Night of the Wolf (19 page)

“No!” Marcus replied. His hands clamped tight on one of the crossbars of the cart where he and Statilius were riding. Insubordination was savagely punished in the Roman army.

“Come on,” Statilius said. “I’ll go with you.”

The two men jumped down from the cart. They were wearing their swords. The forest was silent except for the crunch of dry snow under the two men’s feet.

Drusus watched them advance toward the black specks near the trees.

As they drew closer, both men realized they were looking at a flock of ravens resting on the snow, feeding on something. Then, just before the men reached them, the birds took flight with a sudden loud flapping.

Bones lay scattered over the snow, red bones newly cleaned of meat. The bones were tumbled and broken. Neither of the men could tell much about what sort of animal they had come from, but then Statilius saw something that looked, like a skull half buried in. the snow.

He reached out toward it and at once pulled away his hand. The bone was slick and cold. He drew his sword and turned the thing over with the tip. He found himself looking down at a human skull. One eye socket was empty, but a single blue eye glared up at him from the other. He had a second to reflect that they had certainly found Hirax.

From somewhere not far away, a terrible scream rang out.

The gray wolf considered Scorpus. Earlier he’d pitied the man, but if he was dead, well, the wolves were hungry. Scorpus’ mortal remains might as well be put to good use— at least good use from a wolf’s point of view.

So he jumped up, placed his forepaws on either side of the fissure Scorpus had thrust himself into, set his teeth in the soldier’s tunic, and pulled.

Scorpus’ body was wedged tightly in its refuge, so he pulled hard, arching his back once, twice. Nothing happened. The wolf growled, about all he could do with his mouth full of cloth, then he yanked hard.

Scorpus blinked and came to life the moment he was pulled free of his sanctuary. He landed in the snow, next to the wolf. He screamed, giving vent to an unearthly cry of despair.

The man the gray had thought dead only a few seconds ago staggered to his feet and began clubbing at the wolf with his almost-frozen hands. The wolf ducked and backed, Scorpus caught him across the top of his head. The wolf yipped.

At the sound of the scream, Marcus bolted, running toward the cart on the road.

The wolves flowed out of the small grove the way a stain spreads through water. They were both silent and deadly.

Marcus was down and dead before he knew what hit him. Statilius already had his sword out. This saved his life . . . for a moment. He drove his sword through White Shoulder’s body. The pack leader was busy tearing off Marcus’ face, but the bitch got Statilius, fracturing his lower legs. As he fell, his head cracked hard against a stump, splitting open his skull.

On the cart, Drusus had just seen two of his men die in less time than it took to sneeze, but he was an old campaigner and didn’t lose his head.

The road was narrow; the cart pointed the wrong way. His life depended on the horses. He raced them forward, away from the killing ground. The narrow road dead-ended at the finger of rock where Scorpus had taken refuge. Drusus’ fingers were locked on the reins. He pulled the two cobs to a rearing, strangling halt.

A clearing lay on his right. He swung them into a turn into the clearing and back toward the road. Everything seemed to move with glacial slowness, but Drusus didn’t dare push the already terrified animals to any greater speed. One of them might fall and break a leg, not only finishing the horse, but him, too.

The cart swung around. In a few seconds, he could feel from the traction the horses’ hooves were getting that they were back on the road. Then the cart tilted as one back wheel went down into a ditch hidden by the snow.

Drusus nearly despaired, but he stood, throwing his weight to the left to counterbalance the right rear wheel. At that same moment, he heard a ghastly screeching. He looked back and saw Scorpus clambering to the top of the cart and crawling over the load of wood toward him. Behind Scorpus, chasing him, was the largest wolf Drusus had ever seen.

Scorpus was a vision of horror, his face and beard caked with ice and other sorts of frozen filth—Scorpus had vomited after he’d been chased into the rocks. His mouth was open, a red orifice in his frozen features. He screamed, howling nonstop as he reached Drusus and began clawing at him.

Drusus jerked his sword clear of the sheath and slammed fist and hilt into Scorpus’ face. He felt his own knuckles break, but so did Scorpus’ face and he abruptly went silent and tumbled off the cart into the snow-filled road.

The horses’ hooves gained the road. Freed of Scorpus’ weight, the wheel rolled out of the ditch. Drusus sat hunched over his broken hand in agony as the horses made the best speed they were capable of toward the fortress.

The wolf stood in the blowing snow beside Scorpus’ body; He had not really wanted the man to die.

It was snowing harder now. The wolf shook himself to get the accumulating flakes from his fur, then he poked Scorpus with his nose. Yes, he was well and truly dead. The body lay on its back, legs slightly spread, arms thrown out on both sides, white now as the increasing snowfall covered it. White except for the still-seeping blotch of red where the face had been.

The wolf whined deep in his throat, then turned and trotted through the trees where the rest were feeding.

The bitch stood next to White Shoulder. The wolf was not yet dead, but the gray could see he was rapidly dying. His legs scrabbled, making running motions, throwing snow in all directions.

The bitch raised her head and howled. A wolf’s howl is always eerie, touching as it does the upper register of audible sound, but this outcry was more uncanny than most, since it carried equal measures of sorrow and pain.

The other wolves paid no attention. They feasted on Marcus and Statilius. As it was, Hirax had been barely an appetizer.

As the gray watched, foam began to appear at White Shoulder’s jaw. The foam grew thicker and then red. The wolf knew the sword must have passed through his lungs and, in the same moment, he watched White Shoulder cough out his life.

The words in human speech formed in his brain.
I am no longer simply a wolf.
He didn’t ask the next logical question:
If I am not a wolf what am I?
It was terrifying enough for him to lose his identity. He didn’t want to know any more.

White Shoulder died. Blood continued to pool around his jaws for a time, then ceased.

The bitch didn’t feed with the rest. She stood silent over White Shoulder’s body. An outburst of snarling nearby told Maeniel that some of the other wolves had found Scorpus’ body.

The gray was still reeling from his sudden awareness, but he had responsibilities. With White Shoulder gone, he was senior member of the pack and the strongest.

He snapped at the bitch’s shoulder, nipping her slightly, breaking the skin. She rounded on him in a burst of fury, giving a snarl of sheer, mindless rage.

But he didn’t back down. He simply stood, teeth bared, stiff-legged, glaring at her.

Her eyes were a furnace of white-hot madness, but then, as he watched, he saw the rage die away and sanity return to her gaze. She eased back away from him.

The gray turned and trotted away from the pack’s feeding grounds, following the road toward the fortress. When he’d gone what he considered a sufficient distance, he stopped, ears up, alert, waiting, listening.

Drusus arrived at the fortress, half-frozen, incoherent, and moaning with the pain in his broken fingers. When he fully regained consciousness, he found himself in the thatched, low-ceilinged building that passed for a hospital at the garrison. He was surrounded by his friends, professional noncoms in the Roman army.

His memory of the afternoon was quite clear and he was aware his behavior did him no credit, especially at the last with Scorpus. Could he have helped the man? He had been in such stark terror of the wolves by then that he would have done anything, anything at all, to escape.

Well, he had escaped. He was here and safe, warm and safe. The farm on the coast near the blue sea beckoned him. Nothing must stand between him and it. Nothing.

“What happened?” someone asked. “You’ve been babbling about wolves.”

Drusus licked his lips. “No,” he said. “No wolves. That bastard Hirax and the rest . . . attacked me . . . deserted.”

Yes,
he thought,
that would do nicely.
If the commander found out he’d so lost control that they fell victim to wolves, he might be blamed for not maintaining proper discipline. He might lose the lump sum payment he was due to receive at his discharge from the army, the money he needed to support him for the rest of his life.

Who could blame him if his men plotted to desert, attacked, and wounded him? No, no one would blame him.

He was a hero. He was dimly aware he was alone now. His friends were gone. Gone, no doubt, to make up an armed party to hunt down those rotten deserters. Drusus chuckled, then he woke completely, really afraid.

They might find the bodies. His eyes, wide-open, stared at a candle on the bedside table dissolving into a pool of melted wax. Gods, what if they found the bodies?

But then he realized they wouldn’t. Even through the walls he could hear the wind as it hammered the building. Outside, a storm was rising. Between the wolves, ravens, and the storm, he was sure they wouldn’t find anything.

The wolf stood in the road. The snow increased. The sky grew darker. He felt the hoofbeats through his paws rather than heard them.

He wheeled and took off at a dead run toward the pack. They had finished feeding. He gave one low bark, then turned and fled uphill, deeper into the mountains. The wolves followed.

In due time, the armed party arrived. It was growing dark by then. The swift winter night was falling and snow covered the bones. Neither Drusus nor the wolves were blamed.

The gray found a sheltered spot among the scattered boulders and deadfalls left by the old avalanche track to den up for the night. It was near the place where he and Imona had dallied together, the place where he’d won her love. In a way, she was still there. The moss in the secluded glen amidst the broken rock was perfumed by her body.

The wolves found different places to take shelter, sometimes in twos or threes, but the gray noticed the bitch went off alone, as did he, curling his body in the hollow in the rock where they’d made love on that long-ago summer day.

Sometime after midnight he crawled from the hollow among the boulders. The snowstorm had blown itself out. The sky was clear and the stars sparkled like a spill of crystal across the black sky.

The air was cold, so cold he felt its bite beneath the long coarse guard hairs and the fleecy undercoat that protected him.

Slowly, very silently, he visited each wolf’s sleeping place. They were all sunken deep in slumber, even the bitch, though of all of them she seemed most restless. Sometimes she whined deep in her throat and, for a second, her legs and paws twitched. Then she drifted down into darkness beyond sorrow and fear, sighed, and relaxed.

The snow was several feet deep now. The crust wasn’t frozen yet. In the day there would be a slight thaw and, by tomorrow night, it would act as the wolves’ road. They could fleet across it like gazelles ready to kill heavier creatures such as ibex, wild cattle, elk, or deer incautious enough to flounder into deep drifts and become trapped. The dead of winter is a feast for wolves. Not even the Romans would dare the high fastness now.

Tonight, though, the crust wasn’t frozen and he encountered heavy going. That was why he was so late when he reached Mir’s dwelling.

Nothing stirred in the snow-covered countryside. His footprints, and his footprints alone, marred the perfectly smooth, cold surface of the virgin covering as it rested in silence, glowing with an uncanny pale radiance beneath the glittering sky.

Mir awakened without knowing what roused him and found his uninvited guest, couchant, head on his front paws, resting on a bench before the fire. The eyes glowed with the opalescent shimmer of the night hunter’s gaze. The wolf lifted his head and glared a challenge at the old man.

Mir glanced at the door. It was closed, the bar in position blocking it shut. No true wolf could have gotten past the planks and crossbeam.

The wolf lifted himself to a sitting position.

Mir shivered. The room was very cold. On the fire, the last log snapped loudly and blazed up, lighting the room for a second.

Next to Mir, his little wife sat up. She turned to the old man and clung to him as she stared at the wolf

The wolf drew back and snarled deep in his throat. Shadows clustered around the scarred child protectively, shadows only the wolf could see. A voice whispered softly from the darkness, “She, alone, lives.”

No,
the wolf thought, the words rising from the jumble of images crowding his brain.
I am no longer a wolf Mir would be easy to kill. A real wolf would have done the deed quickly and without furtherfuss, but I . . . I must look at him, into his eyes, and search for guilt, want, need, desire, fear. I want him to be afraid, the way she must have sometimes been afraid, because surely she knew what they were going to do to her. Why did she stay with them? Why didn’t she flee with me? Did Imona prefer death at the hands of her own kind rather than life with me?

Then the girl clinging to Mir began to cry, moaning and whimpering like an animal in pain.

The room darkened as what was left of the fire sank to coals on the hearth.

When Mir’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the room was empty, the wolf gone.

XI

When Lucius freed Philo after they returned to Rome, Fulvia kicked up a violent ruckus. “He cost the earth, I’ll have you know!” she screeched.

“What?” he answered. “You consider my survival a minor gift? I hate to tell you, my dear sweet sister, I’m glad to be alive and I consider I have the right to show some well-deserved gratitude to the man who saved my life.”

“You stupid bastard. You always were a stupid bastard. We could have made a fortune with him. He’s being spoken of as the finest physician in Rome. People from the first families resort to him now. One-third of the fees we charge for attendance is plenty for that scrawny little twit. He thinks he’s well off getting that much. I had my eye on one of those big villas along the coast near Ostia. I could easily have put aside enough from his fees to . . . Where did everyone go?” she asked, puzzled.

Lucius glanced around. The magnificent garden was empty. Only a few moments ago a gardener had been digging near one of the columns supporting the porch, preparing to plant some bay bushes. Now only the shrubs remained, roots soaking in a bucket of water. Farther down the walk, two of the cooks had been gathering rosemary for the chicken at supper, and one of the housemaids had been picking figs from a heavily laden tree shading the path. They, too, were gone.

“Sister mine, very few people care to encounter you when you’re in a bad mood. By the way, don’t insult my late mother the next time you fly into a rage over something I’ve done, not unless you want Philo to have to carve you a nice new set of teeth out of ivory. Don’t cast aspersions on Silvia’s virtue.”

Fulvia took a step backward. A month ago she wouldn’t have bothered, but now she wasn’t sure what Lucius might be able to do. The bath attendants she paid to spy on her brother had told her the wound was healed and that he was easily able to swim a dozen or more laps in the big pool housed in the tepiderium. She was beginning to think she’d wrought too well when she bought Philo. The twitchy little Greek had pulled him back from the edge of death. She wasn’t sure she was glad.

“I’m sorry. I apologize for my remark. I didn’t mean to insult her. Actually, the insult was directed at you. Why did you go about doing something so extravagant and foolish without consulting me first?”

“Extravagant? Foolish? Fulvia, hadn’t you noticed we’re rich? Richer than most senatorial families.”

“Yes, and we wouldn’t be for long if I didn’t spend my time scrimping, saving, keeping an eye on our living expenses. You men have no idea of the cost of keeping up appearances among noble Roman families. Why, the monthly cost of this house alone—”

“Spare me!” Fulvia in a fury frightened him. Fulvia whining and moaning disgusted him.

Fulvia stepped back. He didn’t catch the glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes. She gave a windy sigh. “I suppose what’s done is done, but . . .” Her jaw closed with a snap and she spoke between her teeth. “That oily little Greek ought to be willing to come across with a percentage in return for the patronage of an illustrious family.”

“Indeed, he should do so,” Lucius answered smoothly. “And just what family did you have in mind?”

Fulvia exited the peristyle toward her own luxurious reception rooms.

Lucius flinched as a door slammed loudly. He sat quietly for a moment, then reached into a bag at his side and scattered some grain on the flags in front of his bench. Two doves fluttered down and began pecking at it. The sun was hot on his neck and back, but the autumn morning had been chilly and it was still cooler than was comfortable in the shade.

Philo appeared, then sat down on the bench next to him. A few more doves glided in and joined the first two.

“She sounded a bit angry,” Philo hazarded.

“She’s always angry when she believes she’s lost money.”

“Oh,” Philo contributed, “and are you in . . . Is it possible that your family lacks . . .”

Lucius fixed him with a stare of absolute incredulity and burst into laughter. “No,” he said when he stopped laughing. “Keep your money. Send it to your sister, the managing one. That’s what you’ve been doing all along, haven’t you?”

Philo colored and looked a bit guilty. “As a matter of fact . . .” He paused. “You’re more perceptive than I thought.”

“Yes, not just another Roman lout who believes that because he has a prick dangling between his legs and a proconsul as a grandfather, that the gods, Roman and otherwise, gave him the right to kick the rest of humanity around in whatever way he pleases.”

Philo’s eyebrows rose. “You said it. I didn’t.”

“Besides,” Lucius continued, “I’m not a trusting soul. When it looked like I was going to recover, I didn’t know what she might try to bribe you to do. So I had someone check into your background. I received a glowing report, the gist of which was that you sacrificed yourself to save your family.”

“I warn you, my lord, many very bad people I have known were devoted to their families.”

“Is that ‘don’t trust me too much’?” Lucius asked.

“In this city, I would not trust anyone too much,” Philo said darkly. “Once you asked me if I was given to intrigue. I told you no, but I had no idea the levels of complexity it could reach until I experienced this queen of cities. I thought we Greeks were devious, but we are as children compared to the denizens of your Senate.”

Lucius threw back his head and howled.

“In summer, recurring fever and dysentery carry off many citizens of your little garden spot, and in winter, a simply fearful amount of lung congestion haunts these drafty dwellings. But winter and summer, rain or shine, hot or cold, dreary or sunny, politics finishes off more of the wealthy and well-born than any significant or comparable amount of plague. Simply being elected to that august body seems to be a death sentence in many families and, I might add, their wives are no better off.”

“Been to see Calpurnia today?” Lucius asked.

“Yes.”

“Umm,” Lucius said.

“Exactly,” Philo replied.

“How about a game of draughts?”

“Not with your dice, thank you. It took me some time to figure out why I had such a long losing streak. I had, heretofore, considered myself a fair player.”

“I’ll let you contribute the dice,” Lucius said.

Philo reached into his tunic. “I just happen to have—”

“I wonder if I’m going to start a losing streak.”

“It’s possible,” Philo said.

“Fulvia is planning a career of public service for me. Such a career begins with election to the Senate.”

“Were I you, I would find another profession. What say you to being a gladiator? It’s probably safer.”

“I was doing my military service in preparation for standing for election when I was wounded. You see, the career path of a young Roman of noble family begins in the army, then the Senate, followed by an assignment in—”

“I know the steps on the road to power,” Philo interrupted. “I’ve been in Rome long enough. I also know every one of them is fraught with difficulty, peril, and enormous out-of-pocket expenses.”

One of the doves near Lucius’ foot pecked at his ankle.

“They’re telling you they’ve eaten all the grain, and trust me, birds are a lot cheaper to feed and to keep content than the Roman mob, my lord.”

Lucius dropped more grain. The birds reached it with greater speed than he would have thought possible. “Fast walkers, too,” he told Philo. “My heart’s not in it. I just don’t want to become another Pompey, Cassius, or even Caesar.”

“Then you will surely die,” Philo said. “If you don’t bend all your heart, intellect, and strength to such an endeavor, you will fail. I can tell you haven’t sufficient low cunning or hysterical fear of death, not to mention the pure horse sense required, to achieve victory in the political arena. You will . . . pick the wrong party, become an inconvenience or possibly an encumbrance to one of the larger and more bloodthirsty denizens of the senatorial shark pool, be faced with some crime you haven’t the stomach to commit, and . . . so . . . perish.”

Lucius picked up the almost empty bag of grain and turned it inside out over the growing crowd of birds. “My, there must be a couple of dozen here.”

“Just so,” said one of the kitchen maids as she dropped a net over them.

“You leave them alone!” Lucius jumped to his feet and shouted at the unfortunate girl.

She backed away, looking really frightened. “But what’s the difference,” she stammered, “if I catch them here for the cook’s pie or buy them in the market?”

“Buy them in the market,” Lucius roared. “These are my birds and I won’t have them taken while they’re under my protection.”

The girl began crying.

“Oh, immortal gods! Give her some money, Philo.”

“As ever, my lord, I hear and obey,” the Greek replied as he pressed some silver into the child’s hand, then cooed a few words into her ear. She walked away as Lucius freed the doves from the net.

Philo turned to Lucius. “I’m going back to Greece. My sister will be happy to see me. My father will be happy to see me. I’ve never felt it was part of a physician’s duty to help his patient commit suicide, and certainly not by jumping into a snake pit.”

“Sit down and shut up,” Lucius snarled. Philo sat down, but Lucius decided he wasn’t ready for him to shut up. “Very well. Suppose I eschew politics. What then? And what do I tell my sister?”

“Tell my lady to go for a swim in the Styx,” Philo said.

Lucius began laughing.

“It isn’t difficult. In fact, I believe I heard you do something similar while I was concealing myself behind a convenient cypress just before she left.” Philo shuddered. “Zeus dispater! I’m afraid of that woman. I believe it concerned loosening some of her teeth.”

“I felt I had to defend Silvia, my mother. Her life was difficult enough while she was alive. Hortensus, my father, led her a real dance and not a pleasant one. That six-legged groin biter beat her whenever he was in a bad mood. He was unfaithful with everything but the keyholes, not that even they were beneath his notice. I remember Fulvia was Father’s darling daughter; she spied on poor Silvia and reported her every move to Hortensus. Mother got a little tipsy at dinner with some lady friends. My darling father heard about it from that little sneak, Fulvia, and threatened the poor woman with the traditional punishment.”

“What’s that?”

“Death.”

“Death?” Philo squeaked. “My, you Romans take your domestic arrangements seriously.”

“No!” Lucius snapped. “Do you think he’d dare offend the noble Claudians? She was better born than he was. Father was only a knight. All my consular ancestors are in her family, not his. He never forgave her for it. That, and probably his first wife, Fulvia’s mother, made his life such a hell and a misery for him that the old reprobate never had the guts to trust a woman, any woman, again. I don’t know. I’d like to trust my wife. Tell me, Philo, can you make a career of marriage? If you find the right woman?”

“Are you thinking about women?” Fulvia asked.

Both men gave a violent start. She stood behind them, a speculative gleam in her eyes. “What do you like in a woman—fat, tall, short, thin, blond, redhead, brunette, dark or light skin? I can buy you something from Africa or Greece. Whatever you want.”

“Fulvia, I’m not a bull, a stallion, or even a stag. These things require . . . they are matters of some delicacy.”

“You’re impotent,” Fulvia stated flatly.

“Do you know,” Lucius said quietly, “it’s entirely possible that I am.”

She looked like someone who’d bitten into an apple and found half a worm. “Worthless,” she muttered under her breath. “The two of you.” She snapped her fingers. “Philo, help him bathe and dress if he still needs it. We’re having guests for dinner.”

“Who?” Lucius questioned.

Fulvia chuckled. “Caesar and Cleopatra.”

Dryas came to the pool, the one where Mir felt Imona must have first met the wolf.
Time to begin,
she thought as she slowly removed her clothing.

The idea of seduction repelled her. She’d had only one experience of sexual congress with anyone in her entire life and the memory was one of terror. But Dryas was first and foremost a warrior and, as any soldier, she had been trained to do what she must to prevail. But preparing to do battle was a serious business. She could easily lose her life if this wolf creature guessed her ultimate purpose.

She dropped her clothing near the rock where Imona used to sunbathe, walked out on the stone projection, and dove into the pool. It was autumn and the shock of cold poured through her body as she knifed through the water. Down and down. The pool seemed so innocent as its glassy surface mirrored the crimsons, yellows, tans, and, at last, deep browns of the forest. It was all that remained of an extinct volcanic fumarole, a memory of the shattering crustal convulsions that ages ago built the mountains.

She had expected to reach the bottom and swim along it as in a conventional lake, but instead she found herself diving down and down into the almost stygian gloom. Preserved in the darkness of its heart were traces of its fiery beginnings. It was shaped like a cone. She saw the sides begin to draw closer and closer together and, while the sun warmed the surface layer, the deeper one swam, the colder it got.

So Dryas turned on her back. Above lay a layer of silver light. The water was cold against her skin, but as in her youth, she seemed to carry some glowing fire within that moved along her skin like an invisible shield against the chill liquid around her.

She came to the surface, knowing the warming effect of the water wouldn’t last, and swam toward the rock.

She’d always known when she was being watched and she had that feeling now. He was nearby, she was sure.

Since Blaze’s unpleasant adventure, neither women nor men frequented the pool, and Dryas was sure the eyes watching her were not completely human.

She reached the spur of rock, stretched out her arms, and lifted herself from the water to the warm stone above.
This battle is a seduction,
she thought, then rolled over and lay naked.

To Dryas, her own attractiveness was only another weapon. She hadn’t felt desire in a long time, hadn’t allowed herself to. Until her son died, she’d been a queen, and the queen’s body among the painted people belonged not to herself, but to the royal line. She was not allowed to give herself to just any man. No, he must pass muster at the Assembly. Show himself not only courageous in battle, but also wise and temperate in his behavior, both his body and his blood pure, without taint of madness or deformity of flesh. He and his son would be major candidates for kingship. True, there would be others. Many of the great families would have young men among them if her son was judged unfit.