The Birth Of The Beta

12. A BETA’S BARGAINING GIFT

Following on from their training, Aoife always went to give Cornelius the report on the gladiators’ progress, and the next step in their training plan. Pepin decided to return to his room, and as he strode through the corridors he couldn’t help but think of Aoife’s skill. She was magnificent. Where the others, including himself, had dodged death, she made death her dance partner. They were old friends. He could barely imagine how much pain her body must have been in to stretch and hold her weight for so long, but she made it look effortless. Admiration was only part of his worship of her, he wanted to emulate her, to strive to push himself to equal her capabilities. He would dedicate himself toward being all she deserved. He would be lying if he said that her display of vigour hadn’t been arousing, all he could envision was her shapely legs wrapped around him, pinning him in place while she claimed her own satisfaction.

In an attempt to tame his own desires, he thought about the evening they had spent together. He had asked Aoife what she had missed most about her home other than her family. He was hoping she would describe a meal. Surprisingly, she had told him about an instrument that all the pups in her land were taught to play. She had seemed wistful as she tried to describe the sounds and songs she would create. She admitted that she felt the longing to play one last tune was as soft as the sigh on the breeze. Pepin was on a mission to get this instrument for her. She had described it as a wooden tube that had small holes placed along the top that her fingers would cover to change the note as she blew through a mouthpiece further up. The only thing he was certain of was that he wasn’t skilled enough to make it, so it would have to be bought.

Shouting interrupted his planning, causing him to bypass his own door and follow the bellowing that came from round the corner.

“I’m not giving you the money when you lost us more than half of it because you overestimated your skill!” a fearful, but stubborn voice yelled.

The scrawny guard that had bumped into them the first day Pepin had arrived was pinned to the wall, his feet dangling in the air, by a huge gladiator. Caius, he thought his name was. His body was weak, but his resolve was colossal as his white knuckles gripped onto the money pouch in his hand as the gladiator snarled into his face.

“What’s all this about?” Pepin interrupted them.

“It’s not your concern!” The gladiator growled at him.

Pepin usually avoided conflicts, sometimes he would take a beating from the humans rather than fight back and incur a more severe punishment, but he wouldn’t be growled at by this wolf or any other. Clovis was a Beta wolf and demanded respect. Without saying a word, he placed his palm onto the gladiator’s outstretched arm, then gripped the underneath of his arm by the wrist, using his other hand. In a sharp movement he pushed down with one hand and up with another, until an almighty painful crack had the walls cringing.

“Go to your room and let that heal slowly. If you ever growl at me again, I’ll rip your teeth out and ram them up your arse,” Pepin ordered the gladiator and watched him walk away, cradling his broken limb.

Caius stood nervously looking at Pepin, still gripping the coins in his hand.

“What was that all about?” Pepin repeated, directing his question at the guard this time, who was trying to stand up from where he had been dropped on the floor. He seemed very young, seventeen at most. He had patches of stubble on his chin, but seemed very undernourished with hardly any muscle.

“I had been taking Peter to the fighting pits to earn extra money. He told me to put five silver coins on him winning his match, but I asked him to reconsider, maybe bet it on a loss or at least a draw. It was clear he wasn’t going to win. His arrogance wouldn’t allow it. He lost, like we all knew he would, and now wants me to give him the money he would have won if he hadn’t been knocked on his arse and kissing the sand in the second round. I refused! Then you walked over,” Caius explained.

“Who will fight for you now?” Pepin wondered aloud.

“I don’t know. That was the last fight of the season though. I guess I’ll have to ask if anyone needs extra money before the new season begins,” Caius sighed unhappily.

Pepin thought about what he would do with the extra money. Spend it all on Aoife. It would be brilliant if he could take her out. They could find a forest for their wolves to run in, eat some food, mostly peaches, knowing Aoife. An awkward cough interrupted his daydream, as Caius was trying to escape the corner that he had inadvertently been trapped in.

“I’ll come to the fighting pits with you, but only on the following conditions. Firstly, I want fifty percent of what we win. Secondly, I want you to go to the carpenter and tell him to make a wooden flute. I’ll pay you back from the money I made from my first win. If you get me the flute before the end of tomorrow, then by the end of the next season, I’ll make us both rich. Maybe to sweeten the deal you could throw in the odd favour when I need one?” Pepin bargained, and clapped Caius’ shoulder when he nodded.

Upstairs, Aoife and Cornelius were sitting in his office. He seemed very tired and pale, although he still smiled and agreed with all of Aoife’s plans. A slight breeze came through the open window and Cornelius shivered uncontrollably. Picking up the blanket from the chair, she wrapped it around her dearest friend, and warmed his hands up in her own, using Neve’s heat to help him. He was beginning to control his shudders and chatters, when Antonia swaggered in with some piping hot tea, containing mint leaves to make it taste better.

“It’s cold today, father-in-law, I brought you some tea,” Antonia smiled, presenting him with the drink.

“I think we should call a doctor, it’s really not that cold today Cornelius,” Aoife fretted, concerned for him.

“It is cold, you just can’t feel it because you’re a wolf, and your fur keeps you warm. It’s beastly really,” Antonia commented.

“I’ll be OK Aoife, don’t you worry about me. Antonia, thank-you for the drink. I will enjoy it when it cools. I’m sure once I’ve had a little sleep I’ll feel better,” Cornelius reassured her. Taking the drink Antonia had brought him, he wandered to his room.

“Such a shame, I met my father-in-law when he is so old and frail,” Antonia flippantly said. “I noticed your insolence before, I might not do anything about it today, but I’m counting up each incident. You can bet your life on that!” Antonia glared at Aoife, before leaving the office.

The only thing that Aoife latched onto was the description of Cornelius being old. This wasn’t accurate. Cornelius was strong and determined, but since Magnus came home he had seemed frail. Aoife ascribed it to stress. She returned to her room and planned the training for the next day. She was so absorbed in creating the perfect increase of difficulty for the gladiators that she had failed to notice she had missed dinner, and night-time was galloping towards her. Pepin knocked on Aoife’s door with his foot and nudged it open so he could walk through it with the stew and bread he had brought her.

“Are you OK, my warrior? You missed dinner,” Pepin asked as he placed the tray on her bed and sat on the rug by her feet.

“Yes thank-you, I got distracted with the training plans,” She smiled while lifting the bowl of stew.

Pepin looked at the sketches of the stick men, doing seemingly impossible things, and he hoped that these were her bad drawing skills rather than a torturous training session she planned on inflicting on them all. Not that it would matter, he’d walk across burning coals if she asked him too.

When she was finished, Pepin took something from the pocket of his tunic and passed it to Aoife. He had hoped she would smile, hug him and give him a kiss. If he was lucky. He didn’t expect the tears that trickled down her face. She ran her fingers down the smooth wood, and played out silent songs she could remember by placing her fingers over the holes.

“I can’t believe you did this, it’s just how I remembered it,” Aoife explained.

“Well there is a way you could thank me,” Pepin said, laughing at her incredulous raised eyebrow. “You could play me a song,” he clarified.

Smiling, Aoife lifted the instrument to her lips and gently blew into the mouthpiece softly like the breeze that makes the leaves on the trees whisper. Her fingers tapped over the smaller holes like heavy raindrops bouncing off the floor. From these two poetic movements a hauntingly high pitched musical wail cried out in a melancholic melody masquerading as beauty. Without words, the sounds created an image in his mind of the land Aoife had told him about. Complexities he had never pictured before invaded his heart, it was a miserable magic, a haunting happiness, a loving loss, a home still adored. When the last note played, the silence that followed was painful. Pepin realised that the day she had left her land was when the abject silence he was now stuck in became her everyday reality. It was the sense that the song that should have accompanied the dance was muted. He had listened to a soulful symphony of sorrow. Unwilling to break the silence, wanting her to know he understood, he sat on the bed, wrapped her in his arms and kissed her eyelids that were soft and puffy from her tears.