“Witgern.”
He held the mullein torch close to her face, to better see into her eyes.
“I will be a Wolf.”
Chapter 23
The Ides of November
Arria Juliana was dressed in white silk. She travelled in a reda drawn by four dappled grays harnessed abreast. Through fringed curtains draped in a scallop pattern, she looked out on lightly frosted hills; a pull on a red tassel and she could close them if she wanted. It was cold. Steam from the horses’ nostrils drifted back, thick as wool right off the sheep. Beside her was her nurse, Philomela; spread across their laps was her favorite old coverlet, pea green with five moth holes; she had counted them. Their carriage was not allowed to move fast as the grays could go, because then the eight redas filled with her trunks of clothes and all her treasures would not be able to keep up. Nor would the plainer carriages for the maidservants, or the footmen, who had to run to stay up with them; she felt sorry for them. The fortunate grooms armed with staffs had horses, at least. Demaratos had a carriage all to himself, so he could better sulk. It was covered over with carvings of lotuses and vines, but still was not so fine as hers. She wondered what the countryside people thought of this grand parade as they peered from their thatched houses set along the edges of their fields. Surely they thought an important matrona was passing by.
She was journeying to Rome to live with her great-aunt who had her name—Arria Juliana. Philomela, soft as goosedown pillows and very old, was spinning wool, moving her padded hands as little as possible because they hurt her. Arria pulled an ivory comb through the silvery fur of her lap dog, who watched Philomela’s spindle whorl with eyes like black beads. The maids who dressed her hair had taken extra time with it today, drawing it into a clever knot in the back; Arria liked the way the string of pearls they’d woven in were snowy against her hair’s brown silk. From time to time she moved her head slightly so she could steal another look at herself, reflected in the silver mount of the carriage lamp. The wardrobe maid had dressed her in her best clothes. This was because they would be passing the first night at a fine villa. “The house of the procurator for the whole province, who administrates at the great town of Augusta Treverorum, so behave yourself and don’t shout,” Demaratos had said. Wherever it was possible, he’d arranged for their party to pass the night in the private houses of officials.
Journeying was almost as exciting as watching a horse race. Arria Juliana wanted to run alongside the carriage. She squirmed on her cushions, pulled at her pearl earrings, and counted the number of dappled-grays among the sleek horses in a passing field—that was her favorite color for a horse. Philomela gave her a nudge from time to time, to remind her not to rumple her heat-pressed clothes. She was excited and anxious because of the peacocks. She had heard this man kept peacocks in his gardens. They spread their tail feathers and it was like a gemstone fan. If she arrived after nightfall it would be too dark to see them.
Arria wished hard that her mother were here. At the thought of Auriane she pulled too sharply on the comb, hurting the dog so that he yelped. She apologized to her dog, and Philomela smiled. Thick smoke swirled about her mother, and Arria did not want to see what was causing that smoke. Somehow connected with this, Demaratos was snappish with everyone. The vileness clouded about her mother was the reason her father was gone, and this, she knew, was why everything was going badly. Philomela said Demaratos was angry for another cause, too—Brico, his amica, was not with him.
Arria knew why she must go away, because Demaratos had told her. The villa was no longer safe, and her father was not here to protect her. She had seen how frightened the servants had become. One night someone tried to set the barn alight. She would be better off in the household of her great-aunt, at least until her father’s return from that far place. Someone had said eight months. She thought that was a long enough time for her to be taller when she saw her father again. She sensed more that was evil in her father’s absence, beyond what Demaratos told her, but this, too, she shut her eyes against, and busied herself thinking of the wondrous life she’d have in the grandest of all the cities of the world. In Rome, palaces were stacked up on the hills. In Rome, Philomela told her, they spoke the language properly, not mispronouncing everything like the turnip-eating louts around here. In her mind’s eye she ordered her future life like pins in a box. She would marry in four years. That was far off, but it would come, she was certain of that. She could remember four years back. At her wedding feast would be woodcocks in green sauce and nightingale tongues, or maybe something else, if something else was in fashion. The feast would go on for three days, and be written of in the Acta Diurna. She would wear a yellow silk veil, and the Arabian incense would be thick as clouds. The best augur in the city would take the auspices; the sheep’s entrails would reveal remarkable omens for her coming happiness. Her groom-to-be was learned in many sciences, so famous philosophers would be there. She would open a door to a beautiful place as she put on the stola of a mistress of a great household. She would have two children, no more. Her husband might be angered at first, but maybe not—she could name six or seven old families in which the matrona had two children, and sometimes, only one. He would accept it better when he saw how useful she was to his advancement. She would establish a society of educated women, who would talk of poetry in her painted dining room, and she would curry the favor of the important families useful to her new husband.
She would have gardens with peacocks.
It was early afternoon, and she felt a steady upwelling of happiness like a warm spring, which bubbled down only when she worried over her father. But he would be there to see her eating her marriage-cakes steeped in wine.
They slowed, and just ahead, Arria could hear Demaratos, giving orders. Philomela leaned out to listen, then explained that Demaratos dispatched an understeward to ride ahead and inform their noble host of their arrival.
When they’d travelled a short distance farther, they turned off the paved road that went on to the town, and onto a road of dirt. Sharp words drifted back from the front of the train. Was this a shorter way, or the wrong way? From the look of the road, Arria supposed no one had travelled it recently. Demaratos left his carriage and strode past her, shouting angrily; she heard words about a lame horse that had had to be replaced. They’d lost so much time already, they might not reach the villa by dusk. That was why they must take this shorter way.
She felt prickly and irritated; now she wouldn’t see the peacocks.
Soon, the road was not much more than two sets of deep wheel ruts. Once, the carriages stopped and started again, while grooms dragged away fallen tree limbs. She thought they would turn around, but they didn’t.
As the carriage bumped onward, Arria began to feel frightened. She didn’t know why—something just seemed wrong. The road was too deserted. Demaratos was too angry. The forest about was too quiet; she couldn’t hear cattle lowing anymore.
It was upsetting and boring. No peacocks. She caved into Philomela’s lap and slid into edgy sleep.
Shouts of outrage jerked her back into the world. She heard the fast crack of wood striking wood. Fighting.
Philomela’s lap was a shivering aspic as she prayed to Juno, mixing up the words. Her voice sounded like a puppy crying.
Somewhere ahead of them, a ruthless stranger-voice spat out commands.
Demaratos cried out over the stranger’s shouts. Demaratos’s voice disturbed Arria; there was too much fear in it. It wasn’t true that Demaratos feared nothing.
Arria huddled down and sat as still as she could. Philomela started dragging her to the back of the carriage. Arria reached for her dog. “No,” Philomela whispered. “Quick. Put him out.”
“I can’t do it,” she whispered, crushing her dog tightly to her chest. “I’ll put my hand over his mouth so he won’t make a sound.”
Philomela drew the coverlet over them both. Pea green, with holes. Would the shouting strangers look beneath it?
A whip cracked. Her carriageman turned the reda about so sharply that it nearly tipped over; the curtain fell inward. Philomela yipped and grasped the carriage’s sides. Arria slid across the floor, her dog scrambling in her hands. The carriage righted itself with a stomach-lurching bounce, then snapped her forward; she felt like a ball at the end of a string. Then it slowed again, to get round some obstacle. They were escaping—but from what?
So frightened she had to look, Arria jumped forward too fast for Philomela, parted the curtain, and looked behind them. And saw a sight she must try, hard as she could, to wipe away, like letters off a wax tablet: Two black-bearded men in leather tunics pummeled Demaratos, who reeled about, bleeding. Two others were on horseback; strips of black wool were wrapped round their heads, so that only their eyes could be seen. One struck Demaratos with a stave, hit him so hard on his head that he fell, slowly, to the ground. Another pulled him up, even though he couldn’t walk any more, and pushed him forward, bellowing at him—“In here? Tell us. Or we gut you like a fish.”
Bandits? Her fear rose to such a pitch, all flashed to whiteness. She began to tremble crazily, as if her bones had come apart. She had never seen so much as a dog mistreated. And now they were abusing Demaratos in a way her father would not have allowed a criminal to be used, kicking him even though he wasn’t fighting back. Philomela dragged her back inside again, held to her so desperately that, all at once, Arria knew what Philomela knew already—these were not regular robbers intent on the jewel chest. These robbers wanted her.
Her carriage burst forward again; the bumpy road made it bounce in every direction like a madman skipping. Anyone could see them; how could they hide?
One of the bandits shot past them on horseback, shouting, “Halt, halt!” Arria heard a piteous shriek—and knew something dark and terrible had happened to her carriageman.
The reda jolted to a final stop.
It was no use hiding beneath a blanket. She crawled forward onto her cushions and made herself sit straight and proud, thinking this would help somehow—if they knew she were noble, then maybe they wouldn’t hurt her. If Philomela had been praying for courage, Arria supposed Juno had listened. With great calm, Philomela pulled herself forward and sat beside her.
The man’s voice was muffled through the cloth wrapped about his face.
“Ah. There she is. Pretty as her portrait.”
Philomela put a pillowy arm about her.
A hairy hand ripped off the curtains, reached in, and tore Arria’s trembling dog from her hands. The dog squealed in the ugly silence.
The door was thrown open.
It was like being grasped by a tentacle and pulled into the gaped jaws of a sea monster. The belly of the beast. She’d read a story once of a man lost at sea, swallowed by a monster, who actually lived inside its belly for a time. She didn’t want to see, to know . . . hard, bony hands, lifting her . . . dark scents, and the cold . . . The cold struck her like a stinging slap.
Then darkness took her away somewhere, and that was good.
She next knew that someone had slung her like a grain sack across a horse’s withers. She knew nothing else, for she was blindfolded. A cloth was tied over her mouth, too, and it hurt. Her hair hung loose and mussed; she knew the pearl-strings had been ripped away. Every part of her was sore.
Her first thought was for her poor dog, used to tucking himself into warm places, now all by himself in the bitter-cold forest. Who would care for him?
Demaratos. Horrible. They had hurt him so he would never get up again, she was certain of it.
Where was everyone else? Should she tell these men they’d better let her go, or her father would punish them? She decided to wait. With all her strength, she wished her mother here. It was Auriane she wanted most, now. Her mother could have saved her effortlessly. Auriane wouldn’t have been frightened, as Demaratos had been. She would have risen up like Minerva with her shield and struck them all down.
Tears came, but she struggled against them because she didn’t want to wet the blindfold.
After a long time of riding, the men halted and greeted someone.
“You’ve done well!” The new man’s voice was gloating, and strange—it was a normal voice, but nervous, with a bit of apology in it. And, familiar. “I’ll see that your guild prospers, for this.”
She knew that voice.
He said guild. Understanding came like a tumble into a well. They were not highwaymen. They were stonemasons. Victorinus, when he had been magistrate, had used the stonemasons of Confluentes to threaten people in secret. Victorinus was gone, but people still feared his stonemasons.
Victorinus, whom her father had humbled, Victorinus, driven from his court in disgrace, an angry old man to whom no one listened anymore, who now sat brooding in his villa, the monster in the cave . . . he had sent out his tentacles . . .
“She’d better not be hurt.” Lucius.
Victorinus’s mean son.
A voice like the low growl of a mastiff said, “Don’t worry, we were careful as a mother cat with her kittens.”
“Tie her better.” Lucius, again. “Bind her legs, too. We can’t have her thrashing about when we take her through town.”
“Pay us first.”
Someone lifted her into a carriage or wagon.
Once, her blindfold slipped, and she saw Lucius’s face.
She howled in terror and squeezed her eyes closed.
Lucius’s nose was pounded flat; the flesh was curdled around his eyes. A blue-red scar overran one side of his face; it lifted one side of his mouth, as when a dog snarls.
But she knew about this. They’d heard of it from the tenant farmers. On that day when Lucius had played his cruel trick with the stones during the horse race, as he’d run through the woods, fleeing from Auriane, he’d fallen onto a rock slide. Normally Lucius wore a mask, so he wouldn’t frighten people—but today, he did not. Rocks like flint daggers had carved Lucius’s face into a thing no one wanted to see, but his injuries had made him, not a sea monster at all . . . but a human monster, who knew he was one.
Lucius reached out as if he feared, a little, to touch her, and put her blindfold back in place.
Poor Demaratos. She wished they would blindfold her mind’s eye, as well.
The wagon smoothly moved forward, on a good road now.
But it was travelling in the wrong direction.
I was to go to Rome. Please, Mother Juno . . . someone has made a mistake.
Into the belly of a sea monster instead.
I will not die. I’ll save myself somehow. I will get to my city. Where is my dog? I’ve lost the magic seeds my mother gave me. I’m to have a great house, a fine wedding, a garden with peacocks . . . It will be well.
Mother. Help.
Her heart beat so hard and fast, it seemed a small, frenzied animal fought to get out of her chest. Then the smooth, welcome, pudding-warm blackness oozed over her again, bringing dark dreams.
Chapter 24
Gunora took a hare from a wicker cage and put it into a sack. It thrashed with startling vigor; she was always amazed by the strength of a hare. Smoke from a bonfire streamed above the nine thatched lodges ringed about an earthen temple enclosure that was Ramis’s Summer Sanctuary. Gunora got her walking staff, departed her house built round an elm that grew alongside the community’s common field, then set off into the hazed twilight of the deep forest.
That spirited smoke escaping off into the wood signified that Ramis’s high sisters convened to cast lots to name the next Veleda. For Ramis must be counted as having perished off the earth. And Auriane, named by Ramis in the cradle, must be considered already among the dead. Gunora did not yield easily to despair, but that baleful smoke caused her to feel it cruelly on this eve. She came to a natural temple where a sleek fall of water streamed quietly into a deep stone bowl. Its depths glimmered with lunar fire, from offerings of silver cast in by the faithful through many generations. Gunora spoke words of consolation to the Nix of
the pool, whom she heard murmuring worriedly. On a mossy altar stone she laid a bronze knife and a brush of broom twigs.
Gunora’s first sacrifice was for Avenahar.
Gunora had just come from the midwinter Assembly of the Moon, the Chattian tribal law-gathering, which met despite a driving rain that sluiced off the fringed military cloaks of the Roman observers. Their centurion had demanded the names of the villains who ambushed four cavalrymen and murdered two, within a spear’s throw of a village called the Raven’s Nest. Gunora had sat grimly still among the thousand-times-three of her countrymen massed about the Assembly Oak, fearful one of them would offer up Avenahar’s name. Finally, Sigibert had risen to answer. “My lord. It was one of Witgern’s. They are outlaws who, as you know, are repudiated by us. They flow through the forest like a wind-stream. None will ever know the name of the men who did this.”
But the centurion spoke again, promising freedom from the levy to the home village of any man who gave them the culprits’ names. Gunora didn’t know how long her countrymen could resist, so welcome a thing was it to be spared the hated burden of yielding sons for the Roman army. And when the Chattian Assembly had dispersed, a legionary cohort had been dispatched to the Raven’s Nest. The soldiers found the longhouses empty—the villagers had fled into the forest. They burned the settlement to ash, then sought vengeance on a neighboring village to the west, taking its women and children into slavery.
Someone would weaken, and say Avenahar’s name.
In a warbling monotone Gunora thanked the hare for giving its life. She took up the bronze knife. The little creature released its vigor quickly. “Let Avenahar live to grow into her fate,” Gunora prayed, “for she was given the vision of the holy sisters of elder days.” The alders rustled, as if to say, We will. She reddened the broom twig in sacrificial blood and gave the hare to the pool; now the spring was full of the clever, darting ghost of the little creature, and blessed. It shone like an eye in the dusk—a hare’s eye.
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