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 himself and the woman he loved, 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 wouldn’t 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. If he had retained any doubt about her nature, the fierce look she gave him removed it.

“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 to my wife so!” 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 propertyhers, and no one else’s.

How could I not have realized it before? wondered Cassius, though he thought he knew the answer. No one wants 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.”

“Jacob.”

“It was only out of despair, and the fact 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 Saul,” 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 can’t 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. Saul 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 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 damage 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 along the way. Then Isaac opened the door. And led by the Roman, the company set out.

Fifty-One

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 at the opening—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, Saul 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 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 Saul 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 that showed 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. The German paused for a moment, considering.

“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 Saul. 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 Saul 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 the ridge, 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. Saul 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 of his adopted son in danger. “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. Saul 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.

Fifty-Two

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 new marks 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 Saul, 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….. Again 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, and 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 Saul’s body they consumed: if he had not bought their lives with his own. And the boy.

Dear God, spare 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 had shaken 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 Saul, 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’ve 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 severed iron from wood. 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, not only would they 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 shook his head severely, 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 in 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.

“Saul!” 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 Saul 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 Saul, 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.

“Saul,” 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 with his arm 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 insolent 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 days as Fighting Marshall. They have no love for swaggering Aryans. 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 in his mind, 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 he drew it from its scabbard, and turning, held it out toward what remained of the fire.

“By all that is Holy and righteous,” he swore, “I will not rest until the Beast is slain, the land and its people freed from these vermin.”

He was, in every aspect, a warrior. Again he turned.

“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. “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. Again he felt the self-loathing….. But she had lived, and forgiven him. Then the hope again as he rose in the wild morning air, felt the free wind on 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 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,” he said. “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 toward the younger man. “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 Saul,” 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 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 out the knot, 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 on 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 did it 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 he had felt without his wife beside him, the void that had opened like a great abyss before 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 the ice 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 at risk 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 fold 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 exhausted yet again. Ezekiel approached him as they stopped, his face grim.

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

“I can’t 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.

“All right.” 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 boughs they cut were withered and brown, and proved but a poor thatch for lean-to’s 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, downcast and miserable.

In the first lean-to, Ariel huddled against Cassius for warmth, his arm about her, 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, together and 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 her for giving herself to a man who is not of your faith.” 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,’” he said rising, “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 stand, 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 cannot 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 now, any more than Joshua could leave his beloved Meryl.” And he could not continue, for Ariel had gone to him and embraced him, so grateful for this reassurance, so loathe to part from this second, better father.

Slowly the two of them gathered themselves, wiped away the tears.

Then Jacob said plainly. “We follow the road we chose, for better or worse. We go with Cassius.”

“So be it,” said Ezekiel, seeming to calm somewhat in the realization of what was truly happening between them. “If you will allow me, Jacob, I would like to take one of the scrolls. I would not have us sundered from our
Faith.” But at this the rabbi shook his head.
“Only one remains, and it will stay with me. There are smaller copies in the Temple, which will serve you at need.”

“Where is the other?” asked Vera suddenly.

“On the horse, with the German, where I left it from the time he returned to us.”

“Jacob!”

“Be still, Vera. It is a miracle that the Vandals did not destroy it, though by the water stains on the cover they must have tossed it into the snow as a thing of no value. He must have retrieved it himself, perhaps at his peril, before setting out. It belongs to him now, by God’s hand and my own. It goes with him, to whatever fate lies beyond.”

At this all were silent, shamed perhaps, by the memory of the man who had paid such a terrible price for their freedom.

“So be it,” said Ezekiel—sadly now, remembering his own loss. “Jacob. Cassius. Goodbye.”

“Before parting,” said the soldier, “I would say this much to you. Do not go in anger, or in recklessness. Stay on this side of the river for as long as you can. Make your crossing as close to the gap in the ridge as possible. Then straight up it, the way we came down.”

“Is that all?”

“No, Ezekiel. Listen. Whatever has passed between us, I would not wish you ill. Still less your brother. . .all of you.” He paused, and spoke with difficulty. “I will tell you something that I learned from your father..... Stubbornness is not strength, though they spring from the same source. Be careful.”

“And you,” said the blacksmith, almost in spite of himself. “Joshua, Meryl, come. It is time.”

So the company, now divided, rose, embraced, and said their tearful farewells. The two young women, Ariel and Meryl, so close in age if not experience, seemed particularly loathe to part. For they had become true friends, close, as only young women can be.

But the thing was done. And Ezekiel, carrying his sleeping daughter in his arms, led the family away to the south. As the others watched them go.

Fifty-Eight

“There is no reason to stay here,” said Cassius, when they were out of sight. “We’ve got to use this storm to make our own escape.”

“It’s so sad,” said Ariel, thinking of her friend.

“Yes, it is. But perhaps Ezekiel is right, at least for himself. A hard journey: it is no place for their children..... No, Ariel.” For he had seen the look of reproach, sensed the thought behind it. “I do not say it’s for the best.”

“But is there no way to stop them?” she said. “To change their minds, and make them come with us?”

“I don’t see how. Short of physically subduing Ezekiel, and silencing his wife—who is, I suspect, the one who really made this decision…..”

“Why do you say that?” asked Gaius.

“Well,” he said, turning toward him now as they stood in the open. “You were half right. There is someone in that family who despises Ariel. But it is not Ezekiel. Though I suspect you were right: deep down, he would like to. . .possess her.”

“Vera?” asked the girl, shocked. “What did I ever do to her?”

“Why must you always think the worst of people?” added Jacob wearily.

“I try not to,” said Cassius, sorry now he had mentioned it. “But there are two things you must never underestimate: male lust, and female jealousy..... The animal inside us will not be silenced.”

“Go on,” said Gaius. “I want to know.”

“Well. Vera, who as a plain woman had nonetheless married a handsome and powerful man, feels she must be constantly on her guard. She had no intention of losing his affection, even his fantasy, to a beautiful, younger woman. Mark my words, she’ll turn on Meryl next. If she has the chance.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jacob. “Do you think they’re in danger?”

“My friend, we are in danger. They are in mortal peril.” He turned to Ariel. “I do not say this to sadden you more..... Well. No sense in that. Come. We must be going.”

“Please,” said the rabbi, speaking for both of them. “Just say what you mean. I must know.”

... “You know I am grateful for what the German did. He must have been half out of his mind with pain. I believe his last rational thought was to bring the boy safely to us. And that he did.”

“God love him,” said Ariel, holding Franzi close against her legs.

“Yes. But in doing so he drew a line from their encampment straight to us. The tracks made by the lepers—yes, Gaius, that’s what they were—along with the hole in the ice..... They may have confused our pursuers, or they may not. That is why I was so insistent that Ezekiel remain on this side of the river. But with his hard head, who knows if he will listen? The truth is . . .I don’t expect to see any of them alive again..... I hope I’m wrong.”

“No!” cried the girl, her eyes stinging with tears. Jacob, and even Gaius, looked as if they were ready to go after them.

“In any case,” said Cassius firmly, “we cannot help them now. Ezekiel made his choice; it would take an army to bring him back. And there is something else. If they are captured, our own danger is increased ten-fold.” He did not add that telling Malachi where they were bound might have been a fatal mistake. “I tell you now, and with no more time for debate. We must be off!”

Slowly, reluctantly, and with many a backward glance, the company shouldered their burdens, and set off once more.

But contrary to expectation, they encountered no sign of pursuit. As a precaution, toward midday Cassius asked the younger man to climb a high promontory on their left, commanding a view for several miles down the ravine. But he returned with news that Cassius could not have hoped for.

“I saw the others, making good progress, still on this side of the river.”

“And the Vandals?”

“No sign of them, even as far back as the ferry crossing.”

So they continued, their hearts now lighter, though Cassius refused to take anything for granted. The snow fell steadily. The wind blew, at least partially covering their tracks. And though the way was more difficult because of it, they pushed on, and made good progress themselves.

Toward nightfall they again crossed the stream, by a large tree that had fallen across it—here where it was narrow and swift, the land steep to either side. Beyond it they found a small cabin made of logs. It had been ransacked, but by the depth of dust on everything within, it must have been some time before.

Cassius made a fire in the hearth as the last light faded, and they ate a modest supper. The place was warm—the cracks were well sealed with mortar, the wood itself the best insulation from the cold—though they would have to sleep on the floor. And as they spread their blankets upon it, each in their own way thanked Providence for the small change in their fortunes. Then they lay down, and slept soundly until morning.

The snow had stopped, and the sun shone bright and unhindered. But here the pines grew more thickly, enough cover for Cassius to risk traveling in full daylight.

“Come,” he said. “Let us go on while we may.”

The snow was deep in places, the going slow. But on they went, bolstered by the night’s sleep, and by the food and wine that yet remained. And deep down, though none would speak the thought aloud, each knew they would not have been able to do as well with Joshua, Vera and the children behind. Franzi moved so well and tirelessly, Cassius worked so easily and naturally with him, that they had almost ceased to think of him as a child. But Cassius was now careful to acknowledge him and call him son, though he could not do so without a pang of regret—for the past, and the future. Ariel often felt the desire to embrace and soothe him; but except in his darkest moments, when painful memories clouded his face and made him once more the hurt and bewildered child they had found on the battlefield, he resisted her. Whether he was still in shock at what had been done to his grandfather, or was coming slowly out of darkness, they could not say, though Ariel prayed with each step that no new trauma would befall him.

When night came on again they could find no adequate shelter, and so pushed on again as before. When the daylight at last appeared, Cassius constructed a more satisfactory shelter of pine, with soft boughs on which to sleep, and far less wind to torment them. But all were weary and cold, and sleep difficult. Yet the time wore away, as all time must, and with nightfall they set out again.

The way was harder now, for the land had become steep all around them. Much of the time they climbed outright, here in the stony hills at the feet of the great Pyrenees beyond. Many times Jacob felt that he could not go on. More than once Cassius felt his chest tighten, and worried in spite of himself that his heart would truly fail.

But as the sky finally began to lighten in the east, he saw a sight to make the heart glad—if any gladness had remained in him. His wilderness senses had not betrayed him. Though he looked at it now from a more southerly angle, he knew that he had found the cave.

“I’m sorry, Cassius,” said Jacob, breathing hard and putting a hand on his shoulder to keep from collapsing. “I can’t go any farther. Perhaps..… Perhaps you must leave me behind.”

“No need, old one,” said the soldier gently. “We’ve arrived. Just at the top of that hill.” The rabbi looked up at him, confused. “The cave, Jacob. We made it. And no sign of the Vandals for days. Gaius and I will have to inspect it first, and we can’t let our guard down..... All right. It’s all right.” For the old man had begun to weep: tears of age, fatigue, and final rest.

“I’m sorry.”

“No need, Jacob. I hope the worst is behind us..... Let Gaius and I have a look. If it’s safe, we can rest there for several days.” He looked back to Ariel, who came closer, understanding. “Stay with him, will you? Gaius, come on. Let’s take a look at that cave.”

“What cave?” asked the younger man. “I don’t see it.”

“No,” said Cassius, allowing himself a rueful smile. “And neither will anyone else. Come on. Sword drawn. I don’t want to take any chances.”

But the cave was exactly as he remembered it. Even the ashes from his fire were still there, if flattened somewhat by time and the elements. Like the man who left them, he thought somberly. But though the old sense of fatalism had never left him, he felt it now no stronger than before. Almost he felt the release of letting go all burdens.

For he had done what he could. He had protected the girl, and surrounded her with others who would carry on if he faltered. That, at least, was something. “Go and fetch them,” he said to the younger man.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Gaius. “I’m glad of shelter, and the chance to rest.....”

“But we’re nearly out of food. I know, Gaius. You’re thinking like a man now.” He paused, as if weighing the effect of these words upon him. “Like you were when you stood up to that blacksmith.” He was surprised himself at such a confidence, his own need to be understood. But they were committed now, both of them, and there was no turning back.

“Thank you,” said Gaius awkwardly.

“Yes, well. Food. We’ve still got Jacob’s bow. And there’s got to be a stag around here somewhere with more antlers than brains. Like that damned Ezekiel.” Gaius nodded without looking at him.

“Come on,” said Cassius. “Let’s go and get the others.”

So the days passed, with food as they found it, and sleep as they had not known it for what seemed months. And for Ariel it was pleasant, if also painful, to remember the time when she had first come to the cave, a prisoner of Cassius’ will.

For she was a prisoner no longer: no longer alone inside herself, and terrified of the world around her. It seemed almost too good to be true, with Jacob as a father, Cassius a husband (though no ceremony had yet been performed), Franzi a son, and Gaius a trusted friend. If only the others were all right, and would come back to them.

But in the midst of her happiness, if always tempered by the knowledge that this was not a permanent home, she began to be troubled by a fear that had not left her since the time of her illness: that of a relapse, or some other complication arising from it. She recalled the physical hardships she had been forced to pass through, and could not help feeling they had begun to take their toll on her.

For some days now she had experienced headaches, sometimes severe, and felt dizzy and weak if she rose too quickly. And while these of themselves could be nothing more than the rigors of their journey, of late she had experienced with them a recurring nausea, not unlike that which had accompanied her injured kidney. Was it still injured, or was there in fact some pestilence in the waters she had drunk, even..... The fear of leprosy passed through her like a blade to the heart.

This fear so worked on her, heightened by the strong emotions that had come on her as they reached the cave, that for all her desire to be strong, and not trouble Cassius—who had withdrawn, had enough to worry about, and seemed unwell himself..... She felt she must confide in someone, or perish.

So on a day when Cassius and Gaius had again gone to hunt, she resolved to open her heart to Jacob, as a man of learning and experience. She spoke haltingly at first, holding his hand between hers. Then poured it all out, with tears of vexation in her eyes..... Till in dismay she saw that he was smiling. His eyes seemed to shine with the light of a new and unexpected hope. She stopped and stared at him, bewildered.

“Why girl,” he said happily, “you’re not sick. You’re pregnant.”

But at this she became utterly silent, not sure if she believed him, or what to feel if she did. Like every other woman, she had thought of bearing a child, sometimes hoped, and even dreamed of it. She had sensed it, subconsciously, weeks before. But to have it really happen, not just in fantasy but in flesh.....

“Are you sure?”

“How long has it been since you’ve seen the blood?” Her face colored at this, but he gently reassured her.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “Six weeks, maybe more.”

“And have you experienced a firming of the breasts?” Again she was embarrassed, though he patted her hand and told her she need not be. For the truth was she had, and had wondered at it, at least a week before.

“Then I’m afraid there’s no stopping it now,” he said. “God willing, you’re going to have a child of your own.”

Again she was silent, not knowing what to think. But when the boy looked over at her quizzically, as she felt again the special pride she had in him. . .and thought of a child of her own flesh, conceived with Cassius and uniting them forever..... She put her arms about the rabbi’s neck, and burst into tears.

“Amid all the suffering and death,” she said brokenly, “still life rises up out of the ashes. Oh, Jacob, to have something so blessed..... It is truly a miracle.”

“Yes,” said Jacob, no less moved. “Cassius won’t know what to do with himself.”

But at this the girl drew back, became thoughtful. “Jacob,” she said finally. “I’m not sure that we should tell him. At least not yet.”

“But why.....” Then he too began to consider. “You’re worried that the added burden might be too much for him. That we still have a dark and dangerous journey ahead.”

“Yes. And knowing him as I do, I wonder if it wouldn’t be a terrible shock as well.”

“How do you mean?” asked the rabbi.

“Well. Though he rarely speaks of it, I know he is tormented by guilt at having found love and companionship again. Having failed his first family, as he might put it, he’s been given another. It took him a long time to come to grips with that. To tell the truth, I think he is just beginning to now. To know that he has again fathered a child of his own, brought into the world an innocent being that he must protect and provide for..... It might be too much for him.”

“But surely you must tell him.”

“Soon enough. Let him, let all of us, have these few days at least. When we reach the sea, and are safely away I will tell him. Do I have your promise, to keep the secret between us?”

“My dear Ariel,” he said, looking full into her lovely face, which still, to him, was that of a child. “You know very well you have me wrapped around your little finger, and that I would do anything you ask.”

“Yes,” she laughed, the tears coming again. “But thank you, Jacob. Thank you for everything.”

And the tears that now flowed were not wounding but filling, like the welling of a spring into the waiting pool below. She put a hand to her womb, and felt the waters overflowing.

But she was wrong if she thought that Cassius had finally come to grips with the death of his wife and son. For there are some wounds that never heal. Indeed, from that tragic night he had felt that they must not heal—that he could never forgive himself, or be whole again.

And at times, when he seemed to step outside himself—to consider all that had happened to him from the view of Providence (if such a being existed, and was not wholly bent on his destruction)—it seemed that from the time he landed in Spain he had only been a vehicle, a tool to bring Ariel and the others to whatever fate still awaited them: that he himself was mortally damaged, had in fact stopped living long before, but first had this last act of atonement to perform.

Later that night, as the Romans had still not returned, some of these doubts began to weave their way into Ariel’s consciousness. And she began to wonder if she should not tell him after all, to heal those wounds, and bind him again to mortal earth.

Sixty-One

But any such intention was driven from her mind as the two men returned near midnight, bearing the burden of a very different kind of hunt. For when Cassius entered, he carried something which in the illusory darkness of the cave, lit only by the shielded fire, she took at first to be the foolish stag he often spoke of.

But as he lay it down in the clearer light before the fire, she saw to her astonishment that it was Malachi he carried. Blood still seeped from a bandaged wound at his neck..... Without a word she dropped to her knees and began to tend him.

“My God,” said Jacob as he saw. “And the others?” But at that moment Gaius entered, supporting Meryl with his arm and shoulder. And the little girl, Sarah, clutching tightly to his other hand.

The woman and the girl appeared unhurt, only frightened and exhausted. Gaius helped Meryl to a leaning sit against the huddled packs by the wall. Jacob brought her a ladle of water.

But Sarah would not let go of Gaius’ hand. So he lifted her in his arms, and after a moment’s hesitation embraced her gently, not knowing what else to do. Then he moved with her to sit by Franzi, who stirred in his child’s slumber, and sat up.

“What of the others?” asked Jacob again, now putting a damp cloth to Meryl’s forehead.

“All dead,” sobbed the vintner’s daughter, pushing him away and weeping helplessly. Ariel approached, and put a hand to her face.

“Not now,” she said softly. Then, “Jacob, will you help me? I’m afraid the wound is deep.”

“Yes, of course.” And he took out from his pack the bandages and other articles of healing he had brought.

The wound was at the side of Malachi’s neck, near the base, and dangerously close to the main artery. The old man said a silent prayer of thanks. For he knew that if that had been severed, he never would have made it this far. As it was there might be a lesion on the vein wall. He had lost a great deal of blood, and only the severe cold and Meryl’s inexpert bandaging had kept him from bleeding to death long before. How far had they traveled, he wondered, and what had happened to make them return alone?

“Will he live?” asked Gaius, forgetting for a moment that the lovely and wistful young woman (for so she now seemed to him) was his wife.

“I don’t know,” answered Jacob. At this Meryl burst into a piteous sobbing, and tried to come closer. With his strong right hand Cassius restrained her, and pushed her back out of the way.

“He’ll live,” said the soldier sternly, though whether this was only meant to calm the woman none could say. They returned their attention to Malachi.

When they had done so Cassius drew his knife, and moved to the fire. He then lifted it dagger-like above a log, glowering red as if lit from within by a fire that was not of the earth, or too much of the earth. And as the blade plunged into it amidst a shower of sparks Meryl turned, and looked at him fearfully.

“Just purging the steel,” he said to her. Then to Gaius. “Why don’t you tell Jacob and Ariel how we found them. It will give our minds something else to dwell on, while Jacob stitches the wound.”

“I don’t know if stitches will hold,” returned the rabbi, “or if I should be inserting a needle so close to the artery.....” He could not finish, feeling that the man was already lost.

“I’ve seen men survive worse,” said Cassius coldly, reading the thought in his face. Then more quietly. “Just do what you can. Come, Gaius. Let’s have the tale.”

The younger man looked at him in confusion, not wanting to upset Meryl further. But when Cassius nodded gravely, then inclined his head toward the fire..... He understood, and tried to gather himself for the narrative, what lay beyond.

So he set the little girl more comfortably on his lap, reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair. And began as best he could.

“We’d been hunting several miles to the west, pursuing a small herd of deer. They were skittish, sensing our presence, and just kept moving farther off. We were about to give up, when reaching the crown of a hill that commands a good view of the south, I thought I saw something moving against the snow of a distant vale. We watched for several minutes, and the shapes gradually resolved themselves into human form. Someone was staggering toward us. At that point..... Well.”

“It’s all right,” said Cassius. “Tell them. At that point I was for turning back, and had been for some time. But Gaius was adamant.”

“It wasn’t out of defiance,” said the younger man, aware that the two women were listening. “Or even courage, really. I just sensed something in the shape of one of them. You, Meryl.” He colored, looking down. But only for a moment. “On some instinctive level, I knew it was you. Even supporting Malachi, even from that distance..... I knew.”

“It was nearly dark by then,” put in Cassius. “And even with Gaius’ sharp eyes, we had no small trouble in finding you.”

“I had turned to the east,” said Meryl in a monotone, never taking her eyes from her husband. “I was feeling desperate.”

“As well you might,” said Cassius. He looked toward the fire—toward the blade, slowly turning red in its midst. “Ariel. Would you go outside for a moment, and take Meryl with you? Bring a pallet, and gather some clean snow for the wound.”

“I’m helping Jacob,” she said defensively.

“He’ll be all right for a moment. Go on.”

She hesitated, then did as he asked. Meryl too was reluctant to leave, but at Cassius’ persistence—that it was important to her husband’s survival—she relented. The two went out, Ariel leading her friend by the arm, and comforting her as best she could.

As soon as they were gone Cassius went to the fire. He took a cloth, wrapped it several times about the handle of the knife, then lifted and shook it free. As the log fell back among the hissing sparks, the blade glowed red in his hand. “Gaius.”

The young man, who had witnessed the procedure once before, came closer to the body, tried to gently usher the rabbi away.
“No,” said Jacob, understanding suddenly what they intended. But Cassius put a foot squarely on his shoulder, and shoved him rudely out of the way. Gaius knelt quickly over the body, put his knees across the unconscious man’s arms. Then turning the head to expose the neck, he held it firmly in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” said Cassius to the rabbi, going down on one knee beside the wounded man. “You have your medicines and I have mine. This is an evil wound, the kind that only a man of war can make. And only a man of war can heal it.”

“But Cassius,” argued Jacob desperately. “A burn that deep, so close to the artery…..”

“He will bear a scar the rest of his life, and be gravely ill for days. But he will have a life.” And before Jacob could stop him he brought down the knife, and set red-hot metal against flesh.

The wound smoked, there was a smell of cooked meat, and Malachi regained his senses just long enough to cry out piteously. Meryl, from the doorway, gave an answering cry and rushed toward him. But Cassius shielded her away with his body, and carefully removed the blade. Then he stood up, and released a heavy breath. Ariel, too, looked at him in dismay.

Feeling their eyes, Cassius threw the knife blade first into the soft earth of the cave. And opened his tunic to reveal his own, near mortal wound.

“What I did to him,” he said, speaking to all of them, “I did to myself. Not once, but three times. He will live.”

His emotions running as hot as the flames that seemed to hiss at him in answer, he went out, seeking refuge in the cold that was his only friend.

Sixty-Two

Deep into the night, the wounded man turned and fretted in a delirium of pain and fever. For while the bleeding had stopped, the pain from the burn was unbearable, and would give him no rest. Meryl knelt beside him all the while, and when at intervals he came to for a moment, would give him bits of snow to suck, or pack it, in larger portions, upon the wound itself.

“Do you really think he’ll live?” asked Gaius quietly, from the place where he and Cassius held the sleeping children.

“I don’t know. I think it depends more on his spirit now, his will to live, than anything else.”

“If he doesn’t,” said Gaius, afraid even to think of it. “Meryl will be devastated.”

“Yes,” said Cassius, eyeing him dryly. “But then you and I will no longer have to fight over the same woman, will we?”

Gaius colored, half in embarrassment, half in anger. “How can you say such a thing?”

“Is there no truth in it, Gaius? Are you not, even now, torn in your affections between them? Have you never thought how it would be to console the vintner’s lovely daughter? To kiss her gently while she wept, and with soft caresses open her to you?”

“No,” said the younger man angrily. “I refuse to think that way.”

“Refuse to hope for it, if you must. She will need someone if he dies.”

“You sound as if you want him dead.”

“Now you’re going to make me angry,” said Cassius sharply, though all that passed between them did so in a harsh whisper. “Why do you think I cauterized the wound? Malachi is a good man—the best of his family, if the winds hold true. If I wanted him dead I’d have let Jacob go on with his herbs and his sewing while he slowly bled to death.”

“I don’t know,” said Gaius, looking straight at him. “There are times when I understand the reason for your bluntness, your hard actions. But there are times I don’t much like it. Or you.”

“That’s because you are becoming a man,” said Cassius, his look just as steady in return. “You grow tired of following, and want to be a leader in your turn. Why do you think I keep you around?”

They were silent for a time, each thinking their own thoughts. Then Gaius said simply.

“There is something more that concerns me—as long as we’re being honest.”

“And what is that?”

“You told Malachi about the cave. And Ezekiel. We don’t yet know what happened to them. But if they were captured, isn’t it possible that one of them talked?”

“You think I haven’t thought of that?” said Cassius irritably. “Ezekiel wasn’t listening—his one thought at that point was to get his family away. And as for Malachi.....” He paused, not knowing how to say it, still less wanting to praise the young man further.

“No, Gaius. There is a kind of man..... I don’t pretend to understand it. But there are men. . .like that. . .who would sooner die than surrender their principles….. I don’t believe Malachi would talk,” he ended abruptly, “so long as it might prove dangerous to Meryl.”

For he had begun to feel what he had sworn not to feel: a bitter envy of Gaius, which would prevent him..... No. There was no other way.

Near dawn Malachi opened his eyes suddenly. Looking up he saw the face of his beloved Meryl, still keeping her vigil, and stroking his hair with his head now in her lap.

“Meryl! You’re all right! Where are we?” And as he tried to crane his neck to look, the pain overwhelmed him, and for a moment he lost consciousness again.

“We are safe,” she whispered, with tears in her eyes as he came back again. “With Jacob and the others, in the cave you sought.” She was unable to continue for a moment. For the emotions that welled in her childlike spirit were too much for her. “You did it, Malachi, you saved us. Now you must be still, and save yourself.”

But the young man could not be still. For something burned in his soul as well. As Cassius came closer, he saw this in his eyes. And it was, by his experience, a good sign.

“Well, my friend,” he said slowly, looking down at him. “You’ve looked the Devil in the eye, and lived to tell of it. Go on, then. What would you say to us?”

“Cassius!” said Jacob angrily, having wakened from his own anxious slumber. “He must save his strength.” But even as he said this, Malachi burst forth afresh.

“I’ve got to tell! I’ve got to.”

“You don’t understand,” said Cassius, turning toward the rabbi. “You’ve seen men lying sick in their beds, felled by natural illness. But I’ve seen them on the battlefield: those who lived, and those who died. He’s not trying to speak because he knows that death is near. It’s his way of rejecting death, of purging the horror so he can live again. Let him speak!”

As it became clear they could not stop him if they wanted to, Jacob relented, and the group slowly gathered about the fallen man. Gaius lay Sarah down near the sleeping boy, then sat on the ground beside him. Ariel, too, came closer and sat down, putting her arm through Jacob’s, until together they formed a half circle around him, with Cassius still standing behind. This seemed to calm him somewhat, for his eyes stopped their restless roving. But now he looked into each face imploringly, that they should understand the gravity of what he was about to impart. This was coming from the depths: from what he had seen, and all that he was.

Malachi began his tale. He spoke at times as one entranced—as if he had witnessed these things in a dream, only to wake to find them terrible and real— as if he saw them still before him, a living terror that he must vanquish, or surrender his life. At other times he spoke too quickly, as if trying to get it all out of him.....

But here, the young man’s tale:

“We made it safely to the broken gap,” he began, eyes glittering and intense. “The sun was failing and the shadows were long. I do not know how to tell you this, but there is something horrible that lives in that place: an evil presence, above and beyond the scattered corpses.....”

“I know,” said Cassius quietly. “Go on.”

“When we reached the edge of Jacob’s ridge, my brother and I quarreled bitterly. For there were tracks in the snow, seeming fresh, which led up the side of it—the way we had come down. He said that they were ours, but I did not think so. And I was still troubled, so troubled in my mind, that we had chosen the wrong path. For I remembered not only the Vandals, to the south, but also the deserters, who had so mysteriously vanished.

“We went on. But there was a rift, a coldness between my brother and myself, that had never been there before. We had argued, even fought, many times in our lives. But not like this. Something was wrong: with us, with the world itself. I could feel it. It was as if the soft, protective light and warmth that we had known as children. . .was lost forever. That we had entered a place of eternal Night.

“And it was cold..... I felt that I no longer knew him, that he was not the brother I loved. That he was not only repeating the mistakes of our father, but exceeding them. I remembered your words, Cassius: confusing stubbornness with strength, and unbending will, with courage.”

He paused, trying to gather himself.

“Halfway up, Meryl’s father began to lag. As well he might. For we had kept a relentless pace from the time we left you. I urged Ezekiel to stop and rest, if not for Joshua’s sake, then for the children’s.

“But he was obsessed, and would not hear of it. He seemed to think all safety lay above, all danger below. As if fleeing from a flood. As if once we reached the heights, no earthly peril could touch us. He and Vera discarded their packs—this should tell you what a state she was in—put the children on their backs and pushed on, if possible, more fiercely than before.

“So Meryl and I waited with Joshua, until he could rest, and recover some measure of strength. Then the three of us held counsel, and thought very seriously of turning back, and trying to find the cave that you described.

“But Ezekiel was my brother, my own flesh. The one who had guided me, protected me since childhood..... Surely he would not abandon me, or lead us into peril.” For a time he seemed unable to go on, stunned by this betrayal, and lost in a maze of darkness.

“He was your brother,” said Cassius finally, “and he abandoned you.” At this the second son looked up at his wife, as if he would weep. But remembering their life together lay forward—that there was no other way—he forced himself on.

“We neared the shelter some hours later, in the dead of night. I moved more cautiously, asking Meryl and her father to remain at a safe distance while I examined the compound myself. For my misgivings had grown to an insistent dread, that the place was no longer wholesome: like a trusted friend, now diseased in his mind.

“The first thing I saw when I entered the courtyard..... The first thing.

Ezekiel was lying face down in the snow. He was dead. Dead.” Again he seemed unable to come to grips. Again he went forward: to confront, and to escape.

“I saw that the door of the small building where Cornelius had been prisoner, was splintered about the lock, and that the door itself was open. Had Cornelius done this to my brother? I could not believe it, for he still held in his hand the sword that Jacob had given him. . .had given all of us. For the first time I seemed to remember my own, and slowly drew it from its sheath, as if it was all that stood between myself and eternal darkness.....”

“It was,” said Cassius grimly.

“It could not have been Cornelius. For Ezekiel was too strong. And with the sword drawn, I knew it would have taken two or three men, skilled in murder, to do what had been done to him. Blood flowed from half a dozen wounds, from his whole body. He must have fought like a cornered animal, like a demon to protect his family..... No. Not by a treacherous dagger had he been felled, but in desperate combat, trying to save the ones he loved.”

He looked up at Meryl, and for a time the emotions were too much. A dread that was like the presence of Death itself came over him. But no, he must face it.

“Just then I heard Vera screaming. She might have been screaming all along. But if so I had not heard it, smothered by my own shock and horror. The sounds came from the meeting hall. And I knew in my heart, in my bowels, what they must be.

“So I went back to the place where I had asked the others to wait. I told them to go back—that we were in desperate danger—and to descend as quickly as they could..... I’m so sorry, Meryl. I didn’t know that he would fall.”

“You couldn’t,” said his wife, sobbing. “It’s not your fault.”

“Please,” said Jacob, ashamed to think that the hallowed place he had built so lovingly, could become the scene of a bloody debauch. “Tell us later. Save your strength.”

“I cannot,” said the young Jew. “I must tell it all, or perish.

“Tell it,” said Cassius sternly, not only to Malachi, but to all of them. “And listen well, the rest of you. You must know the Evil that is in the world. Never doubt it, or turn your back on it. Listen!”

“I crept closer. I opened the door partway, soundlessly..... And saw the most gruesome, the most horrible sight. It was like a nightmare, but a thousand times worse. Because it was really happening, right there in front of me.....”

“What did you see?” asked the soldier, partly to help him, but also because the subtle man’s narrative had moved even his calloused heart.

“They were raping Vera, on a table.” Ariel shuddered at her own buried memories. “But that, terrible as it was, I expected. But directly above her..... God.” He began to turn away, but the fierce wound would not let him. “They had hung my nephew, by the neck, it must have been hours before. From the ceiling beam. He was dead, his face swollen, discolored..... And each time the men who tormented her. . .sensed that Vera had stopped struggling..... They would lower the rope, and press his face to hers.”

“Sweet Jesus,” whispered Gaius. “Did Sarah see all this?”

“No,” he answered quickly, loathe to stop. “She had been pushed into a corner, with a sack thrown over her head. Her hands were tied behind her. It wasn’t done for mercy, but so that her mind would not be broken..... You will see,” he said desperately. The others did not interrupt him again.

“They were deserters, mercenaries. They must have been. They wore the remnants of uniforms, along with ill-fitting, foul smelling garments they had stolen from the dead. I wanted to vomit..... But they were not like any soldiers the world has ever seen. They were haggard, thin, twisted and cruel. Nothing human remained in them—the least feeling of sympathy or compassion. Nothing. Their entire being was like an open wound, an exposed nerve. The least touch, would bring only violence. All that was left of them was hate.

“And Cornelius. It did not seem strange to see them together. For in his heart he was the same: diseased, half dead already. Somehow he had convinced them to spare his life, no doubt on the promise of fulfilling their bestial desires. And so he had. He held Vera’s wrists, and encouraged them......”

Ariel hid her face in her hands.

“Then one of the two—a third lay dead on the floor, I don’t know why—grew tired of her. His penis was in his hand….. He had been eyeing Sarah for some time, and now moved toward her. Bastard! my spirit cried. Enough! I had just resolved to go after him, to die if I must.....

“But at that moment Cornelius drew his dagger, and buried it in the back of the man still raping Vera. I thought for a moment that I had been wrong about him: that he would kill them both, and deliver her. But as the dying man writhed and fell away, he lifted the dagger again, and buried it in Vera’s breast.

“Then at last I understood him. He meant to kill them all, and have the little girl to himself.” At this Jacob wept outright.

“The man who had gone to Sarah, and was now fondling her shoulders….. He still had not reacted to the sounds behind him. He must have thought the death cry of his friend an orgasm—the sounds were not unlike. And Vera, until the final blow, had screamed almost incessantly. So Cornelius, who must have thought of all this. . .turned and stalked toward the second man. To put the dagger in his back as well.

“But then he saw me, standing in the open doorway, and could not suppress a cry of alarm. For he knew that his game was up. I am no soldier. But if he saw one tenth of the rage, the violence I felt..... Enough that he had seen me, and cried out.

“For with that the other man turned. And seeing what Cornelius had done to his ‘friend’, the bloody dagger still in his hand, he drew his sword and made a rush at him. Cornelius tried to run, but in his terror tripped over the body on the floor.

“I have never seen anything so vile. . .as the way he squirmed and shrieked—there on the floor, where his life would end. Like a demon cast out of a tormented body. My one consolation was that the mercenary, true to his calling, was skilled at the trade of murder. One slash, a further thrust, and the shrieking stopped.

“But then he turned his horrid gaze on me. I don’t know if he had seen me already. In my nightmare state, I suppose I half thought myself invisible, not really there. No matter. He saw me now, and I knew that I must fight for my life. Through a moment of helpless fear came the memory of Meryl….. And of Sarah—so near, and still in desperate peril.

“A cry came out of me, from a depth I had not imagined. The mercenary stopped, seeming daunted by the sound, and to consider flight. But I stood between him and the door. His face hardened. He cried out in his turn, a sound twisted and horrible.....

“I honestly don’t know how I killed him. I was so full of rage, and hate. And fear. I don’t even remember being injured. Till I found him leaning against me, my sword in his stomach. He looked into my eyes, as if not understanding..... After all that he had done, he could not understand why.....

“Then he fell, with my sword still in him. I stood looking at him, at the carnage all around me, and only then discovered I was bleeding.

“I had not the presence of mind to attend to the wound. For then, as before, I seemed to come back to myself. I heard Sarah, screaming and crying for her mother. I went to her quickly, and took off the sack. She saw me, saw past me, and became utterly still. I untied her, lifted her. And took her away.

“I had witnessed the horror of my life. And for all I knew, I would die of it..... But I had saved her. I had saved my niece.”

With this the young man’s eyes moved in their sockets, and seemed, at last, to focus on the present. He looked up at his wife, who held him still. And the shock of horror, the naked glimpse into the pit of Hell, yielded slowly, so painfully, to tears.

“My Meryl..... Thank God you’re all right.”

“Yes, Malachi. I’m here with you. We’re safe now.” She ran her trembling fingers through his hair. “Rest now. Sleep, my love. Don’t fight it, we’re all right. Yes. Close your eyes.”

He breathed deeply, in and out, became aware again of the pain, and of the desperate state of his body. As leaning closer, his young wife daubed the sweat from his forehead with a cloth, then brought to his lips the ladle that Ariel handed her. He drank, choked a little. Then struggled to lay his head more comfortably against her.

And God was merciful, for he slept.

Cassius waited as long as he could. But again the question must be asked.

“Meryl,” he said gently. “Forgive me. I need to know if there were others—who saw you, or followed after you.”

“No,” she answered, her voice little more than a whisper. As she, too, struggled for the will to speak. “We are alone….. When my father fell..... He died in my arms.”

And through her broken weeping she bent down, and kissed the brow of the one who yet lived.

Malachi slept far into the morning, so soundly that for a time Jacob feared he had slipped into a coma. But toward noon, when Cassius returned with a large hare, and began cutting it into pieces for soup, he not only stirred, but tried to sit up. And though he fell back woozily, though Meryl scolded him for it, to Cassius it was another good sign.

“You’re lucky,” he said to her. “Your husband has the will to live. A man may be flawed in many ways and still survive for a time. But without that.....” And he gave her an encouraging nod.
But Ariel, from her small distance, was not impressed.

“And what about you?” she said in a tone of reproach. “You who speak of strength and weakness in others. Do you have the will to live?” And her look was mocking.

But aside from the shock at being spoken to in this way, Cassius saw something in her eyes that struck a chord of memory..... Too distant, too little noted at the time. All he could feel was confusion. And anger. For as always, Gaius was right there if he faltered.

“Then perhaps you’d like to finish the hare yourself,” he said, getting up and going to the door. “You’re welcome,” he added as he left. But still he was agitated. Still the challenge remained.
Franzi watched him go, as ever felt the fear that he would not return. Seeing this in the little boy’s face, Ariel felt a pang of remorse. But it was not lasting. As she put a hand to her womb, as she thought of the life growing inside her, and of Cassius’ withdrawal..... No. She wasn’t sorry.

Her thoughts returning to the boy, she felt the urge to go to him, and give him a reassuring hug. But two things stopped her. First, except when truly despondent, Franzi did not like such outward signs of affection, seemed to sense they only came when something was really wrong. And also, he was now wholly absorbed in his attention toward the little girl.

Sarah, too, had slept far into the morning. Now that she had woken she looked about her, disoriented. Not seeing her mother, she only stared at them each in turn with wide, uncomprehending eyes.

Gaius went to her and held her gently. Only then did she begin to cry, and to ask again and again: “Where is Mommy? When is Mommy coming home?”

And though he could embrace her, and shoosh her, and stroke her hair, the young Roman did not know what to say to her. Jacob, Meryl and Malachi all watched, not knowing how to help him. But Ariel knew.

“Tell her as much of the truth as she will understand,” she said simply. “So long as she is confused, or in denial, she will never come to grips with her loss.”

“But she’s just a child,” said Meryl, feeling an answering pang.

“As I was,” said Ariel. “As we all are, in times of deepest sorrow. We’re all lost children, groping about in dark places, and the only light to lead us out again, is the truth.”

“But how?” asked Gaius desperately. “What do I say that she will understand?”

“The words will come to you,” said Ariel. “From your own experience.” And the look she gave him pierced his heart. “You search for love, Gaius. It has found you. She needs you now. Go on.”

Gaius looked into the little girl’s eyes, felt something in his soul respond. It was true. Her deepest feelings, were as his own. And it was through them that he must reach her. He began to speak, trying to be strong, but feeling so many things from his own past.

“Your mother is gone, Sarah. She can’t come back. She didn’t want to go away, because she loves you very much. But bad men made her. She’s with your father and brother now, in the life that comes after..... She can’t come back.”

The little girl lowered her head, sobbing and crying. Still Ariel nodded. He must go on. But to know that he was hurting her..... His emotions welled inside him.

“But your uncle Malachi is still here. He loves you..... And I’m here, Sarah.” He could not stop the tears, or the thought that sprang from them. Right or wrong, he must say it.

“I’m here, Sarah. I love you, and I will always take care of you. Do you..... Do you want to be my little girl? Do you want me to be your father now? I promise I’ll do the best I can, and never, ever hurt you.”

The little girl stood up, nodded helplessly, and wrapped her arms tight about his neck. He held her close, feeling something so strong it nearly choked him: the power of Love, that is stronger, deeper, and wider than any chasm that death can place between us.

After a time he drew back, and took a deep breath. He looked about him, found none in the company unmoved. Even Cassius, who stood now in the entrance peering in through the lifted blanket, nodded in approval.

But remembering Malachi, Gaius felt a searing moment of doubt. Would he object? Had he gone too far? Would her uncle and guardian be outraged, or try to stand between them?
But as the eyes of the two men met, as Malachi saw again what he had already known: the guileless devotion, and simple decency of the man.....

“I stand in my brother’s place,” he said finally. “And I must act on his behalf. But for all the love I bear him, and the responsibility his death places upon me..... I am not my brother. I will not yield to prejudice, or come between two so much in need. So long as we remain together, and Meryl and I may oversee her education as a Jew..... If you will remember that she is my niece, and that I love her very much..... She has chosen you, Gaius. God give you strength. Give us all strength.”

Again he turned into the shelter of his wife’s embrace, shaking off the weakening emotion. For he knew that he must survive. Cold death had taken too many, and he stood alone.....

He must survive.

For the rest of that day and into the next, the company seemed to reach a tacit understanding: that they were all wounded, all orphaned, and that they must rest while they could, and climb no higher feeling than the simple affection and shared purpose that was now, irrevocably theirs.

Only Cassius seemed to bear his burden too heavily, a crushing weight of responsibility that made him distant and unhappy. Never forgetting the Vandals, he must plot a means of escape if they were found out, and at least a rough plan of defense in the event they were trapped on the high hill.

The cave entrance gave onto a kind of rough path, leading upwards, which could be used to climb to the top of the escarpment itself. This he stocked with the bows, arrows and throwing spears he made, along with the rocks themselves, which could be rolled or thrown down with greater force, if not much accuracy. Here a brief stand could be made, and if necessary, a retreat onto the higher ridge behind. Though if men in strength came upon them, it would only postpone the inevitable. And he was weary, so weary in body, mind and spirit. He had done all that he could.
And while Malachi was slow to recover his strength, Cassius did not push him, or any of them, to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. By the evening of the second day the others seemed puzzled, and Ariel deeply troubled, by the unexpected change in him. Until as they arranged their sleeping places for the night, he told them simply.

“You don’t understand. When we were in the hiding place, the danger was of the Vandals returning. It is because of that threat that I was loathe to stay, and indeed, would have left sooner than we did.

“But now,” he went on, “the danger is reversed. We must be sure that the Vandals have gone: that they have done with the Sueves, and returned to their homes in the south and west. For when we leave here it is almost due east, to the sea.

Patience in the face of one danger, to escape the greater peril: that’s what is needed. And while there is still the threat of stragglers, venturing, or being driven into these cold, northern hills….. I would rather face that danger as it comes, than to expose ourselves to men in numbers and on horseback.

“So rest while you may: eat, sleep, and recover your strength. The time will come, and we will set out. Have no fear.”

And yet the fear never left him for an instant, nor the quiet dread of what was to come: his own death, which seemed not only necessary, but inescapable.

So the days passed. Snow fell, the wind blew, and they were troubled by the cold. But nothing worse. Each dealt with their fears, their new-found responsibilities, as best they could: Meryl, as the wife of an ailing man; Malachi, as the husband who must survive and recover his strength, in order for them to have any life at all; Gaius as the new, adoptive father; Jacob as the spiritual leader of a people who had suffered terrible and inconsolable loss. And Ariel, her secret known to him alone, as the pensive and wistful mother-to-be.

But as the time rolled slowly forward, something began to happen in their midst that was a blessing, and a quiet reassurance to them all. The two children, both so deeply traumatized, had begun to interact. And more than this, they seemed to communicate on a level at which none of the others could reach them. And in so doing, to slowly heal each other’s wounds.

Franzi, who had been standoffish with her brother, had no such reservation with Sarah. The first word he spoke since the day his grandfather left them, was to her. It came as they sat playing a simple game, drawing shapes in the dirt with sticks and small stones.

“No!” he said to her, as she tried to add touches of her own to the outline of a horse that he had drawn. Then he took the stick from her hand, and flung it away.

Unruffled, the little girl stood up, put her hands on her hips and gave him a look of reproach. Then she took him by the wrist, made him stand up, and walked with him toward Ariel, placing his hand in hers.

“Go back to Mama,” said Cassius. “You’re not ready for me yet.” And the others laughed.

“Already she knows how to handle him,” added Gaius affectionately.

But amidst their laughter came a poignant realization. The children would recover. Their spirits had not been broken. Ariel, perhaps, felt this more acutely than the others. For she gazed soulfully at Cassius, her eyes full of meaning. Again that look went deep in him, because he knew that he had seen it before: from Arna. What did it mean?

That night as they lay together, the boy sleeping quietly beside them, he asked her what was wrong—if he had done something to upset her.

“I don’t know,” she said evasively, still unwilling to tell him the truth. Too much ground remained to be covered before then, too much decided. She did not even know if he would want the child, or be a good father if he did. It was all too painful, and she began to cry.

“Ariel, please. Tell me what I’ve done.” And he took her face in his hand, as he had done once before, and made her look at him. But now she
pulled away.

“I don’t like it,” she said.

“You don’t like what?”

“The way you always speak of death, and being too badly damaged to go on. The way you speak of Arna as your true wife, and say you feel you must join her. What about me? How do you think that makes me feel?”

He was silent for a time, for she was walking on hallowed ground. But more than this..... Like Gaius before her, she had found him out.

“Do I speak of death now?”

“No, and that’s what troubles me. You tell me, you tell all of us, that everything is fine now. But your eyes are full of despair, and some terrible purpose consumes you. It’s as if you’ve already chosen, resolved yourself to it.” And she looked him square in the face. “I want to know what you’re planning to do.”

He turned away, ground his teeth. But she had caught him. “Ariel. You know that my heart.....”

“Your heart again, always your heart,” she said angrily.

“For God’s sake, Ariel. I had a seizure.”

“Have you had another since? Through all the stress and exertion of the journey, have you had another?”

“No. But the illness I suffered at the hiding place— ”

“Could have been anything—could, by itself have caused the tightness in your chest, the difficulty breathing. I said it before, and I will tell you for the last time: you had a problem with your heart, under extreme circumstances which you won’t repeat.”

“How can you know that?” he argued, afraid to think of any other future. Battered and torn, he wanted no more.

“Open your tunic,” she demanded, not caring that the others might hear. “Right here, right now.” As he faltered, she did so herself. “Look at the scar. Look at it! It runs right across your main artery. The artery itself was not cut, or you would have bled to death. But perhaps it was damaged in some way, when you cauterized the wound. Maybe that is what caused the seizure. If you would treat it, and yourself, less fanatically, you might live to a ripe old age.”

“And what if you’re wrong? What if I drop dead tomorrow?”

“Then I will be your widow, and I will cope with that loss. What I will not cope with is your endless fatalism— the belief that there’s no place for you in this world. That you must die, for failing Arna and Jarad.”

“Ariel, stop.”

“I will not stop. Damn you! Maybe there is a God. And maybe he brought you to me, to do something more than just drag me from the village like a bundle of rags. Maybe he wants you to survive. Maybe life isn’t through with you yet.”

He withdrew in the face of this barrage, again went out into the starlit Winter’s night. But he found no comfort there. What he had once called the bracing cold, a symbol for the challenge and hardship that had made him strong, made him a man. . .was nothing of the kind. Was nothing at all but cold and empty darkness: the absence of warmth and life. These two miracles lay within the cave, and nowhere else.

In time he went back inside, to lie with her, and hold her forlornly. But she turned away, removed his arm as something intrusive and unwanted. Releasing a melancholy sigh, he turned away himself and tried to sleep.

But he could not sleep, thinking of the things that she had said. And thinking of another time, when he had failed the ones he loved.

The time passed without further incident. But after eight days more, and in the face of a deepening, bone-chilling cold, Cassius felt that they must make their move. For though Malachi’s wound had grown less evil, by night he was tormented by the cold, and shivered violently no matter how high they built the fire, or how many blankets they laid across him. None in the company were immune. Even Cassius, who in his youth had scoffed at such hardship, now felt the onslaught of full Winter in every bone and joint. Their trek would be colder at first, leaving the sheltering walls and fire of the cave. But the land itself would warm as they left the mountains, and traveled on toward the more temperate sea.

So on a morning when a light but steady snow fell, and the wind was less, they set out without prayer or ceremony for the sea, some three days distant. Or that is how long it would have taken, were the way less perilous, and they had been able to travel unhindered. As it was, this last naked trek to what they hoped would be an end of deadly peril, took five long days and nights.And like so much of a man’s life, their journey was only significant for the end that it achieved. But this much at least must be said. Their time among the withered country and ruined towns, that no mantle of thinning snow could soften or conceal, proved more difficult and dangerous than even Cassius had feared. Very soon they were forced to travel only by night, and hide like fretted ghosts by day, hoping against hope that the abandoned buildings in which they sought the last vestige of shelter would not be searched, by purpose or mischance, laying them bare in the end.

For having supplanted the Sueves in these more temperate regions near the sea, some of the Vandals showed no inclination to leave, the nightmare host as a whole, no sign of moving on to the south before Spring.

But in time and through peril they arrived at last at the sheltered cove, some twelve miles north of the great port city. And stole by nightfall, down

from the encircling hills and into the small cave where Cassius had hidden his boat, a place as yet unknown to the ravaging horde. For by overhanging brush and shadow it remained hidden from all but the closest inspection, and the knowledge of those who had once lived in the country roundabout.

Too well did Cassius remember landing there, in what seemed another life, feeling even then an emptiness and weariness that told him his tale was truly over. Yet he had found the cave, and hidden the boat inside it. Why?

The cave itself was deserted. But the boat was still there, to the unutterable relief of them all. And though it had in fact been rifled, the few possessions he left in it stolen, the thieves had not been men of the sea. For the oars, the mast, yard and sail had been left behind. There was nothing foreseeable to keep them from setting out with first light.

With Gaius’ help, Cassius made the few preparations necessary: righted the sturdy craft and faced the prow toward water, loaded the supplies they had brought and would need inside it. Then joined the others in a meal of cold meat, bread and wine.

Little was said between them, any words they might use overwhelmed by stark reality. For in the morning they must set out upon the turbulent Winter sea, and leave forever the only home that Malachi and the women had ever known. And none, not even Cassius, knew where they were bound. And still the wind gave them no quarter, but here plagued them with a lesser, yet damper and more penetrating cold.

So at the last, weary and worn, unable even to think of what lay ahead, they spread their blankets in the cold, pebbly sand, and tried to find refuge in sleep.

Somehow Ariel had kept her hard resolve: to tell him nothing, and keep her emotional distance. Though they had lain but a few feet apart each night, and for the boy’s sake remained civil by day, no further words of substance had passed between them. And though she sensed that Cassius was deeply troubled, some instinctive voice stubbornly held her to this course.

But as they lay together that night, she holding the boy to warm him and Cassius holding her—as he had done beneath the overhanging cliff, that in the morning had nearly killed him—she felt such a presentiment of doom, a foreboding that still greater harm would befall him..... She released the boy as he slept and turned toward the man: lay on her back, and let his forearm caress her.

“Cassius,” she said, knowing no other way to reach him. “There is something you need to know.”

“What is that?” he said blankly.

She breathed, swallowed hard. “I’m pregnant.”

... “What?”

“I bear a child,” she said, despairing. “Your child.”

He stopped utterly. Then rolled away onto his back, released a bewildered breath. This was too much. How could he hope to protect a child, an infant, along the tortured ways that they must choose?

Why now? His mind refused to take it in.

“Are you sure?” he said, turning back to her, though the swelling of her breasts, the profound depth of her eyes, at last understood, had already told him.

“Yes.”

Too much. Again he turned away, shook his head ruefully. The exhaustion that he had railed against all the long hard day, now seemed his only friend. To block it out. The oblivion of sleep. Was all he sought.

“It will be a girl,” he said weakly.

“How do you know that?”

“Conceived in lust, a son. Conceived in love..…”

“Do you love me, Cassius?”

“You know I do.”

“Then live for me, and for our child.”

“I can’t. Not like this.”

“Cassius?”

“No, please. Just let me sleep.”

And he rolled free of her grasp, out from under the warming blanket, into the cold sand that was like the floor of a crypt. Let it end, his soul cried. Let it end.

And in time he slept. But even as he faded into dream, his last thought told him.

“She bears a child. Your child.”

Ariel watched him, the tears rolling silently down. For she had played her last card, her last hope of binding him to her: to her life, her love, her children. No use.

She turned back to the boy, so young, yet the only family that remained to her. She held him close, cried softly into his hair. Until from sheer exhaustion, she too fell asleep.

As Gaius watched, sickened at heart.

Sixty-Six

A light was growing in the east, sharply outlining the entrance of the cave. Cassius rose to find the others already stirring. Gaius was there, as always, passing round the wine, and glaring at him reproachfully. Ariel too had risen, and hardened her look against him. He looked briefly for Isaac and Ezekiel, strong backs to help him push the boat, remembered they were dead. Like so many others he had known— friends, comrades. . .family. All dead. So many more on that side of the bridge than this. The Bridge.....

The company slowly gathered themselves. He did not hurry them. When all was in readiness the men set to their task, labored to push the boat through heavy sand. Out, into the blinding light of day. The sun had cleared the horizon, the waters of the cove sparkling and painful to the eye, a shining path.....

It was a fair, clear morning, the cold of the mountains now far behind them. A gentle wind blew up from the African south, speaking of warmer climes, and shelter from the madness. But the soldier looked about him—pensive, almost anxious, if he could have felt anything at all. Anyone, from anywhere upon the encircling cliffs, could see them now.

“Faster,” he urged them, as the women and children trailed behind. And to the men, “Put your backs into it.” Down the last, wet-gleaming shoreline. Till the prow began to rise and fall in the gently lapping waves, the stern still resting in the sand. Then assisted by the men, the women and children were put into the boat. “You too, old man. And you, Malachi, save your strength. Gaius and I will manage.” And the two Romans, leaning heavily forward, set opposite hands against the stern-post, their shoulders to either side of it, and pushed with everything they had.

And slowly, painfully, the boat moved forward. It became lighter, as the waters grew deep and cold around them.

“Go on,” he said to Gaius. The young man looked hard at him, as if suspecting him of something. But did as he asked, climbing lightly over the side of the boat.

And at the last, Cassius too propped his hands against the gunnel, raised himself up and stepped gracefully in. He felt the benevolent sea once more beneath him, floated softly upon the bosom of the waves.

He had done it. The circle was complete. From the same place that he had first made land, despairing, and the country he thought never to leave alive . . .he had not only brought out the girl, but found allies to protect and care for her. He released an ancient breath and faced into the wind, all care and danger seeming to fall like a heavy burden behind him.....

Behind him. Suddenly there came a clamor of angry voices, a nightmare sound recalling the horrors of a lifetime. He whirled about to see half a dozen ragged, brutalized men running across the beach toward them. In iron helmets . . .the Sueves! They howled and leered like tortured wolves as they tore down the darkling sand. It was the women they wanted!

All in a moment he saw how it would be. They would catch the boat, capsize it, slay the others as they thrashed helplessly. Drag Ariel back to the shore and.....

In desperate haste he seized the boy, pushed him toward Jacob, who took him in his trembling hands. Then turned to Ariel, who fought with all the strength of a desperate heart, against what could not now be changed.

“No!” she cried. “Don’t you do it!” With no time left he gripped her by the arms and shoved her hard into Gaius, who understood.

“Hold them!” he said fiercely. Then sprang into the water, and struggled toward that final shore.
His angry approach had slowed them just enough. Now as he drew his sword they stopped, and stood in a broken half-circle on the angling shoreline, waiting. The water was now less than waist high. He could fight, would fight, so long as life remained inside him.

As he moved now toward certain death, Cassius felt no fear. Nor sadness, nor exhilaration. He had done what he could for her, for all of them, and now he was free. And as he stood at last beyond the swirling currents he set his feet firmly, and uttered a cry of defiance. For this was the moment that a lifetime had prepared him for…..

As if at a common signal, the men rushed him.
He fought well, as always, with all the strength and experience he could muster. He fought for time, and for the lives of those he loved. He killed one man, who was careless—

A searing pain stabbed his kidney. He whirled to face the man, as another blade pierced his back. Pain. He staggered forward up the slope, an anguished pirouette. The other combatants pulled back, seeming to sense that the end had come.
And he fell, never to rise again. He had just strength enough left to turn his head.

And he saw her there, above the waves, beneath the sun. In the boat that held his companions—his children, his only love. They were farther off, perhaps sixty yards, but he saw it all clearly:

Ariel, in Gaius’ arms. She had stopped struggling, and now hung her head to weep. Franzi, still fighting and screaming, as Jacob tried desperately to keep his hold.

But he had done it. They were free.

He felt another blade pierce his back. Unnecessary, he thought dimly.

No pain now, for all senses were fading.
Then slowly he closed his eyes, resting comfortably in the sand. The darkness descended, and there was nothing.

Sixty-Seven

He remembered his daughter.

He woke with a start, in the sand that he had longed for. But it was cold as Death. It was still dark; perhaps a quarter of an hour remained before the dawn. But still the vision haunted him.
“Get up!” he cried, to all of them. Then as they stirred slowly or not at all, he went to each in turn, and lifted them without mercy.

“What is it?” asked Malachi. “What’s wrong?”

“We’ve got to leave. Now!”

“But Cassius,” began the rabbi, as he in his turn was shaken. “Surely there’s no need— ”

“Get up!” cried the soldier, taking him beneath the shoulder and hurling him toward the boat. “Move, or I swear to God I’ll kill you!”

Startled by the sudden change in him, not understanding, still the company did as he asked, propelled into action by the sheer force of his will. In but a few moments they were up and ready, throwing their things haphazardly into the boat.

“Push,” he said harshly to the men, now trying to keep his voice down. And together, laboring heavily in the reluctant sand, they urged the boat forward, and out of the cave.

It was still twilight. But the distant stars were dimmed, and a line of paler blue could be seen against the horizon. They struggled on, muscles straining, knees burning from the labor, toward the dark waters they more heard than saw.

“Ariel,” he urged, looking back at her. “Keep Meryl and the children moving, close behind us!”

Ariel did as he asked, she alone understanding, and silently promising a prayer of thanks. For now she could not pray, but must follow his hard commands, trusting his intuition as she did her own. Still Cassius remembered the dream, and as they reached the water’s edge, drove them yet more ruthlessly.

“Women and children in the boat. Come on! And you, Malachi; I won’t have you catch your death. Now Gaius, Jacob, push, as if the Devil himself was behind you!”

They urged the craft deeper into the water, till Jacob slipped and fell. Cassius took hold of his collar, his calf, and fairly threw him into the boat.

“A little farther, Gaius, that’s it. Now you. In!” The younger man’s face was hidden. Whatever his thoughts, he obeyed.

Cassius was the last to scramble over the side. Not easily, not gracefully, but landing with a jolt against the bulkhead. His breath came hard as he righted himself, his chest tight and aching. But so long as there was life inside him.....

“Gaius, Malachi, the oars! And thank your bloody God they weren’t taken. Into the oarlock, fool! Now, Gaius, pull. Face her into the waves or we’ll be swamped! That’s it. Again. Now together. . .pull. And back. And pull. And back.....” As all the while he struggled to step the mast, and free the sail.

The mast was in place, the last thongs loosed from the sail. Cassius crossed the yard, sat back in the stern; and as Gaius handed him the second line. . .sheeted home. The north wind fretted at the sail for a moment, shook it on the yard until it billowed wide. The boat rocked forward.

“PULL!”

And with that final stroke the craft began to move under its own power, angling hard as he took hold of the rudder, and steered as best he could, southeastward.

The unseen sun was rising steadily. For some time now their movements had become imperceptibly clearer. The stars were failing before the inexorable dawn.

Still Cassius struggled to catch his breath, afraid even to hope. But the boat moved steadily forward, and now Ariel came and sat beside him. She put her hand beneath his tunic, began to massage his chest as she had done once before. Her gentle touch upon his skin, was all that he would ever ask again.

Then in a moment which smote them all with its brilliance, the sun rose like a ball of fire from the unblemished sea, lifting proud and slow above the confines of the earth. None felt that they had ever seen anything so beautiful.....

“Look!” cried Gaius, who alone among the company still watched the shoreline. They all turned anxiously. Cassius straightened, twisted, strained to see.

And there on the shore, which his dreams had never left, Cassius saw the thing that he had dreaded. Two men on horseback: mounted patrols. One coming from the north, the other from the south.

“The Vandals!” hissed Malachi beneath his breath.
The two riders had seen them, now drove their horses into the water, as far as they dared. But the company was beyond their reach. They could only raise their swords, and shout their impotent threats, blown by the wind and drowned by the waves. Gaius turned back to their leader, with something like awe in his voice.

“How did you know?”

“I didn’t,” said Cassius. And he put a trembling hand to Ariel’s womb.

She looked into his eyes, saw there the ravages of the war that had been waged inside him. Read there also his plea for forgiveness, his assurance that he would give her all he had.

“And why are you crying?” she asked softly. She knew him well enough to anticipate the answer. But still he must say the words.

“I’m alive,” he said brokenly. His reward and his punishment both.

“I’m alive.”