Night of the Wolf (12 page)

Philo didn’t reply. Instead, he spoke to the two girls facing him from the opposite doorway. They gasped. The giggles died, then they ran into the room. One began to strip the bed; the other lifted the chamber pot and left with it.

Lucius’ jaw dropped. He’d never seen such a change so quickly wrought in two human beings.

“They speak excellent Greek,” Philo told him quietly. “One is a hetairai from Alexandria and I recognized her at once.”

The chamber was transformed before his eyes. The window was opened, the room aired out. The braziers, needed now because of the nights’ increasing cold, were emptied and refilled. The floor was scrubbed, the bed remade with a fresh mattress, sheets, and pillows—all with the clean scent of sun-dried linen. Then Philo helped him to the bed and changed his dressings.

They had their first quarrel about the wine Lucius wanted to drink before his siesta. Philo favored a well-watered beverage mixed with honey. For Lucius: Falernian, neat.

Lucius lost. He gave up when he sounded querulous, even to his ears.

His first loss was the harbinger of more to come. His breakfast was no longer red wine spiked with opium and a few figs, but hard-boiled eggs, soft cheese, fruit, and well-watered white wine. Lunch was more of the same.

At dinner, Philo firmly placed the emphasis on food rather than drink and replaced the late-night wine with a sleeping draught he mixed himself, composed of valerian he’d gathered in the garden.

Somehow he always managed to persuade Lucius to take a turn around the garden with him after each meal and, in time, the one turn became two, three, or even four laps around the reflecting pool. Finally, Lucius could walk for long periods quite comfortably and no longer needed the carrying chair.

But the nights were the worst. Lucius’ fever rose. He shivered, and pain, forgotten by day, hemmed him away from sleep. He tossed and turned in an agony of physical and emotional suffering.

Alia would call Philo. He came with medicine to relieve the pain and bring down the temperature; fresh sheets for the perspiration-soaked bed; and he often sat up with his charge till dawn, reading to Lucius from the villa’s well-stocked, though rather dusty, library.

Though Lucius didn’t care to admit it to himself, Philo’s regimen was working. Lucius was feeling better. The simple, natural, painless things Philo did for him were far superior to Hippos’ more exotic tortures. Bleeding, for instance, left him dizzy, nauseated, and weak for days at a time. Savage purges had sent him to the pot all night until he was emptied of everything but bloody mucus and left with stomach cramps that continued for days. Hippos also used hot irons. He’d never used them on Lucius, but by then Lucius had ended up bribing him to do nothing when he came, or to stay away as much as possible, all much to Fulvia’s annoyance.

But what Lucius feared most, and the one thing he went in terror of giving way to, was . . . hope. Because hope unfulfilled is, after all, the final torment of the damned. Those in his situation, condemned to die slowly, yield it up so that their remaining existence can be borne with fortitude and without grief for what must inevitably be lost. He had long ago abandoned hope, but now it came to him, came back on the wings of morning.

It came on a day when he awakened realizing he’d slept through the night without being battered by pain or fever. He lay quietly, breathing deep draughts of clean, cold, mountain air. Air fragrant as springtime, sweet as the perfume of a thousand flowers and gentle as the first flush of dawn’s light stealing through a forest.

And he knew he was going to live. He might end with a terrible scar and always limp a bit, and surely he would never be the strong, heedless young man who’d ridden out with the legions. But he would live and, in time, the world would open its bounty to him. Yes, he was forever changed and it remained to be seen in what way and how much. But he could accept that as part of his life and go on. Above all, he was going to live and be well. What had been hope would, in the coming days, harden into a certainty.

Then he closed his eyes and drifted away into a dreamless slumber, his soul at peace.

VI

Still shaking with fear at his narrow escape, the wolf passed across the rocky slope. Beyond were close-cropped, high pastures with grass stiff, brown, and lightly dusted with frost. At length, he emerged into the forest. A greenish light filtered down through the trees.

Dawn. The wolf was exhausted. More than anything else he wanted food and sleep, but a climax forest wasn’t a good place to find either one.

He moved through what amounted to an ancient, many-pillared hall. High above, the interlacing branches effectively shut out the sun, creating a cool, green gloom beneath. The wolf ran over a brown carpet of dead and decaying leaves forming the almost incredibly rich substrate supporting the towering giants—heaven and earth come to an agreement, but a desert to the wolf.

On and on he traveled. Not even birdsong rang out above him. Occasionally a breath of wind stirred the high-crowned giants and they sighed out a deep song of lives incomprehensibly long and peace so deep. It made all of mammalian endeavor seem as brief as the falling star creating a streak of light across the heavens at sunset.

You, even your kind are latecomers to the earth,
the trees told the wolf.
And man, an aberration in the long, slow warp and weft of time, a knot in the thread woven by the Gray Ladies.

So be it,
the wolf thought. He was tranquil.
I am content to be what I am. And, besides, there are things that make you seem young as children: the rocks, the sea, and the stars.

Yet even as the forest announced its eternal and inevitable triumph, it began to break up. The ground grew increasingly rocky.

Eventually the wolf reached an escarpment, a spur of rock where he could look over the whole valley. The forest stretched out for miles and miles; at its center, a giant river. A blue and gold strip shining in the first light of sunrise, it curved and twisted through the tapestry of green, brown, and scarlet trees.

How to cross? A human might have been discouraged, but it isn’t wolf nature to borrow trouble. Instead, he turned and continued his journey.

It was near noon when the wolf reached the river. He entered a narrow man-made trace along its banks, then trotted as close to the shore as he could. It was broad, brown, and deep here. He was a powerful, bold creature, but he was not completely foolhardy. It might be something akin to suicide for an animal his size to try to swim something its size.

Ah, well,
he thought,
water.
He waded in up to his ankles and drank. As he did, numerous small swimming things shot away from his muzzle and into deeper water. He continued to drink while eyeing them. Little fat bodies with small, fingered forelimbs and big back legs: frogs. Aaah!

When he quenched his thirst, he moved quietly, tail gently waving high above his back. Umm, the swimmers were slow and awkward, the penalty they paid to the growing cold. One was lying on the bottom. Snap!
Not bad!
Not a familiar food to him, but really not bad at all. And there were lots and lots of them, clustered in the yellow-flowered greenery, the bare, sloping muddy bottom, hanging under lily pads. Everywhere.
How nice.
Snap! One might wish for a dipping sauce. Imona was corrupting him. When he found her, he hoped she’d corrupt him some more. Snap!
Umm, not very filling for a hundred-and-eighty-pound animal, but there are plenty of them. Rather like the wild artichokes she served me.
Snap! Snap! Snap!
Very good.

The wolf went on, moving slowly downstream, dining after the manner of his kind, until he heard sounds of battle on the trace following the river. Someone began screaming.

The gray hovered for a moment between wolf and man. The screams were compelling, cries of pain and distress. A nurturing creature, even human distress cries roused him.

Fifty or so yards down the road, one man was on the ground. He was being kicked into submission by two others.

The wolf turned human and briefly considered matters—matters such as the width of the river and the difficulty of crossing without assistance—and decided it might be worth a try. But he’d best hurry because the man on the ground was definitely in trouble: he’d stopped shouting and was now curled into a ball, trying to protect his vital organs.

He dashed toward the pair, shouting as he came. One stopped menacing the victim, turned, and drew his sword. The two wore bits and pieces of Roman armor and looked as if they might be deserters from one of Caesar’s cavalry companies.

The soldier crouched and Maeniel could read the contempt in the man’s eyes. He was naked and unarmed.

Maeniel was determined not to be taken as easily as he had been in his first fight with humans. He closed with the soldier.
Right about now,
the hunter’s brain told him.
He has to commit.

He did, aiming a vicious, downward slash that would have split Maeniel’s skull to the teeth.

The demiwolf simply increased his speed slightly, ending up inside the downstroke just as it fell. His left hand snapped shut on the wrist of the sword arm. His right fist slammed into the man’s face. It hurt. He had not known it would cause him so much pain. Still, he managed to tear the sword from his opponent’s hand.

A second later he realized why the sword came loose so easily. The man he’d just punched in the face was dead.

The one who’d presumably been his partner left off kicking the victim. He stared goggle-eyed at the red ruin that was all that remained of his confederate’s face and at the giant naked man holding a sword in his hand.

Then he ran. Three horses and a heavily laden pack mule grazed beside the rutted track. The brigand leaped into one of the saddles with the ease of long practice, snatched up the pack mule’s rein, and fled.

The robbery victim staggered to his feet and began screaming at the fleeing man and mule. Then he took out after both at a hopping run, still yelling imprecations, objurgations, and downright curses in what sounded like three languages.

Maeniel, anxious not to lose his investment in time and energy, brought up the rear, waving the sword.

Up ahead, the muddy track had been flooded by a recent rain: tough going for the brigand’s horse and the even more heavily laden mule. The horse slowed in the mud, but the mule sank in to the fetlocks.

The fleeing outlaw slowed the horse. The lead rope stretched out and the mule went to his knees. The mule did not suffer this tamely. He gave a braying outcry of anger and distress, leaped to his feet, planted all four legs, threw his head back, and jerked the lead rope out of the horseman’s hand.

The thief pulled up his horse and gave Maeniel and the infuriated merchant one apprehensive look, then clapped spurs to his mount and ran.

The merchant caught up to the mule and stopped running. The mule brayed again and strolled out of the mud onto more solid ground.

The merchant spat in the mule’s face and screamed, “Traitor!” in two languages. The mule was unruffled, so the merchant slapped the animal across the face.

The mule complained again, rather mildly, Maeniel thought. The merchant punched him in the nose. Mules are tough, but the area between the large nostrils of any equine is sensitive.

Maeniel arrived barely in time to sweep the merchant out of the way just before one of the mule’s fore hooves raked through the air where his head had been only a second before. Then the merchant staggered over to a convenient fallen tree, sat down, and had hysterics.

Maeniel saw a loaf of bread and what looked like a piece of cheese protruding from one of the mule’s saddlebags. Despite a few threats and foot stampings—the mule didn’t care at all for the way he smelled—he was able to help himself.

The cheese was old and hard; so was the bread. Maeniel, who was usually interested in human food, decided he preferred his interrupted frog snack.

He ambled back to the fallen thief and stood over him, chewing the bread and cheese, puzzling about the reasons for his death. Surely he hadn’t hit him
that hard,
but there he was, undeniably dead. Maeniel sighed. He hadn’t wanted to kill his adversary, only stop him. At length, he removed the swordbelt from around the fallen man’s waist and placed the sword in the scabbard.

The merchant’s hysteria was subsiding. “What are you going to do? Rob me the same way your two friends did?” He screeched the accusation.

Maeniel looked at him. The long, steady gaze was the sort the pack leader gives a low-ranking wolf caught in an act of insubordination.

The merchant abruptly realized his accusations might be inappropriate or even dangerous in this situation.

“They are not my friends,” Maeniel said. “No, I wouldn’t rob you. The only thing I want is safe passage across the river. If you know how to accomplish this feat, instruct me now. If not, say so. I won’t waste any more time talking to you and I’ll leave.”

“Cross the river? You want to cross the river?” the merchant gabbled.

“I just said so,” Maeniel replied patiently.

“There’s a ferry only a few miles down the road.”

“What’s a ferry?”

The merchant’s jaw dropped.

Noting the dead man’s horse was still grazing nearby, Maeniel began investigating a bundle on the saddle pack. He found a clean tunic, a dirty blanket, more bread and cheese, and a hard sausage that reeked of garlic. He put the tunic on. The thing was a bit small for him, barely covering his knees. He kept the food and threw away the blanket. He ignored the tunic and trousers on the corpse. They were far too overripe for his animal nose.

The merchant tried to explain the concept of a ferry to him and succeeded fairly well. Maeniel had seen boats. “You mean, it’s a boat that doesn’t go anywhere but from one side of the river to the other?” he asked the merchant.

“Yes, but that’s enough places.”

Maeniel nodded and the five set out together, Maeniel leading the brigand’s horse, the merchant mounted on his own horse and pulling the mule’s headrope. The mule had gotten over his bad temper and accepted the situation philosophically.

The merchant’s name was Decius. A human might have been irritated by his unending flow of chatter, but as far as the wolf was concerned, he was a font of useful information. The merchant talked and, except for an occasional prodding question to direct the flow, Maeniel listened.

It transpired that Decius had not simply been set upon by the pair of thieves, he’d hired them at his last stopping place to protect him.

“Sometimes it works,” he told Maeniel in a shamefaced way. “You hire a few of the wolves to keep off the rest of the pack.”

“I suppose,” Maeniel replied noncommittally.

“And speaking of wolves, there are supposed to be real wolves around here.”

Maeniel was tempted to reply, “Only one,” but he decided he’d better keep his mouth shut.

Decius craned his neck and anxiously looked up and down the road. “Do you suppose there are?”

“No” was all Maeniel felt he could trust himself to say.

“No wolves? You’re sure? How do you know?”

Maeniel decided to give his companion something else to think about. “No wolves here, only bears.”

Decius started so violently that his horse shied. “Bears!” he squeaked.

“Yes! Big ones.”

“Where?”

“In the forest.”

“Well, even I know that,” Decius said condescendingly. “Where in the forest?”

“Right around the next bend in the road.”

Decius began laughing. “How could you possibly know?” They were, at the moment, rounding the bend.

Above, clouds were piling up. The wind was rising. It whipped at the nearly naked tree branches around them, sending a flurry of brown leaves across the road.

Maeniel paused, his nostrils distended. He took a deep breath. A whole complex of sensations from the wolf flooded his brain. The air had a sharp, wet smell: rain or possibly snow before morning. An old smell of burning; fresh bear—he’d been nearby only a short time ago. Why? The wolf didn’t fear the big animal and doubted Decius had anything to fear either. If the bear was stalking them, he’d be after the horses—the bony gelding Maeniel was leading or the heavier-fleshed mare ridden by Decius.

Around the bend, the road swung close to the river.

Decius laughed nervously. “Well, friend, where is that bear you were talking about, and how do we know he’s here?”

Maeniel pointed to a muddy spot near one of the deep ruts. “There!” he said.

The paw prints were fresh. The mud that had gushed up between the bear’s toes was still wet.

A fair-sized beech stood near the tracks. The claw marks on the bark were a good three feet taller than any man.

Decius startled, frightening his horse again. The mule brayed loudly in the sudden silence. “Does
he
know we’re here?” Decius squeaked.

“Keep moving, and yes, he knows; you stink of it.”

“Of what?” Decius seemed to be on the verge of panic.

“Fear!”

Decius obeyed. They passed the tree; the horses ambled on.

The sky was gray now. The wind shifted. Decius’ horse caught the bear smell. She began dancing along sideways, throwing her head up—in other words, showing incipient symptoms of equine panic. Every one of Maeniel’s senses, human and wolf, was at full stretch. What was a bear doing here at this time of year? They were usually fat, lazy, sleepy, and ready to den up. Then he heard the hum of bees. “Of course. Keep going,” he urged Decius, but the frightened horse was no longer making forward progress.

Some of the bees arrived and began buzzing around them. One shot into the distended nostrils of Decius’ horse. The confused insect obeyed the million-year-old command:
When skin-to-chitin contact with an enemy occurs, commit suicide.
He drove his stinger in to the hilt, maybe or maybe not screaming, “Die, horse!”

Decius’ horse bucked. Decius took to the air, showing a lot of space between his rear end and the saddle, but he came down with a yell and a loud slap of flesh on leather just before the horse bolted.

This time the horse’s forward motion was completely unimpeded. She thundered down the road at an astonishing pace. Decius dropped the mule’s lead rope. He needed both hands to cling to the pommel of the saddle.