The Silver Wolf Page 17

  Before Regeane could reply, Lucilla turned and hurried away. The night air coming through the window was cold. Regeane closed the shutters, bolted them, and covered Elfgifa. The child stirred. Regeane kissed one soft, still-grimy cheek. Elfgifa heaved a deep sigh and stretched out a bit under the warm coverlet.

  Regeane was uncertain. Was the child safe here?

  The wolf was satisfied. Something about Fausta. Her quiet speech. Her ripe apple smell reassured the wolf. A fine pack member, not bold, but always to be relied upon. One of the steady ones.

  Regeane hurried toward the dining room.

  THEY DINED IN PRIVACY AS LUCILLA HAD PROMISED. The two couches faced each other over a low table containing what to Lucilla was obviously her usual fare—and, to Regeane, a sumptuous meal.

  A perfumed breeze drifted into the room from the dark garden.

  The dinner was spread out on the table before them: venison done over an open fire, covered by a sauce made with the drippings; a larded capon cooked with honey and almonds; black olives; bread; and a few boiled eggs.

  A silver tray with red glass cups and a jug sat on the table.

  Lucilla lifted one of the red goblets and poured Regeane a cup of wine. “This is my very oldest vintage. I preserved it for my son’s wedding feast, but it will do as well for his funeral, because he must die tonight. Tell me where he is.”

  Regeane shrugged. “I wouldn’t know how. I found a secret place.”

  Lucilla stared at her. “You’re lying.”

  “No.” Regeane denied the accusation. “I’m not a huntsman. I don’t travel the same way Basil and his clumsy henchmen stumble around. I’m … different.”

  Lucilla sobbed deep in her throat. Then she lowered her head, resting her brow against the high-raised cushion at the end of the dining couch.

  Regeane stretched out her hand to the food. Her fingers swirled a chunk of venison in the sauce and carried it to her lips. The wolf was hungry, half starved, and she set Regeane to work as quickly as possible.

  The wolf’s feelings were too strong for the woman’s verbal mind. The wolf knew only that somewhere in the depths of her being, she had come to a decision.

  She had come to it without argument or analysis, almost without thought of the ramifications or consequences. She was going to save Antonius. Regeane was in accord.

  With the clarity born of the almost hysterical tension within her, Regeane looked around the room at the beautiful frescoes on the walls that gave the illusion of light and space, at the alabaster lamps, the purplish-red velvet cushions on the dining couches.

  Lucilla didn’t eat, though she took a goblet of the dark wine.

  The dining room that had seemed so splendid the night before now seemed tawdry and cheap. The frescos were stained and darkened by time and the sooty smoke of a thousand contaminated dinners. Here and there bits and pieces of paint were flaking away, showing the bare walls.

  The dove-shaped lamps were the overstated touch of a procuress, a brothel keeper. But that was what Lucilla was, wasn’t she? Whatever pretty words she put on it—a pander.

  Regeane finished the venison. She snapped a wing and a breast from the capon and her teeth tore at the soft-scented white meat.

  Even if Lucilla served the first families of Rome, her goddess was still lust. Aphrodite with golden fingers. Noble lords took the girls as Maeniel would take Regeane. Lucilla took her pay. And her son’s blood.

  For what seemed like a long time, Regeane ate without speaking. She felt caught in a maze. A journey that began when Gundabald told her she was going to be married and what he wanted her to do to Maeniel after she wedded him. He wanted her to be a compliant wife and lure Maeniel into a false sense of security.

  But come the night of the full moon or even, she thought joy-fully, any darkness, she could change. Change and tear her inconvenient husband’s throat out. The men in the garden last night hadn’t stood much chance against her. She was not only much bigger than a normal wolf, she was much more intelligent. She could wait and pick her time.

  She glanced around again at the luxurious room’s shabby grandeur. She felt sickened, disgusted by Lucilla’s readiness to murder her own son because he was politically inconvenient.

  Lucilla’s voice broke in on her thoughts. “Where is he?” she asked again.

  “Why do you want to kill him?” Regeane asked.

  Lucilla reached across the table and snatched Regeane’s hair. She shook her head viciously. “Why do you torment me with this nonsense?” she screamed. “What’s Antonius to you? Why should you care if he lives or dies? Tell me where he is and be done with it.”

  It took everything Regeane had to keep the wolf from coming into being, but the beast spoke, and the voice echoed in Regeane’s throat. At the same time, the woman’s arm swept out. Her palm landed with a loud crack on Lucilla’s cheek.

  The growl and the slap cut through Lucilla’s rage. She drew back with a shudder and whispered, “Christ, what was that sound? God, what are you?”

  “Keep your hands off me,” Regeane spat. “I’m … not … taking … any … poison … to … Antonius.”

  “You said—” Lucilla began.

  “No,” Regeane shouted as she jumped off the couch to her left.

  “You promised.” Lucilla’s voice was shrill and murderous as a bird of prey’s.

  “I lied!” Regeane shrieked. “I had to get out of that room with a bolt on the door. I had to … I don’t know if I can help Antonius, but I’m going to try.” Regeane’s head snapped back as the wolf tried to seize her. Then the night creature fled, snarling as the woman slapped her away … hard. Regeane stopped. She was gasping, partly with the effort of keeping the wolf down, partly with purely human fury.

  Lucilla stared at her, shocked into silence. “Regeane, Regeane. Do you think I want to kill my own son?”

  “No,” she answered. “I think you feel you must.”

  Lucilla nodded. “I do. You saw that mob today, saw how quickly they surrounded my litter, heard the insults they hurled at me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” Lucilla said, “if that mob really comes to believe Hadrian’s family is tainted as Antonius is, they will destroy him. Factional politics, my dear, aren’t simply a problem in this city, they are a disease.

  “All that has restrained him so far is that Hadrian is deeply respected by the old senatorial families and wildly loved by the people. But if Antonius is found and publicly shown to be a leper, it may be all Basil needs to unseat Hadrian.”

  Lucilla turned, swung her legs over the side of the couch, and got to her feet. She turned to Regeane with outstretched arms. “Since the disease began to show itself three years ago, we’ve hidden him. Now … now I can’t save him. And even if I could, dear sweet merciful God, for what? For what, I ask you, girl? Until the rot reaches some vital organ and he dies, slowly and in misery?”

  Lucilla’s arms dropped to her sides. Then she raised one hand and thrust it into her hair, dragging at the long, blond strands as if she wanted to tear them from her scalp. “Or until Antonius takes matters into his own hands and does what he must to prevent himself from being the instrument of Hadrian’s destruction.”

  Regeane didn’t reply. She had, in truth, no answer for Lucilla. She felt the tug of the night in her flesh, in her bones. The wolf wanted to be away, to smell the clean wind, to run across the fields under the stars. Far from the humans like Lucilla who had for so many years imprisoned her in narrow stone rooms with bars on the windows. Far from the humans who created such agonizing, incomprehensible conundrums as politics and war.

  The room grew dim around her. The wolf reared in the gathering darkness. Wolf and woman smelled the freshening night breezes drifting in from the atrium.

  Regeane looked up at the hanging lamp festooned with alabaster doves. Some of them must have exhausted their oil. They were going out now slowly, one by one.

  Lucilla staggered against the couch. “Oh, God,” sh
e whimpered. “Christ, I’m everything they say I am—whore, bitch, a sow eating her litter, and my son … Oh, God, Antonius!”

  Her face paled to a dirty white color. A faint sheen of sweat broke out on her skin.

  Regeane eased away. As the oil in the lamp was used up, the room grew darker. The wolf moved closer.

  Lucilla staggered and fell to her knees. She stared up at Regeane, uncomprehending. “Where are you going?” she asked. “What are you going to do?”

  Regeane backed toward the inky darkness of the atrium. The change was taking her powerfully, paralyzing her throat and tongue. She could barely form the words of her answer. “I’m going to find out what is in the night.”

  IX

  THE PAPAL MESSENGER’S FINGERS WERE TIGHTLY wound around one of Maeniel’s silver wine cups. Fast asleep, he was stretched out on the table, lying on the remnants of last night’s feast.

  Maeniel scratched his head and tried to remember the man’s name.

  Matrona eyed him from the other side of the table.

  “What did he call himself?” Maeniel asked.

  “Harek,” Matrona answered.

  “Harek,” Maeniel said. “Funny, I could have sworn he was a Roman.”

  Matrona snickered coldly. A snicker is always cold, but Matrona’s was nastier than most. “A lot of them name themselves after us barbarians. They think it makes them sound tougher.” She smiled, but the smile wasn’t much of an improvement over the snicker. “I can’t say it helped him very much.”

  Maeniel nodded. The papal messenger was about an inch under five feet tall. Matrona towered over him.

  “He was a bit stiff at first,” Gorgo said, “but he loosened up nicely after a while.”

  “Too much,” Matrona said.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Gorgo said. Gorgo was a big man whose long brown hair melted into his thick brown beard and moustache. He was still sitting upright, something of an accomplishment after a night of heavy drinking.

  “How about when he chased Silvia around the hall?” Matrona said.

  “Silvia?” Maeniel said. “She was afraid of him?”

  “No,” Matrona said, “coy.”

  “Maybe she wanted some privacy,” Gorgo said delicately.

  “I can’t think why,” Matrona said. “She never bothered about it before.”

  “That’s true,” Gorgo said.

  “Silvia.” Maeniel mulled the matter over in his mind, then asked, “Did he catch her?”

  “In the kitchen,” Matrona said.

  “Did he achieve his objective?” Gorgo inquired.

  “I can’t say,” Matrona answered, “but he charged in bravely, pushing things aside with his hands. He looked like he was swimming.”

  “Silvia has no reason to fear a high wind,” Maeniel said.

  “Silvia,” Gorgo said, “has no reason to fear an avalanche.”

  “True,” Maeniel said, studying the small man on the table with interest. “He’s very brave for a Roman.”

  “At any rate,” Matrona continued, “they both behaved as if they believed he had.”

  “Don’t describe it,” Maeniel said.

  “It’s just as well the kitchen has a stone floor,” Matrona said.

  “It’s just as well he found Silvia attractive,” Gorgo said. “I was about to see if he could fly.”

  “Don’t do that,” Maeniel said.

  “Not from the parapet,” Gorgo said, “just here in the hall. He called me a barbarian, a crude, stupid barbarian.”

  “Drink,” Matrona said, “brings out the worst in him.”

  “I didn’t chop the hole in the ceiling,” Gorgo complained. “Besides, it’s as I told him, if there wasn’t a hole in the ceiling, how would the smoke get out? If it couldn’t, when we lit the fire we’d all suffocate,”

  Maeniel squinted up at the hole in the ceiling and scratched his head again.

  “I can’t think what they wanted so much space for anyway,” Gorgo muttered.

  The dining hall was what remained of a small Roman basilica. It was a long, T-shaped room with a barrel-vaulted ceiling and a high domed roof over the long table at the end. At some time in the past someone had taken a pickax to the center of the barrel vault that covered the long end of the T. A similar implement had gouged a large hole in the marble floor. The remains of a large fire smoldered in the pit under the hole in the ceiling.

  A lot of Maeniel’s people were sleeping heaped together around the crude hearth. Legs protruded from under the table at the end of the room.

  “Where’s Gavin?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” Matrona was busy prying the silver cup out of Harek’s hands.

  “You can tell he’s a churchman by the tight grip he has on the silver,” Gorgo said.

  Maeniel glanced at the firepit. Gavin wasn’t among those sleeping around it. Where was he?

  Maeniel walked along the table, looking at feet. Some had their toes pointed upward, others the heels, but heel or toe, none belonged to Gavin.

  He finally found him, heels up, lying between Silvia’s larger feet at the end of the table.

  “Gavin and the papal messenger in one night?” he asked Matrona.

  “No.” She was still occupied with the silver cup. “I think he just crawled on top of her so he could have a warm, comfortable place to sleep. He asked me and I said yes.”

  “But he was too far gone,” Maeniel said.

  Matrona finally freed the cup and strolled away to put it with the rest under lock and key. “I know,” she shot back over her shoulder at Maeniel. “That’s why I said yes.”

  Poor Gavin. However, poor or not, they had to get started today, and left to himself, Gavin would sleep until late afternoon. Maeniel grabbed him by the ankles and pulled him out from under the table.

  Gavin screamed. “Eeeeeee! Daylight!” He went back under, powered by his fingers and toes, and tried to flop down again on top of Silvia.

  Maeniel sympathized with him. She looked billowy and comfortable. She was almost as big as a bed. Silvia, however, was waking up and didn’t want any part of Gavin. She straight-armed him, catching him under the chin and pushing him aside.

  Gavin moaned. The cold from the icy stone floor penetrated his clothing. He curled up on his side like an injured caterpillar and whimpered softly.

  Maeniel grabbed Gavin by the ankles and hauled him out again. He held Gavin up like a wheelbarrow, legs in the air, upper body free, and arms on the floor.

  “Oh, God!” Gavin shrieked, both hands clutching at his skull.

  “Must I throw you in the fountain?” Maeniel asked

  The fountain in the courtyard was fed by snowmelt from the glaciers that towered over the pass. Even in the warmest weather, the water was bitter cold.

  Gavin shuddered violently, but immediately decided sobriety was the better part of valor. “I’m awake, Maeniel.”

  “Good.” Maeniel let go of his ankles.

  Gavin managed to stagger to his feet. He was pale and his eyes were slitted against the light.

  “We are going to Rome,” Maeniel said. “We’re leaving today.”

  “No,” Gavin moaned. “There’s going to be something wrong with her, I tell you, terribly, terribly wrong. You already know part of what’s wrong. You saw the letter. Her closest relatives are such bestial scoundrels, they even managed to shock the pope himself. And living among those dissolute and depraved Romans, you know, it must be difficult to shock him!”

  Maeniel’s eyes roved around the hall. Under the table Silvia huffed, snorted, and rolled over. “Dissolute Romans,” he muttered at Gavin. “And what are we?”

  Gavin staggered along the table, looking for a jug with some beer or wine in it. Eventually he found one. He lifted it to his lips. His Adam’s apple moved up and down for perhaps half a minute. When he set the jug down he said, “Noble, pure-hearted, chaste barbarians. I know because that’s what the pope’s messenger told me last night. Some writer named Tacitus said so.�
��

  Matrona rested her fists on her ample hips, threw back her head, and howled. “The only time you’re chaste, Gavin, is when you chased, but could not catch her. I have seen manure piles purer than your heart and, as for nobility, you’re a by-blow gotten on a scullery wench who was probably a slow runner.”

  “You notice,” Gorgo said, “he had already learned better than to mention sobriety.”

  Gavin’s face turned an unhealthy and nearly impossible shade of greenish purple. “My father,” he said in a strangled tone, “is …”

  Matrona began to roll up her sleeves. “Come on, Gorgo,” she said. “He’s started going on about his father. He needs to be thrown in the fountain.”

  Gavin backed up and jumped behind Maeniel.

  Maeniel noticed Gavin had a black eye and a split lip on one side. “Who had the temerity to strike my captain?” he asked half jokingly. “Matrona?”

  Matrona gave an evil chuckle. “No, I wasn’t the one this time.”

  Joseph spoke up. He was a large man with a lugubrious face. A moustache drooped down over his upper lip. “He mistook me for Matrona.”

  “I didn’t.” Gavin’s horrified denial came from behind Maeniel.

  “You did,” Joseph said, shaking his head. “And I feared lest you make a similar mistake with someone less patient, so I put you to sleep.”

  Gavin staggered away, muttering about disrespect and false friendship.

  “Gorgo, Joseph,” Maeniel said, “go fetch some money.”

  People all along the table were waking now, searching for and finding a hair of the dog.

  Gorgo and Joseph returned with a large chest, “It’s heavy,” Joseph moaned.

  “Well, dump it out on the floor,” Maeniel said.

  They did. A heap of gold and silver poured out. There were antique silver and gold coins, jewelry studded with precious and semiprecious stones, and the occasional showy pieces of glass, tableware, cups, plates, serving platters, and bowls.