Night of the Wolf (22 page)

Cleopatra laughed at the heavy irony in his voice in the last statement

“And very gratifying honors they are, too,” Lucius said.

“Yes, if one were only sure they were bestowed with perfect honesty by truly loving friends.” Again, Caesar’s statement was laden with the same ironic detachment.

“Some do honestly admire you. Marc Antony, for instance.”

Caesar and Cleopatra both laughed and exchanged glances of perfect, limpid understanding.

Caesar continued, “I met a centurion in the Forum the other day, a veteran of my Gallic wars. He has only one leg, but was provided for so well that he doesn’t have to beg. He lives with his grandson as an honored guest That’s the way it should be for old servants of the state, but often isn’t. The other day I ran across another who was begging. He had the grace to try to avoid my eye, but I recognized him and had my servants bring him to me. Seems he is much the worse for women and drink . . . but . . .” He turned to Cleopatra. “I have lost the thread of my discourse.”

She gazed at him somberly. “The first soldier, I believe, my dear.”

“Oh, yes.” Caesar brightened. “We spoke together as old friends will. Then he drew as close to me as he could. I had to bend my head down to hear him for he wished for private communication. He whispered into my ear, ‘Watch your back, Caesar. Watch your back.’ ”

“Probably some of the best advice you’ll ever get,” Lucius said with deep conviction.

Caesar and Cleopatra burst into uproarious laughter at the same time. Caesar laughed till the tears came, then got himself under control.

“It seems I amuse you,” Lucius said rather stiffly. “One can’t but be—”

Caesar sobered. “Oh, yes, one can’t but be concerned given the record of fidelity to friends and even relatives among our conscript fathers and considering the deaths of both the Grachii, and the murders of Clodius and other close friends and associates of mine, not to mention the fate of such worthies as Cicero’s son-in-law at his own father-in-law’s hands.”

“Not at his hands, exactly,” Cleopatra said.

“No, our model senator simply led him to the executioner and stood nearby as a witness, while he was beheaded—or was it hanged—then and there. He believes it evidence of his integrity that he would sacrifice his nearest and dearest to the state.

“But don’t worry, my dear boy. I’m not as big a fool as I look and it would be very dangerous for anyone who took me for one. Very dangerous for them.”

During the last words, something entered Caesar’s voice that frightened and chilled Lucius.

Cleopatra shot Caesar a warning glance and Lucius thought,
He’s planning something.
Suddenly, he felt as if the four of them were not alone in the room. Ghosts were there with them and they clustered thickly around the pair opposite him.

The lamplight shone in Cleopatra’s eyes. She’d had a brother once . . . . hadn’t she? And Caesar . . . at least a couple of legions of both friends and enemies had died cursing him.

Lucius felt dizzy and remembered, and the memory found its voice before he thought, as if it were a thing meant to be said. “The man who stabbed me, he used my own sword. He took it from my scabbard with his left hand because his right had been cut off. He had no right hand.”

Fulvia’s dining couch was close to his and he felt her nails bite into his shoulder. “Are you mad?” she whispered. “Have you gone completely mad? The greatest lord in all Rome is a dinner guest—”

“And a very satisfied one, too.” Caesar spoke up loudly. “Now, you promised me a surprise, an enticing surprise. Bring it on.”

Lucius stammered, “I’m . . . I’m . . .”

“No,” Caesar said as he rose and the rest followed. “Don’t apologize. You’re a brave young man who has been very close to death and it’s marked you. It marks us all. In different ways, that’s true, but it marks us all.”

Then, with torch-bearing soldiers in the lead, they strolled through the labyrinthine complex of buildings, old and new, that formed the Basilian villa.

Lucius proceeded from embarrassment to mortification and then from mortification to chagrin. By the time he reached the third feeling, he was beginning to wonder what his sister had in mind, because they were walking toward an old warehouse at the edge of their property, where wine had been stored at one time.

They paused in an archway built of terra-cotta brick. For a moment, it was as if they looked into a cave. Then, high above in a dome, Lucius saw the stars. A torch flared in the darkness before them.

Fulvia said, “Behold!”

His eyes, shocked by the sudden brightness, took a few seconds to adjust. When his vision cleared, he became aware they were looking at an arena, a miniature version of the one across the city where gladiatorial combats took place.

“My gift to you, Caesar.” Fulvia made an expansive gesture, indicating Caesar should sit in one of the fine marble chairs on a high dais that overlooked the sand-covered circular space in the center.

Caesar threw back his head and laughed. “How perfectly wonderful. I cannot thank you enough.” He kissed Fulvia’s hand. Cleopatra smiled and gazed at him adoringly.

Lucius noticed that some of the servants, one of them Philo, were lighting pitch-covered torches on the walls surrounding the arena.

With the exception of the seats taken by Caesar, Cleopatra, and Fulvia, there were no other chairs in the gigantic room. Instead, the arena had concentric circles of marble steps that led up to the door where they entered.

The marble chairs were upholstered with downy cushions in a rainbow of colors and shapes. Caesar relaxed in his copy of the consul’s curele chair. The soldiers took up positions around the walls.

Philo made an imperious gesture and two servants carried in a wooden chair filled with cushions. They placed it on the top step of the amphitheater. Lucius sat down and felt, rather than saw, Philo come up to stand behind him.

Without further ado, Fulvia snapped her fingers.

The gladiators entered from passages below floor level, up a low flight of brick steps. There were two individuals. One Lucius recognized immediately. His face was scarred by a puckered line that ran from the top of one ear in a diagonal slash almost, but not quite, to his lips on the right side of his face. He was famous. His appearances in the arena were now infrequent and he was highly paid to fight when he did.

He had become notable in a contest where he faced ten opponents in succession, not only defeating them all, but killing three and wounding two others so badly that they later died. It was said that the then-lanista hated him and was determined to see his death. But the lanista’s hatred was only equaled by the love the crowd felt for him at the end of his contest and the ensuing riot they caused when it was announced that he would be forced into an eleventh bout. It was so violent that he was given his freedom then and there and, in time, was said to have become a wealthy man.

He wore only the subligaculum and a simple legionary helmet, boiled leather reinforced with brass. He carried a somewhat shinier version of the standard issue sword carried by legionnaires, the so-called Spanish sword.

A younger man, dressed in the same way and holding the same type of sword, followed him.

“Gordus,” Caesar said in satisfaction. “I have never seen him fight. Of course, I’ve heard of him. Who hasn’t?”

Gordus, the older, scarred man, raised his sword hilt near his lips, blade up, and saluted the group on the dais. The young man bowed, then the two turned and faced each other. The sound of steel on steel rang out.

At first, Gordus seemed almost passive, negligent before the attack of the other. The youngster was very good. To Lucius’ experienced eye, it looked as if he twice came close to wounding the older man. The youngster came in aggressively, his steel a whirl of fire in the torchlight.

Gordus seemed barely to move his blade, but he fended off each of his opponent’s strokes without difficulty, without even the appearance of exertion.

At first, the younger man simply hacked. He looked strong and was. Lucius would have been afraid of him on that account alone, but his strength didn’t seem to matter to Gordus.

When the younger man saw he was getting nowhere, he stepped back and showed there was more to him than brute force. He attacked again, this time with intelligence, coming in with a slashing attack low, then using the hacking blows to draw Gordus’ arm out to set up the wounding or killing thrust. But he failed here also.

Gordus’ footwork was beautiful and he never allowed himself to be drawn out far enough to be threatened. At length, the youngster drew back. The evening was cold, but he was perspiring freely.

Lucius felt sure Gordus would press the attack, but he didn’t. Instead, he waited for the youngster to get his breath, circling him slowly, the tip of his sword pointed down.

The young man’s breathing quieted and he closed with Gordus again, this time showing great skill and coolness.

Lucius had never seen such adeptness with the short sword, certainly not in a legionary encampment

But, as before, Gordus fended off each attack. Only now he took more trouble, one foot thrust forward, catching his opponent’s sword almost before the blows landed.

The end came quickly and unexpectedly. The young man swung hard. Gordus didn’t parry, but stepped back. The swing missed. The youngster recovered, but before he could get his guard up, Gordus’ sword, just the tip, entered his right arm and sank in between the two forearm bones.

Lucius gritted his teeth and shivered as one sword edge grated on bone.

The youngster stepped back, the sword dropping to the floor of the arena from his already blood-soaked fingers. The blood, red on the cord-wrapped sword hilt, spattered on the white sand beneath.

Behind him, Lucius heard Philo sigh. The Greek physician stepped past him and down the four shallow steps to the pit. There was no question of a killing. This was purely an exhibition match.

Philo examined the youngster’s arm. He stood, clutching the bloody wrist, supporting it with his other hand. Then, with a look of reproach at Gordus, Philo led the younger man away into the opening beneath the seats.

Caesar leaned over the railing of the dais in quiet conversation with Gordus. The gladiator listened to what Caesar had to say, nodding and occasionally making what were obviously laconic comments as he cleaned his sword with a napkin.

Some of the slaves who’d waited on them at dinner came in with wine in a glass pitcher and sweet cakes of various kinds on a tray.

Lucius, who was a little dizzy from the wine and excitement, declined further drink. From somewhere under the floor, he heard feminine giggling.

Caesar, Cleopatra, and Fulvia partook freely of the wine and sweets. The Egyptian queen and Lucius’ sister had their heads together in whispered conversation. Caesar continued speaking quietly to Gordus. Lucius looked at the blood drying on the sand and felt queasy.

A slave Lucius recognized as one of the gardeners came and raked the sand clean.

The volley of giggles came again and then, almost hesitantly, a small figure entered the arena wearing the subligaculum.

Lucius forgot his stomach. Unless he was losing his mind, this one dressed as a gladiator was a woman.

XIII

Dryas awoke on the ground, lying in a dense forest. She rolled over on her back, looking up at the lofty canopy above, and felt leaves and twigs pressing against her skin. She realized she was naked. She tried to rise, but fell back and looked at the forest giant near her shoulder.

It was the biggest tree she’d ever seen. As her eye followed the trunk skyward, she saw that the branches bore needles and cones. Some sort of conifer and it wasn’t even the largest tree around. Others nearby were bigger.

Somehow she got to her knees, her mind staggered by what she was seeing. She’d been in forests, but she’d never seen anything like this forest. The very smallest tree here dwarfed any she’d ever seen before in any wood in Alba, or anywhere else for that matter. The ground was covered not with grass, but with fern and moss.

She felt something sticky on her hands and stomach. Was she wounded? Was she dead? Had the wolf guessed her purpose and torn out her throat?

“No!” she cried out loud, and the word echoed away into the silent forest. Then the moment of fear passed and she forced her mind to come to grips with the present. She looked at her hands and down, then shivered. She must have vomited as she lost consciousness.

She got to her feet and saw water. It welled from the ground near where she had lain in the center of a veritable pool of green moss. The ground sloped away toward it. She rose and stumbled forward.

She found a fountain. The water bubbled up from the earth and formed a stream whose rocky bed was almost drowned in thick moss and fern. The mosses were of more than one kind. It ranged from a delicate green fuzz on rocks, carpets of brown needles and deadfall branches to thick, almost fur-like covering at exposed tree roots, small boulders, and the lower tree trunks. The ferns ranged from a lacy spray of small chartreuse circles borne on almost invisible black wiry branches to stately olive-green arrowhead-shaped fronds with thick midribs bearing hundreds of parallel leaves.

She knelt and washed her face, hands, and body. Where was she?

When she rose upright on her knees, she found that the tree nearest to her clung to a cliff and she was looking past its trunk into a deep valley drowned in mist.

In the distance, the sun was only just rising. Half masked by the drifting fog, it glowed like a gold coin, shedding a clear yellow radiance into the drifting vapor wreaths still stained blue by darkness.

But as she watched, the dawn wind began to rise, slowly at first, only a breath against her naked skin, then blowing more and more briskly, driving out the moist azure shadows.

She found she knelt on the side of a high mountain, even higher than those she’d seen in this part of Gaul. It looked down on lower, older hills and mountains clothed in green that stretched out until her eyes lost their power to focus into the violet haze of distance.

She breathed deeply. The air seemed to demand deep breaths, being fresher than clear water and laden with the fragrance of cedar and pine. It asked to be drawn in to fill the lungs with the energy of its pure essence. To burn away the rooted sorrow in her heart and carry her to everlasting forgetfulness and peace.

Again, she remembered her son’s face—the open eyes with clouded pupils gazing up into hers—and the knowledge, black as an abyss, that for all her training, her wisdom, even her love, she had chosen wrongly and, at last, come too late.

She screamed, “No!”

Then she was on her knees beside the lake. It was morning. The pines around her were ordinary trees. Here the sun had not yet risen. The light was gray and Mir stood in front of her with a white shift over his arm. He looked shocked and her knees were sore as if she’d fallen from somewhere else and landed in front of him.

In fact, she learned later, she had.

He handed her the shift. “You are not catching him.”

Dryas pulled the shift over her head, rose to her feet, and looked at him narrowly. She remembered she had been a queen. “Who is Imona? What happened to her and why? And I will want the truth. No lies or evasions.”

Mir nodded and looked off over the mountains. The sun was just beginning to glow on the snow-capped peaks. “Imona,” he murmured. “Imona. Imona is a dead woman . . . Imona is in . . . no, not in the earth. She is where it is not water or land, not day or night, not cold or warm . . .”

“Yes,” Dryas said. “I understand, but tell me who she was and . . . why.”

“Come,” Mir said. “Not to my house because the . . . my wife will be there. Higher up under the trees. I have some bread, cheese, and a little beer there. You will refresh yourself and I will tell you everything you wish to know. The story is a long one, long and rather sad.”

It was nearly noon when Mir finished. Dryas was very tired. Mir departed and Dryas, still clad only in the shift, walked back toward the lake to rescue her clothing.

She found them not where she’d placed them but scattered, as if he must have investigated the cloth after she left for whatever strange destination she’d reached. There were wolf paw prints in the soft earth near the water. She was exhausted and must sleep. Now, before she could do anything else.

She decided she would return to the same mountain meadow she’d investigated earlier. She stood, for a moment gazing out over the sunlit lake.
If I go, he will come, follow me, and I will lead him to the standing stones.

Oh, but she was weary. Her head bowed, she wondered how she could find the strength . . . the will to do what she must.

She looked into the sunlit water. She could see down, and down and down.

Shapes moved in the gloom rising from the perpetual darkness at the center, then, stroking slowly with almost no movement of fins, into the sun-struck level just below the surface.

Near the shore, a water bird cried out. A frog plopped and she saw the long-legged shape, the head a nub on the surface of the water as the amphibian kicked his way along, swimming across the pond.

Something on top of the rock at the shore flashed in the corner of her eye. She walked toward it and saw her poppy broach resting on the stone, the gold gleaming in the sunlight. She was sure she’d thrown it into the water last night.

She went over, climbed up on the rock, picked it up, and weighed it in her hand. Yes, she
had
thrown it into the water last night. She remembered the splash it made. Odd, it was almost as if she were being asked to choose again. She hesitated, bone tired and deep in grief.

The frog reached the midpoint of the pond. He didn’t see the dark shape beneath him, the dark shape with scissorslike jaws armed with long, needle-sharp teeth. No more than her son had seen it. No more than she had seen his pursuer in the dark wood until it caught him. She came too late.

The frog saw or sensed something because he zigzagged frantically, looking for escape. Almost without her volition, the broach flew from her hand toward the striking pike. He was lightning fast, but it almost looked as if he hesitated for a split second. The broach hit the water next to the swimming frog and, given his choice between two targets—one dark, the other bright—the deadly fish chose the shining one.

The jaws snapped shut and he vanished with his prize into the black realms.

And the still-swimming frog vanished into the shadows covering the other side of the lake.

On seeing the girl enter the arena dressed as a gladiator, Caesar looked astounded.

Lucius passed his hand over his face.
By the honey-dipped tits of the queen of the dead, it’s one of her sex kittens.
Mellisa, by name, somewhere between fourteen and sixteen.

Even the subligaculurn looked good on her. On most men, it was sweat stained and had more than a suspicion of hair protruding at the groin. On her, it wrapped around her waist. One end was drawn up decorously between her legs and over the top of the waistband to dangle seductively between the thighs.

For a moment, he thought she was bare to the waist, then saw he’d been mistaken. She wore a camisole of very fine silver chain mail that hung to just below her breasts. Very fine mail. He could see the shadows of her nipples through the shirt.

The sword she carried gave him pause. It was one of Caesar’s silver-plated weapons and it flashed brilliantly in the torchlight. The thing was sharp.

She was followed into the arena by another of the sex kittens, Vella, by name. She was dark; Mellisa was fair. Otherwise, they were the same weight and size and dressed almost alike.

They joined hands and bowed to the company seated on the dais.

Caesar burst into laughter, turned, and whispered into Cleopatra’s ear. She blew into his and bit his earlobe. He chuckled again and turned his attention to the two combatants and smiled indulgently on them.

The two girls began something that might be called a duel and, after the first few passes, it was apparent they had some training.

Gordus remained in the ring. He folded his arms and leaned against the lower half of the podium where Caesar was seated along with Fulvia and Cleopatra.

The blond Mellisa was the more aggressive of the two. She had a better reach and so began chasing the dark-haired girl around the ring.

At this point, Gordus stepped in and broke the combatants by lifting their swords with a bronze and ivory rod. They separated, the dark girl throwing angry glances at the blond one.

Gordus looked up at the dais. “Shall I declare a victor, Caesar?”

“Not yet,” Caesar said. He looked vastly amused.

“Oh, no,” Fulvia said. “I should think at least another passage of arms. Let them get their breath, though. Neither of them is addicted to exercise in the palaestra and they’re short winded.”

Gordus visited both combatants with towels and wine mixed with water.

Caesar’s eyes devoured them, and yes, they were an enticing spectacle.

It was hard to tell which was more attractive, but Lucius was more interested in the dark one. The exercise brought a flush to her cheeks, chin, and forehead, and a light film of perspiration oiled her creamy skin. The dark hair was slightly curly and it clung to her cheeks, forehead, and the nape of her neck in soft, damp ringlets.

The mail outlining her budding breasts left a tightly muscled but downy abdomen bare. The material of the loincloth was red and it set off her olive skin to perfection.

Lucius was glad he was wearing his toga. He’d managed to fool his sister into believing the worst about his manhood, but now his own treacherous body was making a liar out of him. In addition, he was already plotting and planning how to transform and transfer his sister’s little sex toy’s affection from women to men, and from her to him.

Fulvia didn’t deserve to have all the fun. He was entitled not only to his share of the family’s inheritance, but also to influence, luxury, and power; he’d let Fulvia cut him out for too long.

But he’d have to be careful. Tonight he’d played into her hands by making a fool of himself in front of Caesar. A lot of ugly and unpleasant things were said of Caesar and, in all probability, every one of them was true, but no one ever said he betrayed those who trusted and helped him. He paid back injuries with interest and would do the same for favors and loyalty.

At this point, Caesar dropped his napkin and the combat, if it could be called that, was renewed.

Lucius entertained himself by watching the play of light and shadow caused by the flickering torchlight on the somewhat-less-than-athletic curves of the dark girl’s body.

Mellisa was beginning to develop what, to Lucius, was an ugly flush, whereas when Vella perspired more freely, the moisture began to give her skin an oily tinge. Now she was fighting back and not allowing herself to be intimidated as she had been at first.

When she came close to the edge of the arena, the two women closed, swords locked against each other at the hilt as they pushed at each other’s faces with their free hands.

Gordus moved toward them.

“No,” Caesar exclaimed. “Don’t stop them. I believe their blood is up. This is a real fight now.”

Evidently it was, because Mellisa reached out suddenly, seized Vella’s nipple, and twisted it savagely.

Vella screamed. They broke and faced each other across the arena.

Tears of rage streamed from Vella’s eyes and she touched her breast tip gingerly. “That wasn’t fair,” she sobbed. “We weren’t supposed to really try to—”

“Oh, stop whining,” Fulvia snapped. “You promised to give us a good show. Now, get to it.”

Caesar clapped his hands. “Just so. One thousand sesterces to the winner and her freedom.”

Fulvia laughed. “Caesar, it’s not a real battle.”

“It is now,” he said.

And so it was. For at least a half dozen passes, they each had a two-handed grip on their swords. The two women rushed together and the amphitheater rang with the clangor of steel on steel. They hacked at each other with a will.

Lucius felt desire drain away. He felt he should do something to stop this, but Caesar and Cleopatra were both watching avidly.

Both women were drenched with sweat. The moisture plastered their hair to their scalps and streamed down their faces.

Lucius knew more of practical battle matters than the rest. Even Caesar had others do his fighting for him. But Lucius knew both women would soon be blind when the perspiration ran into their eyes. Neither of them had the modicum of protection real gladiators did—shield, helmet, or armor.

Lucius struggled to rise. He had to get in the arena and stop this. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, pressing him down, and knew Philo had returned and was standing behind him.

Vella went blind first. A similar thing had happened to Lucius once, and he knew how helpless it made him feel, and must be making her feel. Aside from being blinded, she probably was in pain, a lot of pain, her eyes feeling as if they were on fire.

Mellisa, in no good shape herself, on the next swing caught Vella’s sword below the hilt and knocked it out of her hand. The blade went spinning, striking the marble at the edge of the arena with a ringing sound.