Authors: Alice Borchardt
She sang a simple lyric about a poet who begs the gods to spare his mistress’ life. The girl’s voice and the poet’s lyric phrases painted a heartrending portrait of a helpless, lovely young girl stricken by a dangerous and frightening disease and her lover’s terror and grief.
Regeane found her eyes filling with tears, but Augusta affected not to be moved at all by the music. When the song ended and the girl bowed and slipped away, she sniffed and said, “Dulcina, another one of Mother’s charity cases. She found her swamping out taverns. The child was a slave and her master didn’t feed her very well. She sang for the few coppers the patrons threw at her feet and so was able to earn a little extra food. Now, thanks to Mother’s patronage, she’s the most popular entertainer in Rome. But, dear me, Propertius and here of all places.”
“Propertius?” Regeane asked.
“The poet who wrote the poem Dulcina set to music. So passionate the verses about his Cynthia, how deplorable. Many churchmen disapprove of them. But that’s my mother, ever the sentimentalist. Despite all her cynical talk, she believes in love.”
Regeane remembered Hadrian and Lucilla together, their oneness even in sorrow for Antonius and in the face of failure and perhaps, defeat. “Possibly that’s because she has known love,” Regeane said.
“Ha,” Augusta said. “Nonsense. That odious, but I must admit, profitable connection should have been broken off years ago. It’s nothing but a source of trouble for both of them now. She is not so much loving but, as I said, sentimental. I’ve noticed she never lets sentiment stand in the way of destroying her enemies.”
Regeane didn’t answer, but privately agreed that, much as she hated to admit it, Augusta had a point. She had sensed a certain ruthlessness in Lucilla and she considered dispassionately if she failed to either find a cure for Antonius or keep him hidden, Lucilla probably would see to it she paid the price.
Elfgifa was growing restive. “I like the pretty music,” she said. “And the cup is nice, but are we going to get any more to eat?”
Augusta’s lips thinned to a cruel line as she glared down at Elfgifa. “I would think after making a pig of yourself with those pears, you would—”
“A pig!” Elfgifa cried, and for a second, Regeane saw the wild barbarian chieftain who was her father etched plainly on her features. Her mouth was hard. The small, blue eyes had a steely glint in them.
Regeane rolled over, pinning Elfgifa to the couch with the weight of her body. “Stop it,” she hissed into the struggling little girl’s ear. “Stop it now. Don’t you dare throw a tantrum here.”
Elfgifa stiffened and complied. “She called me a pig …”
“I don’t care what she called you,” Regeane said in a hoarse, furious whisper, “and she did not call you a pig. She meant you ate a lot of the pears, and so you did.”
“Shocking,” Augusta said. “The way you and my harebrained mother spoil that child. What she needs …”
Regeane looked up and realized Hadrian was watching them with a sly grin on his face. It seemed he found the entertainment emanating from their couch to be equal or superior to that of the musicians. She felt her face burn.
“For heavens sake, stop squabbling, both of you,” Regeane begged. “The pope is looking at us. You’re making a spectacle of yourselves.”
Directing a look of freezing contempt at both Regeane and Elfgifa, Augusta said, “I
never
make a spectacle of myself.”
“All right,” Elfgifa said with ill grace and throwing an equally unpleasant look at Augusta, “I’ll put up with her for your sake.”
“Thank you,” Regeane said sarcastically and noticed with much more sincere thanksgiving that the servants were entering carrying the main course on platters.
When the soberly garbed young servant made the rounds of the tables picking up the delicate flower cups, he paused at the table and spoke softly to Regeane. “Since the young lady,” he indicated Elfgifa with a nod, “likes the cup she chose so much, His Holiness begs her to accept it as a gift.”
Elfgifa threw a smug, triumphant glance at Augusta and clutched the cup to her bosom.
Augusta looked daggers at Elfgifa.
Regeane, very tired of both of them, concentrated grimly on selecting supper from among the many offerings. She settled on a loin of young, wild boar smothered in a delicious, plum sauce, and a dish of peppered sea urchins.
Augusta contented herself with a baked trout in a sauce of honey and almonds.
Elfgifa shared Regeane’s wild boar, but turned her nose up at the fish and sea urchins.
At the first taste of the wild boar, Regeane’s eyes closed with delight and she managed temporarily to forget Elfgifa and Augusta. She lost herself in the joy of eating a really perfect dish and she gave a regretful sigh when she and Elfgifa polished it off.
Augusta’s prediction proved false. The pears affected Elfgifa’s appetite very little, if at all, and Regeane turned her attention to the sea urchins.
The spicy little morsels provided the perfect finish to an experience Regeane considered both more subtle and spectacular than merely dining and she was searching her mind for words to describe her own inner satisfaction to herself when Augusta’s words broke in on her thoughts.
“A young, unmarried woman shouldn’t be seen eating such a dish in public, my dear,” Augusta said patronizingly. “Sea urchins are said to be even more aphrodisiac than oysters.”
“What’s a frodisiac?” Elfgifa asked.
The muscles in Regeane’s temples twitched as the wolf tried to lay her ears back and didn’t succeed. “Never mind,” she said impatiently and began reaching for the dish of colbainan olives when she saw Gundabald.
The room blurred away as the shock of terror ran through her body.
He was seated at the very end of the table opposite her, Hugo beside him. Preoccupied by both the food and the antics of Augusta and Elfgifa, she hadn’t seen him before.
He caught her eye and raised his cup to her, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
Regeane’s fingers pushed at the velvet of the couch as she tried to rise. And if she had been strong enough, the mindless terror she felt at the sight of him and the realization of the cruel
significance of his satisfied smile might have propelled her to her feet and sent her into precipitous flight.
But she found she couldn’t do anything at all. The room was spinning. Nausea twisted her belly muscles. She felt the sweat of pure terror break out all over her skin.
The wolf tried to come to her aid, but was trapped in her twisting body by the light. The torches blazing against the walls. The candles burning in the ceiling fixture above. The sconces on the pillars of the colonnade separating the dining room from the dark garden. So many candles, the columns suddenly seemed to be draped in fire.
Sounds were overpoweringly loud, the babble of voices, the threads of music twining among them.
Regeane realized the wolf was in her eyes and ears and the brilliantly lit dining room was a place of terror to the wolf. The lights blinded her. The packed mass of people and the stench of sweet, over-spiced food and perfume going sour on hot, moist flesh. The sound of voices roaring like a mountain torrent in her ears.
Regeane let her head fall to the cushions under her face. Augusta’s voice thundered like storm surf in her ears.
She clucked at Regeane with mock sympathy. “Poor dear, have you had too much wine?”
Too much wine? Regeane knew she hadn’t had too much wine, only a few sips of the beverages served with the meal, and the amount of raisin wine in the flower cups hadn’t been enough to make her drunk. Not unless there was something else in it.
Darkness flooded her brain, blurring away the edges of reality. Bile choked her while inwardly she fought the frightened wolf with all her strength. Fought her for control over her body.
Voices were all around her and she realized through the waterfall of sound far away she could hear Gundabald and Hugo, hear them speaking, pick out their words among all the rest around her. And the wolf listened, listened with the intentness of a creature who can hear the rustle of a moth’s wing, or a mouse moving in the grass, or the footfall of a stalking cat.
“She’s looking peaked already,” Gundabald was saying.
“Our patroness has served us well. We can take her in the confusion …”
Then she lost them as the wolf’s power faded. The whole room seemed to be moving, and the lights were a blur of brightness, but the nausea quieted for a moment.
Regeane gathered herself against the drowsiness stealing over her, allowing her time to think.
Lying beside her, Elfgifa stared up at her in bewilderment.
On Augusta’s face, Regeane saw a look of smug self-satisfaction.
Regeane bent and whispered in Elfgifa’s ear. “Get to the pope. Tell him to muster his guard. We’re about to be attacked.”
Elfgifa stared up at Regeane for a second in consternation, then acted. She slid backward off the couch.
Augusta gave an exclamation of dismay and snatched at her, but the little girl was off the couch and then under the table before she could catch her.
Elfgifa surfaced three couches down, crawled under the table, and began to walk toward the musicians grouped in front of the pope’s dais.
Regeane saw Augusta’s eyes dart this way and that as she sought some way to stop her. Regeane would have laughed if she hadn’t been in mortal fear. It was beneath Augusta’s dignity to duck under the table and chase her.
Instead, she snatched up the child’s treasured harebell cup and held it out over the hard, marble floor. She caught Elfgifa’s eye.
The battle of wills that ensued was brief, but poignant.
Regeane saw the expressions chase themselves across Elfgifa’s face: dismay, followed by fear for her treasure, then grief, and, at last, rage. The little body stiffened and again Regeane saw in Elfgifa’s features the Saxon lord who was her father.
Her eyes flashed blue fire and she turned, ignoring both Augusta and the cup, and continued her march straight toward the papal couch.
Regeane heard the cup shatter on the floor just as Elfgifa reached the couch. The child flinched, but gave no other sign of distress.
One of the men seated near Hadrian made as if to stop
Elfgifa, but Hadrian welcomed her and eased her up beside him. A second later she was whispering in his ear.
Regeane saw Hadrian turn quickly to a hard-faced layman resting near him. The man rose and hurried away.
The buzz of conversation among the guests dropped for a second, then resumed more loudly as a thrill of anxiety flowed through the throng. Had the child brought him some sort of message?
Regeane tried to rise again.
“Don’t you dare,” Augusta said, pushing her back down. “It’s improper to rise at a feast before the host does.”
But the pope was already on his feet, addressing his guests. “My friends …” he said.
Regeane twisted, trying to escape Augusta’s grasp. The room reeled.
Hooves thundered on the cobbled street outside the square in front of the Lateran.
Regeane heard someone scream in utter terror. “The Lombards! The Lombards!”
The room erupted around her as the guests fled, knocking over couches, tables, even the tall candelabra in wild flight.
Regeane was jerked from the couch, one arm twisted behind her back in Hugo’s grip as the big room emptied around them. The screaming guests almost trampling each other in their haste to flee.
Gundabald’s bearded, pock-marked face loomed before her, only inches from her own. He patted her cheek gently. “I have a cage for a wolf,” he said quietly, “a cage and an iron collar. This time you won’t escape.”
Then he slapped her a backhand slash across the face that snapped her head back. A flash of pain knifed through her skull. She was deaf and blind for a moment. Then a choking wave of blood filled her mouth and throat.
Behind her she heard Hugo’s terrified whine, “Hurry, Father, hurry, before she changes.”
“She can’t change,” Gundabald replied with an evil chuckle. “There’s too much light.”
Regeane felt the cold touch of iron fetters at her throat. Mad
with fear, she twisted in Hugo’s grip, ducking her head to escape the collar and chain, and saw Gundabald’s hand draw back to hit her again.
Behind her, Hugo’s grip loosened on her arm and she heard him say, “I’m on fire.” He sounded as though he didn’t believe it.
“I’m on fire,” he repeated, sounding astonished.
“I’m on fire!” he screeched and, letting go of Regeane’s arm, he fled in the direction of the fountains outside.
In Regeane’s brain, the wolf seemed to go mad. She lunged at Gundabald, her nails clawing at his eyes.
He leaped back and slashed at her with the chain in his hand, lost his footing, and fell heavily to the marble floor.
Regeane turned. A dark hallway leading to the interior of the villa beckoned. Nearby, Elfgifa was dancing up and down, shouting delightedly, “I set him on fire. I threw the lamp oil all over him.”
Regeane snatched the child’s arm and burst into a staggering run. It seemed an eternity before she gained the darkness. She was going down and wondered what drug Augusta had put into the raisin wine.
She shoved Elfgifa hard in back and shouted, “Run for your life! Hugo will kill you.” She was rewarded by the sound of feet scurrying ahead into the distance and Emilia’s welcoming cry.
Then abruptly she turned a corner and the corridor was pitch black. The woman’s eyes could no longer see anything.
The wolf seized her, throwing her to the floor. The change was a savage convulsion. Not the lovely, ethereal moon darkness that floated over her like a veil, but a terrible silver wave that broke over her, sending her into a black undertow of madness.
Her body writhed and the breath was squeezed out of her lungs in whimpers and moans. The drug burned out of her body in a flash of brilliance.
The wolf’s paws scrabbled amidst the silk and brocade of her gown as she burst free to stand triumphant. She had only seconds to get her bearings when Gundabald thrust a torch into her eyes.
The fire blinded her for a moment, but she could smell him—
the scent of food and stale perfume. And, under them, the sour stench of a body she had been familiar with for so long.