The First Wolves

1. YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN MINE

Horseshoes clambered against the cobbles as the unit of soldiers raced through the streets to get to the House of Heaton. Barging drunken pedestrians out of their way with their horses’ flanks, they dragged a cloak of ominous fear behind them that quietened the usually vibrant town. Their leader had been committed to a frantic pace since he had received the scroll from the senate in the early hours of the morning. The men didn’t question his unyielding determination to get there, because General Tarquin was their hero. They had followed him into war, and certain death in the past, so faithfully they followed him now. Tarquin knew that his breakneck speed was futile, the worst had already happened and there was nothing he could do. Curiously, logic played no part in the general’s decisions, it was as if his brain refused to accept what had happened until he saw it with his own eyes. Therefore, the cocoon of disbelief he had surrounded himself in, convinced him that if he raced there then there would be a chance that he could still save her.

Guards’ bodies were strewn across the courtyard like the Gods had had a tantrum, and expunged their rage on the dutiful humans by throwing their toys and shattering them against the ground. A slimy trail of blood streaked up the wall, confusing many of the on-lookers, but Tarquin knew that the killer had locked the door from the outside and climbed back over the outer wall. A truly methodical m******e planned by the monsters that served the elite. The carriages had been stolen, but why that hadn’t raised suspicion when they approached the city walls was baffling. Guests at parties went home in dribs and drabs, not like a hoard of bees buzzing their discontent.

Peeling the sole of his sandal from the congealed blood on the mosaic floor, Tarquin soaked in the disjointed presentation of celebration and slaughter. Tracing the patterns where the bodies had been dragged to a more dignified resting place, it reminded him of the residue that snails left behind them. He had been called to the House of Heaton because he was the nearest general to the town, but his motivations were far more personal. Despite his duty telling him to begin the search for the wolves that were running wild across the countryside, he headed to the store room where he had been told she was resting. A goodbye so grievous couldn’t be rushed, plus there was little that he could do until the scouts from cohort VIII arrived.

The coolness of the room where the ice was stacked preserved the bodies, but Tarquin didn’t want to find her there. Ideally, he would picture her warm, full of life and passion, marvel at her fiery temper that had scolded him many times when they were younger. That’s how he wanted to remember her. Opening the door, he was perturbed to find he was not alone. A worker was hovering over her head, his hands on either side of her face, and it took the General a moment to realise that he was carefully removing the cast that would become her death mask.

“Why was this not already made?” Tarquin questioned, judgementally.

Death masks were supposed to be created in life, and presented after death. It was a bad omen to create one when a person had already died, although still better than not having one at all. Glancing at Magnus, he noticed that he was prepared for death, no last minute death masks were being hastily made for him. It didn’t change General Tarquin’s feelings towards him, he already hated the man as much as it was possible to hate another person.

“The Mistress was still very young…so full of life…no-one could have predicted such an end. We were called to prepare a death mask to honour her dignity.” The tradesman replied, and it irked Tarquin that someone so ordinary had his hands on Antonia, who had been so extraordinary.

“It will be made from plaster, and be a true likeness of her,” The man continued, worried that the soldier was doubting his skill based on the unimpressed expression on his face.

The intensified look he received, almost made him drop the cast he had spent hours on.

“Plaster?” The general replied, the one word filled with abhorrence.

“There was no provision made in Master Heaton’s will for the death of his wife. Since she has no family left, it was decided by his lawyer to keep the cost low.” He bumbled.

“Spare no cost. The mask will be made of beeswax like it was for the emperors. I will cover the cost. Charge it to General Tarquin. Take your cast, and leave us now. I’ll pay whatever price is necessary for her funeral to be befitting a woman such as she was. Including the cost of mourners, and donations to charitable institutions in her name. Once the mask is made, bring it to me. Take the body of her husband, and build a pyre in the training yard. Be rid of him. He is to blame for this. I do not want him in the same room as her.” He made his decree without glancing at the man, only looking at her face.

“You’re General Tarquin? The hero of the capital. We have heard of your bravery, even in this small town. I will prepare everything as you wish. It is an honour to meet you, even though the circumstances are so tragic.” The worker adulated him with genuine respect, before leaving the man to his mourning, and taking the Dominus’ body with him.

He heard the door close behind him, and relished that he was alone with her for the last time. Just them. Just as it always should have been.

Age had only made her more imperial. She had the most beautiful sharp features, almost as sharp as her wit, but not nearly as sharp as her tongue. He allowed himself to think of the times she had cut him deep with her words, wielding them better than he could kill with his sword. The linen she had been covered with was swathed with blood, but as an experienced soldier he knew her blood had stopped flowing by now. Picking up the bucket of water that had been left nearby, he brought it closer to her body. The water was cold. He couldn’t bear the idea of increasing her chill, even though she wouldn’t feel the difference, so he called to his men for warm water instead. It was a family member’s duty to prepare a body for death's journey, but her father had long since died, making Tarquin his heir. Trembling, he removed the linen, and recoiled at the sight. Claw marks ran the length of her body from collar bone to navel, from her ribs to the opposing hip where she had been slashed. The gap between them was so wide that there was little skin to stitch back together. Pulling the cloth from the water, he delicately washed away the splashes of her blood that had frantically sprayed across her skin. Using the thread and needle that had been left on the side table, he pinched together the skin as best he could, and closed as many wounds as were possible. Retrieving the finest clean linen he could find in the house, he carefully wrapped her in it, starting at her feet and gradually coiling the material up to her neck. He lifted her in his arms like he would have done on the threshold of their home if they had ever married. Pausing at her neck, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a gold necklace, adorned with garnets, jaspers and amber. Reverently, he placed it on her neck.

“I saw this when I battled in Egypt, I had the ambers added when I led my army in Persia. Wherever I went, I always thought of you. You should have been mine. I’d have treasured you, and we’d have lived happily.” He uttered.

A moment of foolhardy hope grabbed him when he saw a tear on her cheek, but it was fleeting. He realised it was his own weeping eyes that had made her look alive. Brushing his thumb against her unspoilt face, he removed the offending sentiment. Tears had never had an effect on her. Softly, placing his lips against hers in a farewell kiss, he was unperturbed by the cold reception, or the way her body had started to stiffen to the point that her skin felt like stone.

“I promise you, I will not stop until I hunt down the animals who did this. They will tremble at the plans I have to avenge you. I failed you in life, but I will make amends.”

A gentle knock on the door indicated to him that all had been prepared. Lifting her into his arms, he walked outside to the training yard, pleased by the wails that the mourners were making. It was a crescendo of grief and loss, yet it only marginally reflected the catastrophic torture he felt within his own heart. Laying her on the pyre, he pulled the translucent cloth over her face. Let no-man look upon her anymore, she was too good for all of them combined. He thrust the flame into the dry wood, and waited until long after the mourners had left, instructing his men to not disturb him. When all that was left was smoke and ashes, he gathered them, and buried them in the ground. He had instructed that Magnus’ ashes to be scattered in the horse’s manure. Antonia would have appreciated that, the house was finally hers alone.

The death ceremonies were finished, and he knew it was time for the hunt to begin.

Returning to the villa, Tarquin noticed that his men had started to clean away the worst of the gore. They were loyal soldiers, and he was proud to be their general. They saluted him when he passed, the clang of their arms on their metal breastplates still filled him with as much pride as it did the first time he heard it. The dangling, blue material had been torn down, and the vulgar statues had been collected by the pleasure houses earlier in the evening. No doubt that would have been an idea of Magnus' imagination to entice his fellow peers into business by bribing them with flesh, because his ideas were poor at best. Seeing that there was little for him to do in the atrium, he wandered into the office, hoping to find the names of the wolves he needed to capture. Shockingly, the shelves were bare. His enemy was more calculating than he realised. It would make his starting point more difficult if he didn’t even know how many runaway slaves were loose. Was it possible one of them could read? He had trained his own body slave to read, but that was a rarity. The fact that there was only useless information left behind would suggest this was the case though. Did Magnus and Antonia know they had a literate wolf, or had this secrecy been part of their heinous plan? A knock at the door interrupted his procrastinating as his tribune entered.

“General, we have found some women trapped in one of the bedrooms. They say that they were imprisoned there by one of the wolves, and only saw the beginning of the uprising.” He briefly told him.

Intrigued, Tarquin gestured for them to be brought to him, hoping that they could provide some information.

“Ladies, thank you for coming to see me before you return home. I realise your evening must have been beyond distressing. I need you to tell me every detail you can remember.” He urged them, gently.

They looked at each other as if they didn’t want to be the first to speak, and the general tried to hide the irritation that their flustering was causing him. He wished women could be more direct. Antonia had never dithered with her words.

“We only saw the start, they never spoke to each other, and there were no commands issued. They just seemed to move as one, as if they knew what to do. Everyone ran to the door, but it was locked from the outside. Our husbands left us. They didn’t try to save us. A tall wolf with curly, ginger hair approached us, and we were certain we would die. Instead, he took us to the bedroom and locked us in there. He never spoke to us.” One of the women summarised, reluctantly.

“Your account is a little vague, can you tell us how many there were, or more details about what they looked like?” He probed further.

“Our husband shielded us when the wolves were standing at the water's edge, they were in a state of undress. The show fight was very violent, so I tried to stare at the floor as often as possible. There were perhaps forty wolves that we saw, but there were many in the kitchen below. Can we go home now? Our husbands’ bodies need to be prepared.” She finalised.

Tarquin heard his tribune offer some tokens of sympathy for their loss, but the women seemed unaffected by the death of their husbands. It seemed some were even relieved.

“Who will the house belong to now the Heatons have died?” His tribune asked, unaware of his relationship with Antonia.

“I will be the beneficiary, as stated in her wedding agreement. I will deal with the details when we return from our campaign. We have some wolves to catch.” He joked with his tribune, even though his laugh was hollow.

Truth be told, if it weren’t for the fact he had just buried Antonia in the villa, he would burn the place to ashes.

The next morning, the small unit of men who had accompanied him were saddled and ready to return to their camp. Tarquin carefully placed the box containing Antonia’s death mask onto his lap, strapping it to his saddle. He didn’t want another soul to touch it. Looking up at his men, he lifted his hand and pointed it forward. With a singular motion they moved out of the property, and along the cobbled roads. It was a precession of military might to the local people, but to the soldiers it was the first day of their orders to annihilate the danger to the capital. People were already lining the streets, throwing petals on the ground and cheering at the people’s hero. Tarquin was ruthless enough to make this the last slave uprising for the next thousand years, and he relished his mission with a dangerous personal agenda to make it all the more vindictive.