Night of the Wolf (9 page)

He lifted his muzzle and called to the moon-silvered sky.

IV

Imona had known her fate when she listened to Kat’s ravings. The way she was being treated made everything clear. Rescue, if it could be called that, arrived a few moments after the Roman foraging party disappeared down the trail.

Neighbors, having seen the smoke, ran to help, if possible. When they found out what happened, they were frantic with terror. The Roman garrison would delight in taking savage revenge. They cursed and spat on Leon’s body and left it where it was.

They were discussing killing Kat and Imona when Mir arrived. He brought a semblance of calm to the proceedings. He had the living and dead carried off to the nearest oppidum not under Roman control and sent out warnings in all directions.

It took two days for the Romans in the valley garrison to sort out the situation. Then they marched, burning every farm and killing every one of Mir’s people they could catch. Luckily, Mir—no fool—was prepared and had prepared his people for the attack. Most escaped to the forests. In those places where the late summer crop could be harvested, it was. In others, food reserves were cached in spots concealed from the Roman foraging parties.

When the first snows began to fall, the Roman cohorts had to pull back to prepare themselves to meet the winter, a savage season even in the comparatively sheltered area where the garrison was located.

The storm of Roman anger passed. Mir’s people survived . . . at least most of them.

By that time, Imona was certain of her fate. Kat was living with her husband’s people. Imona heard from her jailers that she lay with her face to the wall and wept most of the time. The only time Kat visited her, she cursed Imona viciously and then tried to rend her face with her nails. Imona was glad when they led Kat away.

The oppidum was only a small one. All of the large and important centers had been devastated during Caesar’s Gallic conquests. It was like all the rest—a hilltop fort with a small settlement that supported the large gatherings that occurred when a dispersed, rural people met periodically to transact their business. It was located at the outer edge of Roman power in the Alps. Only a relatively few people resided there all year round. The Romans might not own it, but they’d managed to invade and burn it at least once.

Imona was penned in what had once been a large weaving shed, used to confine the slave women, captives from other tribes, who worked here. The windows were narrow slits, and because weavers must have light, there were a large number of them. In fact, if one didn’t test the wall, the narrow beams looked almost like willowy slats. Actually they weren’t, but hard like the bars of a cell. The room was a secure prison. No one could force his way past them. There was an enclosed hearth in one corner. A dip in the roof allowed the smoke to escape.

At some time in her journey to the oppidum, she’d been given a loose cotton tunic. Later, traveling at night, a householder had added a heavy woolen mantle. She was wearing both and squatting near the hearth when Mir walked through the door.

As he entered, she rose and came toward him. He was ritually dressed, wearing a loose white robe and a strange crown, a silver circlet decorated with golden birds. The birds were set off from the crown, each on its own separate mounting in such a way that they moved, and seemed to fly at each turn of Mir’s head. A large, flat leather belt was tied around his waist. It held a sickle-shaped sword. The flat outer part of the sword glowed with the beautiful green patina of old bronze. A procession of figures, as an inlay of silver, marched around the outer edge. The inner curve of the sickle was filed to a glittering razor’s edge.

He held a paper in his right hand, a golden torque with lion-head finials in his left. Wordlessly, he handed Imona the paper. She unfolded it and began to read.

“Dearest daughter,” it began, “I hope this finds you well.”

Tears pricked at her eyes as she recognized her father’s handwriting.

One reason I hope this finds you well, is that the news I have to report is not good news. Tomorrow, we face Caesar. We have already lost one battle to him and, dear daughter, I greatly fear we will lose the next. Our trading ships are no match for his triremes, but we must fight. Better it is for a man to die quickly in battle than to see all he loves destroyed. No doubt he will write to his friends in the Roman Senate that I, King of the Veneti, gave him no choice in the matter. This will, of course, be a lie. I offered him full capitulation, hostages, tribute, all our gold if he would but spare my people. He offered us survival only as slaves for the profit of the greedy dealers who follow him everywhere.

Confronted with these “terms of surrender,” the tribal council voted to fight. We have done our best to send off the women and children we could to Albion, the White Isle across the sea. Your sisters and daughters have gone to our allies there. Your mother, greatly to my sorrow, refused to go, saying only that she would find the world too empty a place without me. But she sends you her love and this memory of honor.

I say again, I think we will lose. As it is said, not even the best sailor can prevail without the wind and tide. Both are with the Romans. We will be lost. But, my daughter, remember the wind changes and the tide ebbs. But not, alas, in our lifetime. So,
ave atque vale.
Hail and farewell.

Imona stood silent for a moment. Outside, she and Mir could hear the shouts of children playing a chase game, the kind of game children have played for millennia and will play for millennia more.

Imona folded the letter and placed it in her bodice between her breasts.

He extended the torque with the other hand, but she didn’t take it.

“How long have you kept this from me, old man?”

“Years,” Mir admitted sadly. “It has been years since they died. But seeing you still had hope and a chance for some happiness among us, I believed that even if Leon never recovered, you would be able to carve out a life for yourself And, for a long time, you did achieve some semblance of peace, and hope, even a faint one, played a role in this. Did it not?”

“I suppose so,” she answered in a lackluster way.

Outside, someone called out to the children at play in a language with more gutturals than sibilants. And Imona remembered where she was, now driven forever from even the poor place she once held among Mir’s people.

A woman’s voice sternly ordered the children away from the weaving room and its shadowy guest, lest they be brushed and withered by the power crouching there.

“How did they die?” Imona asked.

“She took poison. He used his sword as a warrior should, sacrificing himself so that his power would go to those of his people who survived, and see them through the lifetime of slavery they faced, and beyond into another dawn.”

She reached out and took the torque from his hand. “You will see that I receive wheat and oats so I may cook my daily meal and, of course, a fire on the hearth to keep me warm by night?”

“Yes, but rye bread and barley beer is likely to be more often found here.”

“I’ll make do,” she whispered.

“You are the last, the best that we possess. All the great families are gone and the gods will never send down kingship to a dishonored people.”

She placed the torque around her neck. “If that is what you fear, old man, I will do my best.” She turned her back and walked toward the dead hearth. When she looked again, Mir was gone. She knew then she would see him only one more time and that would be the last for both of them. Perhaps even the last sight her living eyes would look upon.

Dryas slept again in the mountain meadow. The path was quick and easy for her. She found when she entered the clearing near Mir’s house that he again had guests. Dryas sighed when she saw Firminius, but was relieved to realize he was much calmer today. Sitting in the chair next to him and enjoying the fine morning was another man, a tall, blond, handsome youth dressed for hunting. He wore the tunic and trousers of a rider. Two horses grazed near a tree. One, a slender, long-legged gray mare with an elaborately padded saddle, obviously belonged to Firminius. The other, a big-boned, thick-bodied black with a leather saddle pad, must belong to the hunter.

And indeed, the hunt had been successful. A half dozen hares hung like a stringer of fish from a tree branch, and near them a young stag. All of the animals had been expertly field-dressed, entrails and scent glands removed.

Mir and his two visitors were speaking quietly among themselves as Dryas made her way silently to the edge of the sun-dappled forest.

The hunter’s eye picked her out first. Dryas felt the stare lock on and hold her, long before he gave even the slightest indication she’d been seen.

Deadly,
Dryas thought. A very keen mind resided under the fall of golden hair. She also took note that a half dozen light javelins were tied to the black horse’s saddle.

Then Firminius saw her. “Oh,” he squealed, “there she is—that’s the one.”

The hunter nodded. “I know. I thought so when I saw her coming down through the trees.”

“Fulvia!” Firminius elbowed his companion. “You have sharper eyes than most men. Ah, what a soldier you’d have made.”

Fulvia!
Dryas thought.
A woman!
The young male image in her mind shimmered like calm water broken by a breeze. Yes, a woman. The soft outline of breasts, the slightly too-wide hips, and the soft facial skin all signaled female.
So are we all creatures of illusion,
Dryas thought. The woman dressed as a hunter rose to greet Dryas as she approached.

The hunter was beautiful, with a slender waist, a straight back, heavy breasts, and peaches and cream coloring. She also was the biggest woman Dryas had ever seen. Over six feet and, though she carried no surplus flesh, she probably weighed almost a hundred and seventy pounds. Dryas herself was not small, but the woman topped her by at least half a head.

The three—Mir, Firminius, and Fulvia—had been gathered around a low metal table almost lost in the grass. Fulvia reached out and touched Dryas’ shoulder. “She chased you up a tree, eh?” The tall woman laughed.

“I think not a great victory,” Dryas replied. “Usually I’m not so extreme, but he shouldn’t have tried to bully Mir.”

Mir’s fingers brushed the fading bruise on his temple.

“An Amazon,” the huntress exclaimed. “You promised me a real Amazon. So we don’t know how good she is, not really? Do we?” she asked as she turned to Mir. “I’ll bet and bet heavily any gladiator in Rome would have her on her ass or her back in the time it takes me to snap my fingers.” Fulvia chortled as she suited the action to the words.

Dryas smiled. She knew she was being baited. “Possibly.” One of Dryas’ brows arched slightly and her lips curved. “But that would depend on what else he had. Besides a sword, I mean. Mortal combat isn’t the only kind. It isn’t even the contact sport that offers the most fun.”

Fulvia laughed robustly.

Firminius looked sour. “Fine, just so you don’t expect me to tame her. True, she’d be a novelty, but how long could she last? You can’t tell me that woman—not a very big woman—is a match for some of those gorgeous killers you have at the Roman ludus. Besides, if you presented him with a woman, the lanista would be wild. Just wild.”

“He’ll do what I tell him to do,” Fulvia said. “Nothing more or less. I really would like to see if you’re at all possible.”

Dryas inclined her head politely, thinking,
Gods, they’re arrogant. It’s as if they believe all the world exists for their pleasure and we should be grateful to be allowed to gratify their desires.

Fulvia strode to her horse and lifted two javelins from her saddle. “I can throw a spear farther than most men. Let’s see how you do.” She hefted one and balanced it with her right hand. “See that black birch down there?” She pointed to a slender tree near the edge of the clearing. The papery bark glowed gray and silver in the sunlit morning.

The tree was almost thirty feet away. The lance took flight and ended quivering, embedded in the trunk. The tree shook, raining green-brown leaves onto the grass beneath.

Dryas balanced the spear, opening her palm, testing the weight. The head dropped only a few inches.
A fine weapon,
she thought.

Fulvia watched her critically.

Dryas’ mind focused on the javelin still protruding from the trunk. Her feet parted as she shifted into her stance. Her hand moved on the lance pole, seeking the perfect balance point. When she felt she found it, she let fly.

It arched higher than Fulvia’s had, and then broke, flashed down, and the leaf-shaped head sank deeply into the tree trunk, slightly above Fulvia’s.

“Amazing!” Fulvia exclaimed. “How I’d love to hunt with you. Your blade pierced the wood more deeply than mine. If that had been a deer or elk, it would be dying now. I must see your skill with swords.”

“Only wooden ones,” Dryas said. She unbuckled her sword as she spoke.

“Mir,” Fulvia said commandingly, “have you any wooden swords?”

Mir rose and entered his house.

Fulvia,
she thought,
has a bluff indifference to the pain of others, a brisk self-sufficiency that makes cruelty a casual reflex.

Mir emerged from the hut with a half dozen wooden swords in his hand. He dropped them on the low, wrought-iron table.

Fulvia picked up a short, thick one shaped very like the heavy Spanish sword the legionnaires used.

Dryas looked at the wooden blades critically, then picked up a longer one.

Fulvia tossed the practice sword from hand to hand. Right to left, left to right.

She’s going to pull some trick she believes clever,
Dryas thought. She concentrated on avoiding accidents. She backed away from the two men seated at the table and found herself on low ground as the hill sloped away toward the creek. Fulvia followed and Dryas felt a prickle of fear. She was sure the woman wanted to injure her. She wasn’t sure why. Natural aggression? Desire to humiliate Firminius? He had boasted of her prowess. Or simply the sheer, cold need to dominate that Dryas had found in so many men and women?