Southern Dacia, 377 AD

I've been captured, and it's only a matter of time before they martyr me like they do with the rest of my kind.

I find myself in a poorly lit tent, dank with the smell of sweat and piss. There's a carved wooden chair in front of me, well ornamented and couched like a throne, its featureless shadows stirred by the bonfire outside. Down in the valley, my town is being overrun by barbarians. Cries of Roman and Gothic men alike mix in the din of clashing swords and banging shields.

Forced to wait here on my knees, my hands are tied from behind. At least they didn't gag me or cover my eyes. But as time stretches on, I wonder if I'm confusing this oversight with mercy. Any moment now, a filthy, blood-splattered barbarian can barge in and take advantage before they are done with me. I press my legs against each other, and feel myself growing smaller. It is warm and humid, yet I'm shivering out of control.

I utter a shaky prayer, asking the Savior of Mankind to pass this cup from me, or for my admittance to Paradise to be swift. Then I remember my unconfessed sins and my heart freezes. She's safe. She made it back to the shelter. But they know. They saw us.

They came at night. It happened so fast, like the coming of the Lord. But these Goths have not come to deliver us; they are saving themselves from the Huns. Or so I've heard. I've listened to my father talk with the other men, the Romans. For some time we knew the Goths had been camping on the other side of the river, that their crossing could happen any moment now. But we grew careless, too confident.

So did Phoebe and I. To everyone's eyes we are just two maidens doing our daily chores. For years we managed to avoid marriage, but our parents were growing impatient. Nobody knew of our furtive encounters, those brief moments of love where our bodies were hidden but our souls were laid bare; only God who sees all had been witness, and I knew a day would come where I must answer for the weakness of my flesh. Perhaps tonight is that moment.

It was earlier tonight that we were locked in an embrace. We didn't hear them approaching. The door swung open. Gasping, we covered our bare breasts. I met my father's dumbfounded eyes. The priest uttered a hasty prayer behind him. I swore it was all over. Their wrath was upon us. But the Roman sentinels saved us with their alarm; the Goths had made the crossing. My father ran past us and reached for his blade. There was no time to chastise a pair of licentious girls. It was time to kill barbarians.

The battle rages still.

Perhaps I shouldn't call them barbarians — that's how the Romans call them — but I can't exactly call them my people either. Although my forefathers came from the north as well — one of the myriad branches of Goths — my father converted to Christianity in Dacia and I was raised as such, nurtured by the love of Christ and his blood that cleanses all sin.

I've never been outside the Roman world. All I hear of the northern lands beyond the Danube, of the countless tribes and the devastating Huns, is shrouded by a veil of mystery that fills me with dread. I must admit it feels like a part of me I have no wish to discover. It was the same with Phoebe at first. At the chapel they speak of all the vices of the flesh, of how we are fallen. But there is a desire within me which cannot be appeased.

Phoebe and I hid behind the sacks of grain as chaos unfurled outside the house. We stared frightened when someone banged at the door, then screamed when a javelin burst through the window. Phoebe was praying in Greek — she's from Thessalonica — and part of me wished she prayed for the forgiveness of our transgression. How can one not think we were being punished?

Then we smelled the fire and the house filled with smoke. We had no choice but to make a run for it. There were bodies everywhere, but tonight is a new moon and we couldn't distinguish one from another. That's when we got separated. I screamed her name as they dragged me away. I saw her make it to the dark woods, where the shelter is. She must be back with our people. She has to be.

An hour or two passes.

The din of battle dwindles. I hear voices, both merry and painful. The Goths are back. There are men everywhere around the tent as they spread throughout their camp. Tending their wounds, lining up their captives, singing songs of victory.

The tent's curtain parts open and a tall man enters. A couple others follow him. My eardrums rattle with my booming heartbeat. The men keep a certain distance, orbiting with reverence around the tall man. He takes off his helmet to reveal a sweaty face with the nose of an eagle. His matted hair falls down over padded shoulders. He slumps exhausted over the chair, a portable throne.

I stifle a sob as I understand.

King Athanaric, the son of perdition. Christians all around the Roman borders know about him. He's made it his duty to eliminate us, just like his father before him. It was a few years ago that one of his men, in a village far to the east, burned a chapel and forced the local Christians to worship an idol on a chariot. More than a dozen people were burned alive. When we heard of this from our priest, we joined in exhaustive prayer and sent a sumptuous offering — considering we are but a small village — what's left of it.

He gulps down what I think is wine and dries his short beard with the back of his hand. Only then he notices me, a helpless creature, a trembling pup.

The men grow quiet behind me and I jolt when he speaks because I understand him. By the look on my face I must already know who he is, he says. His voice is not so deep, but there is power and resolve in it. I lower my head. No words come out. I'm afraid that if I try to speak my trembling body will collapse.

"I know you understand me. You are one of us," he says, "a lost sheep. That's what those priests call our kind, isn't it? Well, indeed you are, but now you are found."

There's bawdy laughter outside. Some horses neigh in the distance. Still, I don't say a word.

He goes on, "You must already know that the penalty of a soldier who defects is death. But you are no soldier, most of you aren't. You've been lied to. You've been misled. That is why I give you a second chance to come back to where you belong. Your place is with us and the gods of our forefathers."

He wants me to recant. This is my cross. My heart beats faster. Is it fear or is it joy? I can't tell. Many fellow believers have been here before me. I remember the Sermon on the Mount, Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven. Now is my time to stand high and carry it to the end. I garner the courage to speak, to make a sound.

"Ch–Christ suffered so we could be saved." I take a deep breath. "And to suffer in his name is a virtue." Thus the Apostle wrote.

"That is what they tell you to say…" the king says amused. "I admire your resolve."

"We have all fallen from his grace. We are sinful and unworthy." I continue as words come out in torrents. "He is the way and the life. Only through his blood can we be saved. We have the promise of eternal life —"

"And the burning flames," he interrupts. The grip of his fist betrays his irritation. "Spare me the preaching, girl. I've heard it all and not one second have I wavered. This religion you profess has infiltrated our people like an infectious malady." He pauses, but I'm too taken aback to respond.

So he goes on, "It befalls me to put an end to it, to heal the minds and hearts of our tribes. The gods have given us our place in this world, ever since our forefathers sailed from the frozen sea. Now we are flanked from all sides, like a cornered prey. The Huns push us from the east, the Romans resist from the south and west, and not all the tribes that follow us are friends. We must stay strong and united. These preachers come with their tortured Savior and their false promises. They want to divide us, make us weak. I don't care in the slightest if the Romans allow themselves to be corrupted by this pernicious sect, foreign even to them. Indeed they should have kept their faith in their old gods, the ones who gave them the whole world to conquer. Now they are falling apart. Their institutions are eroding with greed and decadence, and all they can think of is paradise after this world's imminent end."

"We shouldn't bother with earthly tethers," I blurt out, "but set our eyes on the Kingdom of Heaven."

"This foolish faith you profess is so corrupting that not even the Romans can make up their mind of what it truly is. I've heard of their petty councils and religious feuds. They brought it upon themselves by turning a man into their god, and their god into a man. Now they are stupefied by a contradiction of their own making. They call us pagans. But it is us pagans who understand that the mysteries of the divine cannot be reduced to human terms. It is ineffable. It is found in the billowing sea, in the flash of lighting and the falling rain, in the bountiful crops and dry seasons, in the pleasures of copulation and the tolls of war, in the wailing cries of a newborn and the last breath that brings death. They despise our ways, our gods and sacrifices, yet they worship a sacrificed man and pray to a sacrificed god. They are no better than us, I say. Let the Romans fool themselves if so they wish, but I must protect my people from their nonsense. We are one and we must stay together."

He stands up and dons his cloak. "Now, I give you an opportunity to return where you belong. If you wish to live, you are to forsake this confounded Savior and worship the god that awaits outside."

I'm left alone. I ask the Lord for a sign, but prayer doesn't allay my troubled heart. Truth is I don't want to die just yet. I could just pretend and be spared. Will the Lord receive me regardless? I may even have a chance to sneak away and reunite with my people. And be with Phoebe again.

My heart drops as I remember the look on my father's face. I imagine myself turning back to the deep woods, only to find a massive wall looming before me; surely consequences await me on the other side. The thought makes me fear for Phoebe's wellbeing as well, even though she's where she belongs and I'm the one that's been captured. They will call us unnatural, an abomination. I won't be the first to be shunned from my community for tainting love with sin.

I weigh my choices, but a clear decision eludes me. Disapproved of on both fronts, I fear there is no safe haven left for me. The world is fractured between Romans and Barbarians and I am made of both and neither. A deserter amongst Goths. A sinner amongst Christians.

Chanting spreads outside. The Goths sing a song in their ancient tongue as they gather for a ritual around the fire. Us Christians sing hymns and psalms at the chapel, but this song comes from a different world. Being of barbarian descent myself, I listen, waiting to see if the song stirs something within me. But my soul is indifferent.

A glint of the bonfire flashes my eyes when the men come back for me. Time is up. They grab me gentler than before and lead me outside. A cool breeze brushes my cheeks and my lungs fill with clear night air. In front of me, as I suspected, people sing around the flames. Then I see it. Towering over the crowd, its countenance shaded as a halo of fire burns behind it, the idol demands to be worshiped.

I am shoved towards the crowd until I'm in the front line and the heat envelops me like an embrace. There's nothing between me and the idol now. Indeed, it stands over a chariot. Bells of various sizes dangle from its ornate tunic. With its curved frame, prominent breast and long green eyes, I understand it to be a female goddess.

Smoke fills my nostrils, makes my eyes water. I spot King Athanaric kneeling before the goddess, offering libations. He gives me a look, letting me know the moment has come. He wants me to join the singers. My lips tremble.

I can also feel God watching from above. Like with Abraham at the beginning of time, He is testing my faith. Would that He sends an angel to deliver me from this trial. I can't help but wonder how I'm going to die. Will they throw me to the fire like the Christians that burned in Nero's courtyard? Will it be quicker? Death is inevitable, but so is eternal life to those who remain faithful to the very end.

I take one last look at my surroundings and my heart skips a beat. I'm stunned.

There she is. On the far side of the gathering, her face is lit up by the fire. Weeping builds up within me as I realize she was also captured. My dear Phoebe. Her lips are moving. I try to make sense of what she's trying to tell me. But something's amiss. She hasn't noticed me.

Now I understand. She sings with the rest of the crowd.