“How?” she asked despairingly. “Dare we meddle more? Should we not appeal for help from . . . the Danellians?”

  Everard smiled the least bit. “M-m, the situation doesn’t look that bad to me. We’re expected to handle everything we can, you know, economizing on lifetime of other agents. First, as I remarked, it seems wise to spend a while on Öland, researching background. Then we’ll return to this year, the Batavi, the Romans, and—well, I have some preliminary thoughts, but I want to discuss them with you in depth, and you’ll be vital to whatever we do.”

  “I will try.”

  They stood silent. The air grew colder. Night rose up the hillside. Sunset colors smoldered to gray. Above them kindled the evening star.

  Everard heard a ragged breath. Through the dusk, he saw Floris shudder and hug herself. “Janne, what’s the matter?” he asked, already guessing.

  She looked out over the darkness. “All this death and pain, loss and grief.”

  “The norm of history.”

  “I know, I know, but—And I thought living among the Frisii had hardened me, but today, in this today of mine, I killed men, and, and I will not sleep soundly—”

  He stepped close, laid hands on shoulders, murmured. She spun about to throw her arms around him. What could he do but the same? When she raised her face to his, what could he do but kiss her?

  She responded wildly. Her lips tasted salt. “Oh, Manse, yes, yes, please, don’t you yourself need to forget for this night?”

  16

  Sleet hissed, blown out of unseen heaven across a land that rain had already half drowned. Vision soon lost itself; flat acres, withered grass, leafless trees tossing in the wind, the burnt-out remnant of a house, dissolved in a noontide murk. As dank as the chill was, clothing gave little defense. The north wind smelled of the swamps over which it had roared, of the sea beyond, and of winter striding down from the Pole.

  Everard hunched in the saddle, cloak drawn tight. Water dripped from the hood past his face. The horse’s hoofs went plop-squelp, plop-squelp in pastern-deep mud. Yet this was the entryway through an estate to a manor house.

  The building hove in view before him. In modified Mediterranean style, tile-roofed, stuccoed, it had been raised by Burhmund when he was Civilis, ally and officer of Rome. His wife was its matron, his children filled it with laughter. Now it served as headquarters for Petillius Cerialis.

  Two sentries stood in the portico. Like those at the gate, they challenged the Patrolman when he drew rein at the foot of the stairs. “I am Everardus the Goth,” he told them. “The general is expecting me.”

  One soldier gave his companion an inquiring glance. The latter nodded. “I’ve been instructed,” he said. “In fact, I escorted the preliminary courier.” Was he snatching at any scrap of pride, of importance? He snuffled and sneezed. Probably the first man was a last-minute replacement for a ranker who lay fevered, teeth chattering, in sick bay. Although they appeared to be of Gallic breed, both these were pretty wretched themselves. Their metal was tarnished, their kilts hung sodden, gooseflesh studded their arms, sunken cheeks spoke of short rations.

  “Pass,” the second legionary said. “We’ll call a groom to stable your mount.”

  Everard entered a gloomy atrium, where a slave took his cloak and knife. Several men sitting slumped, staff with nothing to do, gave him stares in which, perhaps, a sudden feeble hope flickered. An aide came to conduct the visitor to a room in the south wing. He knocked on the door, heard a gruff “Open,” obeyed, and announced: “Sir, the German delegate is here.”

  “Send him in,” rumbled the voice. “Leave us alone but stand outside, just in case.”

  Everard entered. The door shut behind him. Scant light seeped through a leaded window. Candles stood around in holders. Tallow, not wax, they smoked and stank. Shadows bulked in corners and slid across a table strewn with papyrus dispatches. Otherwise there were a couple of stools and a chest that might hold changes of clothing. An infantry sword and its sheath hung side by side on a wall. A charcoal brazier had warmed the air but made it stuffy.

  Cerialis sat behind the table. He wore merely a tunic and sandals: a burly man with a hard square face whose clean-shavenness revealed deep furrows. His eyes raked the newcomer. “You are Everardus the Goth, eh?” he greeted. “The go-between said you speak Latin. You’d better.”

  “I do.” This’ll be tricky, the Patrolman thought. It wouldn’t be in character for me to grovel, but he might decide I’m arrogant and he’s not going to take any lip from any Jupiter-damned native. His nerves must be worn thin, like everybody else’s. “The general is both kind and wise to receive me.”

  “Well, frankly, by now I’d listen to a Christian, if he claimed he’d something to offer. If it turned out he didn’t, I could at least have the pleasure of crucifying him.”

  Everard feigned puzzlement. “A Jew sect,” Cerialis grunted. “Heard about the Jews? Another pack of mutinous ingrates. But you, your tribe’s way to the east. Why in Tartarus are you running errands hereabouts?”

  “I thought that was explained to the general. I am no enemy of yours, nor of Civilis either. I’ve spent time in the Empire as well as in different parts of Germany. I got to know Civilis a bit, and lesser chieftains a bit more. They trust me to speak straightforwardly for them, because of my being an outsider whom you have nothing against. And because of knowing Roman ways somewhat, I can bring them your words clear, not scrambled. As for myself, I’m a trader who’d like to do business with this region. I stand to benefit from peace and their thankfulness.”

  Persuading them had been more complicated than that, but not very much more. The rebels were in fact weary and discouraged. The Goth might be granted personal access to the Imperial commander, where he might do some good and could scarcely do worse harm than already went on. After heralds had carried the request, the ease with which arrangements were made surprised the Germans. Everard had awaited it. He knew better than they, from Tacitus and from aerial observation, how badly off the Romans were too.

  “I do know!” Cerialis snapped. “Except that they didn’t mention what was in it for you. Very well, we’ll talk. I warn you, get that long-winded again and I’ll boot you out myself. Sit down. No, pour us wine first. It makes this frog-marsh country a hair less horrible.”

  Everard filled two silver goblets from a graceful glass decanter. The seat he took was likewise handsome, and the drink tasted well, if a tad too sweet for his preferences. This must all have belonged to Civilis. To civilization.

  I’ll never be fond of the Romans, but they do bring other things with them than slave traders, tax farmers, and sadistic games. Peace, prosperity, a widened world—those don’t last, but when the tide ebbs it leaves behind, scattered through the wreckage, books, technologies, faiths, ideas, memories of what once was, stuff for later generations to salvage and treasure and build with again. And among the memories is that there was, for a while, a life not given over entirely to naked survival.

  “So the Germans are ready to surrender, are they?” Cerialis prompted.

  “I beg the general’s pardon if we gave the wrong impression. We are not masters of the Latin language.”

  Cerialis thumped the table. “I told you, stop pussyfooting or get out! You’re royal at home, descended from Mercury. Got to be, the way you bear yourself. And I’m the emperor’s kinsman, but he and I are plain soldiers who’ve pulled heavy duty. We two can be blunt with each other, here while we’re alone.”

  Everard ventured a grin. “As you wish, sir. I daresay you did not really misunderstand us. Then why don’t you come to the point? The chieftains who sent me do not propose to go under the yoke or chained in a triumph. But they’d like an end to this war.”

  “What gall have they got, to demand terms? What have they left to fight with? We hardly even see a hostile any more. Civilis’s last attempt worth mentioning was a naval demonstration in fall. I wasn’t worried, I was astonished that he bothered. Nothing came of it and he withdrew across the Rhine. Since then we’ve ravaged his homeland.”

  “I’ve seen, including the fact that you spared his properties.”

  Cerialis fired off a laugh. “Of course. Drive a wedge between him and the rest. Make ‘em wonder why they should bleed and die for his benefit. I know they’re pretty well fed up. You came on behalf of a clutch of tribal chiefs, not him.”

  That’s true, and you’re shrewd, mister. “Communication is slow. Besides, we Germans are used to acting independently. It does not mean that they sent me to betray him.”

  Cerialis swallowed from his cup, slammed it down, and said, “All right, let’s hear. What am I offered?”

  “Peace, I told you,” Everard declared. “Can you afford to refuse? You’re in as much trouble as they are. You claim you don’t see enemy fighters any more. That’s because you aren’t advancing any farther. You’re bogged down in a land picked bare, every road a quagmire, your troops cold, wet, hungry, sickening, miserable. Your supply problems are hideous, and it won’t get better till the state has recovered from the civil war, which will take longer than you can wait.” I wish I could quote that great line of Steinbeck’s, about the flies having conquered the flypaper. “Meanwhile Burhmund, Civilis, is recruiting in Germany. You could lose, Cerialis, the way Varus lost in the Teutoburg Forest, with the same long-range consequences. Better come to terms while you’ve got the chance. There, was that plain-spoken enough?”

  The Roman had flushed and knotted his hands. “It was insolent. We’ll not reward rebellion. We cannot.”

  Everard softened his tone. “It seems to . . . those whose mouth I’m being . . . that you’ve punished it adequately. If the Batavi and their allies return to their allegiance and to quietness beyond the river, haven’t you reached your objective? What they ask in exchange is no more than they owe to their people to get. No decimation, no enslavements, no captives for the triumph or the arena. Instead, amnesty for all, including Civilis. Restoration of tribal lands, where these are occupied. Correction of the abuses that brought the revolt on in the first place. This means, mostly, reasonable tribute, local autonomy, access to trade, and an end to conscription. Given that, you’ll once again get as many volunteers enlisting as Rome can use.”

  “That’s no small set of demands,” Cerialis said. “It goes beyond my authority.”

  Ah, he’s willing to consider it. A thrill coursed through Everard. He leaned forward. “General, you’re of Vespasian’s house, Vespasian for whom Civilis fought too. The emperor will listen to you. Everybody says he’s a hardheaded man who’s interested in making things work, not in hollow glory. The Senate will . . . listen to the emperor. You can bring this treaty about, general, if you want to, if you’ll make the effort. You can be remembered not as a Varus but as a Germanicus.”

  Cerialis peered slit-eyed across the table. “You talk almighty knowing for a barbarian,” he said.

  “I’ve been around, sir,” Everard answered.

  Oh, I have, I have, around the whole globe, up and down the centuries. Most recently at the wellspring of your sorest woes, Cerialis.

  How long ago it already felt, that idyll on Öland, no, on the Eyn. Twenty-five years past by the calendar. Hlavagast and Viduhada and most of those who had been so hospitable were likeliest dead by now, bones in the earth and names on tongues wearing down toward oblivion. Gone with them were the pain and puzzlement left behind by children whom strangeness had called away. But for Everard it was scarcely a month since he and Floris bade farewell to Laikian. Man and wife, wanderers from the far South who had gotten passage over the sea for themselves and their horses, and would like to pitch their tent for a while close to this friendly thorp . . . It was extraordinary, therefore enchanting; it caused people to talk more freely than ever before in their lives; but there were also the hours alone, in the tent or out on the summery heath . . . Afterward the Patrol agents got floggingly busy.

  “And I have my connections,” Everard said.

  The histories, the data files, the great coordinating computers, the experts of the Time Patrol. The knowledge that this is the proper configuration of a plenum that has powerful negative feedback. We’ve identified the random factor that could bring on an avalanching change; what we must do is damp it.

  “Hm,” Cerialis said. “I’ll want a fuller account.” He cleared his throat. “Later. Today we’ll stick to business. I do want my men out of the mud.”

  I find that I kind of like this guy. In many ways he reminds me of George Patton. Yes, we can dicker.

  Cerialis weighed his words. “Tell your lordlings this, and have them pass it on to Civilis. I see one big stumbling block. You speak of the Germans beyond the Rhine. I can’t concede what he wants and pull the legions out while they are faunching for somebody to whistle them up all over again.”

  “He would not, I assure you,” Everard said. “Under the conditions proposed, he’d have won what he was fighting for, or at least a decent compromise. Who else might start a new war?”

  Cerialis’s mouth tightened. “Veleda.”

  “The sibyl among the Bructeri?”

  “The witch. D’you know, I’ve thought about a strike into that country just to seize her. But she’d vanish into the woods.”

  “And if you did somehow succeed, it’d be like snatching a hornets’ nest.”

  Cerialis nodded. “Every crazy tribesman from the Rhine to the Suebian Sea up in arms.” He meant the Baltic, and he was right. “But it might well be worse, for my grandchildren if not me, to let her go on spewing her venom amongst them.” He sighed. “Except for that, the furor could die down. But as is—”

  “I think,” said Everard weightily, “if Civilis and his allies are promised honorable terms, I think we can get her to call for peace.” Cerialis goggled. “You mean that?”

  “Try it,” Everard said. “Negotiate with her as well as with the male leaders. I can carry word between you.”

  Cerialis shook his head. “We couldn’t leave her running loose. Too dangerous. We’d have to keep an eye on her.”

  “But not a hand.”

  Cerialis blinked, then chuckled. “Ha! I see what you mean. You’ve got a gift of gab, Everardus. True, if ever we arrested her or anything like that, we’d likely get a whole new rebellion. But what if she provoked it? How can we know she’ll behave herself?”

  “She will, once she’s reconciled with Rome.”

  “What’s that worth? I know barbarians. Flighty as geese.” Evidently it didn’t occur to the general that he might offend the emissary, unless he didn’t care. “From what I’ve gathered, that’s a war goddess she serves. What if Veleda takes it into her head that this Bellona’s hollering for blood once more? We could have another Boadicea on our hands.”

  A sore point with you, huh? Everard sipped of his wine. The sweetness glowed down his throat, invoking summers and southlands against the weather that ramped outside. “Give it a try,” he said. “What can you lose by exchanging messages with her? I think a settlement that everybody can live with is possible.”

  Whether in superstition or in metaphor, Cerialis replied, surprisingly quietly, “That will depend on the goddess, won’t it?”

  17

  The early sunset smoldered above the forest. Boughs were like black bones athwart it. Puddles in field and paddock glowed dull red with it beneath a greenish sky as cold as the wind that eddied whimpering across them. A flight of crows passed. Their hoarse cries sounded for a while after the dusk had swallowed them up.

  A hind carrying hay between stack and house shivered, not only because of the weather, when he saw Wael-Edh go by. She was not unkindly, in her stark way, but she was in league with the Powers, and now she walked from the halidom. What there had she heard and said? For months no man had fared hither to speak with her, as often erstwhile. By day she paced her grounds or sat under a tree and brooded, alone. It was surely at her own behest—but why? This was a grim time, even for the Bructeri. Too many of their men had come home from Batavian or Frisian lands with tales of mishap or woe, or had not come home at all. Could the gods be turning from their spaewife? The hind muttered a luck-spell and hastened his steps.

  Her tower loomed dark ahead of the woman. The warrior on watch dipped his spear to her. She nodded and opened the door. In the room beyond, a pair of thralls sat cross-legged at a low hearthfire, palms held close. Smoke drifted around bitter until it found its outlet. Their breath mingled with it, wan in the light of two lamps. They scrambled to their feet. “Does my lady want food or drink?” the man asked.

  Wael-Edh shook her head. “I will sleep,” she answered.

  “We will guard your dreaming well,” the girl said. It was needless, nobody save Heidhin would dare climb the ladder unbidden, but she was new here. She gave her mistress one of the lamps and Wael-Edh went up.

  A ghost of daylight lingered in a window covered with thin-scraped gut, and the flame burned yellow. Nonetheless the loft-room was already heavy with gloom, wherein her things crouched like trolls underground. Not yet wishing for her shut-bed, she put the lamp on a shelf and sat down on her high three-legged witch-seat, cloak drawn tight. Her gaze sought the shifty shadows.

  Air whuffed in her face. The floor groaned beneath a sudden heavy weight. Edh leaped back. The stool clattered to the boards. She gasped.

  Soft radiance flowed out of a ball atop the horns of the thing that stood before her. Two saddles were on its back, it was the bull of Frae, cast in iron, and on it rode the goddess who had claimed it from him.

  “Niaerdh, oh, Niaerdh—”

  Janne Floris got off the timecycle and stood as stately as might be. Last time, caught unawares, she had been garbed like any Germanic woman of the Iron Age. It hadn’t mattered then, but no doubt memory made her more impressive, and for this visit she had outfitted herself with care. Her gown draped lustrous white, jewels glinted in the belt, a silver pectoral had the pattern of a fishnet, and her hair hung in twin amber-hued braids below a diadem.