“You were not abandoned, nor were you mocked. And if you were tormented by anyone in this household, it was done against orders and certainly does not express my own sentiments—”
“I will not live among people who despise me,” she said hoarsely. “Why do you pretend? You must know I will never a woman of your people.”
“It is true, Auriane. The people of this city are cruel to anyone of foreign birth and they probably never would accept you. And I never expected they would. But I don’t intend to stay here. It matters not at all to me what my countrymen think of you. The understanding between us, the tender passion—these things are beyond race and custom. And as for my absence, there are certain things you must understand at once. You’ve little idea what you’ve come into the midst of and I fear I’m not free to tell you. In this one thing I must ask you to trust me; I know of no other way. I was away on a grave matter that arose unexpectedly. I believed that you would understand since in the first hour of evening I sent a messenger—”
He saw a small jump of relief in her eye. “No messenger was sent,” she said quickly.
“What?” he said softly, then half turned from her, his expression alert and faraway. He paced back and forth once, going out the door as if swiftly contemplating some action; then he stopped, as if thinking suddenly—it is no use. “If no messenger arrived, I fear a man has died tonight,” he said with such a depth of sadness that she caught her breath, feeling intimately his love for the man. Then she felt a fresh spurt of shame.
He sent a messenger. I ran like a frightened animal…like a child that does not know when to give faith to another and when to withhold it. What woman of his own people would have behaved so?
“I am in the midst of a ring of wolves,” he continued, “and daily they move closer.” His resolute look softened as he considered her. “But now I have more reason than ever to battle my way out. Auriane, you cannot really believe I turned from you. It is a cruel deception brought on by all the torments you’ve endured. You have gravely underestimated my love.”
He set his torch into a sconce and walked over to her then, slowly, patiently as a man trying not to frighten a wild bird from its perch. She was still turned away as he came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders and left them there, letting her absorb their warmth. She tensed at first, fighting against the animal comfort his hands brought, but it was irresistible, like a slow immersion into steamy water on a winter day. He felt her begin to relax in hesitant stages. But if the wall about her had begun to crumble, he could see that sentries were still out. Much of the wild sadness was still in her eyes.
She felt like a person shaken out of a disturbing dream—its ill humors flowed still in her veins; she was not yet ready to believe a gentler reality had replaced it.
“Well then, if you’d no reason to despise me before,” she whispered, “I’ve certainly given you a reason tonight. I acted the fool, summoning those guards.”
She turned round to face him, a haunted look in her eyes. “This is a strange and foul night. Marcus—I have brought about your ruin.”
“That is ridiculous.” He smiled easily, shaking his head. “You must not think that. There is no situation that cannot be turned round, with diligent effort. You couldn’t have been expected to do otherwise than you did. And the chances are, it will come to nothing.”
“This will come to something,” Auriane said, dreading the words as she spoke them, but unable to stifle them. She remembered how she had once described her covert certainties to Erato—it is a knowing…a knowing that feels certain. “I see this as I see you. I brought about Baldemar’s end. And now yours.”
Her eyes were clearest glass through which he imagined he saw much—shadows of violence on some swift-approaching day. Only with great effort did he push away the accumulating unease she brought him.
“Stop this,” he said at last. “It is futile fatalism and I won’t listen while you torment yourself so. You take away all the powers of men and give them over to the fixed stars of fate. Sometimes things just happen or do not happen, as a man is thoughtful or careless. But benevolence can see us through. Think of it no more; I know I shall not, not, at least, before tomorrow.”
Then as if moving to a lazily plucked cithara, he pushed her damp hair aside, exposing her bare neck; languidly he kissed it. A delicate shudder ran down the length of her body, in spite of herself. To her dismay she realized that something at her core that was covetous and nurturing, overflowing and blind, sought him as the sea seeks the shore, wanting to mingle for a time with no thought of what might happen at the change of tides.
He thought her mind settled then. But to his surprise she stiffened and took a decisive step away from him, putting herself out of his reach. Her look was veiled.
“Something else is wrong,” he said, reaching out and touching her cheek with the back of his hand. “What is it?”
“Marcus, how do you think—” she began, rushing into a question she could not finish. He guessed she feared it might be improper, or worse, ridiculous.
“If you think I would ridicule you for your fears, you do not know me. What is wrong?” But her look was once more evasive, protected.
“Nothing,” she said decisively. As if to prove it, she moved toward him, threaded her arms about his neck and sought his mouth with her own with a curious mix of hesitation and confidence. But when he responded by pulling her closer, moving his hands through the open sides of the tunica and down the curve of her bare back, she vigorously wrest herself free and backed quickly away. Then she stared off into the murk of the gardens, misery in her face. He found it intriguing rather than irritating. Something had made her timid about being touched. Had he violated some tribal custom?
“I am sorry,” she said tautly. “I am making you angry and disappointing you and…I must seem foolish. Let us sever our bond now and say farewell to each other, since the ways of my people are so at odds with the ways of yours.”
He smiled, shaking his head. “But that is not what the trouble is. No farewells until this mystery is uncovered. Come over here, and sit.”
Reluctantly she sat beside him on a stone bench before a low table of polished granite supported by three bronze greyhounds; on it was a shallow terra-cotta bowl heaped with fruits unknown to her. She leaned back against the tapestry of grapevines that wove themselves through the latticework. The little room seemed utterly remote from the world, as though they had made a camp in the Hyperborean forests beyond all the settlements of humankind.
“You are disappointing me but not in the way you might think. I am not a boy. I will not sulk if you do not lie with me tonight. I am a man who wants to spend the remainder of his days with you—however few they may be. I doubt we’ve a whole year left to live, between the two of us—and for that we’ve each got only ourselves to blame. I’m disheartened that you trust me so little to understand. If a wall is reared up between us now, it might well be there until we die. You must tell me what it is. If it is something you count shameful, I know I will not judge it as harshly as you imagine.”
The words she wanted to speak churned in her mind. Finally she steeled herself, and said quickly, “Marcus, how do you think a woman ought to look, that is, if she were…most pleasingly formed?”
“What sort of question is this?” Had there not been a look of torment on her face he would have laughed in spite of his promise.
“Just answer it,” she said angrily, sitting very still, her gaze riveted on the fruit.
I cannot believe this, he thought. Here is the most courageous being I have ever encountered, the woman who galloped alone into the ranks of the Eighth Legion, fully expecting it to be her last battle on earth—and she is fearful of undressing before me. The philosopher in him observed: It is strange how inconsistently human courage manifests itself. But the human part of him felt only a welling of compassion.
“For that, you’ll have to give me more time. It’s a matter I haven’t considered serio
usly since I was a boy of sixteen or thereabouts—nor has any man who has any sense. Truly, I believe there is no one way a woman ought to look.”
“Then why—” she began, struggling with how to express all she had sensed. Then she turned to the ghostly image of Diana that seemed to hover among the rosebushes, and said solemnly, “It was a god-touched maker of images who fashioned that, and…I look not at all like she does.”
He struggled with a smile. “You’d be depressing if you did. She looks sour and smug and like she’s had one too many milk baths. Anyway, that sort of perfection can be bought, and quickly becomes dull. A noble heart cannot be bought.”
“You will think me too muscular and too scarred.”
“Who—or what—has caused you think so? It did not seem such thoughts troubled you when last we looked on one another.”
“Now you think me ridiculous.”
“No, I think it sad, not ridiculous. I cannot believe you tormented yourself with this.” He then took up one of her hands and pretended to critically examine it. “Take, for example, this hand,” he said, mimicking a philosopher presenting an argument. “To me, it is perfection. Why? Because it is such a well-formed hand? Well, in fact it is so, but that alone isn’t enough. It is because it is yours. And so it will go with the rest of you, I promise it.”
“You say that now.”
“Oh, I cannot believe this.” He could think of no more reassurances to offer her. She watched him expectantly, eyes alert and shining in the torchlight, and he sensed she wanted him to keep trying. It was then that he knew he must stop, for it was useless; it was not a thing that could be proven with words, even were they numerous enough to fill a thousand bookrolls. He could only state the truth and let her sense the rest. The words he had already spoken must be given a chance to do their work, like some medicine that needs time to establish itself in the body.
But perhaps the time required will be too long for us, he thought, as he realized with dismay that one thing he told her was no longer true—now he wanted with great urgency to lie with her on this night. He was slowly becoming maddened by the closeness of her, by that neatly formed mouth, those grave, lucid eyes, that frown as she considered his words, her way of drawing in her shoulders when she feared she said something foolish. Venus be merciful. For how long will I be expected to bear this?
She filled the silence with questions about his life, which she used to disguise the fact that, imperceptibly as a shadow on a sundial, she was edging closer. He sat very still, seized once with the absurd sense he sought to win the confidence of a squirrel as she furtively closed the distance between them. After what seemed a day he felt her warm breath on his cheek; then unexpectedly she put her head against his shoulder and became still. He held her there, struggling to do it casually. This time she did not pull away. A small victory, he thought. But trust so recently won could be swiftly withdrawn.
Carefully he stroked her hair, knowing she wanted comfort, not physical love, waiting as he knew he must wait. Perversely he thought then of Domitian whose partners were hostages and victims, and of the countless young noblemen loitering about the theaters and baths who imagined when they consummated their love that they conquered some rebellious province. No, he thought with loathing, if I am to have her, it must be as unlike that as possible.
“What is that fruit?” The tone of her voice was silkier now and came from a deeper place; he sensed her temper was changing.
“Pomegranates,” he replied, taking one from the terra-cotta bowl, cutting a moon-shaped slice and holding it to her mouth, “or rock-apple—thought by men of old to bring immortal life. It is the seeds that are eaten, not the meat.”
She regarded it suspiciously, then began licking and nibbling at the plump seeds.
“That was my finger,” he said. “Nothing wrong with those teeth.” The fruit’s thin red juice ran in rivulets down his hand. To his surprise she began slowly, deliberately licking the juice, running her tongue down his hand with a cautious shyness, a fragile touch that made him fear at any moment it might be withdrawn. All too soon the juices were gone. He cut another slice and held it to her lips.
This time he deliberately let the juices run.
She went after them with more boldness this time, following juice and stray seeds down into the soft hairs of his wrist and arm, tasting him as well as the juice, carefully watching him all the while. The moist feel of that questing tongue, brash and tentative as it explored his arm, drove him to a quiet frenzy. It put him in mind not so much of a woman possessed of Eros as a deer at a salt lick—but because it was not done seductively, it was, oddly, the more so. Somehow this curious licking, not quite animal, not quite human, but of a nature entirely her own, aroused him more than the attentions of any woman he had ever known.
She seems utterly oblivious to the fact that she is torturing me. Or is she?
He drew her to him then, relishing the form of her back, her hips, his hands asking, encouraging, reassuring, but not demanding. He wanted more evidence her unease was banished.
Then she took one of his hands in hers, guided it within the opening of her tunica and placed it on one breast. He enclosed the delicate weight of it in his hand, supporting it; when he found his hand could not quite contain its fullness he moved it slowly, cradling the silken softness of that breast with such infinite care it caused a bolt of pleasure to course through her. That touch was too much to bear, and she gave a low cry, feeling her insides had turned to hot liquid. Bones, flesh, and heart melted toward him.
The dwindling conscious part of her made a last weak protest— you fall into oblivion in an unknown land. But her senses responded— not now—worry over that one tomorrow. Then she let go and fell wholly into the warm sea; she could no more have thwarted this pull toward him than could a lily decide not to open.
Had he been able to reason he would have realized—I need no more assurances of her readiness. But thought dissolved into rampant impulse. It was the triumph of the moon.
Together they rose up and sought his apartments; as they passed between the guttering lamps that flanked the arched entranceway he thought of the torches of whitethorn borne by the revelers in a wedding procession as the bridegroom carries the yellow-veiled bride over the threshold of her new home. With a flash of grief he thought: Perhaps wedding night and all of wedded life will be contained in one night.
Auriane found herself in a low-ceilinged room well padded with overlapping tapestries flushed with every shade of red. Vertical strips of polished moonstone set into the wall caused their reflection to flicker in and out of sight as they moved past the flame-cluster of a hanging lamp; where the small flames were caught in the gold of the furnishings, the moldings, they rippled as though reflected in running water. He then eased her onto what she guessed was a bed, though it was raised up higher than any sleeping couch she had ever seen, and was set into an arched niche so that it occupied a smaller room of its own. She sank into a wool-stuffed mattress, holding closely to him as he came up beside her. From somewhere came the cheerful, primeval sound of trickling water, and the scent of some incense that smelled of damp autumn meadows.
They were mysterious to one another in the dim light as she kissed his face, his neck, with a fevered restraint. Then, overcome by the long-awaited unobstructed closeness of him, she started determinedly tearing at his tunic. Unable to find the fastenings in the darkness, she ripped the cloth when it stubbornly resisted her pawing. The sudden sight of his bare shoulders and chest with their unconscious beauty, their intriguing interplay of smooth skin and solid muscle beneath, was again too much to bear. She launched herself at him while one hand scrambled with some unidentified underclothing about his loins, struggling to loosen it.
She brought herself up short when she realized he was laughing. He caught up her hands, held them still, then softly pressed them to his lips. Auriane wondered in a contented haze—for less and less was she able to worry over such things—now what have I done that i
s wrong?
“There is one negligible difference,” he said, “between a bed and a battlefield.”
She listened, amused, half-shut eyes fogged with carnal passion.
“What happens on a battlefield hopefully ends quickly,” he said. “This, pray, not so quickly.”
She nipped at the hand that stroked her cheek. Then, delicately as if he eased the skin from a peach, he pulled her tunica down, gradually exposing her breasts, her belly. She rose up and pressed hard against him, flattening the milky roundness of her breasts against his chest; sharply she drew in a breath at the feel of the fine friction of his hair against the keenly sensitive silk of her breasts. He held her there for long moments, bare skin to bare skin, as if to establish the reality of the moment; both felt a shock of delight at this latest frontier crossed and were pleasantly stunned that at last there was no barrier to the physical expression of love.
He broke away and they began delicately negotiating each other as they sat close, still half clad, caught up in a dueling of moist, exhaustive kisses, with much drawing close and pulling away, as though to renew the sensation of coming together for the first time. She found herself feveredly seeking in him what was most male, biting at a stubbled cheek, a muscled shoulder. Then with a controlled, purposeful urgency he began kissing her throat, moving down her body with elaborate patience; she snaked against him and sank back onto the cushions, shuddering at each kiss as though it were an excruciating touch directly on the heart. When she felt his mouth on her breast, she recoiled as if touched by ice; then slowly it was suffused with a creamy warmth. After timeless moments he moved away from her breasts, kissing her stomach, pushing aside the tunica as it impeded his progress; somewhere nearby was her wound, red and staring, but those wise, insistent kisses worked as a witch’s balm upon it, blurring the memory of its pain, making its ugliness a negligible thing. It is entirely a spirit-wound, she realized then. And she saw, suddenly, her humbled country and her body as one—alike defenseless, ravaged, yet still the only possible home—she had not known how weary she was from being an expatriate from both. His hands were sorcerers, enticing her home to her body.
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