Night of the wolf, p.51
Night of the Wolf, page 51
“What do you want her to do?” Maeniel asked.
“Go away!” Calpurnia said.
Maeniel looked up at the woman. “Go away.” The girl went.
“Come with me,” Calpurnia said. Her fingers tightened painfully on his hand.
He helped her to her feet, and she led him out of that garden and down a long colonnade into another garden.
“I’m almost blind in one eye,” she said, “and I can barely walk. But your friends will die unless you have this. So I must give it to you before I depart.”
She walked quickly in spite of her protestations about both pain and blindness. From time to time, she would lurch and stagger against his arm and, once or twice, she might have fallen had he not been there.
“I’m anxious to get it over with. You cannot imagine how tired I am of him, of Rome, the Senate, the whole mess. But for the roses, they might have ruled my life and I would have died much younger, worn out by sorrow.”
As it was, the wolf thought, she was dying of sorrow.
By then, they reached Caesar’s office. There was a lock, but he broke it easily with his fingers. The doors slid back. Caesar’s office was empty, as were the public rooms all around it. The writing table where Caesar worked was bare except for a leather folder. A basket nearby held paper trash. She tipped it over and began to rummage through the contents.
“This is a trick I learned many years ago when I was anxious to learn his mind. He makes more than one draft of everything, usually two or three. Then he removes all extraneous material. This is why some of his toadies praise his style, and he has a good one, very lean, yet graceful. It almost makes you think he’s telling the truth.
“Ah ha!” She rose to her feet with the list in her hand. She passed it to Maeniel. He could not read well, but he could, thanks to Mir’s best efforts, read.
The list named individuals and their possible reasons such as “he’s surely in on intrigue by now,” “wife is tired of his jealousy—besides, he’s one of the richest men in Rome, will split profits with wife sixty-forty,” “would love to stick a knife in me,” and “hates me, curses me every time my back is turned.”
But the most striking name on the list was Marc Antony. Him, too, the wolf thought. But his name was crossed off, the notation “not yet” and “drunken, pussy-whipped fool.” Next to another one’s name, “I just want to see his face,” and yes, there was Lucius, but the only notation by his name was “father?” The list included Brutes, “oh yes, my son.”
The paper was badly crumpled, dirty and torn. “It’s in his handwriting and they will recognize it,” Calpurnia said.
Maeniel smoothed the paper, folded it, and helped her out of the room. In the short time they’d been in the office, the sky had darkened perceptibly. Though dawn, it was a gray one and the clouds rolled ominously; even as the day brightened, they turned thicker and blacker.
Outside, in the garden, Calpurnia looked up. “Yes,” she said, “presently. Don’t be impatient. Give me but a few moments more.”
Distant thunder rumbled a warning.
“Yes,” she said. “I know, I know.”
Maeniel put his arm around her waist and she hurried, as well as she was able, to the roses. To his surprise, she didn’t use the entrance, but plucked a rose, a single rose, and handed it to Maeniel.
“You don’t want to go in?” he asked.
“It’s not necessary now. Don’t stand near the jars when I begin to die.”
The light was green now. A sprinkling of big drops splashed on the pavement. The fragrance of roses was almost overpowering. The wolf could smell the components of rose, pepper spicing, a cloying sweetness mixed with the smell of rain on the wind, sadness, bitter regret. Do these things have an odor? To him, they did.
They kissed and he was surprised that though the air was thick with rose, she was perfumed by sea breezes and something less enduring like a flower. Not a heavy scent, but a light one touched with sharpness, exquisitely piercing, the most like the fruit of limes. One offering itself to the senses, but never caught in the net of the perfumer’s art, only experienced when the fresh green fruit is bruised.
Yes, she was unique and could only be experienced, but never captured or possessed. But that, Caesar had never known, he could not conceive of anything he could not possess and anything barring him from possession, he would destroy.
The wolf greedily kissed her again, picked her up, and carried her toward the frightened maids.
He barely reached the circular room when the storm struck. He laid her on the bed and backed out of the room. Rain drenched the gardens behind him and, as he turned away, her women began to scream. Her body convulsed as her spirit struggled to break free of the confining, but beloved flesh.
Was that thunder? No, it was deafening. The hooves landed on the cobbles and Maeniel saw the steed clearly for the first time. He was the color of the storm clouds, like old hammered silver, dappled from dark to light, and big, bigger than the largest horse Maeniel had ever seen. This time, he wore a saddle with ivory and gold trappings.
Lightning flashed white, blinding, closely accompanied by a clap of thunder that shook the walls. The wolf heard a cry. The head was beautiful, eyes onyx, nostrils wide and red against the velvety soft muzzle.
He reared, striking the pavement with his forehooves as he dropped back. The long, curling mane and tail seemed somehow made up of, or part of, the storm clouds, sending down rain in gossamer curtains between heaven and earth.
Boom! He struck the earth with one forehoof and the stone where it fell boiled, sending up water in a cloud of steam.
Then she came. The form in the bed surrounded by her hysterical women was still now. Servants and soldiers ran in from everywhere in the house, alarmed by the women’s cries.
She paused next to Maeniel and smiled. “Good-bye. I can’t kiss you because I’m not really here, but live long and be well. Don’t stand near those stone jars when he leaves. The gates are going to close.”
Her steed knelt as he had before and, in a second, she settled herself in the saddle.
The wind roared, but even Maeniel could hear the creature’s cry of joy and triumph above the rage of the elements. Rain slashed at his face.
It leaped, driven upward by its back hooves, high into the air, clear of the villa and its walls, into the roaring wind and wild storm above it. Then, with a snap louder than the thunder, the giant wings opened and it was gone.
He remembered her warning and dashed back to her chamber. A two-forked bolt of lightning struck the jars filled with roses. The plants themselves hissed, steamed, then burst into flame. The jars exploded, showering the courtyard with pottery fragments and dirt, and sending every human being within sight or sound of them diving for cover.
Maeniel covered his head, the paper, and the rose with his mantle and ran. On his way, he passed the two legionnaires who had been guarding the door. They were sheltered from both storm and confusion near the altar of the household gods.
“I told you,” the young one said, “we shouldn’t have let that dog in here.”
“You really think he had something to do with this? Caused all this commotion?” the other one asked.
“I suppose it sounds silly . . .” his friend replied.
“You planning to make a career of the army?”
“I don’t—”
“Yes, well, I do,” said the older man. “You go telling your commanding officer stories like that, you wind up guarding goats in farther Hispania. There aren’t anything but goats in farther Hispania.”
“I see.”
“I sincerely hope so because I don’t plan on joining you there at any time in the near future. The first thing any soldier should learn is never volunteer. The second is—”
“Don’t tell me,” the youngster said. “When to shut up.”
The older man didn’t answer. He just nodded.
Dryas got her horses; Aristo was efficient. She mounted Alia and Octus on the best ones and sent them on ahead, telling both of them, “Find inconspicuous lodging and don’t tell anyone who you are or why you’re there. If we don’t follow you by tomorrow, don’t try to contact us. If we aren’t there by the following day, we won’t come. Don’t return and look for us. Keep on going.” Since she spoke to Alia in her own language, Alia understood her well enough. “Find a Caledonian ship if you can,” Dryas said, “and go beyond the reach of Roman arms or power.” Then she gave both of them money and sent them on their way.
Then she asked, “Philo?”
“No,” he said. “I’ll stay.”
“He will worry,” she said.
“I know, but I’ll stay anyhow.”
“Stubborn,” she said.
“We are known for it” was the reply.
“Cut Ear?”
Cut Ear laughed. “You should run first. Little, small, woman. What you do here?”
“Bring him back to my people or die in the attempt,” Dryas flared back at him.
“Ya, die in the attempt, because Caesar is here now with his woman.”
They heard the tramp of booted feet on the street. Dryas hurried back to the old part of the house where Lucius made his home and waited in the garden. Aristo showed Caesar into the garden. He was accompanied by Cleopatra, Fulvia, Firminius, and about a dozen soldiers.
“You see,” Fulvia said, pointing to Dryas. She sounded shrill. “He’s trying to marry her.”
“Well, he can’t,” Caesar said calmly. “It’s against the law.”
Dryas tried to catch Cleopatra’s eye, but the queen avoided her gaze.
“Fulvia,” Caesar said, “a word to the wise. When she has served her purpose or, should I say, my lady’s purposes—” He nodded to Cleopatra. “—let him have his fling. In a month or more, he will likely grow tired of her or, quite possibly, she will weary of him. After all, they can’t have that much in common. Here she can’t claim any rank much higher than a slave or, at best, a freedwoman belonging to your house.”
“What about the . . . other matter?” Fulvia asked. Her lips were a tight white line and her eyes glittered with malice.
Caesar gave Fulvia a glance that still made strong men quail. “I had believed you to be a person of intelligence and well-ordered judgment. Don’t make me change my opinion. Your father made his choice. Had he any doubts about your brother’s paternity, he simply could have ordered the infant exposed. A father’s rights in that respect are absolute. He didn’t, and since he is now beyond all human questioning, his judgment is final. I will not have such a case brought at law. Every legitimate heir in Rome would be howling for my head. I would do a lot for my friends, but this I will not do.”
Yes, Dryas thought, keep on, Fulvia, and your name will find its way on to one of his lists. His or hers.
Caesar gazed at Dryas. “My lady—” He indicated Cleopatra. “—believes you have the power to read the future and she wants you to look into ours.”
“Why do you think I can do this?” Dryas asked.
Caesar’s face hardened. “I don’t plan to explain myself to you. Do as my lady asks.”
The command was unmistakable. Dryas tried again to catch Cleopatra’s eye. The beautiful queen wouldn’t look at her; instead she rested her hand on Caesar’s arm and gazed into his eyes. He returned her adoring look with one of his own.
He’s besotted with her, Dryas thought. I have no choice. She felt an increasing sense of foreboding. I want to destroy him, but why am I afraid?
“She is the dragon’s own,” Cut Ear growled from behind her. “From the sea.” He pointed to Dryas’ leg. “He marks her. Look at leg.”
Dryas lifted the long tunic as high as her calf, showing the marks of the puncture wounds.
“Women trouble,” Cut Ear said. “All trouble.” He pointed at Dryas. “This woman, worst kind of trouble. You smart man. So smart, nobody get ’round you. To you, chiefs, warriors, like children. Play fool, you spank. Play worse fool, you kill. They learn. The ones still alive learn. Lucius, Roman fool. She snare him. She take him. Let have him. Nothing to you. Have many more young fool. Ya. But cheap. Lots. Follow you for free. Pick of lot. Ya.”
He pointed to Dryas again. “Old, old, old people. She is one. Live in mist, rain, darkness. Gods fight in sky. Look into other world. Mouthpiece of hag. Dragon queen. Star singer. Men steal first magic from woman, this kind woman. All trouble, worst kind. No good reason she come here. No good. I ever tell you wrong?”
“No, my friend,” Caesar said. “You never lie. Is what he says true?” he asked Dryas.
“Yes,” she answered. “I would urge you to take his advice.”
Cut Ear grunted.
“This begins to intrigue me,” Caesar said. “You can really tell a man his fate?”
“No,” Dryas said. “Only about himself. I have never known anyone who wanted to know as much as I can tell him. Never.”
“Just possibly I do,” he said.
“Yes, well, you will face the woman. When?”
“I have never been afraid of women. Now. What do you need?”
“Nothing. A quiet place where we will be undisturbed.”
“Day or night?”
“Now, as you demanded,” she said.
“The Temple of Vesta. The ladies, the virgins, will be happy to favor me. She, Vesta, is, after all, a woman.”
The temple was an ancient one, perhaps the oldest in Rome. It was, in the course of centuries, rebuilt many times. It housed a fire and, really, that was all. Its stark simplicity perhaps replicated the huts built by the first settlers. Probably they were from Greece, those who came and settled the stony, hot soil of the seven hills beside the Tiber.
Its center was the hearth where they first gathered for protection against the cold and dangers that lurked in darkness. In those days, the last sight people had before they slept was the banked coals of the night fire, and the first, the rising flames of a morning before sunrise as the woman, keeper of the flames, built it higher to cook the day’s first meal.
She was Vesta, guardian of the family, the chastity of wives and daughters, protector against misfortune, hunger, and disease, keeper of the flame and, perhaps, the spirit of fire, itself forever dividing men from beasts. Yielding to men the gift of heaven, placed in the trembling hands of our kind’s first immortal dreamer; the first to lift her eyes and hands from the mire, and stretch them out toward the star-filled sky.
Yes, Dryas thought, this is one of those places like Delphi, Tara in the Irish valley, or the one on Salisbury plain. A seal is set here. Yes, she will come. I am sure and Cut Ear is right. It is a foolish man who meddles with women’s magic. Who would have thought it? This Caesar a fool. She will destroy him and possibly me, too, in the process.
The temple was a small, though imposing, structure. Round; the fire burned alone on a circular marble altar in the center, tended day and night by its guardian vestals. The walls were white limestone surrounded by marble Corinthian columns. Once inside, Dryas could see that there were no paintings or statues, only plain white walls and a rotunda over the altar with the fire.
Dryas felt a deep dread slowly creeping over her.
The day outside was warm, almost unseasonably warm. The sky above the Forum was filled with high-topped cumulus clouds, white at the tops, but darker at the base where they rode the thermal layer above the city.
Dryas took a last look at the light and air beyond the heavy, cedar double doors. Caesar spoke with the vestal on duty. She nodded and departed.
Two of the soldiers closed the heavy doors and the room grew dark. The fire on the altar didn’t shed much light, but the roof had a double dome, a smaller one atop the larger, and windows surrounding the division between them let in clear, bluish-white light, as did the smoke hole in the roof that served as a chimney.
It was oddly familiar to Dryas, and then she remembered. The ancient building was very like Cynewolf’s hall, almost as if a command once given echoed still in the human mind and soul, and would forever more. I do not ask for worship, but honor me this way. I would be remembered for your sake and mine.
Caesar saw Dryas’ waxen paleness in the firelight. “What is it, sorceress? Have you made promises you cannot keep and are afraid?”
Dryas removed her belt and then unbraided the copper crown from her hair while answering. “I am afraid, Caesar, but not of you. She is a being of immeasurably greater power. The promises are not mine to keep, but hers. I am now certain she will keep them.”
She handed her crown and belt to Cut Ear, who stood near her. Her long hair hung like a thick dark curtain, framing her face. Then she walked toward the altar and around it until she faced Caesar over the flames.
“Since you ask!” she said.
Cut Ear backed away very quickly because he knew the creature looking back at him over the flames was not Dryas.
“Why do you summon me to this place without light or air? I find it inconvenient,” she said. With that, they found themselves somewhere else.
Dryas would have known the place, but Dryas was securely tucked away, somewhere where there was no time. They stood on the sloping side of the mountain where the spring became a waterfall and the giant conifers held the mountaintop.
These woods were more ordinary and friendly. Stone pines with their cloudlike tops mixed with holum oaks. Rowan with its blazing berries ringed a clearing at whose center a fire burned on a flat stone. The air was clear and an intermittent breeze blew, cooling the air and fanning the fire. Birdsong filled the trees and bushes around them.
“Have you a question?” Dryas and not Dryas asked. “Be quick because this mortal cannot bear my touch for too long and I won’t be party to the destruction of this woman. Although she is utterly unimportant to you, Caesar, her people need her to accomplish a great purpose. Speak!”
“What is my destiny?” Caesar asked.
Dryasnot Dryas appeared impatient. “You yourself would know the answer to that question if you but bent your considerable intellect to an analysis of the facts. But then, humans like you don’t really want to know. The answer is: It is time for you to die.
