Authors: Alice Borchardt
At first, despite his inability to land blows, Scapthar seemed to have things his own way. He pursued Maeniel relentlessly. The crowd parted to let them pass. Regeane heard bets being placed as to how long it would take Scapthar to catch and kill him.
The fight swayed one way, moving away from her to the other side of the square, then toward her, and the two men fought almost at her feet. Maeniel kept making Scapthar miss. The wind was still blowing hard, the sun now high in the sky. It burned into Regeane’s face, arms, and back.
Regeane’s eyes fixed on Maeniel, she saw he was holding up well. Perspiration was only a light sheen on his exposed skin, whereas Scapthar was sweating so heavily it dripped from his chin and stained his shirt. Even so, Regeane wasn’t sure when Maeniel began to close with Scapthar.
The sun had reached its zenith, and with a heavy heart, Regeane began to believe Maeniel was slowing. Scapthar’s blows were getting closer and closer. But each time the miraculous sword turned them, sometimes when Scapthar seemed within a hair of killing or crippling his opponent. Each time Maeniel’s sword would aim its sweet, ringing cry of derision at Scapthar. And each time it spoke, it struck. At first, only a shallow cut or two on Scapthar’s arm. Nothing really, scratches only on a man Scapthar’s size. But then Regeane realized Scapthar was leaving a trail of blood. Moreover, a trail that grew thicker as the fight progressed.
The heat was becoming intense, in part because of the sun beating down on the exposed stone surfaces and in part because of the packed bodies of the multitude watching the battle.
For a moment Regeane tore her eyes from the combatants.
The square was packed, people filled every nook and cranny of the flat, open space. Hawkers sold wine, fried bread, and filled pastries of all kinds. Spectators covered rooftops of every building, including the steep basilica. All porches and balconies were filled, and four or five viewers fought for position at every window.
“Regeane!” Antonius stood next to the stone post, as close as he could get. The bundles of faggots prevented him from getting too near.
“Where have you been?” she asked. “There weren’t this many people here this morning. What’s happening?”
“Mother asked you for time,” he answered. “Well, you gave it to her. We are four—Hadrian, Mother, you, and I.”
“Five,” Regeane said, nodding toward Maeniel still coolly fencing with Scapthar.
“Five, then,” he said. “And none of us may see tomorrow’s sunrise, but neither, I promise, will Basil.”
Regeane’s attention was jerked away from Antonius by a loud shout from the crowd. Maeniel had been tripped. She saw Maeniel falling. Scapthar pounced with better speed than Regeane had seen from him all day. But Maeniel rolled into the man who’d tripped him. He fell over Maeniel’s back, and Scapthar’s sword cut him in half.
The crowd scattered, leaving Maeniel, Scapthar, and the corpse in the open space.
“Admit you are beaten, Scapthar,” Maeniel said. “Let me go my way and take the woman. I don’t want your life.”
Scapthar shook his head like a wounded bull. “I don’t get paid for letting men live. Or women either.”
Regeane saw something harden and change in Maeniel’s face. And found herself thinking,
I hope he never looks at me that way
. Then they closed again.
The sun moved from overhead. Clouds began rolling in. They were thick and dark with bright edges and didn’t completely cover the sky. The wind picked up, sending everyone’s clothes to flapping. Regeane’s wolf nose caught the scent of rain on the wind.
Even the most ardent spirits in the crowd didn’t have the
energy to cheer or scream insults any longer. They followed the fight as silently as the two combatants.
Maeniel and Scapthar went for each other in deadly earnest. Scapthar driving Maeniel before him, round and round the square, trying to exhaust him. Maeniel mercilessly inflicting a new wound on each pass. At last, they ended where they began, in front of the steps to the Lateran Basilica.
The pope stood there, and the bishops and cardinal priests of the city. They had waited as the long day wore away, a day everyone realized had reached its ending.
Scapthar was a mass of blood. Those looking at him could hardly believe he was living. His clothing was soaked with gore, his armor smeared with it. When he paused, pools of sticky red dripped from his clothing.
Yet it was only too clear his opponent was tiring also. Maeniel’s face was gray with exhaustion. His tunic had been sweat-soaked and dried, then soaked again. He’d also been wounded in the leg. Nasty, but not crippling or fatal. His boot squished blood with every step. Every time he lifted his arm to parry Scapthar’s blows, he moved more and more slowly.
The sun was low in the sky close to the horizon. It shone down the streets leading to the square and filled them with a last golden haze.
Regeane at her post was approaching her limits, also. Her hands were numb. No matter how vigorously she wiggled her fingers, nothing seemed to restore the circulation. Her fingers felt as though they were pierced by knives. The staple of the collar had rubbed her neck raw. She’d had no food or drink all day. Her tongue felt leathery and her lips were cracked.
Maeniel and Scapthar circled each other, both looking almost too weary to attack. A deep hush filled the square. Scapthar stepped back and gave a roar like an enraged bull. The strange light flashed on his sword and armor, turning them to flame. Then, he loosed the sword like a throwing knife, directly at Maeniel.
Maeniel stepped to the right, expertly deflecting the thrown sword.
Regeane screamed. She’d seen the point of Scapthar’s attack. As Maeniel stepped away from the sword, he moved within
range of Scapthar’s maul-sized hands. In a second, he was going down, one of Scapthar’s fists around his throat, the other holding his sword arm by the wrist.
Regeane screamed again as the two men grappled on the ground. Not wanting to see Maeniel die, she looked away and saw the executioner with a torch.
No
, she thought.
No
. But then,
Yes!
Her teeth sank into one side of her lower lip. Her mouth filled with blood. It dribbled down from one corner to her chin in a thin stream. For a second she met Rufus’ eyes. He tried to turn away, but her gaze held his, her eyes two pools of blank blackness.
The executioner raised the torch.
Rufus drove the point of his sword at the man. He backed away in confusion and dropped the torch. One of Basil’s men picked it up and threw it quickly into the pile of faggots. A bundle of the dry wood caught with a roar. Regeane’s body bucked at the post. The ropes tore her wrists. She thrust against the collar and her neck gave, but not the brass. Then, she was still. She had only a moment of pain-free life left.
She saw Basil riding forward through a crowd that sounded like a storm surf to claim his victory. On her left, she heard Rufus say, “I will not let you feel the flames,” and saw his sword rise. The setting sun was in her eyes.
She heard a sound, an unearthly yell rise from the mob. A scream of rage and triumph so terrible that even in this last extremity, it made every hair on her body rise. Through the blowing flame she saw Maeniel on his feet, his left arm red to the elbow, fingers dripping blood, something clutched in his hand. Basil was close to him. He threw whatever it was in Basil’s face.
Rufus shouted, “He’s won! My God, he’s won. Get that fire away from her.” Then, miracle of miracles, they were throwing water and raking the wood from around her feet.
And she knew she was going to live. Wonderfully, unbelievably, she knew she was going to live … to live.
Oh, God
, she thought.
Thank God … to live
.
Scapthar wasn’t quite dead yet. The crowd drew back. He was lying on the cobbles, blood pumping from between his legs
in spurts. He screamed, a sound that tore at her ears. He screamed … opened his mouth to scream again … and died.
Basil turned his horse away and tried to ride back to his men. Someone was pounding at the collar around Regeane’s neck, trying to get it off, when she saw Basil die. Antonius appeared in the crowd near him and drove a sword into his horse’s neck. The dying beast’s legs folded under it. A dozen hands pulled Basil down. From the sounds she heard, she didn’t think he was alive when his body reached the ground.
Basil’s men tried to make a stand. Against the comparatively unarmed citizens, they might have succeeded, but Rufus, his men, and Maeniel’s people joined the Romans. In short order, all that was left to do was mop up.
Someone found a flagon of halfway decent wine. She drank it mixed with water. It went directly to her head and so she made no protest when Maeniel came to claim her.
He lifted her to the saddle in front of him. She found all she wanted to do was rest her head on his shoulder and her arms around his neck. From there, she saw the last half-circle of the setting sun dip below the horizon.
The sky above them was a dome of thick, black clouds with blue edges, here and there laced with lightning.
The downpour began before they reached the villa. They stopped the horse and stood in the dark, empty street and let it pour over them, allowed the clean waters of heaven to dissolve the perspiration of terror from her skin, wash the blood of slaughter from his body. The icy water laved his wounds and began healing them. It plastered her hair to her scalp. They opened their mouths and drank from the springs of heaven.
It was still pounding down when they reached the villa. Their clothing was completely soaked. He led her to a side room where they toweled themselves dry. It was lit only by a single candle. He left and returned dry, wearing a clean tunic. He offered her a coffer. She opened it and lifted out a gown.
It was white, heavy, raw, pure silk, almost priceless, sewn with gold at the bodice, sleeves, and hem. She slipped it over her head.
I must leave
, she thought. Her mind was clearing. The fabric caressed her skin, a sensual delight. He kissed her gently with
an exquisite tenderness. Another sensual delight.
I’ll leave in the morning
, she thought.
He led her to the triclinium. There was possibly more food on the table than there had been at the wedding feast. Hams, cheeses—white, yellow, blue—wines in flagons, clay bottles, and even amphoras chilled in a tub of snow. Scattered among this largess were whole haunches of pork, beef, tender lamb, and veal. Bread was scattered everywhere—the thick, rich, dark Roman breads made with dates, onions, herbs, olive oil, and cheese.
Maeniel’s people were feasting. They were all wearing arms and armor. Some looked battered and bloodied.
There were no candles or lamps. Only torches lit the room. The couches had been replaced by benches. Two chairs were at the high table. Maeniel led her toward them. His people stood and, raising a shout, lifted their cups to Regeane.
The curtains separating the triclinium from the garden belled out, then flapped in the wind. Regeane shivered.
The wolf rose, swimming up from profound darkness. She was, as always, voiceless, but Regeane realized the woman and the creature were at odds. The narrowed, blazing gaze caught and held her.
Their chairs were so close Maeniel’s arm pressed against hers.
The wolf directed her mind away. She saw the huge gray. The vision was clear. She could smell the wind of the heights, taste the purity of air blowing over a snow-covered glacier locked in eternal winter on peaks so high they thrust through the thin blanket of air covering the world.
The gray wolf climbed higher than the trees or even grass, beyond the path of the ibex who take a road over barren, windswept rock seemingly dancing along the edge of the sky. He ran though the air was thin and the cold so intense it struck through the triple thickness of his coat and brought him almost to agony.
Higher and higher he struggled over snow-covered ice, skirting crevasses yawning like frigid, toothless mouths breathing out inky, silent, freezing death. Up above him rose a ridgeline drenched in moonlight, glittering against a dead black sky.
Up and up the gray toiled, indifferent to the burning pain in
his lungs, the stretch and return of muscles and tendons that seemed ready to simply tear free of his bones with the next step. Up and up toward what seemed, to the untutored eye of the woman, the roof of the world.
Someone touched her face. The vision faded. She realized Matrona was bending over her and Maeniel had hold of her hand.
“My lady,” he spoke softly, “are you well?”
Matrona stroked her cheek. “Stop swilling, you sots! Get a plate of food together and pass it up to our younger sister here. She needs food. And wine, no, not that Campagnan red, but some of the white, chilling in the snow.”
In a few seconds a plate and goblet were thrust before her. Sausage—beef and pork—roast beef, loin of wild boar, all smothered in their appropriate gravies. Some sort of greens cooked in cheese and oil, and wine, cold and thirst quenching. Every mouthful was pleasure. No, more than pleasure. Each was a different variety of ecstasy.
Sometime later, when she looked up, the food was gone. Maeniel’s arm was around her shoulders.
“There, are you better now?” he asked.
“Yes.” The yes was a sigh of repletion.
The arm around her shoulders tightened, the back of his free hand caressed her cheek.
In the deepest darkness of her brain the wolf gave a cry of fear and fury.
Go
, it said as clearly as if the word had been articulated.
No
. The woman turned toward her dark companion.
He is lost, the gray one, lost. We are separated by the power of king and pope, law and God …
Then she felt a terrible uprush of sorrow because she knew the silver one spoke the truth and, sooner or later, she would leave this man’s bed and seek her final freedom in the moonlight. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen. The parody of a prayer pronounced her victory and her doom.
Gundabald stepped between the curtains separating the triclinium and the garden. Six of Basil’s mercenaries were with him. They all held crossbows in their hands. A look of madness was in Gundabald’s eyes. His loaded crossbow was pointed directly at Maeniel’s chest.