The Silver Wolf Page 7

  Yes, it was in good condition. Her knowing fingers explored the fabric. Not pure silk, but that wasn’t to be expected, not here. If the stains didn’t wash out she …

  The world vanished. She could feel the garrotte around her throat and even before it closed, she knew herself a dead woman. The man’s hands tightening the wire and twisting the wooden dowels at the back of her neck were too strong for her to challenge. Even though she ripped into them with her nails, felt the skin peel, and her fingertips slick with blood. She knew the hands would not release the wire and even probably took some satisfaction from the proof of her agony.

  The steel thread crushed her windpipe. Sight was gone. Air was gone. Life was gone. The only thing remaining was the scream … silent … only in her brain and it went on and on and on and …

  Regeane threw the dress away from her.

  “What? Are you sick?” the cloth seller shouted. “Are you pregnant?”

  “Why is it?” Regeane replied acidly. She was leaning on the cart, trying to get her stomach under control. “Why is it when a woman turns pale or seems ill—if she’s below seventy years—the nearest man asks her if she’s pregnant?”

  “Because she often is,” a musical voice answered. “But in your case, I believe you to be unusually perceptive.”

  Regeane turned and looked at the speaker. She was dangling the luxurious robe by one finger as if it were some filthy discard. “Take this … thing,” she said to the cloth seller, “and dump it into the unmarked grave where she lies. I’ll pay you.”

  “Oh, God!” Regeane said. “That’s foul.” She was wiping her hands on her mantle. She felt contaminated.

  The cloth seller tucked the robe deep into the rags on his cart.

  The woman continued lazily. “Its previous owner betrayed her lover to a man named Paul Afartha. He pulled the strings on our late Lombard pope. Her lover belonged to the present pope’s party. Paul had him tortured but—unfortunately for her—not to death. He was released when Hadrian became pope. He’s blind in one eye and lacks some fingers, but he still has one good eye and two hands. He strangled her. She was wearing that dress at the time.”

  “It’s a good piece of cloth,” the man grumbled.

  This time the imposing woman spoke sharply. “Bring the thing to my house. Apply to my maid, Susanna. She will pay you and burn it. Sacred blood, man! Stains from her last natural functions discolor the hem. Do as I say.”

  “Yes, my lady,” the man replied meekly.

  Regeane felt disheveled. She was. Mantle at her feet, veil on her shoulders. The speaker, a tall woman, was fingering her hair.

  Regeane had an impression of rich clothing and silky exquisite perfume. Two large men who flanked the lady prevented forward progress. Regeane tried to ease backward. Impossible. She was caught between the cloth seller’s cart and the furniture man’s. They were pushed together at the back. She was wedged between them.

  “What’s a beautiful creature like you doing fumbling through trash like this? I could easily find you a … protector who would buy you better gowns,” the lady said.

  “I wouldn’t … I don’t think … I don’t know …” Regeane stammered, trying to push past the lady and her escort. The two men planted themselves like boulders and refused to let her by. The lady blocked the passage between them. They all looked amused.

  Regeane had never been so close to anyone as well dressed or as clean and sweet-smelling as this woman. The wolf was charmed and half in love already.

  “Cluck, cluck, cluck.” The furniture seller mimicked Regeane. “Stand up and speak to Lucilla like a proper woman. She’s as nervous as a pullet in a yard full of roosters,” he told Lucilla.

  Regeane was stung.

  The wolf was stung.

  Regeane drew herself up and studied the woman called Lucilla.

  At first sight, she seemed young, but then Regeane realized this was an illusion created by a number of deftly applied decorations. Her shift was Egyptian linen, a fine weave embroidered with white silk. The overdress she wore was a woolen silk damask, dyed two shades of green and of such a fresh, bright color that it reminded Regeane of the first flush of new leaves in the spring. Some very clever painting. Powdering had been done to her face. She was still beautiful, but carried the telltale marks of age in the lines around the eyes and mouth, and the faint, as yet so very faint, webbing of wrinkles on the brow and cheeks.

  “How do you do this to your hair? By what art?” Lucilla asked. “Teach me. I’ll pay you well. I’d like to learn it.”

  “No art,” Regeane said. “I know no arts. My hair has been so since I can remember.” Her hair was as the silver wolf’s fur, dark shading to white at the tips. Each tress appeared dipped in moonlight.

  “No art,” Lucilla said. “Of course not. I was foolish even to ask. You are obviously as nature made you. Not even a strophium.” Regeane’s hair fell from her fingers.

  Regeane gasped. Her hands came up to search her breasts. Her cheeks glowed. “Oh, my God,” she gasped. “I forgot.”

  Lucilla’s escorts and the two merchants doubled whooping with laughter.

  Lucilla stretched out her hand and cupped one of Regeane’s breasts. “May the angels bless my soul,” she said quietly. “A ripe peach. My poor dear, you don’t need a binder.”

  Regeane knew she should be angry at the liberties taken with her person, but she found the lady’s touch stimulated a stab of pleasure in a part of her body far from her breast. She caught Lucilla’s wrist, but didn’t push her away. Lucilla withdrew her hand at her own pace, slipping her wrist slowly through Regeane’s fingers.

  “Are you a free woman?” the lady asked abruptly.

  “Free and freeborn,” Regeane replied proudly and a little angrily. This woman was frightening her. She wondered if she should shout for Hugo, but then abandoned the idea immediately. The two mercenaries accompanying Lucilla were well armed, well dressed, well paid, and—doubtless—well practiced servants of a noble house. Either one of them could pulverize Hugo with one hand.

  “Married or betrothed?” Lucilla asked.

  “Betrothed,” Regeane answered doubtfully.

  Lucilla pounced on the uncertainty in her voice. “Then you don’t like him?”

  “I don’t know.” Regeane felt at a loss. “I’ve never met or even seen him.”

  “Aah,” Lucilla said. She smiled, lowered her eyelids. Regeane was amazed to see the eyelashes were outlined in black and the lids themselves were stained pale blue, shading away at her brows.

  “Why not come home with me,” Lucilla said. “I’ll give you a good dinner, then you can share my couch. In the morning, my maids will fit you with a better dress than any you could buy here. And if I find you especially pleasing, as I believe I will, you shall have a little gold in the bargain.”

  Regeane didn’t say anything at first because she didn’t understand. When she did, the proposition was so foreign to her experience, she was confused by it. She blushed, then became very annoyed with herself for blushing and made a determined effort to get out of her corner.

  Lucilla and the two mercenaries stepped aside laughing. Regeane was ready to flee, not out of displeasure, but embarrassment. She was brought to a halt immediately.

  The cloth seller, perched on his wagon seat, had a good grip on the back of her dress. He shook her gently. “Fluffy little hatchling. Don’t pay any attention to her, Lucilla. Her feathers are still damp. She doesn’t understand what a fine offer you’ve made her. Listen to the barbarous turn of her Latin speech. She’s a Frank.”

  “He’s right, lovely one,” Lucilla said. “Don’t run away until you’re sure you want to. Girls have gone from my arms to the beds of kings, cardinals, and popes.” She lifted one beautiful long-fingered hand in a graceful gesture. “I, and I alone, have made the fortunes of several noble families.”

  The cloth seller let go of her dress and tapped Regeane on the shoulder. “You see before you,” he said indicating Lucilla, �
��the richest and most successful courtesan in Rome. Her interest in you is an honor. Ah, these stern, virtuous barbarians. They keep their women so closely guarded. She looks still a virgin. She must be.” He lifted Regeane’s arm. “Such skin she has, white as the finest grainless marble. Touched with only the faintest blush of rose,” he rhapsodized. “Certainly she’s still a virgin.”

  “I don’t know,” Lucilla said, tapping her teeth with a fingernail. “Like all barbarians, she’s been out in the weather too much. She’s a bit tanned. It isn’t fashionable at present.”

  “Tanned!” the cloth seller cried. He sounded mortally wounded. “She isn’t tanned. A touch of the sun brings out the warmer flesh tones.” He lifted Regeane’s arm, exhibiting it like a trophy. “Look at that golden down, softer than the fur on a newborn kitten. Look how it glows in the sunlight.” He must have had a good imagination. The sky was gray. The sun hadn’t been seen for weeks. “Think how it would glow by lamplight as she undressed herself in your chamber. Think how delightful it will be to instruct this young foam-born Venus in the first arts …”

  Regeane had heard enough. More than enough. She snatched her arm away from the cloth seller, shouting, “What? Are you getting a commission?”

  All the men laughed.

  “Yes,” Lucilla said. “He began waving his arms at me the moment you reached his cart, but don’t worry, he’s already earned his pay. The man admires you. He has a good eye. Tell me, do you still want to run away?”

  Regeane knew what her mother would say. “Pick up your veil, snatch your mantle from the stone street. Flee! This woman is painted vice. The very embodiment of sin.” Yes, Regeane thought, and you murdered my father. You murdered a man who loved and trusted you. In a twinkling, her mother was gone and the wolf looked out at Lucilla.

  The woman’s brows drew together slightly as if she sensed someone else was present.

  A thousand cues flooded Regeane’s human-wolf senses. The deceiver smells of anxiety, fear, and decaying body chemicals drench the skin and make the truly unscrupulous stink. Nothing like that here. Only clean soap, warm flesh, woman at the armpits and groin. She didn’t trail the nauseating effluvia of sorrow or pain … only peace, silence, but somewhere, grief.

  The wolf left. She knew something she hadn’t or couldn’t tell Regeane, but she registered no disapproval, only a wish for Lucilla’s touch. My, Regeane thought, and what have I to look forward to? Only the narrow stone room and an unknown spouse who might be both repulsive and cruel.

  “Well,” Lucilla prompted. “Still want to run away?”

  “No!” Regeane said. “I will never return home.”

  “My,” Lucilla said. “Such grim resolve. And in one so young. Tell me—”

  Hugo, on the other side of the cart, screamed. “The little bitch bit me.”

  Regeane peered past the mules’ rumps at the group of slaves.

  Lucilla chuckled. “It appears one of the slaves just bit a customer.”

  “I know,” Regeane said. “My cousin, Hugo.”

  Lucilla clucked her tongue in polite sympathy. “Too bad.”

  “Not at all,” Regeane said. “I hope she drew blood.”

  They all peered past the carts at Hugo and the slave dealer.

  “Cocksucker!” the slave dealer screamed at Hugo. “Why were you pawing the merchandise if you hadn’t the coin to buy.”

  “You painted, dung-eating pimp!” Hugo shouted as he drew his dagger.

  “Oh, no!” Regeane cried, trying to push past Lucilla and her men-at-arms.

  “What!” Lucilla snapped, catching Regeane’s arm in an iron grip. “Are you mad! Getting involved in a quarrel in a place like this? Whatever my people may have become, little barbarian, they have not quite forgotten they once ruled the world.” She shoved Regeane between the two carts and ordered the soldier to stay by her side. The cloth seller and the furniture man immediately jumped down, forming a barrier in front of her.

  Regeane held her peace. Lucilla was right. Regeane’s interference could do no good. It might rather get her beaten or killed along with Hugo.

  Lucilla elbowed the mercenary not occupied with Regeane. “Hurry,” she said. “Go hit that idiot over the head and content the slave dealer with some silver—if it’s not too late.”

  Luckily, Hugo, not the bravest of men, and the slave dealer, who really didn’t have the stomach for any fight involving more than words, were still standing about ten feet apart, hurling insults at each other.

  Between the two of them, they had a lot of material. Hugo, who could barely carry on a polite conversation in broken Latin, had fluent command of all the vilest obscenities current among the Roman mob. The slave dealer had a hair-raisingly well-furnished vocabulary also.

  A crowd was gathering to watch the show and urge the combatants on; each no doubt hoping some particularly exotic insult would be sufficient to prod one or the other of the antagonists into an attack. The situation could turn ugly at any moment.

  But Lucilla’s man reached Hugo. He smacked him hard on the side of the head with his sword hilt. Hugo staggered. A glassy stare entered his eyes, then they slowly closed. The big mercenary caught him by the back of the shirt and eased him slowly to the ground.

  “By the horned one’s balls,” Lucilla whispered, “thank heaven for small mercies.” She strode toward the slave dealer. He was still waving his arms and shouting in a fine Roman fury. Giving him a contemptuous look, Lucilla quelled him with a sentence in street argot too rapid for Regeane to follow, then placed some silver in his hand.

  “Which one bit my cousin?” Regeane asked.

  The slave dealer looked around at the wretched huddle of women and children that constituted his stock, then immediately began screaming again.

  “What’s wrong now?” Regeane asked, frightened.

  Lucilla sighed. “The little girl’s run away.” She spat one word at the distraught slave dealer, one Regeane didn’t catch, but it brought him up as short as if she’d flung a shovel full of hot coals at his face.

  The slave dealer fell to his knees on the cobbles. “I’m ruined,” he moaned. “My wife will starve, my children—”

  Lucilla made several statements concerning the slave dealer’s relations with his wife, added a short discussion about the paternity of his children that made Regeane gasp and blush, then organized a search for the child.

  “Why not let her get away?” Regeane whispered to Lucilla.

  Lucilla shook her head. “No. Think. Sooner or later she’ll be caught by someone. What will happen to her will be worse than what might happen here. It can’t be better.”

  Regeane nodded. She understood the voice of reason. Even the cruelest protector might be better than to struggle starving and begging at church doors.

  The wolf visited Regeane’s eyes and ears. The girl staggered slightly with the shock. The light in the square became intense. Smells an overwhelming experience: wet stone, damp air, musty clothing, perspirations shading from ancient sticky filth to fresh acrid adrenal alarm. Avertable flood of sound changes, but one—the most important one—close by. Rapid, frightened breathing near the cloth seller’s cart.

  Somewhere, the silver wolf stood. She lowered her head to touch noses with a cub, one yet unsteady on its tiny legs. Trust passed between them. The wolf was satisfied, then gone.

  Regeane found her eyes were closed. She open them and pried the three remaining silver coins from her scrip.

  The slave dealer was still shouting and tearing his hair.

  “I’ll buy the girl,” Regeane said. “How much do you want for her?”

  The slave dealer broke off in mid-screech.

  Lucilla said, “What!”

  “I said, I’ll buy the child,” Regeane repeated. “Name a price!” She clutched the silver tightly.

  The man’s eyes fixed on Regeane, a look of hard calculation in them.

  “Wait a minute,” Lucilla said. “You’re going to buy a runaway slave you’ve never
seen. Are you ill? Let me feel your forehead. You must have a fever.”

  “No!” the slave dealer shouted. “She must know where the child went. It’s a put-up job between you.”

  Finding the search for the slave girl fruitless, the crowd was beginning to collect around them to watch this new entertainment.

  “Where is she, you robber?” the slave dealer screamed at Regeane.

  Passion seemed the order of the day. Regeane drew herself up. “Do you want my money or not?” She watched avarice and fury war in the man’s face. She gave avarice a little encouragement. “Three silver dinars.”

  “Done,” the slave dealer said.

  Regeane slapped the coins into his outstretched palm.

  “Where is she, then?” Lucilla asked, hands on hips.

  “She’s mine,” Regeane said. “You’re my witness.”

  “Yes, I’ll support you. You’re the child’s owner. Now, tell us where your property is hidden.”

  Regeane turned to the cloth seller’s wagon. “Come out,” she commanded. “Come out now.”

  The crowd pressed closer. The wagon had been searched, its contents prodded with arms and poles. No one believed the runaway could be there. Laughter could be heard among some of the onlookers.

  “Come out,” Regeane repeated. “You’re safe with me. I’ll only like you better for biting Hugo.” She glanced over at Hugo. He was sitting up, muttering unintelligibly to himself, and holding his head. Regeane continued. “I have often wished for a … similar—yes, similar is the word—opportunity myself.”

  The little girl dropped from under one of the dresses hanging from the sides of the cart. She was small enough and strong enough to cling like a small monkey to the inside of the dress and so not be found by the hands poking and prodding the cart’s contents. Only Regeane and the wolf heard the rapid breathing.

  The child was an unattractive specimen. Her blond hair was matted with filth. Little could be told about her features because the small nose was swollen and two steams of blood ran down, smearing her mouth and chin. She was barefoot. The one garment covering her body was a single torn rag. Her expression was one of mutinous bad temper. Obstinate resistance. Regeane approved.