our Gothic allies. Saskia and I looked forward to the battles—ones we have seen many times before. We would whoop, and the men would shout and chant, as they chased and hunted their opponents.
“Wodanaz, please protect our warriors—give them power,” we chanted with the other women.
“Wodanaz, mighty lord of death, give us life and victory over those who take our land,” shouted the men, who would soon frighten their enemies. Each of the men’s swords had rune markings etched into the blade. These markings transferred Wodanaz’ power to them with utmost certainty.
At the end of the festival, a great round wheel, tied with straw—representing the sun, was set ablaze at the top of a hill and rolled down the slope to extinguish in the pond below. This signified that the festival of summer was over. We could resume our daily preparations for our journey into war.
Chapter II War of the Heart
We left early in the day, with weapons at hand, along with the children, towed by men and women. The day was cloudy, with a brisk wind. We clung to our wool cloaks that were clasped at our shoulders with metal broaches. A few women wore blankets around their shoulders to cover the babes still at their breast. We hoped it would not rain, but this was quite possible later in the day, as afternoon and evening thunderstorms grew angry with black clouds and the thundering voice of red-haired Punaraz—his hammer striking his enemies. This would be a sign of war. Soon we would meet our foe.
Saskia and I rode our horses as noble warriors. We held our weapons tight in our hands, to be ready, at any moment, for a strike. We had seen it before. The sight of hundreds of men swarming over the land with their threatening axes and spears raised. Many warriors beat their colorful, round shields held before their large, muscular bodies, covered with grease and black paint. Many were covered in blood from the sacrifice in the sacred white grove. Their bearded faces, streaked with fierce markings of blood and ash, and their hair—long and wild manes. Some wore metal helmets, such as the Roman soldiers. Some warriors rode horses, but most men belonged to the artillery and the army, with their menacing swords held before them, or rocks, to be flung at the heads of the enemy. The men fought more with their sinewy bodies than with their weapons. Wodanaz’ strength made them fearless.
An enemy, facing such threat, would surely run to avoid sudden and harsh death. Often, a woman would find a warrior, felled by his foe, half dead on the ground. The woman would compassionately kill him, so he would not suffer death at the hand of an enemy soldier. Those belonging to the enemy, who escaped death, were tracked down and either killed or captured. It did not matter that you were a woman or a child.
Most men accepted the consequence of dishonorably losing their weapon, perhaps causing their tribe to lose a battle. They committed suicide upon loss of their spear or ax. We had seen this before, when we had accompanied our parents into battle.
When night came, we were tense and restless, despite our weariness from the cold rain that pelted our heads and backs a few hours before. The tribe of Gepids made camp with soft glowing fires, hidden by boulders, that would not attract attention from an enemy’s scout.
We slept by the rocks, wrapped in our wool blankets, with an article of rolled up clothing for a pillow. The ground was hard and seemed to penetrate into my spine, fusing me with the hardness. My body felt as durable as stone, slowly be- ing worn away, during a lifetime of weather. Everyone died eventually. When would my time come? I hoped it wouldn’t be tomorrow. I had much to live through, not really having lived much at all. I settled and closed my eyes, dreaming of my mother’s caresses and Father’s warm hugs. I saw their eyes, bright and blue, and then, weeping for the loss of their daughter. I fell asleep, nonetheless.
“Ermentrude, wake up!” Saskia yelled. “Eat this bread quickly. The enemy has been spotted down in the valley below. We must go!”
“Who are they?” I asked.
“They are the Bastarnae,” she replied. “They are a ferocious tribe that has moved into our land. Everyone wants our land, our livestock, and our lives! Where did they come from? Why don’t they return to where they came, instead of stealing our possessions?” She spoke with a sense of urgency. “Hurry! We must leave now! Get your weapons.”
I leapt onto Brunhilda, and reached for my grandfather’s sword in its sheath. The bronze hilt and blade gleamed in the morning sunlight, that sifted through the fog. Saskia led the way down to the men, who were positioned in their triangular formation, with the tip of it ready to lead and pierce the enemy’s rank. The enemy screamed their battle cries, and we answered back with our thunderous bellows. Our men roared as raging, blood-thirsty beasts would roar to frighten their prey; the women whooped loudly as the howling winds of the steppes. Our men met the enemy, as they moved swiftly toward us. The women waited, until called upon, continuing our war chants of death.
Even the children stood beside us chanting with their little voices, “Death be yours, my enemy!” The children, too, had weapons, with which they practiced mock killing and defense. Older children joined in the battle, behind their parents.
We watched our army advance and saw the enemy fall, wounded or killed, slowly struggling in the throes of death. Some of our men flung rocks and fiery missiles into the throng of enemy warriors. Men whose hair had caught fire, batted their arms to extinguish the flames on their sleeves and heads.
For hours, we watched as the battle raged. Women, such as us, scanned the slope for wounded men to retrieve and tend, or men who begged for merciful death, as they took their passage to Valhalla. The agony of the wounded men was soothed by their wives or mothers, daughters or sons. We shouted words of encouragement to them, so they would know they were mighty in battle and worthy of our respect.
Soon, victory seemed apparent with its striking silence. We cheered as our men returned to camp. They appreciated our supportive whoops and cries,
“Wodanaz helped our men return with victory and honor! We are victorious!” All were unified by these words and by the witnessed death of our foe. I raised my sword with Saskia’s blade crossed over mine. We were triumphant.
The rest of the afternoon we feasted on the captured food and mead. We were filthy with sweat and blood, but later, we’d wash and tell stories over the fires that retold, in our eyes, what we had witnessed that day. The men and women danced and sung to the music, played by the lyre and drums, well into the night. We danced with them. We sang our kin’ s songs of heroic deeds, as the bodies of our enemy lay on the hillside.
It was late when the Gepids finally slept, weary from the work of war. Saskia and I whispered our impressions of the battle. I spoke to her of one particular young man that I noticed wounded. I had cleaned his wounds and bandaged him earlier in the evening. He rested by the camp fire nearest our rock. My eyes closed and then, struggled to open, stealing one more glimpse of him. His name was Gerulf.
At morning’s light, I awakened and saw that he still lay asleep. Gerulf was several years older than me. His parents had passed on, to join his ancestors. He came from a noble family, so he was a valiant and important man in this tribe of the Gepids. Gerulf had looked up at me with proud blue eyes, as I knelt beside him to tend his wounds last evening. Now, as I watched him sleep, he looked as vulnerable as a rabbit, curled up in a peaceful ball. I wished for him to open his eyes, so that I might see them again. I decided to kiss his forehead. He jumped and sat up a little, noticing that I was a friend, not foe.
“I regret having to wake you, but I did not want you to starve. I have your breakfast, if you feel hungry. I’m sure you do, after that battle yesterday. If you need me to help you, I am available.” I spoke quietly, so as not to disturb others who were still in deep repose.
