Night of the Wolf (43 page)

As usual, he hadn’t wanted to quarrel with her openly and couldn’t think of any way to circumvent her at present, so he allowed himself to be fobbed off with promises of fuller explanations tomorrow.

She went to dine with Cleopatra and he fell asleep before she returned. Now, as he followed Octus to Philo’s room, he was kicking himself for a fool. He should have forced the issue even if it meant airing their dirty linen in front of every single solitary person in the household, slave or free.

Fulvia didn’t frighten him. Caesar did, and he remembered the Roman dictator’s warning about interfering in her affairs.

Philo was up and dressed when Octus entered his room.

“What’s wrong?” Lucius asked.

“This time? I don’t know but—”

“When she snaps her fingers, you’d best run,” Lucius finished the sentence for him.

Philo fixed his eyes on a point beyond Lucius’ left shoulder and Octus turned toward the wall and studied its blank surface.

Lucius sighed and, seeing a folding camp chair open next to Philo’s neatly made bed, sat down and rested his arms on the chair’s arms. “Don’t treat me like this,” he said. “When have I ever . . .”

Philo raised his hand. “Please, our conclusions. The young lady you’re worried about is probably at Gordus’ ludus. Fulvia is his patron and the woman is more than likely there, locked in one of the cells. We were trying to think of some way to help her, but hadn’t hit on anything yet.

“Now, the Lady Calpurnia is very ill. She is an extremely sick woman, though no one at present believes it, not even her husband. Many people with her problem, and other disorders similar to it, resort to the surgery I described, to relieve their symptoms—the headaches, visions, and odd optical phenomena that follow them all their lives.”

“Wait a minute. Visions?” Lucius asked.

“She doesn’t have just headaches,” Octus said. “She becomes very ill. She was a friend of your mother’s. Often, I accompanied your mother on visits to her house. At first, she will have a brief episode of . . .” He glanced in an uncertain way at Philo.

Philo nodded. “You might as well tell him.”

“A brief episode of prescience, then for a few moments she’s blind. She vomits and a terrible headache begins. The headaches are brief, but horribly painful. They seldom last more than a few hours, but those few hours are purest agony. In many ways, the prescience bothers her most. You see, she foresaw your poor mother’s death. Months, no years before Silvia died, Calpurnia begged her to stop drinking. But the last time they met, I’m sure, from the Lady Calpurnia’s manner, she knew it was already too late, as did I,” he said sadly. “Now things are getting worse. She sees all manner of friends and acquaintances, about half the members of the noble families in Rome, covered in blood, dead on battlefields, on their funeral pyres. She is extremely frightened, and we believe she is right.”

Lucius could see Octus was trembling. He gestured toward a low bench along the opposite wall from the bed. “Sit down. Please.”

Octus didn’t refuse. He sat.

Lucius turned to Philo. “What about you? If I ever saw a hardheaded, practical, skeptical Greek, it’s you. How much credence do you attach to these visions? And, for heaven’s sake, don’t stand there towering over me. You sit down, too.”

Philo sat on the bed. “At first, none. I’ve seen these type of disorders before and I reassured Octus, telling him I believed most of the sufferers were led astray by the disorder of their intellect during an attack, but I have begun, however reluctantly, to concur with Calpurnia’s interpretation of her visions. They are in accord with what I know of Roman politics, Caesar himself, his unpleasant friend Antony, and the march of events.

“Tonight, for instance, at the house of your friends, Manilius and Felex, Antony picked a nasty quarrel with Brutus. We believe he did so at Caesar’s orders. We think he, Caesar, feels it would be folly to leave Rome with such strong representation of the Optimate party holding seats in the Senate. We also feel that there is little we can do about it except to warn you to keep your head low. Antony is emerging as Caesar’s sometime successor, but there is simply no way to know how long Caesar will last. And those betting against him have so often been wrong . . .”

“Yes,” Lucius said. “You’re sure the conspiracy among the Optimates, the best people, is real.”

“Yes,” Octus replied. “I wouldn’t care for you to know my sources, but yes, it’s real enough, though if they ever nerve themselves up to do more than talk . . .”

“I think,” Philo said, “on balance the quarrel with Brutus was intended to force their hands. Make them bring their intentions to fruition, as it were.”

“Yes, well put,” Octus said.

“Nothing we can do?” Lucius asked.

“If you can think of anything, anything at all, please,” Philo said.

Lucius shook his head. “Be careful, you two. I have been warned and won’t take it lightly.”

Philo rose. “Well, I must go. It doesn’t do to make Cut Ear too impatient.”

“No,” Lucius said. “And you, Octus, go back to bed. Get some sleep. Wake me when you return, Philo, and we will go check on the ludus.”

Octus conducted him back to his room and left.

Lucius stood looking at the plum. He still had it in a net bag hanging on the wall in his room.
It should be a prune by now,
he thought. Yet each time he examined it, the fruit remained plump and moist as ever. It grew no more ripe, it didn’t rot, and it didn’t dry. He reached out one finger and stroked it through the wide meshes of the bag.

Suddenly the room seemed to fill with cool air and the mixed fragrances of a garden of roses, lilies, lavender, and violets. He thought,
I want to go home,
but then wondered at his mind’s drift. He was at home, wasn’t he? Here, now. Wasn’t he?
This is home. Here, isn’t it?
But he had no answer to the question. He blew out the lamp and the fragrance of the garden remained, filling the darkness.

XXIII

There was no pursuit. Apparently the proprietors of the establishment they’d just raided were satisfied to let them go.

Maeniel found a quiet tavern still open for business and ushered the staggering Antony into it. He seated his companion at a bench along the wall and bought wine for them both.

He tasted his cup and found it good, only lightly watered. “Umm,” he said, surprised.

The tavernkeeper, a muscular giant with one eye and multiple scars, said, “You paid for good, I gave you good.” Maeniel had indeed given him silver. “But you keep those swords in your belts and don’t start trouble in my place.”

He took note of Maeniel’s bloodstained clothing, his cut fingers and skinned knuckles. Antony’s head hadn’t been the only thing to come in contact with the courtyard door. He also took note of the fact that the clothing under the dark mantles was expensive. “Gentry like you and your friend think you can come down here and piss on somebody else’s doorstep and crap on the floors. You think we don’t notice you’re a bunch of shithouse rats under the fancy clothes, but we do. So watch yourself. You give me any trouble, I’ll repay it with interest. You got a guarantee.”

Maeniel nodded and brought Antony his drink.

“You used my head to open the garden gate.” Antony coupled the word gate with an obscenity so vile that a man on the bench moved down two seats simply on hearing it. Antony drank. “Not bad,” he said, looking down into the cup.

“Yes,” Maeniel said.

“You’re pretty good. I never saw anyone move as fast as you did when it was time to get out.”

“We killed two people in there. I was afraid,” Maeniel told him quietly.

Antony managed to look indignant. “Of course I killed them. They blocked my way into the building. I’m a consul. A word from me and every filthy degenerate on this side of the river will be put to death, and I’ll make sure the execution is lengthy and unpleasant for every one of them. Whatever suits my fancy—burning, crucifixion, sending them to the beasts or, as entertainment, forcing them to fight to the death in the arena.”

“Well, I wouldn’t throw my weight around in here. Being a consul won’t do you any good if we’re both found floating facedown in the Tiber. So drink up and let’s get out of here. The proprietor isn’t a friendly sort.”

Antony made a suggestion about what the proprietor could do, but Maeniel noticed he did it in a low voice and no one was close by.

The wine seemed to sober him rather than otherwise. “I had my fun for the night,” he said. “Now I have to visit Caesar. Want to come? Want to meet the most powerful man in the world?”

Maeniel nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

Antony laughed, rose, hitched up his belt, and gave the bar man the finger.

Maeniel, behind Antony, gave the proprietor a slight negative shake of his head as if to say, “Don’t, it’s not worth it,” and mouthed, “He’s drunk.”

The bar man, not in the least intimidated, watched them both through the door and down the street.

Caesar’s house was some distance from the Transtiber. Again the men of the Praetorian Cohort saluted Antony. If the condition of his clothing disturbed them, they didn’t show it.

It was after midnight, about the ninth hour in Roman terms, when they reached Caesar’s house. Behind the walls surrounding the villa there were lights and the sound of voices. Antony banged on the door and a soldier opened it.

“What’s going on?” Antony asked him. “I know Caesar spends half the night at his desk, but usually everyone else goes to bed.”

“The Lady Calpurnia was taken badly,” the soldier said as he ushered them into the atrium. “Frightened the lights and liver out of me,” he added in a low voice. “I don’t know what she saw, but the expression on her face, and the scream she gave . . .”

He touched an amulet at his neck. “Isis protectoress. She came out of her room and spoke to the duty man. He said she asked him to fetch her physician. He came and sent for that Philo, but before she could get back to her room . . . I know. I was standing with him. She stared. Her face turned the color of bleached cloth and then she fell to the floor screaming and went into the worst fit I’ve ever seen in my . . . She looked just like a dog that’s been fed poison. She has three physicians with her now.”

“Women,” Antony grunted. “You marry them, they fall apart.”

“Want to use the baths?” the soldier asked him. “The two of you look like a smashup in a Circus chariot race.”

“Bet your ass,” Antony replied. “Caesar still with his wife?”

“Oh, for another half hour, likely, or an hour. She was taken bad.”

Caesar’s baths were surprisingly austere; the tepiderium in white and green, but very neat and comfortable. When they were finished bathing, Antony was conducted away to see Caesar and Maeniel was left to cool his heels in a dark garden.

The lights were going out in the house. From his spot in the peristyle, Maeniel saw the physicians leave, or people he assumed were the physicians. A soldier walking inside under the portico cut off access to the private rooms on that side of the house where Antony had gone.

Usually preternaturally alert, he wasn’t aware of another presence until she settled herself beside him on the bench. “So,” she whispered, “do you like my moon garden?”

He turned toward her. His reaction was similar to that of Lucius. Even in the half darkness, he was astounded by her beauty. Beauty is, and was always, an illusion. She wore a Greek chiton similar to the one she’d worn the night Lucius saw her. The very simple garment, only two rectangles of cloth sewn together at the sides and fastened with pins at the top, leaving room for the neck and head, suited her. She had a lush, graceful body and the draping showed it off to perfection. Her long hair was bound back with the vitta of a matron, white woolen fillets indicating she was a lady of rank.

As Maeniel watched, she crossed one leg over the other and let her hands drift up to clasp themselves at her knee. She was clothed in beauty, glowing from within.

“Moon garden,” he repeated almost foolishly.

“Yes.” She smiled and he felt honored. “I planted it to be seen by moonlight. These herbs take the color of the moon. She is nothing, the moon, or so the philosophers tell me. She shines only by the reflected light of the sun. But so beautiful, her silver mist. See?” She touched one leaf, a lacy, deeply cut silver frond. “Artemesia, wormwood. There are three or four different kinds here. The priests use it to perfume the oil at sacrifice. I use it to perfume the oil in my bath. Behind it, rue.”

This reminded Maeniel of the spatter marks made by water on trees and rocks in a light rain. Hundreds of tiny round leaves, they glowed almost blue in the fitful illumination allowed by the cloudy sky.

“Horehound,” she said pointing to another. “It is eaten for the throat, and sage for the kitchen and for perfume.” She broke a leaf and handed it to Maeniel.

Yes, to one of his kind such a fragrance was almost an intoxication. The wolf would never completely understand, but the man Dryas had led him to be was boundlessly appreciative.

“Those are some of the things here, and there are many others. See, there?” She pointed to some tall stalks rising from a rosette of silver leaves and bearing sprays of white flowers. “Valerian, an old friend, and the white poppy.” Yes, he could see the delicate, papery flowers behind the valerian. “A new friend,” she said.

“Your garden is very beautiful, but shouldn’t you be in bed?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, you don’t know how hard it is to evade my maids. They watch me all the time now. Philo wants to send for a man in Alexandria whom he knows, a physician who will tap a hole in my skull. He says there’s a chance my headaches and visions will go away, but I told him no. I won’t let him. If Caesar goes to Parthia, I might take the risk then. I am vain and treasure my looks. I don’t want to be bald and ugly. Besides, there’s a great deal of risk. My sister had a similar thing done and she grew very ill and died. My mother did the same and she recovered from the surgery and, for a long time, the headaches and visions went away. But when she was old, they came back, but not so bad. She was a good age when she died and it was from lung congestion in winter, not the headaches.”

“You love him so much?” Maeniel asked.

She laughed. It was a velvety sound, almost a caress, but then she quickly put her finger to her lips. “Oh, my, I must be quiet. Someone will hear. Oh, no, I don’t love Caesar, but I’m afraid if I allow Philo’s friend to come to Rome, Caesar might put off leaving for Parthia. If I do decide to let them make a hole in my head, I want to be alone to deal with the pain and the ugliness. I don’t want him hanging over my bed. You see, he might explain things to me again. Since she came, the slithery Egyptian queen, he hasn’t talked to me about affairs of state. I think he must tell her. I went to the Temple of Venus Genetrex when he found her and made a thank offering of doves to the ruler of gods and men.

“I was so glad he found her. You see, the only thing I hate about it is that she gave him a child. I wouldn’t, you see. He wanted children, even girls. He loved his daughter, Julia. Even his daughter. Many men don’t care about daughters at all, but he welcomed her. Many husbands have daughters taken out and placed on the temple steps. The slave dealers come and pick the best and carry them off to be brought up for the brothel trade.”

“What happens to the rest?” Maeniel asked, horrified. No one had told him of the common custom of abandoning unwanted children, so-called infant exposure.

“I suppose the dogs get them.” She shivered. “A newborn is such a fragile thing. In the summer heat or winter cold, I don’t imagine they live long. They are often left near the Temple of Vesta. One of the priestesses of the goddess told me many are abandoned at night and, by sunrise, most are dead. And unless picked up, the few that remain don’t last till noon. In the summer the sun is too hot, in the winter the night too cold.

“But I never got pregnant and after a time . . . I was glad. Because . . . because he began to explain things to me and I’m afraid when he starts killing his enemies in the Senate, he’ll explain to me why he had to do it. He’s going to, you know—kill them. I’ve already seen it in my visions. I don’t mind . . . he’s explained to me why he had to do it. The philosophers I used to have read his dispatches from Gaul. They explained to me why he had to do those things—you know, sell so many into slavery. Torture their leaders when they wouldn’t cooperate, when they wouldn’t give him money.

“Yes, the philosophers explained it all and when he came back, he explained how Pompey got killed, how he had no part in it. I watched him and that bothered me when one of his legions revolted. They decimated it, you know, killed every tenth man, but there were so many. It didn’t take long to behead them. Most cooperated.

“I couldn’t understand why, but he and Antony explained it to me. They wanted to die quickly and die they must if the lot fell on them. That’s how they’re . . . chosen. By lot. If they fight back or try to run away, then they’re hacked at until they die from blood loss or are eviscerated. They die of thirst or they smear pitch on them and burn them alive, so it’s better if they kneel down and let the centurions cut off their heads. Sometimes the ones waiting even sharpen the swords the officers are using . . . So Antony says. They accept it as necessary to preserve discipline in the ranks.

“But when I was there, the corpses . . . got stacked so high . . . They stank so badly. You see, they couldn’t burn them quickly enough and the ones who didn’t behave, didn’t accept death the way my husband says a proper soldier should, they screamed so . . . so . . .

“And, you know, soldiers don’t have wives. It’s against the law for them to have wives. I know Caesar and Antony explained that to me, too. But they have women like wives, not real wives . . . but women. And they had children . . . like real wives do. They begged and pleaded with the officers for their men’s lives, but, of course, they were just making a nuisance of themselves and no one listened to them . . . I’m sorry. You are a guest. No doubt you understand these things—being a man—far better than I.”

Maeniel shook his head as if trying to clear it. “No,” he said. “I’ve never been a soldier and, after your description of a soldier’s life, I’m not sure if I ever want to be one.”

“Are you waiting to see my husband?” she asked politely, the way a child trying to accommodate a grownup does.

“No.”

“Are you afraid of my husband?”

“No. I’m probably foolish not to be, but no, I’m not.”

“How pleasant to be in the company of a man who isn’t afraid of my husband and doesn’t want anything from him. Why did you come to Rome, then? I can see you don’t know much about us.”

“I’m looking for a woman.”

“Any woman or a particular one?”

“A particular one. Her name is Dryas.”

“Oh, that one,” she said flatly. “My maids told me about her. She fought a boar this morning and won, but tomorrow afternoon she will die. Antony wants to put her in the ring with Terror.”

“Why? What is Terror?”

“Antony hates her. He lost money on her. He bet on the boar. He feels she made a fool of him.”

“Why? By saving her own life?”

She shrugged. “There’s no accounting for some of the things they do, but he bet Caesar she couldn’t overcome Terror. Caesar bet Antony she could.”

“What is Terror?”

“Terror is a big cat from India. They call it a tiger. It’s like a lion. You’ve seen a lion?”

He had and said, “Yes.”

“Terror’s bigger. The hide is orange with black stripes. Antony uses it to execute criminals. Caesar says he wins either way. If she does kill Terror, he gets lots of gold from Antony. Even if she falls, the sight of her fighting heats his blood. You see, he wants to get Cleopatra pregnant again.”

“He didn’t explain that to you?” Maeniel asked.

She laughed. “No, no I overheard the maids talking about it when they thought the poppy drink Philo gave me had me knocked out. The poppy doesn’t always put you to sleep, even though the person who’s taken it looks like they are sleeping. Philo warned me about that and I’ve noticed that, like most of the things Philo says, it’s true.”