Authors: Alice Borchardt
Gavin whistled between his teeth. “It’s as the priests say. Women are our downfall. Lust our undoing.”
“Considering how much you like it,” Maeniel replied dryly, “I can’t think you’re entirely against it. I crouched in the bushes and found myself standing up a man—in both senses.”
“Let me guess,” Gavin said, “they all ran away.”
“All, but one,” Maeniel said quietly.
“Did you turn wolf and eat her?” Gavin asked, leering.
“I wasn’t hungry,” Maeniel said. “And, besides,” he directed a cold look at Gavin, “I was a wolf and wolves don’t kill those with whom we share our bodies. She was safe. I was an animal, still. I hadn’t yet learned human cruelty and perversion. I hadn’t yet learned human possessiveness. Our coupling was gentle and yet, fiercely passionate. I left her safe, sleeping contentedly beside the stream bank. I even stood guard nearby in my natural state, until her people, carrying torches against the fall of night, came and found her there.”
“You were seduced by human love?” Gavin asked.
“Yes,” Maeniel said. “So I was drawn away from the innocence of the animal toward the profound tragedy of humanity. Because your love mirrors the paradoxes of your kind. At worst, a cruelty inflicted without a shred of decency. But, at best, something a poor beast … ruled by laws his ancestors
agreed to before the dawn of time, at best, a passion of such sweetness as the beast can never understand. As wolf I obeyed the laws of my kind. When I transgressed them, I know not what god gave me the power to so disobey—I lost my soul.
“Over the centuries, Gavin, I have tried to escape the human in the wolf. I have even tried, once or twice, to escape the wolf among humans. I can’t do either one. Now, I’m facing a choice again. And my mind harks back to the laws that rule me.”
“Maeniel,” Gavin said, “you think too much. What choice?”
“Never,” Maeniel said, “in all the centuries I have lived, has a gift like the silver one been offered to me. The girl at the villa back there calls to my loins, but the silver one cries out in my blood. Whatever debaucheries have been inflicted on her as a woman, as a wolf, she is a virgin. I know it. Virgin and ready for the intimate fire that burns in me as man and wolf. I, alone, can be both to her.”
“Christ Jesus God,” Gavin said, “you must be mad. You don’t even know her name. She may be a slattern, a slut. She may have a husband.”
Maeniel smiled. There was nothing human in the smile, rather an enraged baring of teeth. “What care I? Do you think he will wish to face me as man or wolf?”
“No,” Gavin said, staring at the savage expression on Maeniel’s face. “I wouldn’t. Not the way you are now. Hell, man, why not take both of them. Many a husband—many a man—has.”
“That’s just the trouble,” Maeniel said with an ugly laugh. “I’m not a man. I can’t.” With that, he picked up the reins, put spurs to his horse, and rode away at a gallop.
REGEANE WENT DOCILELY FORTH TO DO AS SHE was told by Antonius and Lucilla. She greeted her men, playing the charming patroness, giving the role just the right touch of fragile innocence. She smiled beautifully and innocently at each of them, offered her hand to be kissed, and seemed to blush on cue.
She asked every man’s name and surprised herself by remembering all of them. She finalized the occasion of the first
meeting by giving each of them a ring or brooch from the treasure bestowed on her by Maeniel.
When they filed out of the reception room of the villa and the last passed through the curtains that led to the street, she turned to Antonius and asked, “Well? How did I do?”
“Beautifully,” Antonius replied. “Two or three of them look as though they’d been poleaxed, and the rest are thoroughly bedazzled.”
Regeane looked down and smoothed the soft linen of her outer dress with her fingers. The dress was, as Lucilla had said, tastefully understated. Fine Egyptian linen lightly embroidered with silver at the neck and hem. It had long sleeves so deeply cut they almost trailed on the floor. Under it, she wore a thick silk shift with long tight sleeves, and, under that, a sleeveless linen shift. The outfit left a lot to the imagination. It was hot.
When Regeane had first seen it, she shouted, “Good heavens—the expense.”
“Nonsense,” Lucilla snapped. “Your men must know you are a proper wealthy maiden, and modest. Besides, this Maeniel is paying your expenses now. I don’t think you quite grasp how wealthy he’s made you. There was a king’s ransom in that sack. Whole families in Rome live for years on what just one of those pieces is worth.”
Lucilla then tried to foist off on her a heavy body chain of elaborate wrought gold, telling her such burdensome jewelry was presently all the rage in Byzantium. Regeane dug in her heels. The exchange was spirited. Elfgifa contributed her opinion. “It is very ugly.”
Lucilla was infuriated. “Ugly or not, they’re in fashion and I will not be criticized by the representative of a people who believe proper court attire is a shift covered by shirt, long for women, short for men, held in by a leather belt. So keep your opinions to yourself, young lady.”
Antonius was helpless with laughter. When he dried his eyes, he said, “Mother, you don’t care about the damned thing. You’re only trying to get your own way. Forget art and leave a little to nature.”
Lucilla turned her back in a huff, and Regeane departed victorious on Antonius’ arm.
“I will conduct you to the meeting,” he said. “I am, after all, your chamberlain.”
“What’s a chamberlain?” Elfgifa asked.
“I don’t know,” Regeane replied soberly, “but I’m sure Antonius will be a very good one.”
Now that the extended interview was over, Regeane sat trembling a little, carefully smoothing the costly fabric. “Antonius,” she said softly. “Do you know you were the first to tell me I was beautiful?”
“Was I?” he asked. “Well, beauty is another weapon. Learn how to use it.”
Regeane sighed. “I had something else in mind.”
“I know,” Antonius said. “Forget it. Even a mild flirtation would be dangerous for us both. I’ll go call Rufus.”
“No,” Regeane said, rising. “Today at least I want to be out in the open air. Take me to where he’s waiting.”
Antonius grinned and offered her his arm. “Come then. It’s a little bit of a walk.”
REGEANE WAS PERSPIRING WHEN THEY FOUND Rufus. It had been, as Antonius promised, a long walk. Down a flight of crooked marble steps, through a plowed field in the sun, and then up another stair. This one led into a grove of ancient cypresses. Their cool shade was welcome. Finally, they reached a maze of ruins bigger than the Forum.
Rufus was sitting on a bench in front of a stack of marble slabs piled on top of one another until they formed a small cliff. A faint trickle of water from the top created a tiny falls that emptied into a broken fountain at the base.
Rufus was, as his name implied, red-haired, but the fiery thatch was threaded with gray, and gray wings swept back from both sides of his ears. Regeane’s first impression was one of ugliness. He had a big nose that was hooked and humped as though it had been broken several times. The white, thin scar of a sword cut marred his forehead. He had a wide, generous mouth. High cheekbones and hollow cheeks accompanied by the almost delicate pale skin that goes with such fair coloring.
All in all, she thought he did not look like the romantic lover
who could have commanded Cecelia’s devotion. Until he smiled. The smile had the same effect as kindling a bright lamp in a darkened room. Seeing it, Regeane thought,
Why, anyone would love him
.
He rose quickly, setting aside a paper he’d been reading, and bowed deeply over Regeane’s hand. “My lady,” he exclaimed, “you shouldn’t have walked so far. I was perfectly prepared to come to you.”
“I know,” Regeane replied, “but I wanted an outing.” Then she turned slowly around, gazing at the shattered piles of masonry around her. They were thickly overgrown with looping creepers, low bushes, and here and there, full-grown pines strove for a foothold, pushing their tops above dusty scrub oak. “What is this place?” she asked, awed.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Rufus grinned. “This, lovely lady, is said to be all that remains of Nero’s golden house. Once the most famous and beautiful palace in the entire world. I love to come and walk here. I think on the Roman world, olden times, and our new kingdoms that replace it.”
“ ‘So passes away the glory of the world,’ ” Antonius quoted. “My ancestors donned the purple and were crowned with golden laurel. They ruled the world, but we, their descendants, must humbly use—” He bowed to Rufus. “—bold, brave barbarians to be our protectors in time of trouble.”
“You’re being facetious,” Rufus said with another one of his infectious grins. “Your personal ancestors likely knew more about homespun than the purple, were better acquainted with ox goads than golden laurels. And, as for ruling the world, they more likely spent their lives serving humbly in the legions or following a plow. The present disordered state of the world, while to be deeply deplored, offered us both our opportunities. So, let’s get down to business, shall we?”
Antonius’ lips twitched with amusement. “I’m glad to see you again, Rufus.”
“Yes,” Rufus replied, “and I, you. I don’t know what happened or why it happened, my boy, but I’m very glad you’re well again.”
Then, the two men clasped each other’s hands cordially. Rufus turned to Regeane. “Tell me, how is my dear Cecelia?”
“Oh!” The word was a gasp. Regeane didn’t know what to say and tried to buy time. She pulled at the neck of the dress to let a little air at her moist skin. “Please,” she said. “If I might sit down in the shade for a few moments.”
“Of course, my dear,” Rufus said. As he conducted her to the bench, he asked, “Will you have a cup of wine? I always take care to pack an ample lunch when I come here.”
Regeane accepted the cup of wine, some bread, and an excellent, creamy white cheese. The wine was delicate. The cheese spread on the bread like soft butter. Regeane sat eating, drinking, and dreading what she would have to say to Rufus.
Until he leaned over from his seat beside her and gently lifted her chin with one finger. “Is it really so difficult, my dear?”
“Yes,” Regeane mumbled shamefaced through a mouthful of bread and cheese.
Rufus’ hand dropped from her chin and he sat back with his hands clasped at his knees. “Charming,” he said to Antonius who was leaning quietly against the trunk of a small cypress nearby. “Is she always so forthright?”
“Usually,” Antonius replied. “I haven’t yet had time to instruct her in the art of seeming to promise everything without making any commitments at all.”
“Well then, Regeane,” Rufus continued. “At least tell me, is my darling Cecelia at least enjoying her little tantrum?”
“Tantrum?” Regeane and Antonius chorused.
“Yes, tantrum,” Rufus said. “She’s always been very given to them. Cecelia’s high-strung.”
“My God, Rufus,” Antonius exclaimed. “Do you call a ten-year retreat into a convent a little snit? Besides, she cut—”
“I know what she did,” Rufus interrupted, his face suddenly bleak. “I don’t need to be reminded. Yet, I’ve always believed if that fool Maximus, her husband, had shown a little tact, a little ordinary human feeling, she’d have been back in my arms within a fortnight. But, fool that he was, he couldn’t resist taunting her, enraging her. The rest was sheer folly.”
Regeane shuddered as she gulped some of the wine. The perspiration was dry on her skin and, in the lengthening shadows of evening, the hollow among the ruins was cold. “If he was
cruel, he paid the price,” she said. “I’ll never forget Cecelia’s description of him dying destitute in the street, the rain falling into his open eyes.”
To her surprise, Rufus howled with laughter. “Is that what she said? Oh, my. Oh, me. I hadn’t heard that one before.”
“Isn’t it true?” Regeane asked shocked. “You don’t mean to say she lied?”
“Not quite,” Rufus said. “True, Maximus was never again as wealthy as he was before our little, shall we say, partnership ended, but he died at home in bed. I believe his liver got him. He turned the color of a ripe lemon shortly before he passed on, or so they say. We weren’t on speaking terms by then. Yes, I do believe a bit too much overindulgence in the fruit of the vine killed him. However, whatever got him, it certainly wasn’t Cecelia. But I’m not at all surprised she thinks so. She always tended to overdramatize things … a bit.”
“What about the roses?” Regeane asked.
“The roses?” Rufus asked. “Oh, yes, the roses. Tell me, do they make her happy? Is she pleased with them?”
“Ha!” Regeane said. “I think if you stopped sending them, she might come out.”
Rufus shook his head. “No, I’d never stop sending them. I couldn’t. You see, my dear, I can’t bear the thought of publicly humiliating her, or making her believe her lover has forgotten her and ceased suffering. Too many Roman matrons have shed tears over our unhappiness, mooned over our private misery for me to stop sending them now. How could she remain a heroine, a figure of tragedy, without them? I’ll tell you a secret, Regeane. Even when I die, the roses will continue to come. I’ve made a provision for them in my will. Until the final breath passes her lips, the fragrance of roses will surround her … in my name.”
Regeane set down the wine cup carefully and deliberately on the bench, got to her feet, and turned to face Rufus. “You are as bad as she is.”
“Regeane!” Antonius exclaimed in reproof.
“No,” Rufus said. “She’s right, God help me. The girl is right. I am, lies, roses, folly, and all, but …” He got to his feet and faced Regeane. He looked down at her, “Regeane, I’m a happy man. As men go, I’ve had more than my share of the good
things life has to offer. Wealth, leisure, good health, and pleasure. And I can’t say Cecelia has ruined any of these things for me.” He raised one finger. “But there is one thing that would make me happier still.”
“Cecelia,” Regeane said.
“If,” Rufus said, “she would come down the path now.” He turned away from Regeane and looked up the footpath as though seeing something there Regeane couldn’t. “We would sit together. She would read to me from Suetonius and Tacitus. Together we would weave a magnificent fantasy about Rome in a time when the legions marched. When Nero lived here in his golden house with the beautiful, doomed Empress Poppaea at his side. We would titillate ourselves with tales of dark, ancient crimes, tortures, intrigues, and the final inexorable retribution that came to these gilded, fascinating sinners. And when our journey through time ended, we would wander away, hand in hand, to a glade I know where the moon is bright, the grass is long and soft. There were nights when I had my men spread a banquet in a meadow and warm the air with braziers so that we could lie clasped in each other’s arms under an open sky. I would do so tonight for her, and for as many thereafter as she wished. And we would never know parting again.”