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.
Near the couch where they rested was one where Silvia, Gordo, Joseph, and others rested. Most were unconscious, but Silvia, a gleaming mound in the candlelight, tried to crawl off, presumably the remains of the wine had reached her bladder. The couch gave a loud crack and settled to floor level.
Maeniel’s eyes rolled heavenward.
“I hope it wasn’t a valuable antique,” Regeane said.
“Doesn’t matter.” Maeniel helped Regeane to her feet. “When the owner of the villa comes to collect damages from me, it will metamorphose into a cherished heirloom belonging to his family since the days of the Caesars, which cannot be replaced by mere precious metals in the form of coin. But, alas, he will continue, in these degenerate days base metal must compensate for beauty, antiquity, and family pride. He will content himself with something, preferably not in plebeian copper, or mercantile silver, but aristocratic gold.
“Ummm,” Regeane murmured, as she realized she was being steered away from the banquet hall into an empty room. She stopped and dug in her heels for a second.
“It’s all right,” he said. “We’re married.”
The wolf looked at Regeane from her primordial darkness. She seemed concerned. How like her human side to cloud her mind with drugs or drink. Something was wrong. Wrong as it had been the night she feasted with the pope.
Maeniel eased her along, one arm over her shoulder. He was pushing. Away from the braziers in the banquet hall, she could feel the heat rising from his body. He brushed aside a curtain. The sound of rings clattered in Regeane’s ears.
Regeane found herself in a room lit only by a single candle set in a sconce. Maeniel closed the curtain with one hand and pulled her to him with the other.
This kiss pulled no punches. His tongue explored her mouth. His arms and hands molded her to his body, her hips against his. Her breasts tingled and caught fire as they moved against a chest that seemed plated with steel.
At length, he freed her and she came up for air gasping. Yet again, the prickle of uneasiness stirred in her mind.
“Not quite with me, are you?” he gasped as he clutched her against his body. “But come, drink some of this.”
Regeane saw a beaker and a silver cup on the table.
“These are precious,” Maeniel said, gesturing toward them, “and really old. It is said that Livia, the sister of Augustus Caesar, had them made for her favorite lover and modeled for the female figure herself.”
The figures carved into the beaker in low relief showed a man disrobing a woman, kissing her breasts as he eased the tunic down over her hips.
The cup on the outside was encircled by rubies. A deep bloody fire in the darkened room. The bottom of the cup, modeled in high relief, showed the two figures caught up in love’s embrace. They were fully joined, but she leaned a little back. His hands caressed her and her face showed the preoccupation of ecstacy.
Regeane and the wolf looked down at the culmination of desire. The room spun as though she were falling. The message the wolf sent was one of deep disquiet. This will not end as you wish.
But his arms were around her and her desire was rising again, all the stronger for being briefly quelled.
This kiss was less intense, but his searching hands sought and found places that responded to his caresses with shocks of pleasure.
When he’d drawn a few gasps from her, he released her and filled the cup from the flagon. “Drink,” he whispered.
“I don’t know,” Regeane said. “Do you want your bride unconscious? I’ve had quite a lot of wine.”
“No.” His voice was gentle, hypnotic and intoxicating at once. “This is the wine of desire. Spring mead. In spring the bees feed on white poppies blown by March winds. The first fragrant myrtle, wildflowers that dazzle meadows still draped in snow. The wine of love. And it is bestowed on lovers alone.”
Regeane drank. The mead was an inexpressibly sweet essence of springtime. A liquid dissolving on her tongue. A tingling beginning with her heart and radiating out to the tips of her fingers. Her fears slept. Her consciousness was drenched with desire and had room for nothing else.
He kissed her again. She tasted the mead on his lips.
He lifted her chin with one finger. “Whose are you?” he asked.
“Yours.”
“Take off the dress,” he said.
She did, pulling it over her head and throwing it aside, thinking, We are never going to reach the bedroom. But who cares … She wore a linen shift.
He kissed her again. Parts of her body were almost numbed by pleasure and when his fingers brushed them through the shift, they felt as though they burst into flame. She wanted him in a way that was unbearable, simply unbearable. She would die if he did not possess her.
“Will you do anything I want you to do?” he teased.
“Yes.”
“The shift.”
In a second, the shift was on the floor. She was still clad in a sleeveless silk undershift, the strophium at her breast and linen loin cloth.
He reached up under the shift. The strip between her legs fell. His hand moved up. The shift rose with it. He looked down at the soft, curly delta of Venus. She blushed. He could feel the heat against his skin.
He pushed the shift higher and loosened the strophium at her breasts. It fluttered to the floor. Then he let the shift fall and caressed her body through the silken fabric.
“Are you drunk?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you virgin?”
“Yes.” Her answer was an indrawn breath.
“Do you know what a man’s organ is?”
She nodded and noticed he’d spread his mantle and outer tunic on the long table.
“Very well,” he said. “You understand what I’m about to do with mine.”
“Ohooo.”
“At this juncture, I’ll take that as a yes.”
His hands had continued their explorations. As he spoke, Regeane felt lost in a garden of rare delights, except that he was plucking the flowers. Slowly, that part of her, the spirit that whispered of the ancient past and sometimes the dim future sent an image to her mind.
She was standing with him. They were knee-deep in a mountain lake. The lake was a place of wild beauty, bounded by pines and thickets of fern and pink roses. A narrow falls dropped from high-back rock, dotted with green-gray lichen and moss. Mist from the froth at its base dampened her lips a
nd frosted her eyelashes.
Their bodies were joined deeply, almost painfully. She was possessed by the man whose arms were around her.
His body was wet. He wore a crown of yellow-flowering water weed. His shoulders and arms were netted with another bearing white, scented flowers. What was he? she wondered. She remembered the tales of maidens ravished by gods who demanded adoration as well as love, and absolute possession of spirit as well as body. Was she not one of those maidens and was he not some sort of god? How does mortal flesh bear immortal fire?
He moved and waves of mind-bending pleasure coursed through her. He moved again. Thought was wiped out. Also, memory. Everything dissolved into the power of what flesh was doing to flesh.
She returned to the darkened room. She rested quietly in his arms. That had been a memory? Dream? The future? No matter. It wasn’t real, but this would be.
He pulled off the shift over her head. She was naked.
“You know what I’m about to do?” he repeated.
“Yes.” Her whole body shuddered. The confining shift off, she spread her legs to receive him. “I think I’ll die if you don’t,” she said ingenuously.
“So be it,” he said, and began lifting her to the table top.
The knife glittered in the air over his shoulder.
Deep in Regeane’s soul, the wolf roared a warning. Desire died.
Her left hand shot out and caught the wrist of the man holding the knife. The man tried to tear her grip from his wrist. But she was, after all, not a mortal woman. He looked shocked for a split second at the pain she was inflicting. Then he jerked his arm down and, using Maeniel’s shoulder as a fulcrum, he tore his arm free.
Maeniel thrust Regeane away, then turned, whipping around with the speed of a striking snake. The assassin’s knife scored a gash in his shoulder.
Antonius threw back the curtain, torch in one hand, a Roman short sword in the other. Antonius drove the sword in just below and up under the man’s shoulder blade, paralyzing his right arm.
But Maeniel saw the stiletto in his left hand, aimed and rising toward his heart. He stepped in boldly and, catching his attacker by the shoulder and jaw, twisted his head hard right. The killer’s neck snapped.
The Silver Wolf Page 47
