Authors: Alice Borchardt
His eyes rested on her. They possessed her, devoured her. She belonged to him. He would strike at the devil himself if ever the Lord of Hell tried to take her from him.
She paused when she was standing so close to him she could come no nearer. His breath steamed slightly in the cold air. The heat radiating from his body warmed her. She touched his hand, the one that held the cup. “Beer?” she asked.
“No, wine.”
“Give me a sip.”
He lifted the cup to her lips.
She drank. The taste of such a vintage alone was intoxication, slightly warm, sweet, yet with the tart bite and aroma of green apples. “Ahhh,” she sighed.
His free arm stole around her waist. “We will ride higher into the mountains. I know a place just above the clouds, overlooking the whole world. We will stop there and take our ease.” His head bent lower and he began kissing the droplets of wine, one by one, from her lips. Oh, so very gently.
She sighed again and slowly, her eyes closed. On the edge of sleep, one dreams of falling. Regeane plummeted and was jerked awake by the shock of fear.
Maeniel laughed. “Am I so dull that I’m putting you to sleep?”
She blushed violently. “No.”
His brows lifted. “Oh.”
Regeane shifted her weight uneasily on the cushions. The
dress strained against her thigh, for a moment pulling the fabric against her breast and stomach.
Maeniel took a deep breath. His nostrils distended like a nervous stallion’s. He looked away abruptly. When he met her eyes again, something new was in his stare. He reached out and lifted the necklace at her throat.
Again, she saw him as he must have been in first youth, sleeping recklessly on the sun-warmed stone, the fair woman at his side combing her long hair. The vision faded and vanished as his hand dropped marginally lower in what was almost, but not quite, a public caress. Regeane remembered Gundabald’s insults. “I am told,” she stammered, “that I am not well endowed.”
“A blatant lie,” he said. “You are superb in every way. Fresh as the first wildflowers blooming through the winter snow; clean as mountain air blowing through the high passes; fragrant and delicious as new-mown hay on a hot autumn evening.”
His touch still looked casual. It wasn’t. His fingers were hot. They moved gently up, crossing her shoulder, then the skin at the nape of her neck. She was particularly sensitive there, she didn’t know why, something from the wolf perhaps. At any rate, she quivered slightly at his touch, her knees loosened. She colored, a flush burning in her cheeks. She felt her lips and—yes—another part begin to swell. Not wanting to be embarrassed by showing passion so openly, she bowed her head.
Antonius watched intently. “He looks as though he’s ready to eat her alive,” he said to his mother.
“Yes,” Lucilla replied, “and she looks only too happy to be the main course at his next feast. I hope to God both of them know what they’re doing.”
“Depend on it, Mother, they don’t,” he sighed.
“Beautiful,” Maeniel said. His hand continued up, stroking her hair. “Simply beautiful.”
Regeane realized her forehead was almost resting on his shoulder. He was closer. Trying to break the spell, she said sharply, “You’re a connoisseur.”
His hand stroked her cheek, reached her chin, and lifted her head. Only a few moments ago, they’d been sitting several feet apart. Now, her face was inches from his. “Beautiful maiden,
exquisite maiden,” he whispered, “you have absolutely no idea how good my credentials as a connoisseur are.” Then he gave her a chaste, brotherly kiss on the forehead and moved away.
Regeane breathed a sigh of relief.
“Am I so importunate?” Maeniel asked.
“No,” Regeane said softly. “I think my mind is corrupted by a sensual madness I have never felt before. I feel guilty and fear what others might see.”
“Ah,” Maeniel said. He lifted his hand in a wholly artificial gesture of profound grief and pressed the back to his forehead. “What? Is there a stain of shame in your heart?”
“No,” Regeane said. “My heart is fine and so are all my other body parts. It’s gossip among the Roman aristocracy I fear. You wouldn’t believe how fast and far a tale can travel in the mouths of women.” She mimicked, “ ‘Oh, you should have seen them. She couldn’t wait to feel his mouth on hers. And he … he was no better, undressing her with his eyes before the wedding guests … trying to hide his stolen caresses under the guise of politeness … disgusting, my dear … and in a marriage such as theirs where decorum should be the order of the day.’ ”
At the tables, Lucilla and Antonius watched them. “Whatever they may or may not understand,” she said, “well … man is paper, woman fire, and desire a mighty wind. And depend upon it, my son, that wind is blowing here.”
Antonius sighed. “Did you take precautions just in case?”
“Of course.” Lucilla waved one hand and almost upturned a huge silver urn decorated with grapes, purple and white.
Wax?
Antonius thought and he still couldn’t tell. Whatever substance composed the grapes, it was not grapes. “The mercenaries?” Antonius asked. “Where are they?”
“Surrounding the villa,” Lucilla replied. “In case of … accident.”
The music became louder and louder. When the waiter appeared and tried to refill Antonius’ cup, he covered it with his palm and shook his head. The noise level in the room was increasing. A jug passed surreptitiously among the musicians. They played just slightly out of tune.
Regeane noticed with alarm that a number of people were beginning to wear glassy stares.
Maeniel noticed with alarm that Gavin had managed to cross the room and was now sharing the couch with Augusta. Next to the bride, she was undeniably the most attractive woman in the room.
Oh, no!
he thought.
Whatever men may think about the chastity of barbarians or wolves, Gavin was always on the prowl
.
“Did you buy the wine?” Regeane whispered to Maeniel.
“No, why?”
“There’s no telling what they put into it,” she said.
“What!” he exclaimed softly. “Put what into it? You mean they put things in it? What things?”
“Opium, wormwood, hemlock, silphum, things like that,” Regeane said.
“Christ!” Maeniel said. “Where is that damned food. Maybe if we get some food into them …”
The guests, including Maeniel’s people, were now looking exceptionally loose. Gavin was whispering into Augusta’s ear. She listened with downcast eyes.
Silvia reclined next to Joseph and Gordo. She’d chosen a golden gown, an unfortunate decision. She looked a little like a miniature sun as the glittering folds cast back the lamplight.
Someone goosed Silvia. She bounced into the air with a screech. The couch where she was lying made a cracking sound, creaked, and swayed ominously. Gordo and Joseph managed to look innocent.
“I think the couch is an antique,” Regeane said helpfully.
Maeniel scrubbed his face with his hand. “Where is that damned—”
As if on cue, a trumpet yelled fuzzily at the entrance to the dining room. The cooks and servers entered carrying the food.
The first was evidently a wild boar. Its tusks were gilded and the rest of its body appeared to be covered with shiny white enamel, painted with pictures of different culinary herbs.
“What is that?” Regeane asked as it passed her for the first time.
“Hell if I know,” Maeniel answered.
The white boar was carried round the horseshoe-shaped table three times while the out-of-tune trumpet continued to bleat like a sick sheep.
Finally Augusta, who had fallen asleep with her head pillowed on Gavin’s arm, awakened. She looked around, blinking her way back to consciousness.
The trumpet made a particularly horrible sound.
“Jesus,” Augusta shouted. “Somebody kill that thing and put it out of its misery.” The rest of the guests gave her suggestion their enthusiastic endorsement and the trumpet was silenced.
Maeniel managed to stop the ornate boar’s progress long enough to carve it. It turned out to be a rather complex meat loaf surprise, composed of beef and pork with pockets of fennel, cheese, and liver. The guests fell on it, aided in their gluttony by a pork raisin sauce sweetened by wine lees.
The white peacock entered next, carried by not less than four servers. The trumpeter couldn’t resist. The peacock reached the table just as the instrument screeched and gave vent to six, or perhaps, seven sounds that were rather like loud farts.
Augusta looked offended. The rest of the guests thought the sounds hilarious.
Augusta banged her cup on the table. “Shut that fool up,” she shouted. “Stick a turd in that horn and put it to sleep. More wine all around. I am dry as the great desert of Arabia.”
The wine jugs appeared and made the rounds.
Maeniel looked down at the white peacock. It rested full feathered on a heavy silver platter, its head tucked demurely under one wing.
The four cooks stood before Maeniel and beamed with pride.
“Oh, what a shame,” Regeane whispered. “It’s so beautiful. It can’t taste very good. We would have been better off with roast chicken.”
Maeniel heaved an eloquent sigh and gave the bird a tentative poke with the carving knife.
The bird jerked its head out from under its wings and fixed Maeniel with glittering eyes. It didn’t look pleased.
The four cooks gawked at it, then turned on each other. “You were supposed to prepare it,” they shouted with one voice as they all pointed at each other, then fell to waving their arms wildly and screaming accusations at each other in vulgar street Latin.
The peacock glared wickedly at Maeniel and drew a bead on
his left eye with its narrow beak. He ducked just in time; he felt the sharp beak part his hair.
The big bird wheeled, presenting Regeane and Maeniel with a clear view of its rear. The feather fan opened wide. It gave an absolutely unbelievable cry and hopped to the floor. It exited the triclinium at a stately pace, with all the confident air of a conqueror, the raucous applause of the guests ringing in its ears.
Maeniel looked at the still-wrangling cooks. “Silence!” His voice had the quality of one boulder striking another.
They fell silent in mid-screech.
“Get the rest of the food and serve it before the good sense and reason of my guests is totally obliterated by drink. And I want no more disgusting and undignified noises from that damned horn. And while I do thank you for a new experience, I have never had a dish I tried to fillet, attempt to carve me first. Do not serve me anything else that jumps off the plate and flees when I try to eat it.”
The cooks nodded and scurried out. The rest of the food arrived. It was apparent that, except for the peacock now winding its way around the reflecting pool with its spread feathers glowing white in the gloom, the chef had done himself proud.
The giant artichoke proved to be made up of spinach seasoned with bacon, olive oil, and hard-cooked eggs. It was delicious. A hedgehog, made of real artichokes, followed. They were stuffed with bread crumbs seasoned with cheese and a mélange of fresh herbs and dark, spicy olives. They set off the chicken dishes perfectly: tender capon in shaved almonds and almond cream brushed with fresh sage; slow-smoked, pink-fleshed birds laden with bacon in a dark wine sauce, others simmered in red wine, wrapped in pink, salt-cured ham accompanied by melon slices, or breasts of chicken simmered in white wine spiced with saffron and tarragon, the broth filled with Sicilian ribbon dumplings, followed by, in case anyone was still hungry, no less than a dozen suckling pigs perfumed with sage and fennel.
The wines were the crowning event on an evening rich in splendor: there was a flowerlike white, faintly redolent of sweet cecily and lush basil; a red, old, smooth-textured, filled with the complex tastes of smoke drifting up between the vine rows as
the harvesters feasted on escargot and oreletans, of long nights in dark cellars, resting while a wind that seemed to rise from the frozen Dolomites stripped the vines in the long fields bare of a last spring frost nipping the tiny green grapes, lending them just enough spice to grace the final harvest. A taste that resonates on the tongue like the orgastic final moment of lovemaking.
Regeane toasted Maeniel with the white over samples of all the chicken dishes. He toasted her with the red over suckling pig cooked in apples and spiced with the juice of Iberian sour oranges.
The guests who had imbibed too freely were slipping into the arms of Morpheus. A few, inspired by Bacchus, went after the bird.
A small group chased the peacock round and round the pool in the peristyle. The bird was slow; the pursuers even slower, being very unsteady on their legs from the wine at dinner. They took turns falling into the reflecting pool and having to be fished out by their comrades. At this juncture, they usually took a break to imbibe more liquid refreshment, just to keep off the cold, you know.
Gavin was bestowing the most elaborate compliments on Augusta. Augusta’s husband, Eugenius, was present. He was sober. Every time Gavin began to plant a kiss on one creamy freckled shoulder, Eugenius began to play ostentatiously with the hilt of his dagger. Augusta was blind drunk, well past the point of speech and giggling constantly.
Antonius and Lucilla were stone cold sober, as was Matrona. All three individuals were giving Maeniel and Regeane dark looks.
Maeniel and Regeane were not—sober, that is. They’d reached that ecstatic stage of tipsiness where all women are beautiful and men handsome, where lights burn brighter, music is created by the celestial choir, and all our inhibitions are like cobwebs to a careless hand.
Deep in Regeane’s soul the wolf was afraid, but Regeane’s woman’s mind dismissed her with contempt. The woman was drunk but only partly on wine. Desire was raging in the woman as it never had before. Ah, indeed, what she felt now was beyond mere desire. It was an overwhelming compulsion that
burned not only all fear away, but reduced even common sense and reason to pale, dusty ash. She must have this man.
As he looked at her the way the big, gray predator looks at a deer, she was aware he was caught up in the same heedless, mad conflagration as she.