and bolt through the opening it made. But putting a hand on his chest the Roman pushed him back firmly, and drew the long kitchen knife that he had brought. Then holding it before the face of the hated rival who had come between him and the woman he loved with all his soul, he entered the room with Ezekiel behind. The prisoner cringed and fawned before them, pleading mercy.

“Stop your whining, Cornelius, or I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

“But you can’t just leave me here,” whimpered the small and pathetic man. “I’ll starve, or die of the cold. What are you going to do!”

“If I had my way,” said the soldier, the old fire burning in his eyes, “you would not have the chance. But I am among a solemn people, and I must honor their traditions.”

“What will you do?” the man whined again.

“You will be left here, Cornelius, under lock and key. But with the means of escape.” He held up the knife. “If you apply yourself to it— if you stop screaming long enough— you should be able to cut your way through the door in a day our two. Then you’ll have all the food and shelter you like, so long as you don’t try to follow us. If you do that, Cornelius, make no mistake. Your life will end abruptly.”

And backing toward the door, ushering Ezekiel out behind him, he began to close it. But leaving it open partway— as in his desperation the smaller man grappled it with both hands— Cassius sent him backward with a kick, then threw the knife in after. And as Cornelius cried out “No!” he again bolted and locked the heavy wooden door.

“We should have killed him,” said Ezekiel grimly, as the muffled screams persisted.

“Yes,” said Cassius. “But Ariel would be crushed. She has suffered enough at his hands. Let him do what he will; death will find him in the end.” And together they walked back to the larger building.

When again they entered the lower story of the hall, Cassius found most of the company already gathered there. Ariel was cooking before the fire, while the others packed their belongings into wooden-framed packs scattered about them on the floor. Most notable among them was Vera, who to his consternation was loading three additional sacks, not with essentials for the journey, but with personal belongings of a material, rather than a practical value: pitchers and goblets of silver, a Menorah and other relics cast in gold.

“And who do you think is going to carry them?” he said bluntly. The fierce look she gave him removed all doubt as to her nature.

“My father, my husband and my brother.”

“And who will hold your children’s hands, so they don’t fall to their death in the mountains?”

“You will not speak so to my wife!” cried Ezekiel.

But Cassius was adamant. “I would prefer not to speak to her at all. But if you think I intend to elude the Vandals with a ball and chain around my neck, and so imperil the safety of those I love more than my own life, you are mistaken.” And as Ariel turned her luminous eyes upon him, hearing at last the words which sealed their bond, he marveled that such disparate souls could exist in the hearts of two women.

“These are articles of Faith,” said Vera angrily.

“Then let your ‘faith’ lead you,” he retorted, galled beyond endurance.

“Because I won’t.”

At this Ezekiel began to advance upon him in earnest, until his father interposed. Jacob, too, stepped forward.

“Please, all of you. And Vera. Possessions can be replaced; precious lives cannot. Bring the Menorah and the Passover articles only. Leave the rest.” When she tried to object he told her plainly. “As your rabbi, am I not fit to judge what is needed for our spiritual well-being?”

At this she was silent, though inwardly she raged at the interference with her family’s property— hers, and no one else’s.

How could I not have seen it before? wondered Cassius, though he thought he knew the answer. None of us want to see the worst in others, for what it says about the Godless world in which we live. And so we call vice a virtue, and attribute to heroism things which could not be more base and cruel. But I see you now, he told himself. Oh yes, I see you now.

Turning from her in disgust, he thought to chide Ariel for cooking when they should be preparing to leave. But aside from the soft look she gave him, which melted his anger and reduced Vera to nothing, it occurred to him that this was not in fact an army on the march, but a mixed company of men, women and children. Let them have their breakfast. The danger would wait.

But a short time later, when he saw Jacob and Gaius returning from the Temple, and bearing with them two enormous scrolls, he knew that something must be said.

“Jacob.”

“I know what you’re going to say, Cassius, and I don’t want to hear it.”

“It was only out of despair, and the fact that there weren’t enough of us to carry them that I ever thought to leave these behind. This is the Torah, Cassius, the heart and soul of our Faith. Each of these scrolls is over five hundred years old, copied down from others like them, older and more precious still. Their words reach back to the dawn of history, several thousand years before your Christ was ever born.”

“With apologies to Simon,” said Cassius, as the German came closer to examine them. “He’s not my Christ. And I have never trifled with your
faith or tradition.” True faith, he thought to add, as Vera regarded him coldly. “But Jacob, we cannot possibly carry them both.”

“Gaius has agreed to carry one— ”

“I need his sword at the ready. He is the only man here, aside from

the German, that I know can fight.” Gaius looked up quickly, his emotions a whirlwind. For this was the first time Cassius had ever expressed faith or confidence in him.

“Then Isaac,” began the rabbi.

“Would rather be free to protect his grandchildren, I’m sure.” To this the blacksmith nodded gravely.

At that moment Malachi and his new bride came in through the front door. Meryl looked flushed and happy, a little embarrassed, while her husband was the picture of determination.

“What is happening?” he asked seriously.

“I want to bring the scrolls,” said Jacob, equally determined. “Cassius, who does not understand the reason for our existence, feels we do not have the backs to bear them, or the spirit to persevere in the attempt.”

“I will carry one,” said Malachi simply.

“You?” said his brother from across the room. “You, who have not seen the inside of a Temple for more than a year?”

“Yes, Ezekiel. You may scoff if you like. Until yesterday, I had no reason to believe.”

“I do not scoff, Malachi.” And his brother came closer. “Only a mask, to hide my pride in you. Come, Cassius, you have one bearer. The scrolls, as you see, already have a protective covering, and can be readily placed into one of the packs. Surely you can make no objection to that.”

The soldier grimaced. He felt himself losing on what was to him an important point. They must be mobile. But it seemed equally important to the Jews. He released a sigh. “We have one bearer, for one scroll. Do you really need them both?”

“Yes,” said the rabbi, implacable. “What if one is lost?”

“If it would be permitted,” said the German, running his hand across the leather covering with mingled curiosity and awe. “I would like to bear the second. I believe I could set it behind me on the horse. It would be a bit awkward— ”

“It would certainly not be permitted,” began Ezekiel. But Jacob overruled him.

“Yes. It would be. Simon is the one member of our group who is not in danger among the Vandals. Also, he has a horse.” My horse, thought Cassius, though again he kept it to himself. “He may outlive us all. And no matter what befalls us..... No matter what,” repeated Jacob, with a significant look at the Roman. “Our Faith will live on.”

“All right, all right,” said Cassius. “Does your ‘general’ still have the authority to ask that we eat our bloody breakfast, and set out before nightfall?”

“Yes,” said Jacob triumphantly. “He has that authority.”

“One day into my command,” said Cassius dryly, “and already I’ve suffered my first mutiny. I don’t know many mercenaries who would put up with that.”

“But you’re not a mercenary, are you?” replied Malachi, quick to follow the train of his thoughts.

“No,” said the Roman. “I wish I was. At least then I’d be paid to take this abuse.” And he released a grunt of laughter in spite of himself.

At this all felt relieved. For something had been established between them that was not there a moment before: an understanding, the beginnings, at least, of a shared purpose. The company sat down to their meal, feeling ready. Meryl helped Ariel to serve, the two already exchanging warm looks of friendship, while the men discussed among themselves their hopes and fears for the journey ahead. Only Ezekiel held back, meeting his wife’s glance as if a very different understanding had been reached between them.

The meal was finished. The dishes were cleared and put away. For Cassius had told them to leave no sign that the place had been recently inhabited— though with a qualm he thought of Cornelius, and what he might do when they were gone.

Then one by one the travelers lifted and shouldered their burdens. Jacob said a short prayer, for safety on the way. Then Isaac opened the door. And led by the Roman, the company set out.

It took several hours for the company to reach its destination, the high northern crown of the granite rise, looking down on the broken gap below. As they went, Cassius had slowly realized that their journey would be even more difficult and dangerous than he had first imagined. Not because of the barbarians or the elements, which had not changed, but because of the group itself. Not only was this not an army on the march, it was not even a group of men, hale and hardy, but a collection of fourteen men, women and children, of whom less than half moved easily across rugged terrain. The children must at intervals be carried, the women helped and encouraged.

Jacob moved well enough for his age, as Cassius had seen beforehand. But Joshua did not. It was clear that the ‘easy life’ of which Isaac had spoken, was in fact a reality, and left the vintner ill prepared for such rigorous outdoor activity. And the hardest part was that he could not even spur them on to greater effort, could not crack the whip as he would over a company of men.

If Vera felt the children were tired she stopped, and that was all. Malachi had grown so protective of Meryl— as he had already seen, when the young man attacked him on the ledge— that even a frustrated look in her direction drew an answering glare from her husband that told him it was simply not worth it. Even Isaac, who by the look of him could stand in the wilting heat of the forge for hours, hammering tirelessly at the anvil, was here a victim of his bulk, and became winded long before he should.

Cassius could not assess his own condition because he was never pressed, but must continually wait for the others. These struggled to overcome obstacles that he, Simon and Gaius would not have given a second thought. Ariel too, to his pride and satisfaction, was a lithe and steady climber. And Franzi, with here and there an assist from himself or his grandfather, moved with a strength and fearlessness that were beyond his years. Cassius could not help thinking it might have been better if the group had splintered, and those closest to him gone their own way.

“It may yet come to that,” he said beneath his breath, as they stopped to rest for the third time in perhaps four hours of moving. But at last they had arrived, and now Simon approached him.

“I will go down and begin my reconnaissance,” he said. “Best keep the others out of sight.”

“Why?” asked Malachi, who along with Gaius had come closer to
listen. “Do you sense danger?”

“Always,” said the German, with a look at Cassius which showed that many of the same thoughts had occurred to him. “The horde may have split up by now, or they may have sent a defensive party back. And there are still the stragglers, remember.”

“Do you want me to keep the boy here?” asked Cassius.

“No. If I am spotted this far north of our camp, I must have a reason for being there. It is known to my tribe that I am looking for my grandson.

If I have found him, so much the better for the story I must tell.”

“God go with you,” said Gaius quietly.

“Always.” And he began to descend with the boy.

#

From his perch overlooking the east, Cassius felt his heart quicken. For across the rolling plain, at a distance of roughly ten miles, his eyes descried a movement he was loathe to witness: horsemen, coming towards them.

“Your eyes are younger,” he said to Gaius, beside him. “What do you see?”

“Riders, perhaps a hundred.”

“Coming straight at us?” asked the soldier.

“No..... They’re breaking into groups now. Two. One heading more
to the south. But the other, the smaller of the two..... Yes, they seem to be coming this way.”

“How many?”

“Twenty, thirty. It’s hard to say from this distance.”

“Yes, and harder for Simon. The land is uneven between them: he may not see them at all until they’re right on top of him.” Both shifted their gaze from the east to the northeast, where the German was just returning from his probe in that direction. “We’ve got to signal him somehow, without being seen ourselves.”

“But isn’t he safe among them?”

“Gaius, please,” said Cassius irritably. “Try to learn from your experience. Among murderers, no one is safe. And Simon is no longer one of them. Stay here, and for God’s sake keep the others quiet. I’ve got to warn him.”

“Be careful..... Cassius, wait. He sees them, or senses them. Look. He’s moving to the top of the hill.”

True to Gaius’ word, the German now rode toward a long ripple in the land that ran parallel to them, then fell away in a long and gradual slope. From its crest, still mounted, he looked out to the east, some other sense telling him what the others had already seen. He remained perfectly still. . . then turned and looked back up at them.

“He’s seen them,” said Gaius.

“Yes. Are they still coming this way?”

“I think so. The larger group seems headed toward the battlefield. The southern battlefield,” he added, as the melting snow continued to expose bare patches of ground in the gap below, revealing those who had died in the earlier conflict. “The others. . .are still coming toward us.”

“Just as he said they would,” muttered Cassius ruefully. “To look for stragglers, and protect the women. We should have gone yesterday, and been far to the north by now.”

“What do you think he’ll do?”

“I don’t know. I just hope— ” Cassius stopped. Simon had turned his horse again, and made a downward motion with his right hand, telling them to stay put. Then set out at an easy pace, southward. “He’s trying to lead them away, hoping they’ll follow his tracks, the sight of him. Damn it!”

“Is that unwise?” asked Gaius, trying to understand.

“Not for our sake. If the smaller group follows him we can get the hell out of here. But he’ll be caught in between. And that increases many fold the chance that one or more of them will object to his story, or to the man himself.”

“Do you think he.....” Gaius felt a sudden qualm of fear. “Are he and the boy in danger?”

“That doesn’t even deserve an answer!” growled Cassius, himself unable to face the thought. “Stay here. I’ve got to tell the others what is happening.” So moving back from the edge, he made the short climb down to where the others remained hidden, a shallow bowl carved into the rock by centuries of wind and ice.

“What is it?” asked Ariel, the first to read alarm in his face.

“The Vandals are coming this way..... Listen to me, all of you. Simon is trying to lead them away southward. If he is unable, we must be silent as Death. If they do follow him, we’ve got to get down and across that gap as if the Devil himself was behind us!”

“But the children,” began Vera, with a look of reproach.

“Carry them,” said Cassius, barely able to keep his own voice down. “This is no family outing; it is life and death!”

“And how do you know he won’t betray us?”

“Not another word, Ezekiel! He is risking both their lives to draw the bastards away from us. Would you do the same? Now get down, all of you, and silence. But ready to move at a moment’s notice.” And again he climbed to take his place beside the younger man.

#

The minutes passed with agonizing slowness. The sun was setting, and time was running out. If the second group did not turn to the south as well, they would be trapped.

“Look,” said Gaius, much more quietly now, for their enemy was less than half a mile off. “They’ve seen him.”

“They must have seen him long ago,” whispered Cassius. “I just hope he didn’t make himself too obvious..…”

“They’re turning!”

“Yes. They’ve made up their minds at last. Now go, you scum, all of you.”

“They are,” whispered Gaius. “And gathering speed.”

“All right. Listen. Stay here, and signal me when they are out of sight. I’ve got to get the others ready to move. And they will, by God, or we leave them behind.”

But when he climbed down, Cassius saw in the taut faces of the company no sign of dissent. Fear, and the anxious waiting, had done its work on them. They looked weary, drawn, ready to follow wherever he led. Only Ariel looked at him in despair. “But Noah.”

“I know,” said Cassius, with a wrench at his heart. “But he is a Vandal child, and should be safe among them.”

If only it was true.

“They’ve turned,” he told them plainly. “We may live to see another day. But only if we climb down now, swiftly and surely.”

“We understand,” said Jacob softly.

“Good,” said Cassius, trying to calm himself. “Just a few minutes

longer.”

At Gaius’ signal, they began to descend. The way was difficult, but all now moved as best they could, no longer balking at their leader’s hard commands. For all felt the danger, the naked exposure, and understood at last they were committed to a desperate enterprise: that by leaving their high island, they were again subject to all the perils of the storm-wracked sea.

They moved.

It was dark when they again reached level ground, weary and distraught. But Cassius would not let them rest. So they plodded on, across the thinning patchwork of snow, stepping on stones when they could, trying to leave no mark upon the ground. Across the battlefield, eluding the bodies that were a constant reminder of their peril. To the western edge of the granite spine, as it rose again northward. But here, as Cassius had feared, the way was impassible. They turned to the river valley instead, skirting the stone as nearly as they could, heading north.

Here, through time interminable they walked, on and on through the moonlit night. Until finally, as the stars began to fade before the coming dawn, Cassius found the place he sought: the lonely stone house, by the fall and the gentle pool.

“Here we stay until nightfall,” he said wearily, leading them down the hill toward it. “And God help us if the Vandals find our tracks.” Silently he added: and God help Simon, if they don’t believe his story.

In the tight quarters, exhausted and unsure, they laid out their blankets on the floor. And slept. All but Cassius, who stood guard in a chair by the door, pondering hopelessly.

“Dear God,” he whispered, as the hours of waiting stretched before him. “Once before I sat in this chair, not knowing what to say to you. I asked you then, for Ariel. I’m asking you again. Don’t let him die.” He thought to add a prayer for Franzi, but surely the Vandals would not harm their own child….. Even the thought was too much to bear, and he reproached himself again and again for letting the boy go.

At length Gaius relieved him, and he took his place on the floor. He slept but fitfully, tormented by the grunting breath of bears as they charged at him out of the brush. As upon waking, the sound resolved itself into the snoring of men. Unable to decide which was worse, the sleeping or the waking nightmare, he at last gave it up, and went to the door.

“What time is it, Gaius?”

“I would say an hour past noon.”

Cassius tried to think. “Should I go look for him?”

“Are you asking me?” said the younger man.

“Yes, Gaius. I’m weary and distraught. I don’t trust my own judgment.”

The young man tried to look at his nemesis more closely, but was
unable in the poor light that seeped beneath the door. But his words had been clear enough. This man he feared, sometimes hated, was asking his advice.

“Maybe you should wait, at least until dusk.”

“You’re probably right.” A pause. “But Gaius,” he went on, a strange quality in his voice that the young man had not heard before. “If something should happen to me..... I was counting on him. Now I’m counting on you..... Take care of the girl,” he ended abruptly, and went back to his place on the floor.

And both, unknown to the other in the dim light, looked over to the bed, pushed now deep into a corner, where the woman they loved lay sleeping with the children beside her. Not very much more than a child herself. And both thought of their friend, the gentle German, and wondered. Time passed slowly.

Fifty-Three

Evening came. The company stirred. Vera began to light a fire, but Cassius stopped her. “We have to eat,” she said, but the fiery stubbornness had left her.

“Have you brought bread,” he asked, himself no longer combative.

“Yes,” she said.

“And wine,” put in Isaac. They drew out the necessary items. And ate and drank. Cassius could not help wondering if it wasn’t Simon’s body they consumed: if he had not bought their lives with his own. And the boy.

“Be ready to leave in an hour,” he said. “I’ve got to scout our way.” And avoiding Ariel’s troubled gaze, he went out.

He reached the stream. Then looked up at the waterfall, the pool beneath, that had once held such enchantment for him. And thought of the cold blast that shook them both. From that moment on, he thought, their
hopes had been crushed.

And the waters themselves. Like childhood, resting so briefly in the tranquil pool, the innocence. Soon enough they must spill down the turbulent stream of youth, and join the corrupted river. Past blood and battlefield and horror. Then finally on, in weary surrender, to the sea. There to be reborn? Perhaps, but never the same. Their parts scattered, the rain falling senseless, all consciousness lost. Into other life, other forms that would not know him.

Meaningless.

And Simon, his only friend. Gone. Like his father before him.

His father. He had not thought of him for a long time. Gruff old son of a wolf bitch. What would he have thought of the man his son had

become? Not much in this moment, he was forced to admit. What would he have said? Pick your ass up, and get over that stream. Do what you have to do!

“What I have to do,” he said aloud. “But I don’t know what that is.”

He looked back to the south, along the course of the river, with thoughts of searching for his friend. Useless. He would only be captured himself. Night was falling, and he let his courage fall with it. Then turned to the north, crossed the small stream, and began to search for what he hoped he would not find: more danger. More heartbreak.

He continued, but something fine had been lost: the small stirrings of faith, if not in God or in life, then at least in himself, without which man is a wandering wraith, bodiless and hopeless.

He continued.

#

When he returned, and reported the way was clear, the company set out, again walked on through the night. The granite rise had left them, and there was no other cover than the stands of trees, now mostly bare, that grew along both sides of the winding river path.

The stream itself had grown cold, nearly frozen over, with a heavy chill and clinging fog that increased as they went. But then the wind, even colder, blew down from the frigid north, sweeping it away, as if clearing the way for what was to come.

For a storm was gathering in the mountains beyond, spilling toward them down the ravine like a flood of air and icy spray. The wind increased. They were buffeted and pushed back. But they could not stop. It began to snow, lightly at first, tantalizing. Then with a will.

And though Cassius was grateful for the blanket of white that would cover their tracks, after a time it became clear that they could not go much further. The company’s every movement was labored, their breathing hard. He himself was not immune, feeling the now familiar pain in his chest, that
could at any time mean the end of him.

They trudged on in the old snow, here deeper, mingled with the new. At last, after Cassius had pushed them stubbornly for another hour, Jacob approached him.

“Cassius,” he said, his voice contesting with the wind. “We have given you all we have. We must stop.”

“Right here?” said Cassius loudly, the wind tearing the words from his mouth. “Lie down in the snow and die?”

“No,” said Jacob. But the Roman shook his head, unable to hear him. “No!” he fairly screamed. “There is a ferry crossing. Just ahead, unless I have lost my bearings. And the building, where the ferryman plied his trade.”

“If you can find it we’ll stop. But only for a few hours. I know the place. It is out in the open.”

Jacob nodded blankly. And straightening the awkward load on his back— for Malachi had soon realized that his wife was the more precious burden— he struggled ahead to take the lead. I hope that scroll is worth it, thought the Roman. It’s likely to be the death of you.

After one last bend in the river, it straightened again northward. And after plodding a short distance farther, he saw it: the low, swart building where the ferryman lived and bargained for passage to the other side.

They staggered on, reached it, took shelter from the wind in its southern face, where the door was. The door itself bore a heavy iron lock.

Cassius took the axe from his pack— something a little more useful,

he could not help thinking— and began to chop away at the wood around it.

Then with a savage kick, he splintered what remained. He put his shoulder to the door, and forced it open. The others followed him inside

“We must light a fire,” said Malachi, from somewhere behind him in the gloom. “No one will see the smoke in this blizzard.”

“Then you had best find firewood,” said Cassius, who had himself been examining the blackened hearth. “There’s none here.” So Malachi and his brother began to leave, their shadowy forms appearing briefly in the pale light of the doorway.

“Wait,” said Cassius, still trying to catch his breath. “I’d better come with you.” The three of them went out, and Jacob and Isaac set to repairing the door, for warmth, and for appearance’ sake. While the women took off the children’s wet clothes, and wrapped them in layers of blankets.

Ariel thought of the boy, her heart bleeding. As the storm howled, tireless, from the North.

The fire had been lit, and clothes laid upon the hearthstone to dry. The company lay sleeping heavily all around him, their apprehension drowned in sheer exhaustion.

But Cassius could find no such release. The wooden floor was not troublesome, the room, though far from warm, was not cold enough to pose a physical threat. By the swirls that blew in through cracks in the door, he could see that it was still snowing. It was not that.

He had slowly realized that they must not, as he first thought, set out again in the morning: that struggling slowly against a background of white they would not only make little progress, but be easily spotted as well. And though it troubled him that they must remain here, exposed, all the long bright day..... And he must remember to put out the fire in an hour or two, when the dawn came.

But none of this was what kept sleep so far from him, no matter how
he turned and fought. Something was wrong— more than just the normal sense of oppression, or the half conscious realization of danger. Something dreadful, unthinkable had happened. He was sure. He could no longer fight it. So he got up, wrapped the heavy bearskin around him. Strapped on his sword, and went out into the bitter night.

The trees that grew to the south of the building would give them some cover, he thought absently. So long as no one came further than the bend in the river. But this same thought, weak and unfocused as it was, kept him from doing what his heart told him he must. If he ventured south, beyond the copse. . .the tracks he left would be as a giant arrow on the ground, pointing back toward the house.

A giant arrow? His mind was so tired he did not even know what it meant. It seemed not a part of him, but some faraway thing which ran on by itself, heard only as whispers in a black and empty vault. Again he felt the exhausted despair, that told him he must surrender his friend.

“But the boy is still with him, God damn it!” He punched himself in the face, a swift rage that was out of him before he knew what his hand had done. His face was shocked by the pain it brought. This is no damn good, he thought. But he remained where he was.

He took a few steps toward the trees, a few more eastward. Not enough. He could only see a short distance down the path. He looked up at the sky. The dawn would be slower, blocked by the heavy overcast. But the snow had stopped. He looked back at the house, thought of the girl inside, who needed him. I’ve got to put out that fire, he thought. Yet still he remained where he was. He began to walk out onto the path, just a little way.

The wind was still blowing hard, tearing at the drifts that ran away from him like waves upon a gale-torn sea. A sudden gust knocked him forward, down on all fours. He wanted to lie down in that snow, so soft, and seek shelter from the storm. At first it would be cold..... But no. It was not time for that. He looked up.

It was still dark, the bend in the track an illusory layering of smothered, impenetrable shades. But something was moving among them.
No..... Yes. There was movement.

A bear? It was enormous. He took a handful of snow and rubbed it into his face, trying to clear his senses. Still the shape came on, wandering, as if it searched for something. Or perhaps it merely staggered.

He stood up, realizing as he did that the horse— it must be a horse— could now see him. He drew his sword. If I must die, then let it be avenging my friend.

The path of the animal had straightened, and now it came on a little faster. A weary trot, through deep snow. He could see that the rider was
tall, hunched somewhat, then suddenly very straight. The horse stopped. Cassius moved closer, sure now.

“Simon!” he said. “Are you all right?”

The man looked down at him, but did not answer. Then, “Take the boy,” in a voice unrecognizable.

Cassius came forward and did what was asked, not understanding. The boy was crying as he took him down, then knelt in the snow. And moaned as Cassius held him. He turned and pointed desperately back at his grandfather. Again. Then struggled free of the soldier’s grasp. Cassius rose to follow, and all in a moment the German fell from his horse.

From pure reflex Cassius caught him, pulled him away from the frightened animal. And lay him down, his head across his own legs. Bewildered, he ran his hand across the man’s chest and throat, feeling for blood. There was none, though the skin felt strange, blistered, and the man cried out through his unconsciousness. But now the boy had buried his face against him, trembling.

“Franzi, come. Help me get him inside.” Cassius lifted the larger man in his arms, struggled to keep his hold, and set his feet beneath him. Then carried him, each step an ordeal, to the door of the building.

There was a stir as he entered, and someone took Simon from his arms. To one side, Ariel embraced the boy. To the other they laid the strong man on some blankets near the fire. Then someone else, a woman, made him lie down as well.

He remembered nothing more for several hours.

Fifty-Five

Cassius woke to the sounds of a scuffle. He sat bolt upright, looking about him in the gloom. He had no immediate recollection of where he was, or what had passed the night before. Only the same feeling that something terrible had happened.

The scuffle was near the fireplace, where a few red embers smoldered and hissed. A man near it was trying to rise, but was being held down by a man and a woman..... He remembered. Rising quickly, he went to them and pulled the man, Ezekiel, away. But Vera persisted.

“He is badly injured. He must lie down.”

“Leave me!” cried Simon, in a voice so unlike the man he had known.

“What is wrong with him?” asked Cassius, helping the wounded man to sit up on the blankets. He had been stripped to the waist..... And then he

saw the cross-shaped burns.

“He’s been tortured,” said Jacob brokenly.

“Make them stop!” bellowed the German.

“Leave us!” said Cassius brutally. The company withdrew. All save Gaius, who had been crying. He came closer.

“Help me sit him on the hearthstone,” said Cassius. Gaius did as he asked. The German was seated at an angle from the dying fire, where Cassius could now see the marks clearly— on his forehead, chest and arms, his abdomen.

“Simon,” he said helplessly. “What have they done to you?”
“My name is Krieg!”

“Yes,” said Cassius, trying to calm him, unable to calm himself. “I can see that now. Still. What have they done?”

At that moment the door opened. Ariel, who had taken Franzi outside, returned with him. And when the boy saw his grandfather revived, he ran to him and threw his arms about him.

Only then did the fierce blue eyes relent, and show something of their

former gentleness. And for all the searing pain it must have caused him, he embraced the boy in turn. Then moved him carefully away from the red and roiling burns.

“What happened?” asked Cassius again, feeling as if he too had been tortured.

“I was a fool,” said Krieg, his eyes narrowing with fierce emotion. “I should have fought them when they challenged me. I should never have surrendered!”

“But Franzi,” said Gaius, his face like a frightened child’s. “They would only have killed the boy.” At this the man was silent.

“Go on,” said Cassius. “Please. You were challenged. And to spare the boy you let them take you.”

“Yes. In my naïve arrogance, my Christian delusion, I believed they would not harm me. That so long as I spoke the Divine Truth, I would be as Daniel in the lion’s den. As I had been. . .with you.”

“But we were honest men,” began Gaius, knowing there was nothing…..

“Forgive me,” said Cassius, hating himself for it. “My friend, I must ask. Did you tell them about us?”

“They never even asked!” said Krieg, his eyes again burning with the longing for vengeance.

“Then why?” pleaded Gaius.

“Why? They were angry at being sent back early. They had not yet had their fill of carnage. But more than that. The evil that crawls in them..... They wanted something perverse: to tear down their old leader, to break my will. My pride and strength infuriated them, the mere sight of a man who had not sold his soul.”

“Your own tribe?” asked Gaius, disbelieving.

“Yes,” he said blackly. “The sons of men I once led into battle, never sparing myself.....

“They took my cross,” he continued, reaching for the place where it had hung. “And held it in the fire with tongs. ‘Let us see how you love your Jesus now,’ they mocked. And put it against my forehead. Here! Till I thought my eyes would burst into flame. Strapped in the chair like a madman.”

“But didn’t— ” stammered the young man. “Didn’t God give you

strength?”

“God,” he answered bitterly. “I never once thought of God. Never felt myself a martyr, following in the footsteps of Christ. All I could think of was my grandson, and what a damned fool I had been.”

“They made him watch,” said Cassius ruefully, understanding.

“Yes. The physical torture was nothing, compared with the knowledge of what it was doing to him. Franzi, who had already suffered so much. He begged them to stop.

“And when the pain became too great. . .when at last I cried out..... I begged them, too, for his sake.” And he covered his face in rage and shame.

“But— ” choked Gaius, still trying to cling to the semblance of faith. “They didn’t kill you. They set you free.”

“Yes,” said Krieg, glaring hard at him. “But not because of God. It gave them pleasure to see that they had broken me. ‘You will serve as an example,’ they gloated. ‘To others who would betray their Vandal blood.’

“Betray their blood!” he cried, rising. “I gave them life! Their fathers and I. The dogs! The miserable dogs!” The boy began to pull at his arm, and slowly he sat down again.

“What will you do?” asked Cassius, though he thought he knew: a quest for vengeance, so deeply ingrained in the German psyche.

“I will go to the North,” he said, his eyes taking on a strange luster. “To the Visigoths. I will raise an army. They think they have heard the thunder of the charge? I will bring down the Hammer of the Gods! I will drive them into the ground!”

“No,” said Gaius, his heart broken. “Don’t let them do this to you.”

“You don’t understand,” said Krieg, his eyes softening just for a moment. “I have not forgotten the man you knew. But neither can I forget who and what I am. These two-legged curs who call themselves Germans..... They must not be forgiven, Gaius. They must be stopped. ‘An eye for an eye,’ says the Torah, ‘a time of War.’ This time the old ways are best.”

“Would the Visigoths follow you?” asked Cassius, though he knew in
his heart they would not.

“I still know many of the tribal lords,” he said with fierce pride, “from my fighting days. They have no love for swaggering nihilists. They need only be told of this bountiful country, and of the scum who now rape and destroy it. I will raise an Army: a hundred-thousand righteous men, who fear God and not the Damned.” And he went on, rapt in his feverish vision.

“Don’t go,” said Cassius softly, knowing it was futile. “We need you.”

“Your fight is not mine,” said Krieg sternly, returning from the ancestral dream of war and conquest from which the stirrings of his soul could no longer shield him, the compassion, the humanity that had been stripped from him.

“What about the boy?” said Cassius.

“I had not thought of that,” he answered, turning toward him abruptly.
Now Ariel came forward.

“Let him stay with us,” she said softly. “We will raise him as a Christian, away from all of this. The way you wanted it to be.”

Krieg looked full into her deep and luminous eyes, said slowly. “Now I understand. . .what you are to them. A reason to live.” He looked back at the boy. “Yes. Where I go, I would not take a child.”

“But the child inside you,” she said softly, resting her hand lightly on his shoulder. “The kind and loving man you had become. Don’t let them destroy that.”

“Nay, woman, do not cast your spell on me: half angel, half temptress. Perhaps if I had one such as you, I too would long for peace. It is well that I do not, for there is work to be done. The sword of Heaven. . . rests in my hand.”

He stood up, tall and straight, as in his delirium Cassius had seen him rise in the saddle. And though the movement must surely have torn his tortured flesh, he did not flinch. “Bring me my clothes,” he said.

Gaius looked mournfully to Cassius, who nodded. The young man brought the tunic, put it on him gently, as Krieg looked straight ahead. Then his heavy cloak.

“Bring me my sword.”

Again Gaius served as his squire, though the German saw to the buckling of the great, two-handed sword himself. Then lifted the shield that Cassius had not seen before, and which he must have retrieved from the encampment. Against its crimson field was emblazoned a golden dragon, wings spread for battle. He was, in every aspect, a warrior.

“Open the door,” he commanded, his eyes knowing nothing else in the room. This time, as Gaius hesitated, Cassius himself went forward. For he had seen that look, and knew that nothing short of death, or total victory could allay it.

And the man named Krieg walked out of the sheltered enclosure.

Once outside he said, “Bring me my horse,” oblivious to the sound of his grandson, weeping as Ariel held him. Cassius felt a moment’s panic. He did not know where the animal was. A mist was rising, and nothing could be seen beyond a distance of..... He saw it, picketed among the trees a short way off. He went forward to collect it.

Reaching the animal he paused, put his head against its neck, unable to fight off the tears. “Goodbye again, loyal friend. I’m sorry.” But he knew that he wept for the greater loss: the man. The horse stamped restively. Moving slowly, he brought it to its new master.

Krieg mounted. And without a word he set out for the North, a warrior out of time, fading slowly into the mists of a distant obsession.

Cassius watched him go, knowing in his heart that he watched a doomed man. He let go a despairing breath, looked up toward the heavens— blocked by the impenetrable clouds.

“He will die,” he said, speaking to the wind that could not hear him. “All I ask..... Let him find peace.” He felt the need to drop to his knees in the snow, but did not. There was nothing else.

He continued.

As Krieg moved slowly out of sight, Cassius hung his head. He did not know what to feel. His emotions had been so torn, his thoughts driven from one extreme to the other for so long.

And each time he tried to turn away from his inner darkness, and bravely face what lay ahead..... Each time his resolve was immediately used up by the endless, impossible hardship. And he was left empty and defeated once more.

He began to remember. The hope he felt the first time he and Ariel looked into each other’s eyes, searching, trying to understand. Then the fear as she lay burning with fever, quite probably dying, of his own excesses. But she had lived, and forgiven him. Then the hope again as he rose in the wild morning air, felt the free wind across his face, and looked to the sky with a heart of fire. Then the bitter, crushing despair as that same heart failed him. The sudden pride, the rekindling of old dreams as he saw the Roman army marching toward them. The empty shame as he realized what it had become, what he himself had been all along: a puppet on a string, fighting and dying for the illusion of Rome. On and on, till when he was sure he could go no further, that the endless storm of desire and defeat had left him too badly damaged..... The man named Krieg had found him. Had kept him from ending his life, and given him back his soul.

“Why couldn’t I do the same for him? Why did I let the Vandals take him? Why did this happen?” The only thing that could break him: his love for his grandson.

Always why, and never an answer.

Again he felt the unbearable hopelessness of it all, fought it off, though weakly. And he did not know whether it was the semblance of strength, or the final betrayal of his friend. . .he only knew that the company could not remain there. Why this mattered he couldn’t say. Until he opened the door, and saw Ariel embracing the boy. Saw the boy, moaning in broken German for his Opa to come back. This, he still cared about. Though he knew that this feeling too was sure to be crushed inside him.

But now he saw the others, looking to him for leadership. Their eyes all asked the same question. What now? He was so weary, he felt so little. But something must be done.

“What time is it, Gaius? I can’t see anything through the cloud cover.”

“Two hours before dusk, I would guess.”

“Surely it is later,” put in Malachi.

... “We can’t stay here,” said Cassius. “Are you ready to move again?”

“It will only take us a few moments,” answered Jacob, coming closer to examine his face, as a physician might examine a wound.

Save it for the others, thought Cassius. He said nothing. For a thought had come to him. Again it was difficult to trust his own judgment. But the idea was so unorthodox. . .it might put off the Vandal pursuit.

“Isaac, Ezekiel. Cut the legs off that table, without damaging the frame.”

“What are you planning?” asked the blacksmith warily.

“I don’t know yet. Take out some rope, too, if you’ve brought it. Gaius, come with me.”

So the two Romans, aging and young, numb, and aching with emotion, went outside. And down the gradual, flatted slope to the place where the ferry had once rested.

The left-hand pull rope had fallen, its ends buried in the ice that now covered the river completely. But the right was intact, spanning its frozen breadth. Here where the stream was wider, calmer.....

“You’re not thinking of crossing?” asked Gaius. “The ice. There’s no
way of knowing how thick it is, covered with snow like that.”

“No,” said Cassius, falling back on the role of teacher which had become habitual with him. “But the fact that it is covered, means it has been frozen across since the storm began.” And he wondered as he spoke why this naive and guileless man could have such an effect on him: why he still cared.

“Gaius,” he said, not looking at him. “Before I change my mind..... You’ve done well so far. Be careful. I don’t want to lose you.”

Gaius in turn looked at the older man, wondering why his approval meant so much. “But Simon,” he began weakly. “He was such a good man, and so strong..... I don’t know what to do.”

“Not now,” said Cassius quietly. “Right now we’ve got to get across that river. His tracks could lead them straight to us.”

“All right,” said Gaius, trying to muster his courage for the girl’s sake. “How do we do it?”

“I don’t mean to use you this way,” said Cassius. “But you are lighter, and probably quicker than I am.”

“I understand,” said Gaius, though the thought terrified him. And he began to walk out onto the ice.

“Gaius!” cried the Roman, feeling a sudden, protective fear. “Not like that! Go back inside, and see if they’re ready with the rope. Then carefully,
and with a harness about you..... Well don’t just stand there. Go and see if they’re ready.”

The young man, looking pale, carefully retraced the few steps he had made out onto the ice, went back, and into the house.

When he returned, Jacob was with him. Thankfully the rabbi asked no questions. So standing before the younger man, Cassius took the rope they had brought, again fashioned it into a kind of harness about him. Then instructed him as best he could, though the plan continued to evolve even as he spoke.

“Use the pull-rope,” he said, going to the solid oak about which it was fastened. “Keep it crooked under you arm, like this. Then if you do fall through, so long as you keep hold of it we can pull you back. Otherwise the safety line won’t help, will only break the ice around you. That frozen rope is your life. Remember.”

“Yes,” said Gaius, breathing deep, trying to calm himself. Again he stepped out onto the ice, this time more cautiously, and with a firm grip about the pull-rope.

He made his way slowly, sliding rather than stepping, a little at a time. The ice was solid and thick, until he neared the center. Then he could feel the stress building within. It made a moaning, creaking sound that filled him with foreboding. As in his imagination, vivid with youth, he saw it all too clearly: the ice cracking, a gaping hole into which he fell, unable to hold on. The others pulled, but he had lost his grip, and was carried far beneath the suffocating ice. Being drowned, numb and unable to move. Dying in the water, so cold.

He stopped. His whole being yearned to go back. But he thought of the girl, his beloved Ariel. He clenched his teeth, continued. Left foot sliding forward, right brought up behind. Again. Again.

Soon he was across the worst of it, felt the ice growing stronger beneath him. He reached the other side, the gradual slope that rose from it. And onto solid ground once more. He took off the harness, turned back to face the others.

“What now?” he yelled across, cupping his hands before his mouth to try and direct the sound. From the far side Cassius made an impatient gesture— be quiet, and wait.

Ezekiel and his father now brought out the wide table-top, set it down in the snow. Cassius turned it over, searching for a place to tie the rope, found a knot in the wood of the frame. So taking out his knife, he used the butt of the handle to knock it out, leaving a good-sized hole behind.

“What are you thinking of?” asked Isaac, with no more love for the water than his son.

“Nothing,” said Cassius, his patience expired. “If it kills anyone, it will kill me.” He paid out several more fathoms of rope for Gaius, then severed it with the knife, dividing the great coil roughly in half. He took the second half and pushed the end through the knot-hole, tied it off. “Will you help me?” he said to Jacob. Together they carried the make-shift sled to the river’s edge, and laid it gently on the snow-cushioned ice.

Cassius tied Gaius’ rope about his own chest, lay down across the sled, spreading his arms and legs to distribute the weight still further. Then he raised his hand and pointed harshly at the younger man. Gaius understood. And making a pulley of a tree that grew a short distance up the bank, he began to pull Cassius across, as carefully and evenly as he could.

As Cassius neared the middle, the ice again made an ominous sound. But it did not give way. It firmed again on the other side, and soon he was scrambling up the opposite bank. Then he turned and pointed to Isaac, who held the second rope, and the blacksmith pulled the raft-like apparatus back across the ice.

But when it was again on his side of the river, Isaac felt a deep reluctance, growing to angry revolt, that he should be asked to risk his family’s lives in this strange, ill-conceived ferry. And all of their emotions had been pushed to the limit.

“I won’t do it,” he said finally. “Let him kill his own, not mine.” Jacob was about to argue bitterly that they must trust Cassius’ judgment— let him choose between the various dangers. But to his surprise, Ezekiel spoke the words for him.

“Now listen to me,” he began, in a tone he had never before taken with his father. “It is no secret that I was against leaving the hideaway, and casting our lot with strangers. But now that we are here. . .we must protect ourselves!” He took a step back to control himself, but could not.

“You will not speak for my family, or Malachi’s. And if you wish to remain among us.....” This he could not finish. But clearly he, too, sensed the danger of remaining where they were. “The German’s tracks are like a path, to the north and south alike, leading anyone straight to us.”

“And what about the swath that thing cuts across the snow?” argued his father, stung by the sudden rebellion. “That is surely a path, straight across the ice.” Now Malachi, who had heard the sounds of argument from the doorway, came out to see what was happening.

“A necessary evil,” said Ezekiel. “And even if others find it they may be unwilling, as you are, to cross. Men on horseback will certainly not cross.”

Again he stepped back, tried to gather his thoughts. But the change that had begun in him when his mother died, the need to succeed his father as head of the family, would not now be silenced. Perhaps that was why
he had been so adamant in his opposition to the German— or so he told himself. In that he had been wrong. This time he was not.

“What is wrong?” asked Malachi, feeling a strange thrill, half of fear and half of possibility, as he watched the two men battle for leadership.

“You challenge my authority?” cried the blacksmith to his firstborn, ignoring the other. “You stab me in the back?”

“Authority has nothing to do with this!” cried his son just as hotly. “You are my father. I have never been disloyal, or spoken against you. But now you are trying to endanger my family because of your own fear, and I will not have it!”

Isaac turned away, enraged and ashamed. Because he knew, deep down, that his son was right. But he also knew, and it was a galling realization, that it was about authority— that he himself had become superfluous, unnecessary. That it was no longer his family, but the families of his two sons.

He felt something give way inside him. The emptiness that he had felt without his wife beside him, the void that had opened like a great abyss beneath him..... But still he must go on. And though he knew he must yield to Ezekiel, for the good of all, he felt a dread of the freezing waters that would not be allayed.

“Bring the others,” said Ezekiel, not waiting. Malachi looked once to his father. But when the latter said nothing, he did as his brother asked.

Joshua, the women and the children came out. After a brief explanation, and the natural reluctance to face an unknown danger— Vera was the worst, until she realized it was Ezekiel’s decision (and that he had finally dethroned his father)— they were taken across one by one, along with such belongings as were needed, and would not further weaken the ice. Till only Isaac and Ezekiel remained.

“I am the heaviest,” said the blacksmith, his anger cooling into sorrow and resignation. “And I am the least important. You should go first.”

For his own part, Ezekiel felt an almost Biblical regret at what had passed between them. “You won’t try to remain behind?” he said, trying to sound stern, though it was not at all what he felt.

“No,” said his father, looking down. “I just don’t want to break the ice before you. You are needed.”

He looked up again at his son: a grown man, a capable blacksmith, the one who would take his place in the world. There was so much he wanted to say to him.

“Ezekiel. Son. Don’t be angry with yourself because of this. Don’t feel remorse, which is useless, or bitterness, which destroys the spirit. I should have realized long ago that you were ready to lead. But pride, and stubbornness prevented me. No one wants to admit that his strength is failing him— that it is time to step down, and give way to a younger man.”

“Father, please.”

“Don’t interrupt me. This must be said. … You and your brother are men now, with families of your own. It is time you made your own way.” Again his son made as if to speak, but Isaac could not let him.

“No. Don’t start to think that you have somehow crippled me. I will come with you, and remain so long as I am useful. But no longer as patriarch. That duty has fallen to you. You will find it is sometimes a heavy burden..... Go now, with my blessing.”

Ezekiel felt the tears pushing at his eyes. He, too, wanted to say so much. But like his father he was proud, and not good with words. So he only offered his hand, which his father took in both of his own.

Then Ezekiel put the harness about his own chest, and lay down upon the table. And was taken across with the others.

Isaac pulled the ferry slowly back across the ice, looked down at it doubtfully. He recoiled the return rope carefully, thinking of his wife, then tossed the heavy bundle into the center of the table. He knew this would increase the weight, the danger. But it must be done, and he was too dark in his mind to realize that it would trail across on its own. He began to wrap the first line about his chest, but felt such an overpowering sadness..... He looked up at the sky, passionately said her name. And instead only wrapped it about his strong right arm. Then lay down with the coiled and discarded rope, and pulled twice to signal he was ready. And Ezekiel and Malachi, who could not see their father in the gathering gloom, began to pull him across.

Isaac felt the fear, that had never left him, grow stronger as the ice grew thinner. Once more it began its frightful chorus, this time louder, more threatening. But the others, from their distance, could not hear, and

continued to pull steadily as before.

There was a loud crack— no longer stress, but rupture. The back of the raft leaned suddenly downward as water, cold as death, engulfed his legs. He rose in a panic, tried to scramble over the front of the frame. Again the ice broke, this time all around. He fell in, and under, and was urged downstream by the current.

But something held him still: the rope about his wrist. He struggled desperately in the numbing waters, lungs screaming for air. The pressure on the rope redoubled as his sons, in horror, tried to pull him back out. But the current pulled the other way, and his soaking bulk dragged him down.

He could not hold on. He loosed his grip, said her name in his mind. And was gone.

On the shore that he would never reach, his sons felt the rope go suddenly slack, fell back into the snow. They stood up again, horrified. Then as if at a single command, both tried to rush forward, after him. But Cassius caught them both by the collar, and with desperate strength wrestled them down again, slipping and falling in the snow.

“Gaius!” he cried. The young man came forward, but the brothers had remembered their families, and ceased struggling.

“He’s gone,” said Cassius sorrowfully. “I’m sorry. He’s gone.” Ezekiel and Malachi turned their faces away, and wept.

#

“We’ve got to get out of here,” said Cassius, rising. But Jacob was incensed.

“I’ve got to perform the burial rite, body or no.” But now Cassius had moved to the guide-rope and drawn his sword.

“You’d better make it a damned short one,” he said. “We’re no longer alone.”

At this all ceased their mourning, and looked back at the forgotten shore. A huddled mass of shadows, mere phantoms in the failing light, stood upon it, gazing across at them in silence.

“Who are they?” asked Vera, who came forward as her husband faltered.

“I don’t know,” said Cassius, as the rope at last frayed, tore, and fell away. Then moved to help the brothers stand.

Now Meryl came forward. Tall, shy and comely, Cassius could not
help marking her words, the first of consequence that she had spoken in his presence.

“Why..... There are women and children among them. They’re just people, like us.”

“Not like us,” said Gaius, whose eyes were sharper. “Their clothes are mere rags, and they look half starved.” He did not add that their faces were covered, their movements stooped and lethargic— that they might well be lepers, with one foot in the grave.

“We can’t just leave them,” said Vera in her combative way. But to Cassius, if no other, the words rang false. Her aim was not compassion, but dissent. “They’re not enemies.”

“Enemies or no,” he said plainly, “we cannot help them. For anyone who still does not know it, our lives are on the line with every step we take. There is no place for stragglers. I tell you again, we must leave here! There are tracks, and now people on the other side. We might as well set the trees

on fire as a beacon.

“Ezekiel, Malachi, I am sorry for your loss. He was a good man. Don’t waste your time with guilt; his death is on my head. But you know what we must do. We must leave here, now, and find shelter for the women and children.”

Ezekiel nodded gravely. “We must go,” he said to his wife, lifting and embracing his son, who was weeping.

The company again took up their burdens, seeming heavier now, their steps more reluctant. And moved slowly through the snow, and into the trees beyond.
As the broken refugees watched, helpless and silent.

They walked for hours through the breathless night, each thinking their own dark thoughts, and longing for shelter from the cold. But there was none to be found. The land, as it rose to north and westward, soon became a featureless blur of snow and dark pines, which here supplanted all other trees.

For they were coming, by slow degrees, to the foothills of the great northern mountains. The gentleness of the valleys had fled, replaced by deeper snow, sharper angles, and the sullen pines. These grim survivors seemed to whisper as they passed: “And who takes pity, on us?”

The air grew colder still, though there was now not a breath of wind. And as the protrusions of stone became more frequent, the rock itself seemed frozen, and to emanate a cold that was not of this earth— as the ravine continued to narrow, forcing them ever back toward the stream.

Cassius knew as the reluctant dawn at last approached, that they must now be several miles north of the place where he and Ariel had first lain together atop the embers of a dying fire. It seemed years ago, though in truth it was a matter of weeks.

His thoughts thus stirred, he remembered the reason they had come here at all, pursuing his horse across the open countryside. How different things might have been, if it had bolted toward the east instead. He and the girl might have returned to the place where his boat lay hidden, the sea cave at the crease of the sheltered cove, and been a thousand miles away. No use. The God that used him, and kept him prisoner to His will alone, would not allow it, but must send them on this meaningless quest.

The grey light was growing, and the company was yet again exhausted. Ezekiel approached him as they stopped, his face grim.

“We have been wandering aimlessly for hours. You spoke of shelter for the women and children. Where is it?”

“I cannot make a cave with my hands,” said Cassius wearily, “or stop to build a house. What would you have?”

“That stand of pines, there,” returned Ezekiel. And he pointed to a knoll a short distance from the river, rising from a hollow that lay where the ravine walls, now steep and impassible, pulled back in a crooked wedge. “We can construct a lean-to in its center, and not be seen.”

Cassius was going to argue against it, but seeing the low clouds roil
down from the north, and feeling the ache in his shoulder that presaged another storm, he yielded to the inevitable.

“Very well.” And they walked the last sodden length toward it.

But as they went, Cassius saw that Ezekiel was not pacified. He moved sullenly, his eyes straight ahead. It was clear that he had made up his mind about something, but what it was the soldier could not say. And for all his weary indifference, this troubled him.

When they reached the stand, they found it ill-suited to their purpose. It was thinner than it had first appeared, and some kind of blight had stripped the inner trees of their growth. The needles and boughs they cut were withered and brown, and proved but a poor thatch for the four, three-sided lean-tos they constructed, set in a curved line against the northern face of the clearing. Till finally the group sat huddled in the lea of their inadequate shelters, unshielded and exposed. And the very nature of the hollow in which the knoll was set caused the wind, freshening and laden with snow, to swirl around it and come at them with its penetrating fingers. As the group shivered in their blankets, miserable.

In the first lean-to, Ariel huddled against Cassius for warmth, the boy on the other side of him. In the second, Ezekiel and Vera, putting their blankets together about their shoulders, sheltered the children as best they could, and whispered among themselves. So Meryl and Malachi. Then the three single men, alone.

But as he watched with rising anger, Cassius saw that the discussion between the blacksmith and his wife. . .centered on Ariel and himself, and was rife with rebellion. Their seditious whispers became harsher, their sidelong glances intolerable.

“Out with it,” he said finally. “If there is something you want to say to me, then say it.”

“We are leaving,” said Ezekiel flatly.

At this the others looked up in alarm. “But why? what is this?” they murmured. Ezekiel never heard them. His eyes remained fixed on the Roman.

“I do not blame you,” he said, “for what has happened.” Like hell you don’t, thought Cassius sullenly. “But this is not what we bargained for.”

“You thought it would be easy.”

“We thought it would be possible. Look at my children! They have not eaten or slept properly for days. And even if we do reach the sea, what then? A long journey on cold and stormy waters? We may all follow my father. And even if we live, where are we bound? You do not know yourself. Take your own kind to ruin; we will follow you no farther.”

“Ezekiel,” said Malachi, distraught. “Yes, it’s hard now. But his plan is still— ”

“He has no plan,” said the blacksmith angrily. “He said as much
himself.”

“But where would you lead us instead?” asked his brother.

“Back to the hiding place! There we will have food, shelter, and something to defend. We can lay low, as we should have done all along. And in the Spring, when the barbarians have moved to the south, then we can find a better home, right here. A home, Malachi, not a fool’s quest.”

“You’re forgetting something, aren’t you?” said Cassius, not sure whether he meant to change the man’s mind, or drive him away. “Assuming that the Vandals don’t find you first— or the mercenaries, or the native peoples who have somehow survived, and have no love for the Jews….. Assuming I know nothing, and the Vandals don’t raze the land for hundreds of miles all around, so that you slowly starve to death.” Ezekiel began to speak, but he cut him off. “What about Cornelius? Surely he has wormed his way out of the hole by now. Even if he has not already been taken, and told his captors everything— what will you do with him?”

“I will kill him!” cried Ezekiel.

“Or he will kill you. That snake has fangs, Ezekiel. Then where will your wife and children be?”

“Enough! We are going! Now!”

“You do not speak for all of us,” said Gaius, with uncharacteristic severity. For he had seen the black looks the man gave Ariel as he spoke, as if he accused her of some betrayal, some seditious and immoral act. “And whatever hard words you have for the girl, you had best keep them to yourself.”

Ezekiel now turned the full weight of his anger upon the younger

man. But if he expected to find a weaker foe on which to vent his wrath, he was mistaken.

“Oh yes,” said Gaius, bristling and ready to fight. “I can read the

thought in your eyes, you who speak of family. You cannot have her yourself, and so despise the one who does.” At this the blacksmith rose. But not faster than Gaius, who drew his sword in answer.

“My friends, no!” cried the rabbi, rising unsteadily to interpose. “What is happening to us? to the pledge we all took? Ezekiel, please. Think what you are doing.”

“I have thought of nothing else!” was his answer, “from the time we left the hiding place, and before. Only my father’s influence brought us this far. He was wrong. Had he lived he would admit that mistake, and turn back now. We are leaving, Jacob, with whoever among our people will follow. Let these others do as they will.”

“Don’t do this,” pleaded his brother. “Don’t make me choose.”

“Choosing is part of being a man,” said Ezekiel firmly. “I would think your choice is clear: your own kind, or these Goyim.....” Again Gaius bristled, and Cassius along with him.

“If you add, ‘And their Jewess whore,’” said the latter, “it is you who will die— right here, right now.”

“You see how it is,” said Ezekiel, not backing down. “There is your family, your Faith. And then there are outsiders. You must choose, for we are leaving, now.” And he helped his wife and children to rise, and assemble their belongings.

Jacob had no words left. Joshua looked about him forlornly.

Malachi looked to his wife, whose large and melancholy eyes seemed to say, I don’t know. Then he turned toward the Romans.

“I am sorry,” he said. “You must forgive my brother. He does not mean the hard words— ”

“Do not speak for me, Malachi!”

“Yes, yes.” And again he looked to the others. “I’m sorry, Cassius. For I truly wished to go with you, and find an island we could call our own..... But I can’t leave my flesh and blood: my brother and his family.”

“I understand,” said Cassius, sensing his plight, sensing also the value of the man. “If you change your mind, we are making for a small cave, the one I pointed out on the map. It is perhaps two miles west, and three north of Ariel’s village. Its entrance is mostly hidden by pines, where a long hillside meets the true mountains. It faces west.”

“What is the name of the village?” asked the young man intently. Cassius, who did not know, turned to Ariel.

“Casa Feo,” she said quietly, stung by Ezekiel’s hard judgments. How could he think of her that way?

“If it is safe,” said Cassius, “we will remain there for several days.”

“He will not come to you!” said his brother hotly. “Malachi, come. It is time we were gone.”

“Be still,” said Jacob, himself growing angry. “Give us time to choose.”

“You would go with them?” asked Malachi, still deeply troubled.

“I do not wish to leave you,” said the rabbi sadly. “You are my children, all of you. But I.....” He faltered. “Ariel has become like a daughter to me. I could not leave her, any more than Joshua could leave his beloved Meryl.” And he could not continue