The Silver Wolf Read online

  Regeane scrambled down quickly to join her.

  The little girl’s fingers were twined in the soldier’s hair.

  Regeane cried, “No! It’s wrong. It’s dangerous. You are not yet a free person and I’m a foreign woman. We might be punished.”

  Crouching beside the man’s head, the little girl looked up at Regeane, an expression of disgust on her face. “You are making excuses. A fine protector you’ll be. Not even the courage to cut a man’s throat. I’d do better on my own.”

  Regeane reflected that, for a number of reasons, this might be true, but she was determined not to let the child take the risk. The consequences were unacceptable. She had seen the grisly punishments visited on slaves.

  She snatched up the child’s hand and pulled her away from the unconscious man. “No, you will not cut his throat. Come. We’ll try to find a way out of—”

  Regeane broke off because the child’s expression changed suddenly from one of disapproval to one of terror.

  V

  “WHAT?” REGEANE ASKED.

  The little girl reached inside her dress. She wore something around her neck—a piece of stone on a thong. She clutched it and whispered a low prayer in her own tongue and began to back away quickly.

  Regeane heard footsteps. She spun around. A soft whimper of terror rose in her own throat.

  The thing half limped, half shuffled toward her. Most of its body was covered by a heavy black cloak and hood, but what Regeane could see was bad enough. It held the hood over the lower part of its face with the stumps of fingers.

  Bone protruded from dangling shreds of pale, rotten flesh. Inside the black cloth of the hood, the nose was half eaten away by disease, the septum clearly visible. All around, the silver wolf smelled the stench of death, yet above the horror of the nose, two living eyes stared at Regeane. Eyes that were almost beautiful: large hazel eyes fringed with dark lashes.

  “My garden,” it whispered. “You’ve ruined my little garden.”

  It stopped, dropped to a crouch beside the broken pot of sage, the blue flowers blooming proudly amidst the dirt and shattered clay. It stroked the petals softly with one pale, bony index finger.

  “My garden,” it keened softly to itself, “my poor little garden. It was all I had left.”

  “I’m sorry,” Regeane stammered, “but the soldier was chasing us.”

  “You still had no right to ruin Antonius’ garden,” someone screamed accusingly at Regeane.

  The doors to the little piazza were opening. A young woman stood in one of them. Her long hair was hennaed bright red, showing black at the roots. She might have been pretty, but for the big hole in one cheek through which two rows of her teeth could clearly be seen.

  A hand lifted Regeane’s skirt. Something giggled. She looked down.

  It hopped along on the stumps of its legs. The arm attached to the hand was long and simian. The face was dished as if it had been bashed and flattened by a giant club. Mucus flowed from the nose, and drool spilled from a grinning mouth filled with the stubs of yellow teeth.

  Regeane gave a stifled shriek and backed away.

  The thing followed, reaching, chanting, “Pretty lady. Pretty lady.”

  She backed into another, but this one only stared at her solemnly, a boy so deformed by his humped back that he scuttled on all fours. His eyes had a vacant stare. She realized as she twisted away from the thing’s hands that this one was blind.

  They were everywhere, all around her. Every doorway and balcony held one or another twisted obscenity. Some bore the marks of torture and mutilation—noseless, eyeless, ears cropped, hands or feet stumps. Were they alive? Had she fled somehow into a quarter peopled only by the dead?

  Regeane felt something clutching at the other side of her skirt. Her body jerked violently; then she realized it was the child clinging to her desperately, face buried in the folds of her gown. She put her arm around the little girl.

  “She doesn’t like us,” the red-haired woman shouted with a shrill laugh. “Who asked you to bring your pretty face here and remind us of what we’ve lost? Get out.” She picked up a piece of broken flowerpot and threw it at Regeane.

  They clustered around Regeane, hemming her in, their voices a cacophony of idiot babbling, giggling, and here and there, most frightening, a cry of hatred or rage.

  Regeane felt a strange weakness. The wolf was trying to claim her. She sensed the quivering readiness to change, a frisson between the day-to-day world and the drifting wraiths of moonglow.

  “For shame.” The voice was hoarse, yet commanding. It came from the first one Regeane had seen, the one who had bemoaned the ruin of his garden. He came forward, leaning on a long staff. The lower part of the hood was held up more tightly over the ruined face and now all she could see were those two oddly beautiful eyes gazing at her over the black cloth.

  “For shame,” he repeated angrily. When he reached Regeane’s side, he swung the staff in a wide circle, driving back those who had crowded most closely around Regeane and the child.

  “Here is a stranger come among us, seeking courtesy and protection.” The hooded head turned and looked at the soldier still lying in a heap on the stones of the street. “Whatever we are,” he said quietly, “we cannot be dead to all compassion or humanity. If that passes from among us, what will we become?”

  The crowd fell silent. The gentle rebuke of the hooded one seemed to carry great weight among them.

  “You, Drusis,” he spoke to the legless man, the one who had been trying to lift Regeane’s skirt. “Go fetch my brother.” He went on sternly. “Wash the rheum from your face. You’re not fit for the eyes of a gentle lady.”

  To Regeane’s surprise Drusis looked abashed, hung his head, and hopped away quickly.

  Then Antonius turned to Regeane. The clear, calm eyes looked into her own. “Drusis will bring my brother,” he assured her, “and he’ll be able to lead you out of here. You must pardon the bad manners of my friends. It’s not often that an outsider strays into … the house of the dead.”

  The little Saxon girl peered past the folds of Regeane’s skirt up at the hooded figure. “Are you then a dead man?” she asked fearfully.

  The eyes shifted from Regeane’s face to the child’s. “Not quite,” he answered, “but the next thing to it. I am a leper.”

  Regeane felt her knees grow weak, not with terror, but relief. The fear that she’d strayed into a precinct populated by those dim shapes she saw clustered at church porches or near cemeteries was dispelled. Compared with those, the poor deformed outcasts were not terrible, but pitiful.

  “Oh,” she sighed, “thank God. I … I feared you might be … something else.”

  The hazel eyes shifted back to her face and, if she wasn’t mistaken, the expression in them was one of mild perplexity.

  “I believed you a ghost,” she explained.

  “No,” he said calmly. “Soon enough, but not yet. Do you often see such things?”

  “Yes,” Regeane admitted reluctantly, then qualified her statement. “Well, not so often. Only two or three times a year, but when it happens …”

  There was a stir in the crowd. A man pushed his way through.

  “What in the world …” he said, then stopped, looking in astonishment at Regeane.

  The hooded leper turned to him. “Stephen, my brother, this lady and—” He indicated the child with a quick gesture of his hand. “—her little friend came here pursued by that one over there.” He pointed to the soldier, still lying amidst the dirt and shattered pots. “Please, if you would, conduct her to a place of safety.”

  Stephen was a tall man, lean-faced, with a thatch of gray hair and an equally gray clipped beard which curled crisply at his chin. His dress was as simple as that of the Latin farmers Regeane saw every day driving their cattle and flocks to market, just a brown woolen tunic and sandals. He didn’t wear the mantle most of the freeborn men used as an overgarment, but the ancient cloak of the people of the earth, a simple
square of cloth with a hole cut out for the head and gathered in at the waist with a belt. Yet aside from his simple garb, there was something about him in the set of his shoulders and the firmness of the mouth under the strong jut of the nose that bespoke one used to authority, used to giving commands and having them obeyed.

  “Crysta.” He spoke to the woman with the hole in her cheek. “Who does that belong to?”

  The woman walked over and looked down at the warrior. “He’s one of Basil the Lombard’s followers. I can’t call his name, but Basil is his master.”

  “Basil, eh?” A small wrinkle appeared between his brows. “What’s he doing here? You, Sixtus, Numerus.” He pointed to two men, one who had iron hooks for hands, the other lacking nose, ears, and part of his scalp. “Take that offal and dump it somewhere. I don’t want him to wake here.” Then he turned to Regeane. “You, my lady, follow me,” he said.

  “I’ll come,” Antonius said diffidently to Regeane, “if my presence doesn’t offend you?”

  “Oh, no,” Regeane shook her head. She was still deeply grateful for his rescue.

  Then she remembered the few pieces of copper in her scrip. She pulled them out quickly and extended her hand to Antonius with the coins in her palm.

  “Here, please take this,” she said. “It’s for your garden, your flowers. I’m so sorry that we broke the pots, but you’ll see. The flowers will grow again.”

  Antonius didn’t move or stretch out his hand to take the money. Instead, his eyes sought his brother Stephen. “The widow’s mite,” he said. He turned again to Regeane. “I’m well looked after. My brother sees to all my needs. I, in turn, must apologize for being so childish about a few pots.”

  When Regeane looked at Stephen, she realized that the sternness in his expression had softened into a look of kindness.

  Regeane glanced anxiously at the soldier. Stephen’s men were dragging him off by the heels. Rather callous procedure, Regeane thought. His injured skull bounced along the stones. “Is there any chance I could be called up before the magistrate and accused of … I’m not so worried about myself, but the child … is … she’s not yet a free person.”

  “No,” Stephen snapped. “He shouldn’t be here at all. Were I not in the service of Christ, I would order his summary execution. The present pope Hadrian had ordered the Lombard faction out of Rome and—”

  Antonius broke in with a soft chuckle. “It seems Hadrian hasn’t had as much success as he hoped in controlling their activities.”

  Stephen looked annoyed. “No,” he growled. “But I think once Hadrian is aware of the problem, he will be able to take measures.”

  “Never think it,” Antonius broke in, more seriously this time. “The Roman families are still hedging their bets, and likely so are the clergy. Believe it, brother, and be careful,” he cautioned.

  “What’s ‘hedging a bed’?” the child asked.

  “Hedging a bet,” Regeane corrected her and, since she didn’t know the answer herself, she shushed the little girl and told her not to ask so many questions.

  The child’s lip shot all the way out. The small eyes flashed fire. She and Regeane glared at each other. “I only asked one. And besides, my father says the only way to find out anything is to ask questions. So there!”

  “She’s right,” Antonius said. “Questions, answerable or not, are always a necessity. In this instance, ‘hedging a bet’ refers to the last pope who was dominated by the Lombard party in Rome. The present pope, Hadrian, has declared his independence from the Lombard duke Desiderius and expelled his man, Paul Afartha, from the city. Basil was Paul Afartha’s captain. Many of the poor wretches you see here were afflicted by nature, but others suffered at the hands of Paul and Basil. Their sin was belonging to the wrong party. So far as hedging bets is concerned, the Romans are still not sure if Hadrian’s policies will be successful. In other words, they fear the present pope may fall under the influence of the Lombards, also. So they are trying to be very careful not to offend anyone.”

  “But what has this to do with me?” Regeane asked, distressed.

  “Brother,” Antonius whispered. “If we could go inside and sit down, I would be deeply grateful. These days I find heat and cold both difficult to bear. And even walking a few steps tires me.” The words were spoken serenely without any touch of whining or self-pity. Regeane realized they were the simple truth.

  “I’m sorry,” Stephen said penitently. “And I’m forgetting my duties as a host.”

  Regeane would have scorned to beg for herself, but she knew the child must be hungry. The girl looked very much as if the slave dealer probably starved her in an attempt to break the independent little spirit. “Please, sir, if you could find a bit to eat for the child.”

  “I think we might find something for both of you,” Stephen said. “Come this way.”

  Stephen led the way, Antonius shuffling after them across the piazza.

  She followed him into a church, a small place, rather bare like most of the chapels serving the poor people of Rome.

  The blank whitewashed stucco walls had only a few narrow windows that let in long shafts of light. Its only adornment was a fresco wrapped around the sanctuary, framing the altar with its worn canopy and bare marble surface.

  The painting depicted a meadow at dawn. The green grass was bejeweled with spring flowers. The ruby cups of poppy, bluebells, delicate violet, wild basil, and over them all, glowing amethyst and gold, the first magical light of sunrise.

  Illuminated by an opening in the top of the cupola above the altar, the scene filled the simple little church with the fragrance of a spring morning and the freedom of wide vistas under the open sky.

  “It’s dawn,” Regeane said.

  “No,” Antonius said behind her. “Sunset. I know. I painted it. It’s easy to mistake sunset for dawn. The light is almost the same.”

  “How wonderful to be able to make something so beautiful,” the little girl said.

  “Hush,” Regeane said, remembering the condition of Antonius’ hands, the white stubs of bone protruding from the flesh.

  “It’s all right,” Antonius said. “She doesn’t understand.”

  Regeane was leading the little girl through the church. The child stopped and pulled back against her.

  “What don’t I understand? If I don’t understand something, I want it explained to me so I do understand it.” Her small face had a mulish expression and the lower lip was protruding again.

  “Come along,” Regeane said, embarrassed, “and stop being a nuisance.”

  The child tested her strength against Regeane’s firm grip on her arm and decided that dignified progress was better than being dragged.

  “It is one of those things that I’m supposed to wait till I’m older to know. People are always telling me that! If they’d only explain, I’d understand now!”

  Regeane heard a chuckle behind her and realized that Antonius wasn’t offended.

  “She can’t be yours,” he said. “You’re too young.”

  “Of course I’m not hers,” the little girl said indignantly. “I’m a Saxon. She’s a Frank. Can’t you tell the difference?”

  “Whatever you are,” Stephen said, “you’re a handful.”

  They were near the altar by now. Stephen pushed open a door in the wall and ushered Regeane into what she knew must be his living quarters.

  She was suddenly conscious of her own disheveled state. Her mantle was gone. She remembered with a shiver the cloth seller lay bleeding to death on it. She didn’t think she’d want it back. She’d used the worn veil as a wash rag. She’d dropped her shoes—one pulled off by her pursuer, the other falling as she climbed into the balcony. She looked down and wiggled her toes. The dress she wore, threadbare to begin with, was stained and spattered with the filth of the streets and the slime of the tunnel. Her hair clung to her scalp, matted by sweat and dirt.

  The room was immaculately clean, and though sparsely furnished, its appointments mig
ht have come from one of the beautiful patrician villas that guarded the city.

  An alcove at one end of the room held a curtained bed. It was, as most Frankish beds were, a wooden box that served as container for the feather tick and quilt. But the coverlet had the sheen of silk and the simple design that bordered it was picked out in golden thread. The linen of the bedsheets and curtains was bleached to snowy whiteness and edged as simply as the coverlet, but with cut lace, the eyelets embroidered in silk.

  A table stretched the length of the room. Regeane’s first impression was that it was very old and her second that it must have once graced a palace. Oak and iron-hard with a satiny gleam, the surface inlaid with curving ivory acanthus leaves.

  The benches that stretched the length of it were of equal quality, and decorated with ivory in the same pattern.

  At one end of the table near a fireplace set into the stone wall stood a high-backed carven chair before a bookstand. The book on it was a big one, and Regeane’s eye caught the gleam of bright gold and blue illumination on the parchment.

  One piece of furniture in the room stood out by virtue of the fact that it didn’t match the quality of the rest. A simple wooden bench with a straw cushion at the end of the table opposite the high-backed chair.

  Antonius limped into the room behind Regeane and shuffled toward it, explaining, “That’s mine, so that when …” He paused for a poignant second, poignant because Regeane understood what he did not say. “When I no longer need it, it may be burned.”

  He moved with difficulty as if in pain. Regeane sensed that the time to burn the bench might come soon.

  His Latin speech was clear and beautiful, closer to the language of the Caesars than the argot spoken in the streets of Rome. Clean, precise, the accent that of a wellborn and well-educated man, though strangely slurred. Regeane didn’t like to think of the condition of the lips from which the words issued.