Legions of Fire: Chapter Seven

    “You’re sure you wouldn’t like a lantern-bearer?” Varus called to Corylus. His friend waved his free hand in response, then trotted eastward toward his home.

    “He’s a very sturdy young man,” said Pandareus gently. “I would judge that the staff in his hand would be more than a match for a footpad’s dagger.”

    Varus sighed. “Yes sir,” he said. “That’s just what I was thinking earlier this evening, when we met at the temple. But since what happened, I’m . . . .”

    He didn’t know how to conclude the sentence. He looked up the escarpment. The Temple of Jupiter was set too far back for him to see it at this angle, but the memories of what had happened there weren’t going to fade soon. Probably they would still be clear on his deathbed.

    He looked at his teacher and managed a smile. “Sir,” he said, “nothing seems certain any more. I feel as though that cliff could slump down like the Tiber bank in a flood. Though –”

    Varus really grinned.

    “– I think the Citadel will fail before Corylus does. I offered him an escort because I was afraid, not because I thought he needed one.”

    He cleared his throat. Two linkmen stood close with their lanterns, but Candidus was remaining at a discreet distance.

    “I hope, sir,” Varus said diffidently, “that you’ll permit me to send you home with attendants?”

    “I’ll certainly walk part way with you,” said Pandareus. “And then we’ll see, but I have to admit that I’m feeling less sure of myself than a good philosopher should be.”

    He looked at the moon, now at zenith, before lowering his eyes to Varus again. He continued, “I’ve been preparing for tonight’s events, you might say, during my whole life. But when it came — when I found myself in the midst of the wonder and the mystery that I’ve been seeking — I found it rather disconcerting. I find it disconcerting.”

    Varus smiled faintly. At least it’s not just me. Though it would be better for Carce and the world if I were being foolishly concerned.

    Aloud he said, “We’ll proceed now, Candidus. We’ll go through the Forum, then by the Sacred Way.”

    That wasn’t the most direct route toward Saxa’s townhouse, but it would take them closer to Pandareus’ apartment. Varus tended not to think much about money. Every once in a while, something like the discussion between his teacher and Atilius about school fees reminded him that others might not have the luxury of ignoring money, and that a learned scholar might be in actual want.

    To Pandareus he said, “I’m not frightened, really, but I’m lost.”

    He thought for a moment and went on, “What I’m frightened about is that I’ll do something terribly wrong. That I’ll –”

    He lifted his hands as though he were flinging out a heap of possibilities.

    “– destroy the world in fire or, well, anything.”

    “It sounds as though someone else is already working to destroy the world in fire,” Pandareus said. They were walking past the back of the Temple of Concord. The sheer stone wall was blank and forbidding in a way that the Capitoline Hill, broken up with bushes and vines all the way to the top, was not. “Perhaps you can cause the waters to rise. Deucalion’s Flood was a very long time ago, after all.”

    Varus blinked. “Sir?” he said. Only then did he realize that his teacher had been joking. Or rather, poking fun at his student’s dour seriousness.

    Varus cleared his throat and said, “The reasoning portion of my mind doesn’t think that the Earth and heavens rotate around me, sir. I’ll try to keep that reasoning portion more generally in control than my previous comment may imply.”

    “I think it’s quite reasonable for you to feel lost,” Pandareus said. “I certainly do. My friend Priscus is more fortunate in that respect. He knows exactly how to deal with the crisis.”

    “Through the Commission, you mean?” said Varus. “As you said in the vault, with a banquet for the gods or a new temple?”

    “Priscus believes that the gods have spoken,” Pandareus said. “He and his colleagues on the Commission have the duty of determining the Republic’s proper response to the gods’ warning. Whereas I –”

    He paused in mid-phrase, waiting till Varus looked up and met his eyes by starlight. They were ambling along at Varus’ usual pace. That was probably slower than the teacher would be walking on his own, but it was a better rate for talking anyway.

    “– am not sure that the Sibyl is speaking the words of the gods. Indeed, I’m not sure that the gods exist, Gaius Varus. Which is not an admission that I would make generally, even in so large and sophisticated a city as Carce.”

    “No sir,” said Varus. It wasn’t likely that Pandareus would be executed for blasphemy the way Socrates had been in Athens centuries before, but if there were a loud to-do about the matter, he would lose students. Whatever they might think privately, very few politically inclined fathers would want themselves and their sons to be associated with someone who denied that the gods fought for Carce.

    Varus met his teacher’s eyes again. “And sir?” he said. “Thank you. I appreciate the compliment. Though I do believe in the gods.”

    The more so after what I saw tonight. But those words caught in his throat when he considered speaking them aloud.

    “I was praising your ability to consider all sides of a question,” Pandareus said. “Not your opinions themselves. Though I hope –”

    His voice lost some of its lightness.

    “– that you don’t think I’m saying that I’m smarter or wiser than my friend Priscus. We’re in disagreement on the point at issue, as we are on a number of points. Whether the authorship of the Nicomachian Ethics can really be ascribed to Aristotle, for example. One or both of us must be in error on many issues, but I will say –”

    Pandareus smiled much more broadly than he usually did.

    “– that my friend and I make far more subtle and intelligent blunders than the ordinary run of men do.”

    Varus pondered for a moment. His hesitation wasn’t over what question to ask but rather whether he should speak at all.

    “Ask, my student,” said Pandareus in the tone of dry pedantry that he generally employed in class. “You needn’t fear that I will consider you stupid; and as for ignorance: all men are ignorant, are we not?”

    “Sir,” Varus said, keeping his eyes for now on the pair of linkmen two paces ahead. They were the closest servants. He doubted they could hear the conversation, and if they did, there was no one they could repeat it to that would matter.

    “What do you think the solution to the . . . , Varus said. Threat? Danger? “To the situation, that is, will be? Since you don’t have confidence in the sort of response that the Commission will recommend.”

    “I think, Lord Varus . . . ,” Pandareus said, subtly changing the dynamics of the discussion. Heretofore they had been teacher and scholar. Now he was addressing Varus with the formality owed by a foreigner to a senator’s son. “That the answer will come from you. You have twice demonstrated knowledge which goes beyond where scholarship and logic have taken me.”

    “Me?” said Varus, so startled that he managed to kick the heel of his right foot with his left toe. He almost went sprawling. “Sir, I don’t know anything. I didn’t even hear myself speaking when you say I did. I mean, I believe you, but I can’t guide you.”

    “Perhaps,” said Pandareus, but his tone didn’t suggest he agreed with Varus. “In that case, someone or something is guiding you. I hope that we — that all of us, that the Republic — can benefit from that guidance through you.”

    “Sir, I . . . ,” Varus said. He didn’t know what to say next. The servants leading the entourage had slowed to a loiter at the intersection ahead, where the street which led east toward Pandareus’ apartment branched from the Sacred Way. Varus needed to go north to get home.

 

---

 

    “Ah, Master Pandareus?” Varus said. “Would you like us to escort you the rest of the way to your suite?”

    “It’s scarcely a suite, young man,” said the teacher dryly. “And no, I’ll be fine from here.”

    “Candidus?” Varus said on a rising inflection. He felt relieved that the conversation was ending. He didn’t want to formally terminate it, but he didn’t see any good direction to go from where it was now. “Send a linkman and another servant home with Master Pandareus. Men who won’t have problems at this time of night.”

    “Hey, send me, Candidus!” a burly servant called. Varus didn’t know his name, but he’d noticed his accent in the past. He was from the northern border of Britain — or from across it. “I wouldn’t mind knocking some heads again.”

    To Varus, learning was the primary goal, and he knew that exalted rank didn’t guarantee exceptional learning. Therefore he didn’t have the concern for rank that his sister and stepmother did. The servant from North Britain was obviously no scholar, but his enthusiasm for keeping the old man safe shouldn’t become cause for punishment.

    “Candidus,” Varus said before the under steward could react, “send the Pict. And Master Pandareus, you will take an escort tonight. I wouldn’t sleep if you didn’t.”

    “You’re a fine student,” Pandareus said. “I would be remiss as your teacher if I did anything to interfere with you getting necessary rest.”

    He winked, undercutting the deadpan delivery. “And besides,” he went on, “I’m not at my sharpest and most observant tonight, Lord Varus. I don’t want to have my head knocked in because I failed to notice somebody with a brick who was looking for the price of a jar of wine.”

    To the servants Candidus had chosen — the Pict and a tall man who carried his lantern hanging from the tip of an iron rod — Pandareus said, “Come along, my good fellows. Which chariot teams do you fancy? I confess to a liking for the Whites, as they represent the epitome of purity. Unfortunately, I find that they almost never win races.”

    The three men headed south at a more rapid pace than they’d been keeping in Varus’ presence. And no doubt Corylus was trotting along as blithely as he would have done by daylight. Well, individuals had different skills; and the noble Gaius Varus had never claimed to be an enthusiastic pedestrian.

    “Home, Candidus,” he ordered. They set off again.

    Varus found himself smiling. Ever since Homer, poets had been describing men as pawns in a game of the gods. He had done the same himself in his abortive epic of the First Punic War.

    He’d never expected to be one of those men whom the gods were playing with, however.

 

---

 

    Hedia staggered across the yard of the temple. Alphena tried to stop as soon as they were under the open sky again. Hedia dragged the girl with her, snarling, “Come on! If the building collapses, stones will come bouncing out for Hercules knows how far!”

    The servants babbled like a flock of geese; they even fluttered their arms in the air. All they have to do is to begin spraying green shit all over the landscape to complete the resemblance!

    With servants dancing attendance but afraid to touch the noble ladies even to help, Hedia reached the gap where the gate had been. They could go into the street and get behind what was left of the perimeter wall, but she doubted blocks would roll this far through the piles of building materials. Besides, the earthquake seemed to be over for now.

    She released Alphena. The girl drew herself up with returning dignity. From the look on her face, she was wondering whether to scream at her stepmother for treating her like a child or to hold her peace since Hedia had, after all, done the right thing. Even if she hadn’t been polite in the way she did it.

    “Your ladyship!” cried Phidippides. Fear and confusion made the priest of Tellus sweat like the pig he so greatly resembled. “Whatever’s the matter? What did you do?”

    “We didn’t do anything, you fool,” Hedia said. “The earthquake knocked over the lamp stand and the statue too. Midas –”

    The deputy steward was standing close, ready to move the priest away if requested to. He wore a troubled expression.

    “– get some of your men to put out the oil that spilled from the lamp. Smother it with the sand piled over there, I suppose.”

    Midas turned, relaying the order with a bellow. The workmen’s tools were stacked in the shelter of the roofed colonnade to the left of the temple proper. One of the servants had noticed that along with the shovels, trowels, and cramps, there were tightly woven baskets for carrying loose materials. He shouted to get his fellows’ attention and started tossing baskets down.

    “But your ladyship?” Phidippides said in horrified wonder. “There wasn’t a –”

    He paused. He’d apparently heard the words that had just come out of his mouth and decided instantly to change the tenor of his comment.

    “Ah, that is,” he said, “we were waiting here in the street as you directed. With your men. We heard, ah, rattling, but we didn’t feel an earthquake. Your own man Midas can tell you that, can’t you, dear fellow?”

    “Don’t you contradict her ladyship, you Milesian toad!” said Midas, grabbing a handful of Phidippides’ tunic and shoving him backward.

    “Enough of that, Midas,” Hedia said. The priest edged away, ready to run if Midas reached for him again. “Now, listen to me: did you feel an earthquake?”

    She gave an angry flick of her hands. “And don’t just say you did because you think that’s what I want to hear,” she said. “Tell me the truth or I swear I’ll have you flayed.”

    The deputy steward’s face went blank. He bowed low and said, “Your ladyship, I heard tiles breaking and I thought there’d been a gust of wind. But I didn’t feel anything through my sandals. Or feel wind. Your ladyship.”

    “There had to have been an earthquake,” Alphena said. She was hugging herself. “The statue fell. And I heard it speak.”

    “Midas,” Hedia snapped, “leave us. And make sure this temple rabble keeps clear also! Lady Alphena and I have matters regarding the divination to discuss in private.”

    “At once, your ladyship!” the steward said. In a voice that could be heard in neighboring apartment buildings, he went on, “”Ferox and Mensus? Break the legs of anybody who comes within twenty feet of their ladyships!”

    As people sprang away from them — the household servants dragged or pummeled temple personnel who were afraid to defend themselves in the presence of the great ladies — Alphena said, “It said I was going to marry Spurius Cassius. It’s horrible. I don’t even know who Spurius Cassius is!”

    Hedia doubted that the girl had consciously waited until the servants were out of earshot before she started talking about what had happened. If Hedia hadn’t acted quickly, all the hundreds of household servants — and all the thousands they talked to or who talked to somebody who talked to them — would have been chattering about the terrible omen during the marriage divination. Try to arrange a decent marriage for Alphena then!

    “I don’t think you should take the voice you thought you heard too seriously,” Hedia lied. The girl was distraught. Besides, they were both tired and they’d drunk quite a lot of wine. “I suspect it was the wood squealing when the statue of Tellus fell over, don’t you?”

    “It wasn’t,” Alphena said. She bent over, bracing her buttocks against the wall as she pressed the knuckles of both hands against her mouth. “The goddess spoke to me. I saw her mouth moving!”

    Is she about to begin screaming? That could be passed off as a reaction to almost being crushed by the toppling statue, of course. In fact it might go some way to balancing the stories about the girl’s unnatural interest in masculine pursuits.

    “I’m not going to marry Spurius Cassius,” Alphena said through her fists. “I’ve never heard of Spurius Cassius. I won’t!”

    “Get yourself together, daughter,” Hedia said without raising her voice. “Venus, girl! Don’t put on a show for the servants.”

 

---

 

    Alphena straightened with a wide-eyed stare, as though Hedia had slapped her — which was more or less what she had done, though with words. The girl looked around, aware of her surroundings for the first time since they’d stumbled from the temple.

    When she saw that the nearest people, Ferox and Mensus, were over twenty feet away, she relaxed. With their backs to the noblewomen, they brandished cudgels threateningly toward other servants and the gawkers who’d come from neighboring residences.

    “And even if what you thought you heard really was a spirit speaking to you . . . ,” Hedia continued. The edge that had been in her voice a moment before had vanished; she was now the soothing mother — or perhaps the older sister. “Just remember that bad marriages are like bad colds: they’re unpleasant, but they’re too common to bother talking about. And they don’t have to last long.”

    “Do you know Spurius Cassius?” Alphena said.

    “No,” said Hedia. “Perhaps your father does. Don’t worry, we’ll learn who the fellow is — if he even exists, as I said.”

    The lantern bearers were all outside the five-pace circle she’d decreed, but she and Alphena stood in full moonlight. Everyone was staring at them. They would have to do something before long. The girl seemed to have settled down adequately.

    Alphena looked up suddenly. She’d gathered herself together, but Hedia now saw anger in her expression.

    “Mother,” she said. “Did my father do this?”

    “Saxa?” Hedia repeated. The question had taken her aback; she could scarcely imagine anything that would have seemed more improbable. “No, dear, I can’t imagine him doing anything of the sort. I know he’s not –”

    She turned her palms upward; she supposed that was in subconscious hope that a softer phrasing would drop out of the sky into them.

    It didn’t. She went on baldly, “Saxa doesn’t pay much attention to anyone but himself. But dear? Insofar as it’s in him, he does love you and your brother. He wouldn’t deliberately harm you.”

    “But father told you to bring me to the Temple of Tellus, didn’t he?” Alphena said fiercely. “And that’s the goddess who spoke to me!”

    Hedia frowned in frustration. “He was renovating this temple,” she said. “And it’s close to the house; it’s the natural choice. Believe me, dear, your father doesn’t have it in him to hurt or frighten you in any way.”

    Alphena was wavering. She accused her father because she needs someone to be angry at. Otherwise she can only be afraid.

    Hedia put her arms around the younger woman. “Be strong for me, daughter,” she lied. “This business frightens me terribly; I need you to cling to. But –”

    She straightened and leaned back to look Alphena in the eyes.

    “– we mustn’t attack people who aren’t our enemies just because we’re afraid. And Saxa isn’t our enemy.”

    “I’m sorry,” the girl muttered to the ground. “I wasn’t . . . .”

    “Come, dear,” Hedia said brightly. “Let’s get back to our own beds. Tomorrow we can start asking about this Spurius Cassius.”

    She led the girl out to the litter. “Midas, we’re returning to the house,” she called.

    The priest hovered beside the deputy steward, dancing from one foot to the other as though the stone pavers were too hot for the soles of his feet. While Alphena got into the litter, Hedia paused with a hard smile.

    “Master Phidippides?” she said. “I’ll talk to my husband tomorrow. It appears that your goddess with have a new statue after all.”

    Hedia settled herself onto the seat and gave Alphena a pleasant smile. No one seeing her composed face would guess that she was thinking that while Saxa certainly hadn’t done this, his friend Nemastes probably had. In that case, the danger to Alphena was much worse than merely a bad marriage.

 

---

 

    Corylus walked at a leisurely pace, thinking about what had just happened in the temple. Unlike his friend’s prophecy during the reading yesterday, this one didn’t seem to come from a malevolent spirit. Neither time had Varus himself been speaking, though.

    The moon gave good enough illumination that Corylus could have gone much faster — even trotted, if he’d felt like it. He wasn’t in a hurry, and moving fast at night in Carce called attention to you. He was ready for trouble, but he wasn’t looking for it.

    A double line of heavy wagons pulled by four oxen each was rumbling down the center of the boulevard, carrying storage jars of wine. They were outbound, like him, but the only time the pace of an ox rose above a crawl was if they were lightly loaded and smelled water at the end of the day.

    They shouldn’t have been abreast. The wagoneers who properly would have been at the back didn’t want to wait extra hours to unload.

    They were hauling Greek wine landed at Ostia and brought up the Tiber on barges. These wagons were hauling it to taverns on the outskirts of the city. Because of the expense of land transport, it was cheaper to do this than it would be to bring wine overland even as little as twenty miles from vineyards in the Sabine Hills.

    The wagon wheels were iron-shod, spitting sparks from the paving stones and ringing like Vulcan’s workshop. Corylus didn’t want to follow the wagons all the way to his apartment, but getting around them even on a street as wide as the Argiletum was tricky. If he misjudged, he took the risk of being squeezed between two wagons or even slipping under a wheel. The weight would take off whatever body part was between iron and the paving stones as thoroughly as a German’s sword could do.

    Somebody shouted from ahead. A drover’s whip whacked over the sudden frustrated lowing of oxen. The leading wagons had met an equally large vehicle coming the other way.

    A narrow alley led off to the left. Corylus ducked into it rather than thread his way through the mess ahead. Neither the teamsters nor the draft animals were going to notice a slim youth if he happened to be in the place they intended to pass through.

    He heard something scuttle in front of him. He guessed it was a dog or a drunk — it was too big for a cat. He didn’t suppose it mattered so long as it was going away. He’d lost the light. The moon was behind buildings, he thought at first, but he didn’t see the outline of the roofs against the lighter sky.

    He looked back toward the Argiletum. He didn’t hear the wagons any more. Instead, an owl called. The sound was familiar — but not in Carce.

    Corylus moved forward, walking on the balls of his feet and holding his staff at a slant before him. I’m having another spell like I did during the reading. My body is in Carce, but my mind has gone somewhere else.

    The air was cold, and the wind carried a hint of snow with it. There were trees around him in this dream, towering conifers whose needles matted the ground. This time he seemed to have a body, though. He kept moving, taking long strides as he’d learned to do with the scouts when they had to cover ground quickly before daylight caught them.

    The ground had been rising almost imperceptibly. Corylus came into a clearing and at last saw the moon again: it was in its first quarter and just above the horizon. In Carce the full moon had been at zenith when he left his friends at the base of the Capitoline Hill.

    He heard wolves to his left and behind: one and two, then many. They filled the night with their harmony. They had picked up a scent.

    They howled again, noticeably closer. Corylus was pretty sure whose scent they had.

    Corylus turned to his right and broke into a trot, dropping his toga as he ran. He’d worn his best to meet Atilius Priscus tonight, but he could replace it for money. If he survived.

    There were no paths in this forest, but the trees smothered the undergrowth between their mighty trunks. He should be heading in the direction of his apartment, if he ever fell back out of this dream into the world where his apartment existed.

 

---

 

    The wolves continued to howl. Two were noticeably ahead of the remainder of the pack. Corylus knew he could outrun them; but if he did that, their ten or a dozen fellows who were loping comfortably behind would bring him down exhausted not long thereafter.

    At the edge of his consciousness, Corylus sometimes caught glimpses of streets and buildings. He didn’t recognize anywhere in Carce for certain; he couldn’t even swear that what he thought he saw was the city in which he had started this night.

    He would trade this forest for passage to the shadow-city, though, no matter what might be waiting for him there. He’d seen the bodies of wounded men whose friends hadn’t found them before the wolves did.

    The leading wolves yipped in excitement. Corylus didn’t dare look over his shoulder — a slip would be fatal — but he knew that the pair had him in sight.

    He lengthened his stride, knowing it was just a matter of time. No matter what he did, the result would be fatal.

    A hundred feet ahead, a rock the size of a twenty-oared ship humped from a clearing. The soil nearby was too thin for firs to grow into giants, but a mix of small cedars standing shoulder to shoulder with dogwoods surrounded it instead.

    A tangle of multiflora roses covered half the outcrop. A figure hunched on top — a wolf? But better to deal with a single enemy in front than to have a dozen tear you down from behind. The roses would keep even wolves from coming at him through them.

    The figure stood. It was a woman clad in a shift as thin as the moonlight.

    Corylus sprinted, ducking to crash through the band of small trees. He supposed losing an eye to a cedar twig would be a cheap price if it got him to the relative safety of the outcrop; he’d still avoid it if he could.

    He staggered to the base of the sandstone outcrop. It was six feet high and nearly sheer on this face. After his run he would have had trouble vaulting to the top if he’d been barehanded, but he thrust the staff behind him and pivoted himself up.

    The wolves who’d been on his heels wormed out of the thicket instants later. They were young males, best fitted to push the quarry’s pace while the more experienced members of the pack saved their energy for the kill.

    One of them leaped. Corylus had his footing. He gave the wolf a two-handed blow over the head with his staff.

    The wolf yelped, thumped into the side of the rock instead of landing on top, and sat down on the ground whimpering. His companion thought better of attacking directly and instead circled the injured animal.

    Corylus’ hands stung. The thick Cornelwood staff had gotten home perfectly. It should have dashed the animal’s brains out instead of just stunning it. These beasts looked like wolves and they weren’t much bigger than the wolves he was familiar with on the frontier, but they were much heavier built. A skull that could absorb a blow like the one he’d just dealt must be as thick as a wild bull’s.

    “You’re a strong one, aren’t you?” a throaty voice said. “Your mother would be proud of you.”

    Corylus glanced at the woman; he’d almost forgotten her. He supposed she could knife him or simply shove him off the outcrop, but even so she would have been a lesser evil. “My mother?” he said, feeling a little silly when he heard the words come out of his mouth.

    The rest of the pack slipped through the undergrowth, appearing on all sides of the rock simultaneously. They’d waited till they had him ringed to close in. They were silent now, save for an older female who whined as she sniffed the injured animal, then licked the bloody pressure cut in the middle of his forehead.

    The bone hadn’t been broken, though. The young male got to his feet, wobbly but apparently alert.

    “I knew her, yes,” the woman said. “Frankly, I thought she was too skinny to be as full of herself as she was, but I suppose I shouldn’t speak ill of her now.”

    Even the brief glance Corylus had given her was enough to show that this woman beautiful in a lush, full-breasted fashion. He thought that her garment was pastel, not white, but by moonlight he couldn’t guess the hue.

    “Ma’am?” he said. “Am I dreaming?”

    She laughed like a brook gurgling. “Goodness,” she said, “I don’t think much of your taste in dreams if that’s what you believe this is!”

    A wolf on his left sprang. It hadn’t snarled, but Corylus had seen its haunches quiver. He slammed it in the throat, this time using the staff as a spear instead of a club. It was like punching a bullock, but the wolf spun hard into the ground.

    Corylus pivoted. The wolf which had poised to jump from the other side instead circled and whined, looking up at him sidelong.

    “Ma’am!” he said. “Keep behind me. I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”

    The pack’s leader was huge, the bulk of a big man. He must easily weigh two hundred pounds. He had scars on both shoulders, and his left ear had been chewed to tatters. He stared at Corylus from beneath bony brow ridges, calm and murderously determined.

    “I don’t see that there’s much ‘behind’ when they’re on all sides,” she said, “but they won’t bother me. Normally I wouldn’t interfere with them either, but for your mother’s sake –”

    A wolf leaped from the right. Corylus batted it on the nose, throwing it back with a yelp of pain. He’d stopped trying to deliver killing blows: that risked him losing his balance to no particular end, given how rugged the animals were.

    As expected, the leader with two younger males behind him was already coming up the less abrupt slope to the left. Corylus stabbed at the big wolf’s shoulder with the end of the staff, then swiped sideways to shove the wolf on that side off in a cartwheel. It was like lifting a wagon one-handed, but Corylus’ muscles were up to the job under the goad of fear.

    The third wolf slammed its teeth into the fluttering hem of his tunic. Corylus punched, this time with the short end of the staff. He heard the beast’s lower jaw crack, but he fell to one knee and the leader was on him again.

    A coil of rosebush looped the big wolf’s hindquarters and pulled him away. He snarled and bit at it. A cane slapped him across the muzzle; the thorns drew bloody furrows like the nails of an angry woman.

    The bush dragged the wolf back and released him, sending him tumbling. He scrambled to his feet, snapping and growling, but he didn’t rush in again. The other wolves backed also.

    Corylus stood, using his staff to brace him upright. His mouth was open gasping in air. He tasted blood; he must have bitten his lip. His whole body was trembling and he was queasy with exertion.

    “You shouldn’t be here, you know,” the woman said.

    He could barely hear her over the roar of his own blood in his ears. He bent forward slightly to help him breathe better.

    “I didn’t mean to come,” Corylus wheezed. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

    He’d banged his right knee hard on the rock. It was already swelling, and the skin was torn; he’d have a bruise for a week.

    The wolf leader had been sitting on his haunches, licking the shoulder where Corylus had stuck him. Now he got to his feet, growled, and barked curtly. The pack vanished into the undergrowth much as they’d appeared, though he heard the male with the broken jaw whining long after he had disappeared from sight.

    “Here, let me smell you,” the woman said, kneading her fingers through Corylus’ hair and drawing his head down to sniff his dark curls. Out of reflex he resisted, but she was unexpectedly strong; he got the impression he would pull his hair out by the roots before he broke her grip on it.

 

---

 

    She laughed, kissed him on the tip of his ear, and released him. “It was a man named Nemastes,” she said. “At least he calls himself a man. Here, I’ll send you back if that’s what you want.”

    “Ma’am?” Corylus said. He was dizzy from reaction and wasn’t really sure what he was hearing. “Yes, ma’am, I really want to go back to Carce. Can you do that?”

    “Of course I can,” the woman snapped. Behind her, the tangle of rose canes quivered. “Why else would I have said I could?”

    Corylus didn’t see her move or speak, but a flash of white light enveloped him. Needles dug momentarily into his bones. He stumbled forward.

    People were shouting at him. He saw lanterns and men with cudgels coming from both sides. He raised his staff, trying to back away but aware that his right knee was stiff with the bruise. He wouldn’t be able to escape this time.

    “Wait!” cried a woman’s clear voice. “That’s Corylus!”

 

---

 

    The leading litter-bearers shouted, “Wau!” and stopped together, rocking Alphena forward in her seat. The team was so well matched that the bearers on the back of the poles didn’t slam the heavy vehicle into the thighs of their fellows in front.

    Escorting servants ran past the litter, some of them brandishing their cudgels. Alphena leaned out to see what was happening. In the light of bobbing lanterns she saw a hunched man with a heavy stick confronting the entourage.

    The litter bobbed: Hedia had gotten out. “Wait!” she called in a voice of command. “That’s Corylus!”

    Is it? The fellow was stumbling backward. He had his stick up, though, and the servants weren’t pressing him too hard.

    “Get back, you ninnies!” Hedia said, striding into the middle of the ruck. “Midas, if any of these blind fools strikes Master Corylus, he’ll spend the rest of his life in a lead mine in Spain!”

    Alphena got out, caught her long tunic on the door latch, and almost fell on her face. She blushed, furious at herself though she doubted anybody had seen her clumsiness. They were all too interested in Corylus and the bustle of people around him.

    The litter bearers alone hadn’t joined the tight circle. The on-duty team had set the vehicle down but then waited, each man with his replacement, for orders.

    “Get out of my way!” Alphena demanded, pushing at servants with both hands. Her female voice drove an immediate passage where a man might have met reflexive resistance. “Let me through!”

    Corylus’ right knee looked like raw meat, and his eyes were wild. His linen tunic was torn and bloody. The garment was too light for the evening, but there was no sign of a cloak or toga. Blood-matted fur clung to both ends of his stout staff.

    “Corylus, what’s happened?” Alphena said in horror.

    Hedia put her left hand over his on the staff and said, “Careful with your stick, dear boy. You’re with friends now.”

    “Is this Carce?” Corylus said in a savage rumble. He sounded like a beast claiming his territory.

    “Yes,” said Hedia crisply. “We’re very close to our house, Lady Alphena and I. Are you able to walk? We have a litter.”

    “I can . . . ,” Corylus said. “I don’t need a litter, I’m all right.”

    Hedia knelt, gripping the youth’s right thigh and calf. “Bring a lantern close, some one!” she said. “And don’t wriggle, my dear. I want to look at this knee.”

    “Corylus, I can hold your staff,” Alphena said. He wasn’t flailing with it any more, but Hedia had been right to worry that he might. “I’ll be careful with it.”

    “What?” he said, but his voice had settled toward normal instead of showing the spiky challenge when he first staggered toward them. “Oh, yes. Sorry, Lady Alphena, I didn’t . . . .”

    His voice trailed off. Her lips pursed, but she didn’t blurt something that she would regret later. He gave her the staff, looking down as Hedia probed his leg.

    He didn’t have to finish the sentence. She could finish it for him: “I didn’t notice you because I was mooning over your beautiful stepmother.”

    The staff was heavier than Alphena expected; she wondered if an iron rod had been set into its core. Also it was sticky where she held it.

    “You,” she said in an undertone to one of the linkmen; she had to tap his shoulder to get his attention. “Bring your light here.”

    He obediently turned with his short staff. It had a grip on one end and an oil lamp in a cage of bronze wire attached to the other on a short chain. When Alphena examined the smooth wood in the haze of light, she saw bloody handprints on it.

    Hedia rose. Corylus started to rub his eyes. She took his right wrist and said, “No, your palm is all over blood. Is it yours?”

    He looked at his hand with a puzzled expression, flexing it. “Maybe,” he said. “I, when I fell on the rock I probably put it down. When I hit my knee. But I don’t remember.”

    “Well, let’s get you to our house,” Hedia said in a tone that didn’t so much compel agreement as rightly assume it. “We can put you on the servant’s bed in Varus’ room, that way you’ll have your privacy. And speaking of Varus –”

    She turned, looking down the boulevard. The lights of a large party were flickering toward them; Alphena heard men singing, “Hermes! The Money Rolls In.” Somebody called, “Who’s that in front of us? Announce yourself or it’ll be the worse for you!”

    “Candidus, you fool!” boomed Midas. Alphena wasn’t sure which of the deputy stewards was the more senior. From the rancor in Midas’ voice, it wasn’t a certain thing between the men themselves. “What do you mean by threatening their ladyships!”

    “Corylus?” Varus called, rushing to his friend’s side. Hedia straightened and took a half step sideways. “What happened to you? And how did you get here?”

    “I don’t know how I got here exactly,” Corylus said, clasping arms with Varus. “But I much prefer it to the place I was before. Wherever that was.”

    Corylus straightened and looked around the growing circle of attendants. “I was attacked by dogs!” he said loudly. “I took a short cut through an alley and dogs attacked me; there’s fur on my staff, you see. But I’m all right now, and I can make my own way home.”

    “You will not,” said Hedia. “Varus, dear, Master Corylus will sleep in the servant’s alcove in your suite tonight. Does that suit you?”

    “Why . . . ,” Varus said. “Of course. Corylus, you’re welcome any time. Or you can have a guest suite.”

    “But before he does that, Lenatus will look him over and put ointment on that knee,” Hedia continued. She was perfectly calm and perfectly in control of the situation. “Now, my young friend, are you sure you can walk? Because the litter’s right here.”

    Corylus grimaced. “Ma’am,” he said, “I think I’m better off to walk on it for a bit. If I let it set up, I, well — it’s not a problem now, but it could turn into one easy enough if I let it.”

    “Very good,” Hedia said. “Midas, send a man ahead to wake Lenatus and have him ready. And let’s go, all. The sooner we get Master Corylus to the house, the better off he’ll be.”

    She turned. “Alphena dear, that goes for us also. Into the litter now, if you please.”

    Seething inside, Alphena obeyed. Having to hold the staff made her clumsy, but she’d promised Corylus to take care of it so she couldn’t very well pass it off now to a servant.

    Hedia got in with the supple ease of a snake. She snapped her fingers and the bearers took the weight of the litter again. They started forward.

    Alphena squeezed the wooden staff hard. The blood was tacky and gave her a good grip. It would be very satisfying to smash it into her stepmother’s fine features and end her effortless flow of commands.

    But because Alphena had more self-awareness than she was comfortable with, she also knew that Hedia’s quick, concise decisions had been correct from first to last. That was what made her so irritating.