Night of the Wolf (32 page)

“The lead shot my women carried was lethal, and when the Romans charged us, we opened our formations to let them by. If they were few, we slaughtered them then and there. If many, we melted back into the long grass or into the shadows cast by the groves of trees scattered across the open lands.

“When they reached the river there were only a few left. They tried to ford it in the night before moonrise, but we were waiting in the darkness under the trees.

“The chiefs called a meeting and we went I spoke and tried to get them to burn this Caesar’s ships, trap him on our territory, and kill him. But they were afraid. Afraid and thought it politic to be rid of this scourge. So he went his way and called this rampage a victory.

“Now I hope to follow him and kill him. I would like you to help, for I have the money, but I’m not sure I have the skill. And, if I fail, we will both die. Truth is, I have no plan,” she ended lamely.

“Nor do we when we hunt. Humans make plans, have rules, play with logic the way a dog plays with a stick or a pup a piece of hide, but we don’t. I cannot see how you could plan such an adventure. First, get to Rome, find out about this man, and then see if any possibilities present themselves. But to kill deer, you must know where they are likely to forage. So I had best learn what this Blaze has to teach me.”

“So you will come?” she asked.

“I might as well, and besides, I have been listening to the people here talk. They talk a lot, especially the women. They seem to like to brush against me often. It seems I can’t go anywhere without running into one or two of them and always the same ones.”

Dryas looked him up and down. He was muscled like an athlete. Clean shaven? No, he simply never grew any sort of beard. He was slightly more brown than fair, but his complexion had a red flush under the tan that lent him an air of glowing health. His hair was the color of old polished wood. It curled freely and had auburn lights in it. No, she didn’t think he’d miss her attentions for long.

“However, the people here do talk a lot about this Rome,” he continued, “and I think it would be interesting to see it. But if Caesar is as contentious a fellow as you say he is, someone may kill him before we get there, and then all your trouble will be for nothing.”

The ginger-haired man he’d punched in the head while trying to rescue Imona still did guard duty. He and Dryas passed him when they entered the gate. The wolf was sure the guard recognized him. But the look of hatred in the ginger-haired man’s eyes puzzled the wolf. Yes, he’d hit the man hard, and yes, he had stolen his clothes and then abandoned them in the street, but why such anger about what he’d done? Why all the hatred?

Maeniel was puzzled, but he didn’t have long to ponder the matter because he had to confront his two angry teachers and listen to their “blessings,” then sit while the two elderly men fought about what course of instruction he should follow. He managed to find a small cask of mead and received a whispered message from one of his female admirers, the one who sent the mead, to meet her in the stable after dark. Her object was mutual “satisfaction.” He was looking forward to an extended period of idleness while Mir and Blaze settled their differences when Dryas swooped down on him and dragged him off to a grueling afternoon of instruction with wooden swords.

He quickly realized that she, not Mir or Blaze, was going to be his chief problem from now on. Dryas was an indefatigable perfectionist of immense stamina and great skill. She managed to so exhaust him that when he met his inamorata in the evening, he was almost too tired for what she had in mind. But a short rest and two or three cups of mead found him quickly regaining his strength for not one, but three or four suggested procedures, one of which left him sore enough to be glad to jump in the river at dawn.

Dryas noted the look of relaxed satisfaction on his face. She was tempted to whack him in the throat with the sword to teach him a lesson, but the necklace at her throat moved of itself and clung oddly to her skin, reminding her of where she stood in relation to him.

After a month, she wouldn’t have tried to smack him in the throat; he was too good. His hand-eye coordination was as perfect as any she’d ever seen. He had the stamina to run down a horse and the wolf’s speed. His eyes were, as a matter of course, better in dim light than any human’s she’d ever known, but his hearing was the marvel.

Once, when they were at practice outside the wall, he told her quite casually that Mir was coming because he was late for his Latin lesson.

Dryas asked him how he knew.

He told her he could hear him walking and was familiar with his step. In a few seconds, Mir appeared at the gate.

At length, the river froze and he wasn’t troubled with ice-water baths any longer. There wasn’t much snow, so he and Dryas were able to get in a lot of practice sessions.

She bore down hard and knew she was producing one of the most dangerous warriors who would ever fight a duel. She taught him not only the sword, but also the uses of a shield in combat and how it might be used by a skilled man, even one whose sword arm was incapacitated, to bring down an opponent. He learned the sling—which she previously thought required a lifetime of practice, beginning in early youth, to master. He was deadly with it, even against small targets like sticks and dried fruit. He was the object of some derision because he wouldn’t let fly at anything not wanted for food.

But one afternoon, a cold, bitter, and gray one, he, Dryas, and a half dozen of the children went into the marshes to hunt. A feast was in the offing and there was nothing very special to serve. They brought nets, hoping to trap waterfowl feeding among the reeds.

It transpired they didn’t need the nets. He brought down seventeen geese, mostly with head shots, in a little over an hour. The laughter ceased and the feast was a huge success.

But she found he excelled most at the hero’s salmon leap, perhaps because, in his heart, he felt like a wolf again when he practiced this art. It centered on a form of unarmed combat now lost even in most of Britain and Gaul. But it was one that once served Dryas’ people well, since it allowed one hundred percent of the adults in any community to resist an attack or raid launched against them, even when they could not immediately lay hands on their weapons.

A wolf’s body—fang and claw, speed and weight. Maeniel’s weapons were in his intelligence and agility, which allowed him to excel in unarmed combat. The sword, dagger, arrow, javelin, and the sling stone all came last. “Don’t worship the weapon,” Dryas told him. “If one turns in your hand, be ready to seize another. And, above all, teach yourself to be dangerous without anything but your two bare hands.”

So it was, when the ginger-haired man, whose name was Actus, went after him with a knife. Maeniel was unarmed.

XVII

By this hour, the street was empty of all but carts. Lucius and Cut Ear threaded their way in and out between them without difficulty, hearing an occasional curse when they cut too close to a driver carrying a heavy load or one who had to slow his mules at a corner when they blocked the way for a few moments.

At length, they pulled their horses to a stop at the high gates of a large, walled villa near the Forum. The doors were wood, bound in iron. There was a bell with a hammer to ring it in a niche to the right of the door. Lucius whacked the bell with the hammer. It rang loudly.

In reply, there was only silence.

Lucius reached up and pounded his fist against the door.

From inside, someone cursed him.

“Let me in. I must see Caesar or the Lady Calpurnia”

A string of curses consigned him to a dishonored place among the dead. “Fool! Are you drunk or simply insane to demand admittance to the house of the first citizen at this hour of the night? Go home.”

Lucius lifted the hammer and slammed it into the bell. It rang out loudly three times.

“Stop that, you stinking pile of dog turds. You’ll rouse the whole neighborhood.”

“Then let me in!”

Inside, he heard the rattle and snick of bolts being drawn and chains unhooked. Two legionnaires pulled the door back. They were in full armor, both wearing their scarlet dress cloaks and helmets.

One thrust a torch at Lucius’ face while the other stood back, pilum in one hand, the other resting on his sword hilt

Lucius blinked and lifted a hand to shield his face, but didn’t give ground.

“Come in,” the centurion with the torch said, “but leave your weapons here inside the door.”

Lucius removed his sword and dagger. Cut Ear divested himself of a simply unbelievable amount of sharp-edged cutlery: one Greek sword sharpened on one side only, which was a first-class slashing weapon; a German broadsword slung at his back; the standard gladius of the legions; no less than three daggers, all different lengths; one sling, with lead shot; and, in case all else failed, a cestus, the loaded glove of a Roman boxer.

Even the tough-looking centurion seemed impressed.

Three more soldiers joined the first two and they escorted him past an ancient larium with over a dozen death masks, past an atrium pond older even than the one in the Basilian villa, and out into a peristyle surrounded by a columned walkway.

Everything here was intimidatingly magnificent and radiated not simply wealth, but also the assurance of nobility and whole lifetimes of distinguished service to the city and its most ancient institutions.

A woman stepped out into the light. She wore a green silk tunic that hung in long, straight, soft folds to the ground, fastened by buttons at the shoulders and arms. She was very beautiful and, for a second, Lucius wondered who she was. Then, as she stepped closer to the torch-bearing soldier, he realized that, though beautiful, she was no longer young. The voluptuous figure, only hinted at by the curves under the soft silk, was a bit thickened by time, and the auburn hair falling around and framing the heart-shaped face was threaded with gray.

When she spoke, her voice was low, her words and manner exquisitely courteous, and he felt at once that this woman would not know how to be shrewish, shrill, rude, or even haughty. Nor would she be able, by any stretch of the imagination, to whine or complain. She would be polite and considerate and careful never to give offense, or create a scene, even on her deathbed. He understood once and forever the meaning of the word
patrician.

“My husband is sleeping at present. He is very weary and I am loath to disturb him. Have you an important matter to discuss with him? And, if so, are you sure there’s nothing I can do to assist you?”

Lucius found himself going to one knee. “My Lady Calpurnia, a member of my household was today denounced as an enemy of your husband. He was arrested today by the Praetonan Cohort at the order of Marc Antony. He is a freedman of mine, a Greek physician named Philo. I believe you know him. I’m sure there has been an error somewhere. Philo has never been any man’s enemy, least of all your husband’s, and I’m equally certain he cannot possibly be even peripherally involved in any plot to harm him.”

She moved closer to Lucius, stretched out her hand, and took his, indicating that he should rise. He did. “Yes, I do know Philo and no, I cannot believe he would harm anyone either, but couldn’t this wait till morning?”

“Gracious lady.” Lucius took a deep breath and tried to think of a way to convey the urgency of the situation to a woman whose life had insulated her so completely from the grim realities he was certain Philo was now facing.

“What he’s trying to say is that after a night of brutal and intensive interrogation at the hands of Antony and the worthies of the Praetorian Cohort, Philo’s own mother might not be able to recognize him.”

Lucius saw Caesar standing in the shadow of the colonnaded porch. He looked both peevish and annoyed.

“Give me, please, one good reason why I shouldn’t send you over to the same cell in the Tullianum to keep Philo company.”

“Because then you would be punishing two innocent men instead of one.”

“And you are willing to pledge your word to me that your friend is innocent of any and all charges that led to his arrest?”

“I am, Caesar.”

“Even on pain of forfeiture of your own life if you should be proven wrong?”

“Yes! Yes, Caesar, I am.”

“You are that certain of him.”

“Yes.”

Calpurnia turned her back to Lucius and moved gracefully toward Caesar. She paused at his side, rested one hand on his shoulder, and spoke quietly into his ear. Then, without looking at Lucius again, she glided away through a door on the porch. A maidservant met her with a lighted lamp in hand to escort her back to her chamber.

Lucius’ eyes followed her almost against his will. When she was gone, he switched his gaze back to Caesar.

“Yes, she’s very beautiful,” Caesar said.

“It’s not just that,” Lucius said, as usual finding himself talking out of turn, admiring the woman about whose mind all Rome wondered. And, worse yet, in front of her husband.

“Yes, you’re right,” Caesar replied, then turned to one of the soldiers. “Bring me my writing case.”

The soldier returned with a leather case that, when opened, folded into a small desk with a hard surface. The soldier held it in position while Caesar scratched a few quick lines on a sheet of paper, then folded it, and handed it to Lucius.

Lucius bowed and turned to go.

“Aren’t you interested in what it says?”

“Should I be?” Lucius asked.

“No. It’s an order for your friend’s release into your custody.”

“Thank you, but you will pardon me if I take my leave quickly. I’m a little afraid . . .”

“Of what might be happening to him while you’re passing the time of day.” Caesar finished the sentence. He spoke again to one of the soldiers, who nodded and left. Then Caesar preceded them to the door where Lucius and Cut Ear began to rearm quickly.

In the torchlight Caesar saw Cut Ear’s face clearly for the first time. “Cut Ear, how did things go with Amborux?”

Cut Ear growled under his breath. “Eat, sleep, sacrifice to family gods. Eat, sleep, sacrifice to family gods. Every day all same. No end. No fun. No fights. All women old. Bed narrow, hard, cold. Pay stinks.”

“So you changed patrons?”

“Ya!”

“What do you think of this one?”

Cut Ear looked Lucius up, then down, then up again. “More to him than shows on the outside.”

Caesar nodded. Lucius was still in a hurry, but Caesar said, “Don’t worry. I sent a soldier on ahead. Your friend won’t meet with any more attempts at ‘persuasion.’ ”

Lucius was belting on his sword. When he looked up, Caesar was gone.

A detachment of cavalry waited at the door. They escorted him to Antony’s villa, but to an entrance for servants only, teeming with soldiers even at this hour of the night. Lucius rode into the courtyard and dismounted.

Philo, brought in by several soldiers, was a frightful sight. His tunic was splattered with bloodstains, old and fresh, as was his mantle. His nose had obviously been broken. One eye was purple and completely closed, the other purplish and only partially open, the lashes matted with blood. His lips were split and swollen. Worst of all, there was a horribly suggestive odor of burned flesh about his body.

Lucius handed the release order to the centurion in charge.

“Help him!” Lucius told Cut Ear. Both men supported Philo, one at each arm. “Can you ride?” Lucius asked.

“Yes,” Philo replied. “I can crawl, walk, or even fly if the notion takes you. I will do anything to escape this dreadful place.”

Lucius was inexpressibly relieved to realize it was, despite his injuries, the old Philo speaking, the man he knew.

However, Philo didn’t have to ride. Caesar’s soldier hired a carriage. It wasn’t much, just a two-wheeled cart pulled by a very sullen mule with one small seat on each side and another in the back padded by worn leather cushions, with a canvas covering pulled up over hoops to keep the wind off. It was blowing briskly, as the night grew colder and colder. One driver sat behind the mule.

Lucius joined Philo in the carriage. Cut Ear declined the offer of a ride with a grunt and joined the soldier on horse behind the cart to begin the journey home.

“What happened?” Lucius asked.

“I don’t know. All I know is that they were waiting for me near Gordus’ house. Poor Marcia, she tried to object and almost got a nasty whack across the face for her pains. I told her, as sternly as I could manage, not to interfere. I was afraid to ask her to try to get word to you. I feared they might arrest her, also.”

“They probably would have, but you didn’t have to say anything. She knew. She found someone to deliver a message right away.”

Philo nodded, but didn’t ask for names. “In any case, they brought me to Antony. For a moment I was relieved. But he accused me of being a liar. I pleaded, begged really, thoroughly disgraced myself in a way that’s painful to remember, but not nearly as painful as what happened a little later.

“Of course, he paid no attention. In fact, he told me not to make too big a fool of myself because it wouldn’t matter. Then he turned me over to his friends. They didn’t tell me their names and I didn’t catch them. Later I was too, shall we say, preoccupied.

“First, they showed me all their little toys. That wasn’t too bad, though they tended to knock me around while they were explaining their uses to me. But then they began to demonstrate how they worked, using me as their subject I’d be in worse condition . . .” He looked down at his hands. They were swollen and badly bruised, but intact. “But they got careless with me and I managed to break loose. By then, you understand, I was hoping somehow to persuade them to kill me, because I had no idea if Marcia had been able to contact you, or if contacted, you could do anything to help me.” Philo’s voice grew more and more hoarse.

Lucius deliberately looked away from his friend’s face.

They turned a corner and the wind caught them in the face. Lucius pulled Philo’s hood down and the cloak tighter around his body.

“Do you know, that wind feels good?” Philo said. “It sort of numbs all the spots that still hurt. In any case, one big bruiser, who I think probably didn’t know his own strength, socked me in the head and I became oblivious to the proceedings for what I believe was a rather long time—some hours, in fact. When I finally awakened, my mind wasn’t clear. Not being a complete lackwit, I strove to give the impression that I was even more addled than I truly was. By then, Antony had returned and was cursing his assistants rather roundly.

“He was not taken in by my little deception, but he did order that I be given some sops of bread and wine. I can’t put it down to kindness. I felt they were only preparing me for further inquiries . . . But I heard a messenger arrive and, thereafter, I was left alone. What did you do? How did you get me out? Incidentally, I don’t believe I ever saw a more beautiful sight than you, and whoever your new . . . What should I call him? But I’m babbling. Don’t pay any attention to me. I can’t think clearly. It’s possible I wasn’t pretending I . . . was hurt by the blow to the head as much . . .”

“Be quiet,” Lucius said, indicating the carriage driver sitting right in front of them. “We’ll talk after I get you home.”

When they reached the villa, the snowy winter moon was down, but the courtyard was ablaze with light. Aristo was waiting with Alia. She began clucking when she saw Philo and helped him down from the carriage and into his room.

Lucius hadn’t been aware that she liked the doctor, but when he saw Philo’s room swept, his bed made, and his belongings neatly arranged where there had been emptiness before, he realized Alia must be fond of the physician.

Aristo brought warm water and clean clothing for the Greek and linen for dressings. Alia, who’d had a lot of experience, cleaned and dressed the wounds, including some very ugly burns.

Lucius asked where his sister was.

“Gone,” Aristo said. “To Gaul. She came back from visiting Cleopatra and said something to me indicating her dissatisfaction with some of her agents there, complaining that if you want something done right, you must see to it yourself. Then she added, ‘She killed five of them. I sent six and she killed five. Can you believe it?’ I asked, ‘Believe what?’ But she wouldn’t answer, nor did she say when she would return. I’ve found you a servant, by the way: the doorkeeper. He’s been chained in that alcove for years, ever since your mother died. I believe your father was angry with him for being a bit too loyal to your lady mother.”

“Bringing her drink, you mean?”

Aristo developed a pained expression reminiscent of someone with an acute case of constipation and didn’t answer.

“Fine,” Lucius said.

“He’s clean, quiet, and will carry no tales. And he will be grateful to escape what has been a long imprisonment for him. Macer and Afer are taking his place for the time being, at least until your sister returns home. Then she can make such disposition of them as she desires. Their behavior toward you was a serious matter, as was Firminius’. You are the ruler of this house, being the oldest male surviving member of the direct line.