"Now hearken. I am Boierik's son of the Cimbri. I have a quarrel with the gods, who have treated me ill, but it does not change who I am. I have been searching for a king to hear a message I bear. Since your vessel chanced to pick me up, I will speak first to your ruler. Obey me well, and perhaps I shall forgive you for what you said in ignorance. So!"
He threw Arpad to the floor. The guardsmen stepped in, hemming him between shields and lifted blades. They glanced at their captain. Arpad stood up.
One could never be sure.... If that big man was mad, then he might be the walking voice of—of anything ... or else, there were so many outlandish tribes, a prince of one might easily have been captured and—and truly great Mithradates would be interested to meet such a person, as he was interested in all the realms of earth. The king might even bestow favor on this Eodan, some of which might then reflect on Arpad. Or perhaps the king would have Eodan beheaded; but that annoyance would surely not be considered Arpad's fault, since Arpad had only brought this visitor in the hope of amusing the king. It was not too great a risk. And, if the tall one demanded treatment as a guest meanwhile, it was not unduly inconvenient, the ambassador's cabin stood empty....
"My master, the sublime one who knows all nations, must decide this," purred Arpad. His Latin was always equal to titles. "We shall seek his august presence."
The south coast of the Black Sea was good to look upon, where red cliffs and green valleys and their many streams met wine-dark waters; high overhead went summer clouds, blinding white, and thunder spoke from the Caucasus. Sinope lay on a small peninsula about halfway between Byzantium and Colchis. It was an ancient Greek colony, now become the chief seat of the Pontine kings.
Eodan stood in the bow with Phryne and Tjorr, watching the city grow as they entered its harbor, until the first loveliness of marble colonnades and many-colored gardens yielded to a tarry workaday bustle where the surface was crowded with galleys from half the East. He was well clothed in white linen tunic, blue chlamys, leather belt and sandals, the German sword polished and whetted at his waist. They had even shaved him so he could look civilized and worked the dye from his hair so he could look foreign. He wondered how that would affect his price, if Mithradates judged against him.
"Tjorr," he said, "since your folk have clashed with these before now, are you not in danger of his wrath? I have been wondering if it would not be wiser for you to stay aboard here until—"
The Alan, clad like his chief but still doggedly shaggy-faced, answered with a boy's eagerness: "From what I've heard, he is not one of those sour Romans. Why, if he has any honor at all, he will send me home laden with gifts, just because our raids kept his soldiers amused." He laid a hand on the hammer slung at his side. "Nor do I think anything can go too badly wrong while I bear this. Did we not win a ship, strike off our fetters, thwart our enemies, get pulled from the sea god's mouth and have a well-fed passage here, while I bore the Smasher? There's luck in this iron."
Eodan thought of Hwicca and his lips tightened. "It may be," he said. "Though I am unsure what that word luck means."
She had ceased to haunt him. First had been all those days when her face on the balefire came between his eyes and the world, though it had not been her, that cold white face, it wasdead—but where then had she wandered? He would sleep for a little and wake up; a few times he woke so happily and looked about for her before remembering she was dead. But since Phryne called him to anger, with the biting unjustness of her words, he had been more nearly himself. There was a goal again, the beech forests of the North, with sunlight snared in their crowns and a lark far and far up overhead—yes, he wanted to go back and search for his childhood, but home-coming was not what it had been in his thoughts. Hwicca would not be with him.
Well, a man sometimes lived when they cut off a hand or a leg or a hope; he fumbled on as best he could, and what he had lost hurt him on rainy nights.
Eodan shut off the awareness and turned to Phryne. "Are you certain you will not speak for us?" he asked. "Our tale is so strange already that it will add small strangeness for a woman to argue on our behalf. And you have more knowledge of this realm, and a quicker wit."
The girl smiled faintly and shook her head. She wore a white dress Arpad had gotten her, and a palla with the hood drawn up. That covered her shortened hair and made a discreet shade across her face; here in the East a woman was regarded as being much less than a man, so this garb would please by its modesty.
"I have already told you the small amount I know, and you have been clever to draw much else from the captain," she said. "Nor does it matter greatly. The knowledge we shall need is how to deal with men, and there, Eodan, you are showing more inborn gifts than any other person I have met."
He shrugged, a little puzzled as to her meaning, and watched the harbor. Small boats crawled about the galley's oars, tub-shaped coracles whose paddlers screamed their wares of fruit, wine, sausage, cheese, guidance among the brothels and other delicacies. The people of Sinope were a mixed lot. Most were dark, stocky, curly-headed, big-nosed and hairy, but not all. On the wharfs Eodan could see Armenian mountaineers with shepherds' staffs and crooked knives, a sleek Byzantine merchant, a gaily-robed warrior of pure Gallic strain, a pair of hobnailed Macedonian mercenaries, a spear-bearing man, in fur cap and white blouse and baggy trousers tucked into his boots, whom Tjorr said delightedly was an Alanic tribesman, a graybearded Jew, a lean Arab—this was not Rome, this Sinope, but it pulled in its share of the earth's people!
They docked, and Arpad led his guests—or prisoners—ashore with an escort of soldiers. Since this was an official ship, they stopped for no formalities of bribing the customs agents. A messenger ran ahead of them, and they had not reached the palace when he came back to say the king would receive them at once.
Eodan went between the shields of marching men, through the city gates and a cobbled street of flat-roofed buildings shrieking with bazaars, where the escort clubbed a way, and at last up a hill to the palace. Heavy-armored men, with helmet and cuirass, greaves and shield, sword and spear, tramped up and down upon its walls like a moving arsenal; here and there squatted lightly clad archers holding the short Asiatic hornbow. Beneath posed a guard of Persian cavalry, tall arrogant hook-faced men, their helmets and horses magnificent with plumes, blue cloaks fluttering about scaly coats of mail, trousered legs ending in boots of silver-inlaid leather, lance in hand, ax and bow and small round shield at the saddle—"By the thunder-snake itself," muttered Tjorr, "how I'd love to sack their barracks!"
A trumpeter preceded them through bronze gates. They went over a path beside which roses flared and Grecian nymphs leaped marble out of secret bowers; they saw a fountain shaped like Hercules and the hydra, so skillfully modeled and painted that Eodan grabbed for his sword; then the stairway opened before them, with sphinxes crouched at the foot, bulls at the head and two polished soldiers rigid on every step. There Arpad's escort was told to wait. The captain himself and his three guests surrendered their weapons to the watch.
"Not this," protested Tjorr, holding his hammer. "It is my luck."
"A god, did you say?" asked the Latin-speaking guard who wanted it. He looked at his officer, unsure; there were so many gods, and some of them were touchy.
The officer shook his head. "No lesser god enters the Presence of Mithras, who is always with the king. Leave it here, fellow, you'll get it back."
"But—"
"Do as he says," Eodan broke in.
Tjorr loosed the thong, his face miserable. "I tell you, my luck is in that hammer. Well, maybe your triskele will see us through."
"Would you keep the king waiting?" puffed Arpad.
He led the way, his best robe rippling about him, up the stairs and under the red and blue columns of the portico. Slaves prostrated themselves at the doors: once only, since the king received three such salutes. They were conducted down halls of lifelike murals; Eodan saw with a thrill how often the Bull recurred, sacrificed by a youth or shaking great horns beneath a golden sun-disc. Lamps in silver chains gave a clear unwavering light. But, when finally the carpeted ways opened on an audience chamber, the sun himself came through a great glazed window behind the throne.
It was so bright that Eodan could hardly see the man upon that carven seat, except as a robe of Tyrian purple and a golden chaplet. He and his companions were held back by the door. Arpad advanced alone, between grave men—long-haired, sometimes bearded—in brilliant garments. Among them stood a few outland envoys; a turban or a shaven pig-tailed skull betokened foreignness. Around the room, motionless between soaring porphyry columns, were a guard of spearmen.
A long time passed while King Mithradates read the dispatches handed him, questioned Arpad more closely and dictated to his secretary. Eodan could not hear what was said, the courtiers made so much noise as they circulated and chattered. It would be in Greek or Persian, anyhow.
But finally the chamberlain called out something. A hush fell bit by bit, and Eodan saw eyes turn his way. He walked forward. Tjorr and Phryne came behind him; it had been arranged thus at her advice. At the ritual distance from the throne, Eodan halted. Tjorr and Phryne made obeisance, thrice knocking their heads on the carpet and then remaining crouched. Eodan merely bowed his head once upon folded hands.
He heard a sigh go around the room, like the wind before a hailstorm.
Raising his eyes, he locked gaze with Mithradates Eupator. The King of Pontus was a giant, tall as Eodan and broad as Tjorr, his hands ropy with veins and sinew like any hunts-man's. Within a mane of curly dark hair and bearded jawline, his head was nearly Greek—a wide brow, gray eyes, straight nose, rounded shaven chin; it lifted straight from the pillar of his throat. He was only in his mid-thirties, Phryne said, but he owned half this eastern sea, and Rome itself feared he might take all Asia.
"Do you not bow to the throne?" he asked, almost mildly. His Latin came as easily as any Senator's.
"My Lord," said Eodan, "I beg forgiveness if I, a stranger, have unknowingly offended. I gave to you that sign of respect we have in the North, when one of royal blood meets a greater king."
He had made it up himself the day before, but no one had to know that. He hazarded a cruel death—far safer to proclaim himself dust beneath the royal feet—but as one more humble suppliant among thousands he could not have hoped for much.
Mithradates leaned back and rubbed his chin. Curious, thought Eodan in a far part of his being, the king's nails are blue at the base.... "My captain told me what little you would say to him," murmured the Pontine. "I trust you will be more frank with me."
"Great King," said Eodan, "I have so little to bring you I am ashamed. May you live forever! All the world lays its wealth in your hands. I can but offer the salvage price of my ship, paid at Rhodes, which Arpad insists is his. I leave to your judgment, Wise One, whether the monies do indeed belong to him, or to me who would give them as an offering to Your Majesty. But one gift at least I bring, if you will accept it—my story, what I have done since leaving my own realm, and what I have seen from Thule to Rhodes and from Dacia to Spain. Since this tale is my gift to you, I did not think it fit that Arpad, your servant, should have its maidenhead."
Mithradates opened his mouth and bellowed with laughter.
"Well, your gift is accepted," he said at last, "and I shall not be miserly myself if the tale be rich. From what country are you?"
"Cimberland, Great King."
"I have heard somewhat of the Cimbri. Indeed, one of my neighbors sent them an embassy a few years ago. Surely this will be a night's entertainment, though you humble my pride by making me hear it in Latin. Chamberlain! See to it that these three are given a suite, changes of raiment and whatever else they require." Mithradates said it in the Roman tongue, doubtless for Eodan's benefit, since he must repeat it in Greek. "Go, I will see you at the evening meal. And now, Arpad, about those monies."
"Great King of All the World," wailed Arpad, flat on his belly, "may your children people the earth! It was but that I, your most unworthy subject, thought to offer you—"
As he went to the guest chambers, Eodan asked the slave who led him—an Italian, he saw with glee—what the king had meant, that he was ashamed to hear the tale in Latin. "Know, Master," said the boy, "that our puissant lord keeps no interpreters on his own staff, for he himself speaks no fewer than two and twenty languages. You must indeed have come from far away."
The suite was as luxurious as one might have expected. Phryne said doubtfully, "We build our hopes on Vesuvius. The soil there is surpassingly rich, but sometimes the mountain buries it in fire. I will be happy if we can get from here unscathed."
"Why," said Eodan, surprised, "I would have thought you could dwell here more gladly than any place else in the world. They are a mannered folk, it seems."
"They are more alien to me, a Greek, than the Romans—or the Sarmatians—or the Cimbri." She looked out the window, down to gardens where paths twisted so a man could lose his way. "If we stay long enough, you will understand."
"It may be. Nonetheless, I have a feeling no few arts could be learned here that might take root in the North." Eodan went over to her. "Though one of the greatest could be taught me by yourself."
She turned about with an eagerness that astonished him. "What do you mean?" Her face flushed, and she lifted her hands like a small girl.
"I mean this craft of writing. Not that we would have much use for it in the North ... and yet, who knows?"
"Oh." She looked away again. "Writing. Indeed. I will teach you when the chance comes. It is not hard."
Near sundown, an obsequious eunuch informed them they would soon dine. They left Phryne to a solitary meal—women did not eat before the king—and followed him to a lesser feasting hall.
Music sounded from a twilight peristyle—flute, lyre, drum, gong, sistrum, and other instruments Eodan had not heard, yowling like cats. The diners, arrayed in their silks and fine linens, gold and silver and jewels, lay about a long table on couches, in somewhat the Grecian manner. Mithradates came last, to trumpets, and all but Eodan prostrated themselves.
There was silence. A slave brought forth a cup and knelt to offer it to the king. Mithradates looked over his half-hundred guests. "Tonight I drink hemlock, in memory of Socrates." A kind of unvoiced whisper ran about the assembly as he drained the beaker.
"Now," he said, "let the feast begin!"
Eodan, who was hungry, paid little heed to the succession of artificed viands. Cordelia had offered him enough of that; let a man be nourished on rye and beef, with a horn of ale to wash it down. He took enough mutton to fill himself and barely tasted the rest. For the hour or so in which they ate—this was no elaborate banquet, only the king's evening meal—no person spoke. Eodan did not miss the talk, and the music he ignored. The dancers were another matter. He studied the acrobatic boys closely; this or that trick could be useful in combat. When the supple women came out with dessert and dropped one filmy garment after the next as they swayed about, he knew his hurts were scarring over. He would have traded all these for Hwicca—yes, all women who lived—but since she was gone and they were here....
Finally, with some decorum restored, there was general conversation. Mithradates talked impatiently to various self-important persons, dismissed them at last with plain relief and roared the length of the table: "Cimbrian! Now let us hear that tale you promised!"
Eodan followed his beckoning arm, to lie beside the king himself. Envious eyes trailed him. Not everyone listened—the whole room buzzed with talk—but he was as glad of that. He had not wished to make the Cimbrian destiny a night's idle amusement; but to this gray-eyed man, himself a warrior, it was fitting to relate what Boierik had done.
Now and again Mithradates broke in with a question. "Is it true that sky and sea run into one up there, as Pytheas has written?... How high does the sun stand at midsummer?... Do they know of any poisons? This is a self-preserving interest of mine—too many kings have died of a subtle drink. I take a little each day, so that now they cannot harm me, neither hemlock nor arsenicum nor nightshade nor—But continue."
The lamps burned low; slaves stole about filling them with fresh oil. Eodan's throat hoarsened; he drank one cup of wine after another, until his head buzzed like all summer's bees in a clover meadow in Jutland.... Mithradates matched him, goblet for goblet, though the king's was larger, and showed no sign of it.
And at last Eodan said: "Then your ship found us and brought us hither. So it may be the gods have ended their feud with me."
"That Ahriman has," corrected Mithradates, "but he is the common enemy of all men and—Could it be, I wonder, that the Bull in whose sign you wandered the world was the same that bleeds upon the altars of the Mystery? But enough." His hand cracked down on Eodan's shoulder, and he raised his cup, clashing it against the Cimbrian's. "What a journey!" he cried. "What a journey!"
"I thank Your Majesty. But it has not ended yet."
"Are you certain?" Mithradates looked at him, with gravity falling like a veil. "I wonder if you are not too much a man to be flung back on any northward wind. Would you like to fight Rome?"
Eodan answered harshly, "There is blood of my blood on their hands. I count it defeat that I shall not meet the man Flavius again. I will set up a horse skull in the North and curse him, but it is not enough."
"Your chance could come," said Mithradates. "There will be war between Rome and Pontus. Not yet, not for some years, but it is brewing, and it will be pitiless. I shall need good officers."
"I have not the skills, Great King," said Eodan.
"You could learn them, I think. See here. This very month I am leading an expedition against the Tectosages. Their tetrarch has been a thorn in my side since I took Galatian territory. We have had border skirmishes, and all the Gallic cantons lean toward Rome and intrigue against me. They must learn who is master. It will not be a great war—an outright conquest would alarm the Romans too much at this stage of things—only a punitive expedition. But the fighting will be brisk and the booty sufficient. I would like to have you and your Alanic friend in my following. I think you could serve me well, and you would gain in both wealth and knowledge."
"I should be honored, Great King," said Eodan. One did not refuse such an offer, and indeed it could be profitable. And to ride a war-horse again!
"So be it. We shall talk further. Now, hm, did you say your Grecian girl was a maiden and wishes to remain so?Iwould not stand for it!Itook it for granted, till you related otherwise, that you two held her in common."
"She lifted me from slavery, Lord. It is a small thing to repay her."
"Well, as you wish. If she is indeed learned, she can tutor the younger children of palace officials." Mithradates grinned. "Meanwhile, you and the Alan have certain needs. I take it you both prefer women?" He beckoned his secretary and gave orders.
Morning was not far off when Eodan and Tjorr entered their room, none too steadily. A maidservant accompanying them woke Phryne, who came from her chamber wrapped in a mantle. Her eyes were dark in the lamp-glow. "What has happened?" she asked.
"Much," said Eodan. "It is well for us. But now you shall have a private room, and a servant of your own."
"Why—" Phryne's look turned forlorn. It fell on a couch in the corner and on the two who sat there. Long gowns and demure veils did not hide what they were.
She grew white. She stamped her foot and cried out, "You could have let your wife grow cold in death before this!"
Eodan, weary, startled by her rage, snapped back: "What good would it be for her ghost if I remained less than a man, just because you are less than a woman?"
Phryne drew her mantle over her face and departed.
Eodan stared after her, tasting his own words poisonous on his tongue. But it was too late now—was it not? The slave girl came over to him, knelt and pressed his hand to her forehead. He saw through the thin silk that she was young and fair of shape.
He said in an ashen tone, "The King is kind."
"Da," muttered Tjorr. "But I know not, I know not. All this we gained when my hammer was elsewhere. I wonder how much luck is in such gifts."
Summer had burned hot on the Asiatic uplands, but winter would be very cold. The day after he left the city Ancyra, Eodan felt the wind search through clothes and flesh toward his bones. Overhead the sky was leaden, with a dirty wrack flying beneath it. Dust smoked off harvested fields. There were not many of these; the rest was wild brown pasture, cut by tiny streams and bare hills. He was on the edge of the Axylon, the vast treeless plateau running south to Lycaonia, with little more sign of man than some sheep and goat herds.
He wrapped his cloak more tightly about him and thought of autumn gold and scarlet in Jutland, where forests roared on long ridges. Why had three Gallic tribes left such a country, nearly two hundred years ago, and wandered hither?
But so they had, conquering Cappadocians and Phrygians until a new nation stood forth around the Halys. They let the natives farm and trade as ever, save for taxes and a share in the crop. The invaders rooted their three tribes in separate parts of the country, each divided into four cantons with a chief and a judge above it; a great council imagined it guided the entirety. Mithradates had remarked once it was no mean feat to combine so carefully the worst features of a monarchy and a republic. The Gauls shunned cities, holding to fortified villages clustered around the castles of chiefs. There they practiced the skills of war, heard their bards and Druids, remained in fact—under all the proud trumpets—a wistful fragment of the North.
"Maybe the Powers were not so unkind after all," said Eodan. "It might have been worse for the Cimbri had they overcome Rome."
Tjorr shook his head, puzzled. "You are a strange one,disa," he said. "Half of what you speak these days I do not understand at all."
They trotted on southward, into the wind off the high plains. Some miles ahead lay the Pontine army, where Mithradates was getting ready to march home. The lancers who jingled after Eodan and Tjorr were a detachment sent to fetch certain hostages, who would assure the behavior of Ancyra's Phrygians as well as of the Tectosagic overlords. Eodan had recognized the commission, small though it was, as a mark of royal favor. For himself, he was chiefly pleased that the Greek he had been studying as chance offered was now good enough to serve him. He could not live in Asia without learning its universal second language.
Tjorr glanced complacently at his own outfit. Like the Cimbrian, he wore the garb of a Persian cavalry officer, though he had added thereto a treasure of golden bracelets. "This has been a good war," he said. "We have seen new lands and new folk, done some lively fighting—ha, do you remember how we attacked them at the river, drove them into its waters and fought them there? And those castles we won were stuffed with plunder!"
"I saw them," replied Eodan shortly.
He did not know why his mood should be so gray. It had indeed been a fine campaign, and he had learned more about war and leadership than he could reckon up—much of it simply from watching Mithradates, who was a noble chief to follow and often a good mirthful restless-minded friend to converse with. The battles had gone well—one could forget the unforgotten during a few clangorous hours of charge and fight and pursuit—until the Tectosages yielded the terms and indemnities demanded. He, Eodan, had been granted enough booty to pay the expenses of Sinope's court; now his own star could follow that of Mithradates until both, perhaps, lit all the Orient sky.
Nevertheless, winter lay in his soul, and he rode to his King without gladness.
Tjorr went on, eagerly: "The best of it is, we've not to garrison here in winter. Back to Sinope! Or Trapezus? There's a city! Do you remember how we stopped there?" It had been politic to march eastward first, entering Galatia through the country of the Trocmi, who had already been subdued; for Rome watched jealously the stump of independent Paphlagonia that lay between Sinope and Ancyra.
Eodan smiled one-sidedly. "I remember how you hired a bawdyhouse just for yourself."
"Oh, I invited my friends, of course. A pity the King wished to talk geography or astronomy or whatever it was with you that night. Still, we've picked up some nice wenches here and there, not so?" Tjorr sighed in reminiscence. "Ah, Satalu! She was as sweet and bouncy as a stack of new-mown clover. Not that I say anything against my concubine in Sinope, though I may buy another one or two for variety." He rubbed the hammer at his side. "There's luck in this old maul, I tell you. Maybe even something of the lightning."
Eodan's thoughts drifted pastward. Perhaps his forebodings were no more than a recollection—now, when he was not too hurried to consider it—of how the captured Galatians had stumbled in clanking lines, north to the slave markets of Pontus.
Or it might be a certain aloneness. Phryne had not understood—maybe no woman could understand—how a man was driven to one after another, by the ruthless force of the Bull, merely so that he could sleep afterward ... when the only one he truly wanted had dwindled to a small burning star on a windy sea. Wherefore Phryne had coldly avoided him. In the bustle of an army that made ready to go, he had found no chance to seek her out and gain back a friendship he missed; there was little privacy in an Eastern palace. He contented himself with making certain she would have an honorable, paid position in the household.
Could I write, he thought, my words would have reached her during these months. But since I lack that great witchcraft, I was only able to make sacrifices, hoping the gods would bring her a dream of me.
He had offered to many powerful gods: Cimberland's Bull, who was also in some way Moon and Sun, and Hertha the Earth Mother, whom they called Cybele down here; even Jupiter and the fork-tongued thunder-snake that Tjorr invoked. He would have given Mithras precedence, that being the favored god of Pontus, but the king explained it was forbidden to call on him unless one had been initiated into his mysteries. And thereafter: "But you can be instructed this winter, when we have come home, and I myself will stand as your sponsor. For our hearts are much alike, Eodan."
The Cimbrian was ready enough to go under the banner of Mithras, who was not only strong but consoling. He had been born of a virgin through the grace of Ahura-Mazda the Good, that all his followers might live in heaven after death—which seemed a better fate than that granted the puzzled quiet shades of the Greeks. Perhaps Mithras could even call Hwicca back from the night wind, though Eodan dared not hope it. The god's midwinter birthday was a cheerful occasion, where men feasted and exchanged gifts. One day, when evil Ahriman rose up for a last onslaught, all those warriors whom Mithras had been guesting in heaven would ride with him to battle.
Eodan thought sometimes that the North might welcome such a god, more humanly brave than the dark, nearly formless wild Powers of earth and sky. But it seemed unsure that he would ever again see the North.
"There, now! Shall we enter in the horseman's manner?"
Eodan looked up, blinking to awareness. The camp was in view, not very far ahead. "Indeed," he said, wondering where the time had gone. It was mid-afternoon. He signaled his trumpeter, and the call rang out, cold and brassy in the gray cold light; the wind made it ragged. But the troopers raised their lances and smote with their spurs. As one, they came a-gallop under streaming flags, through the tents and a burned village to the castle walls.
Eodan jumped to the ground and flung his reins at a groom. The captain of the watch saluted him before the gates. "Let it be known," said Eodan, "that the Cimbrian has returned from Ancyra as ordered and will see the king when the king pleases. May the king live forever!"
After quartering the hostages, he walked toward his own tent. There was much he did not like in Asia, he reflected, and this crawling before the high, in both words and flesh, was not the least. Mithradates deserved respect, yes, but a man was not a dog. Nor was a woman an animal, to be kept for breeding or pleasure alone. A few months of giggling Eastern wenches had shown Eodan how sheer tedium could drive so many men to catamites. He thought of Phryne, born a slave, less chained in her soul than the High Queen of Pontus. It is better in the North, he thought, overwhelmed by his earliest years. They are still free folk on Jutland's moors.
"Master!"
Eodan paused before his tent. Tjorr, who had just left him, returned quickly. A slave bent his knee to him. "Master, the great king would see the Cimbrian at once."
"What?" Eodan looked down at his mail, flowing trousers, spurred boots and flapping red cloak—all dulled with dust. Well, Mithradates was a soldier, too. "I come."
"What might it be?" asked Tjorr, pacing him as he hurried back under the grassy earth wall. "Has something happened?"
"Surely it has," said Eodan, "or the king would allow me a rest and a bite to eat first."
"Maybe a new war has begun somewhere?"
Eodan grinned with a sour humor. "We're not so important, you and I, that we're summoned in person to plan the royal strategy. I think this concerns us—me, at least—alone."
He paused at the castle gate to surrender his longsword. Tjorr scowled unhappily. "I shall wait here," he said. "Perhaps my hammer will fend off bad luck."
Eodan said, with the bleakness of wind and treeless uplands taking him, "I think our luck has already passed these doors and is waiting inside."
He crossed a flagged courtyard, where guardsmen drilled among the lesser buildings. The keep was a gloomy stone hall, sod-roofed and galleried. Beyond its entryroom was a long feasting chamber, where Mithradates had established his court. Fires burning in pits along the rush-strewn dirt floor gave some warmth, though not all their fumes went out the smokeholes. The king had added charcoal braziers and had hung his lamps from captured swords thrust into wooden pillars carved with gods. He sat in the canton chief's high seat, which was shaped like the lap of stag-horned Cernunnos. A robe of Sarmatian sable and African leopard warmed Mithradates' huge frame; his golden chaplet caught the unsure light like a looted halo. Around the room gleamed his unmoving hoplites; a few courtiers and some mustached Gauls huddled at one end, where a boy plucked an unheeded lyre.
Eodan put his helmet under his arm, strode to the king and bowed to one knee—a special favor, granted for his blood of Boierik. "What does My Lord wish from his servant?"
"Stand, Cimbrian." Eodan saw a troubled look on the heavy face. "Today there came an embassy." Mithradates leaned toward a runner who crouched under the secretary's feet. "Bring them in."
Eodan waited. The king said slowly: "You have been welcome at court and camp—not for your knowledge and tales of far places, though they delighted many hours of mine; not for your sword, though it has sung me a gallant song; but for something that is yourself. Whatsoever may happen, Eodan, remember what has been between us. The gods themselves cannot take away the past."
A door at the far end was flung wide. Two came through it.
One was a man in a toga; Eodan could not see his countenance by the dim unrestful light. But even through a long, hooded mantle he would know the shape and gait of the other. His blood pulsed with a quick unreasonable gladness; he forgot himself in the king's presence and ran toward her with his hands outstretched. "Phryne!" he cried. Reaching her, he grasped her by the elbows and looked down into the pale heart-shaped face and said in his lame Greek: "Now I can tell you with your homeland's speech how I have missed you."
"Eodan—" She shivered violently, as if winter had come with her all the way down from the north. "Eodan, my only gift to you is woe."
He raised his eyes, most carefully, and looked upon Gnaeus Valerius Flavius.
Eodan howled. He sprang back, snatching for his sword, but the empty belt mocked him. The Roman lifted an arm. "Ave," he said. His closed-mouth smile creased cheeks grown gaunt; Eodan could see how the bones stood forth in his face.
Eodan remembered the king, motionless on the knees of a conquered god. He choked back his breath; one by one easing muscles that had stiffened to leap at a certain throat, he wheeled and marched to the high seat and prostrated himself thrice.
"Great King whose glory lights the world," he said thickly, returning to the Latin he could best use, "forgive your slave. This Roman slew my wife. Give him to me, lord of all the earth, and I will afterward eat that fire for your amusement if you wish."
Mithradates leaned back. He considered Flavius, who saluted him with no more respect than a high-born Roman was allowed to show any foreign despot. Lastly his glance fell upon Phryne, kissing the floor beside Eodan.
"Who is that?" he asked. Then, with a sudden chuckle of pure pleasure—the laughter of a little boy shown some wholly unawaited novelty—"Why, it is the Greek girl who fled with the two men. This I was not told. Rise, both of you. Woman, explain your arrival here."
Eodan stood up. His jaws were clenched so they ached. He looked across a few feet at Flavius—no, he would not look—he shifted his eyes to Phryne. She stood before the king, her bowed head shielding her face, and said in Greek:
"Merciful Monarch, I am no one, only a slave girl named Phryne, who escaped from Rome with the Cimbrian and is now free by your grace. May the sun never set upon you. As the King has heard, this Roman came to Sinope with armed escort, saying he had a commission to bring back the Cimbrian. When he learned that Your Majesty was being served by the Cimbrian down here, he arranged for horses and rode with Pontine guides—for who would leave a Roman unwatched?—through Paphlagonia and Galatia to find you. It went as a diplomatic party, but its purpose is hostile, that the King may be deprived of the Cimbrian's services. All this I was told through the household. Some of Your Majesty's favor has come down to me; Your Majesty made rich gifts to all our party when we arrived, though I was not summoned to thank you. And then there were my earnings, and some gifts from the parents of children I instructed. With all this I was able to buy a strong eunuch to guard me. The captain of the Pontine escort kindly allowed me, on my plea, to accompany them—"
"Did you have that much money, besides the slave's price?" asked Mithradates dryly.
"I was to give him my eunuch when we reached the King's camp," whispered Phryne.
"And be alone and penniless among soldiers?" Mithradates clicked his tongue. "Cimbrian, you have a loyal friend indeed. I did not believe any woman capable of it."
He leaned forward. "Come here, Phryne. Stand before me." His hand reached out, throwing back her hood, then reaching for her chin to tilt her face up to his. Eodan saw how the blue-back hair had grown in the summer—still too short but softly gathered above a slim neck—yes, she was surely a woman!
"Why was I not told about you before now?" murmured the king.
Flavius said with a tone that gibed at Eodan: "Your Majesty, she would not speak to me all the trip, but when she found herself—as Your Majesty phrased it—alone and penniless among soldiers, with no way into the royal presence, it entertained me, as I hoped it might entertain Your Majesty, to offer her help and protection which she must accept. It was at my expressed desire that she was allowed to wait outside with me." He raised his shoulders and his brows. "Of course, it might have been more amusing to see what she would have tried to gain admittance. A woman is never quite penniless; she has always one commodity—"
Mithradates held Phryne's head, watching the blood and the helpless anger rise in her. Finally he released the girl. "The Flavius misunderstood me," he said. "We shall let you speak your case, Phryne." He nodded toward Eodan. "However, that the Cimbrian may know your mission, Roman, state it first."
Flavius' head lifted, as though on a spear shaft. His tone rang out, with more depth and harshness than Eodan had yet heard from him:
"Your Majesty, this barbarian and his associates are more than runaway slaves. They have murdered free men, even citizens. There is a wise Roman law that orders that if a slave kills his owner, then all the slaves of that owner must die. How else shall free men, and their wives and daughters, be safe?"
"No writ runs here but mine," said Mithradates calmly.
"Your Majesty," pursued Flavius, "the Cimbrian and his allies did still worse. They committed piracy. And that is an offense against the law of all nations."
"I have heard this tale," said Mithradates. "I feel it was more an act of war than of piracy." His teeth gleamed in the same child's delight as before. "But, if you are the very man whom the Cimbrian overcame, tell me your story. What happened on that other vessel?"
"We destroyed his mutineers, Great King, and rowed to Achaea, whence I returned overland as fast as horses would bear me. When the facts of this outrage were laid before the Senate, it was decided that the Cimbrian must be punished, did not Neptune strike him down first? But not until lately did intelligence reach me, who had been given charge of the hunt, that these outlaws had insinuated themselves into Your Majesty's grace. I came at once, to free your majesty of such odious creatures. Now—"
"Enough." Mithradates turned to Phryne. "Well, girl, what is it you wished so badly to say to me?"
She might have fallen at his feet; but she stood before him like a visiting queen. Her tones fell soft: "Great King, I would do no more than plead for the lives of two brave men. My own does not matter."
"For that," said Mithradates, "I shall surely never let you go."
Flavius said with a devouring bitterness: "Your Majesty, the Senate of Rome does not feel this female slave is of great importance, nor even the Alanic barbarian. It is not recommended to Your Majesty that you leave them alive, but I feel the King will soon discover that for himself. However, the Cimbrian, ringleader and evil genius of them all, must be done away with. We would prefer he die in Rome, but otherwise he must die here. I have already presented Your Majesty with the written consular decree of the Republic. May I say to the Great King, in the friendliest spirit, knowing that a word to the wise is sufficient—should I return with this decree unfulfilled, the Senate may be forced to reckon it a cause for war."
"You bid me surrender a guest, who has fought well for me to boot," Mithradates said gravely. And then, with an imp's grin: "Also, I doubt the reality of your threat. If the Cimbri were all like this one, Europe must still be too shaken to go adventuring in the East. Ten years hence, perhaps ... but no one would hazard so rich a province as Pergamum just to capture a man. I have read your official documents, Flavius, and they convey nothing but a strong request."
"Great King, it was never my intention to threaten," answered the Roman with a smooth quickness. "Forgive clumsy words. We are blunt folk in the Republic. But of course the King understands that the Senate and the people of Rome will welcome so vital a token of a most powerful and splendid monarch's good will toward them. I am authorized to make a small material symbol of the state's gratitude, to the amount of—"
"I have seen what the bribe would be," said Mithradates. "We shall discuss all this at leisure tonight." His gaze flickering between Eodan and Flavius, he chuckled deeply. "There will be a feast at which you two old friends may reminisce. In the meantime, I forbid violence between you. Now I have work to do. You may go."
Eodan backed out, taking Phryne's arm at the door. "Come to my tent," he said. "You should not have been so reckless as to travel hither."
"I would not hold back from you even the littlest help," she whispered. She caught at his cloak, and her tone became shrill. "Eodan, will he give you up to them?"
"I hardly think so," said the Cimbrian. Bitterness swelled in his throat. "But neither will he give Flavius up to me!"
They started across the courtyard, and the wind snatched at their mantles. Eodan looked back and saw Flavius emerging from the keep.
"Wait," he said to Phryne. "There are things I would talk about that no one else has a right to hear."
"You will disappoint the king," she said in an acrid voice. "He is looking forward to the subtlest gladiatorial contest."
Eodan strode from her. Flavius wrapped his toga more closely against the cold bluster of the air. He smiled, raising his brows, and stood waiting; his dark curly hair fluttered. But somehow no youth or merriment were left in him.
"Will you be kind enough to assault me?" he asked.
"I am not a fool," grunted Eodan.
"No, not in such respects.... Since your life hangs now on the king's pleasure, you will heel to his lightest whim like any well-trained dog." Flavius spoke quietly, choosing each word beforehand. "Thus it is seen—he who is born to be a slave will always be a slave."
Eodan held onto his soul with both hands. At last he got out: "I will meet you somewhere beyond the power of both Rome and Pontus."
Flavius skinned his teeth in a grin. "Your destruction is more important to me than the dubious pleasures of single combat."
"You are afraid, then," said Eodan. "You only fight women."
Flavius clenched his free hand. His whittled face congealed, he said in a flat voice: "I cannot help but smite those women whom you forever make your shields. Now it is a Greek slave girl. How many more have you crawled behind, even before you debauched my wife?"
"I went through a door that stood unbarred to all," fleered Eodan.
"Like unto like. Will it console you to know, Cimbrian, that she has divorced me? For she grows great with no child of mine, a brat I would surely drown were it dropped in my house."
Eodan felt a dull pleasure. This was no decent way to hurt an enemy, yet what other way did he have? "So now your hopes for the consulate are broken," he said. "That much service have I done Rome."
"Not so," Flavius told him. "For I allowed the divorce in an amicable way, not raising the charges of adultery I might. Thus her father is grateful to me." He nodded. "There are troublous years coming. The plebs riot and the patricians fall out with each other. I shall rise high enough in the confusion so that I will have power to proscribe your bastard."
It had never occurred to Eodan before, to think about the by-blow of his women. He had set Hwicca's Othrik upon his knee and named him heir, but otherwise—Now, far down under the seething in him, he knew a tenderness. He could find no good reason for it; there was a Power here. He would have chanced Mithradates' wrath and broken the neck of Flavius, merely to save an unborn child, little and lonely in the dark, whom he would never see. But no, those guardsmen drilling beneath the walls would seize him before he finished the task.
He asked in a sort of wonder: "Is this why you pursue me?"
"I bear the commission of the Republic."
"The king spoke truly—they are not that interested in one man. This decree is a gesture to please you, belike through your father-in-law. You are the one who has made it his life's work to destroy me."
"Well, then, if you wish, I am revenging Cordelia," said Flavius. His eyes shifted with a curious unease.
"I spared you at Arausio. And what was Cordelia to you, ever?"
"So now you call up the past and whine for your life."
"Oh, no," said Eodan softly. "I thank all the high gods that we meet again. For you killed my Hwicca."
"Idid?" cried Flavius. His skin was chalky. "Now the gods would shatter you, did they exist!"
"Your sword struck her down," said Eodan.
"After you flung her upon it!" shrieked Flavius. "You are her murderer and none but you! I have heard enough of your filth!"
He whirled and almost ran. Phryne, small and solitary at the gate, flinched aside from him. He vanished.
Eodan stood for a while staring after the Roman. It came to him finally, like a voice from elsewhere: So that is why he must hate me. He also loved Hwicca, in his own way. Indeed the soul of man is a forest at night.
He thought coldly, It is well. Now I can be certain that Flavius will never depart my track until one of us has died.
Phryne joined him as he left. As they went mutely from the castle, Tjorr rushed up to them. "There are Romans come!" he bawled. "A dozen Roman soldiers in camp.... I'd swear I saw Flavius himself go by.... Phryne!Youare here!"
"Have you any further information?" asked the girl sweetly.
They walked toward Eodan's tent, and she explained to the Alan what had happened. Tjorr gripped his hammer. "By the thunder," he said, "it was well done of you! But what help did you think you could give us?"
"I did not know," she answered unsteadily, "nor am I certain yet. A word, perhaps ... one more voice to plead, with a flattering abasement impossible to Eodan ... or some scheme—I could not stay away."
Tjorr looked at the Cimbrian's unheeding back. "Be not angry with him if he shows you cold thanks," he said. "There has been a blackness in him of late, and this cannot have lightened it."
"He has already rewarded me beyond measure," she said, "by the way he greeted me."
They entered the tent. Eodan slumped on a heap of skins and wrapped solitude about himself. After some low-voiced talk with Phryne, it occurred to Tjorr to take her out and show her to his and Eodan's personal guards, grooms and other attendants. "She is not to be insulted. Obey her as you would obey me. Any who behaves otherwise, I'll break his head. D'you hear?"
When they came back it was approaching sunset. Eodan was sitting before a small pile of silks, linens and ornaments. "A slave brought these for you, Phryne," he said. "The king commands your presence at his feast."
"The king!" She stared bewildered. "What would the king with me?"
"Be not afraid," said Eodan. "He is only cruel to his enemies."
Tjorr's eyes glittered. "But this is wonderful!" he cried. "Girl, your fortune may be made! I'll get a female to help you dress—"
When she had gone he muttered, "She did not appear overly glad of the king's favor."
"She is too frightened on our behalf," said Eodan.
"Do you think she has good reason to fear?"
"I do not know—nor care, if I can only lay hands on Flavius."
As twilight fell, an escort of torchbearers came to bring them to the castle. Entering the feasting hall, Eodan saw it aglow with lamps. Some attempt to make it worthy of the king was shown by plundered robes strewn on the floor; musicians stood in the murk under the god-pillars and caterwauled. It was no large banquet Mithradates gave this night—couches for a score of his officers, with Eodan on his right and Tjorr beyond him, Flavius on the left. Cimbrian and Alan wore Persian dress, to defy the plain white tunic of the Roman. The rest clad their Anatolian bodies in Greek style, save that the king had thrown a purple robe over his wide shoulders.
Eodan greeted Mithradates and the nobles as always, and reclined himself stiffly. The king helped himself to fruit from a crystal bowl. "Never before has this place known such an assembly of the great," he declared with sardonic sententiousness. "And yet our chief guest has not been summoned."
"Who might that be, Lord of the World?" asked a Pontine.
"It is not our custom that women dine with men," said Mithradates. "We feel it a corruption of older and manlier ways." That was a malicious dart at Flavius, thought Eodan. "Yet all you nobles would consider it no insult to guest a queen; and many philosophers assure us that royalty is a matter of the spirit rather than of birth."
"Though the Great King shows that when spirit and birth unite, royalty comes near godhood," said an officer with practiced readiness.
"I am therefore pleased to present to you all a veritable Atalanta—or an Amazon princess—or even an Athena, wise as well as valiant. Let Phryne of Hellas stand forth!"
She walked from the inner door, urged by a chamberlain. Her garb was dazzling—long lustrous gown and flowing silken mantle, her hair and throat and arms a barbaric blaze of finery. It came as a wrenching in Eodan that she should look so unhappy. She advanced with downcast eyes and prostrated herself.
"No—up, up!" boomed Mithradates. "The King would have you share his place."
Eodan heard a muffled snicker at the table's end. Blood beat thickly in his temples; what right had some Asiatic to laugh at a Greek? His eyes ranged in search of the man, to deal with him later. By the time he looked back, Phryne had reclined beside Mithradates on the royal couch.
"Know," said the ruler in his customary Greek, "she spent her last wealth and risked life, freedom and honor to journey here from Sinope that she might plead the case of her comrades. And before then she had shared the perils of flight from Rome and battle at sea—and she is learned enough to instruct the children of noblemen. Therefore I say a queen's heart lies behind those fair breasts, and it shall have a queen's honor. Drink, Phryne!"
He took up his huge silver chalice and gave it to her with his own hands. A low, envious gasp sighed down the length of the table.
Phryne lifted her decorous veil to put the cup at her lips. "Ha, ha!" shouted Mithradates. "See, she is beautiful as well! Let the feast begin!"
It was no banquet at all, compared to the least meal in Sinope—little more than a roast ox and several kinds of fowl, stuffed with rice and olives. No acrobats or trained women being available, some young Gauls offered a perilous sword dance, and a Phrygian wizard showed such tricks as releasing doves from an empty box. Thus Tjorr enjoyed it better than any he had attended before; his guffaws rang between the guardsmen's shields until even Flavius had to smile a little. Eodan hardly noticed what passed his eyes and teeth; he was too aware of the Roman.
When the meal was at last over, an expectant silence fell. Mithradates leaned toward Flavius. "Your account of your adventures was ungraciously curt today," he said smiling. "Now we would hear more fully. You can be no ordinary man, who so endangered the Cimbrian."
"Your Majesty flatters me," said Flavius. "I am a most ordinary Roman."
"Then you flatter your state. Though you belittled it earlier, in contending that one man might be so great a danger to it."
"Would not Your Majesty alone be the greatest danger to us, were we so unfortunate as to lose your good will?"
"Ha! Let it not be said your race makes poor courtiers. Your compliments are only less polished than the orations in which you describe your own bluffness." Mithradates drained his chalice and set it down; at once a slave refilled it. His gaze went from Flavius to Eodan and Tjorr, and back to Phryne. "Surely there is a purpose here," he mused. "Lives are not often so entangled. I must take care to reach a decision that will accord with the will of the Most High."
Eodan sat up. "My Lord," he said raggedly, "give weapons to us two, or our bare hands, and watch who heaven favors!"
Mithradates murmured thoughtfully: "I have heard you speak of yourself, Eodan, as a man whom the gods hate."
"For once he spoke truth, Your Majesty," said Flavius. "It would be an impiety if—if I, at least, suffered him to live."
"Would you meet him in single combat, then?" asked Mithradates.
"It is an uncouth German custom, Your Majesty," said Flavius. "It is not worthy of a civilized man."
"You have not answered my question."
"Well ... I would meet him, Great King, if there were no better way."
Eodan sprang to his feet. "At once!" he yelled.
"Give me my hammer, and I'll take care of his following!" said Tjorr.
Phryne sat up on the couch. "No!" she gasped.
"Back!" cried Mithradates. His face was flushed with the wine; he drained a second cup in three gulps. "Back, lie down—I cannot have this. You are both my guests!"
The room grew very quiet, until only the crackling fires and the heavy breathing of men had voice. And outside the wind prowled under the walls.
"This may not be," said the king finally. "I am a civilized man, too. Let the world be sure I am no barbarian. We shall settle this dispute by reason and principle. Hear me and obey!"
"The King has spoken," came whispers from around the long room.
"These people sought my roof," said Mithradates, "and it was granted them to stay. They are under my protection."
"The hospitality of Your Majesty is known throughout the world," said Flavius. "But no guest may remain forever. Dismiss them from your presence, Great Lord, and I will wait for them outside your borders."
"You have not yet given me a reason to send them away," Mithradates told him.
"Your Majesty," said Flavius, becoming grave, "I have charged them with revolt, murder, theft and piracy. They are foes of civilization itself, and the Roman state is certain that all civilized men will recognize that fact. Let me tell the King a tale.
"At their request, the Cimbri sent an embassy to Rome while they were still in Gaul. Their terms were refused, of course—should we allow wild men within our borders?—but they were shown about the city. Has the King heard what they thought most wonderful? The feed bags on dray-horses! It is truth I tell. They could not take their eyes off; they laughed like children. They were also shown that Grecian statue called the Shepherd, which the King has surely heard is one of our greatest treasures, the image of an old man with all the tragedy and dignity of age upon him. The wondered why anyone had troubled to picture a slave so old and lame as to be worthless!"
Flavius leaned forward, gesturing, his orator's voice filling the hall with richness and warmth. "Great King, beyond our realms are the barbarians, the howling folk without law or knowledge. We have thrilled at your exploits when you broke the Scythians; there you served Rome, Your Majesty, even as Rome served Pontus on the Raudian plain. Our fore-fathers were not the same, Great King: yours were Persian shahs and mine were Latin freeholders. But the same mother bore us—Hellas—and we honor her alike." He pointed at Eodan. "There he sits—the enemy—who would stable his horses in the Parthenon and kindle a fire with Homer. It is more that I hunt than this one barbarian, O Protector of the Greeks. It is barbarism itself."
Stillness fell again. Mithradates drained another cup. Eodan crouched, waiting for he knew not what. The king looked at him. "What have you to say to that?" he asked.
Eodan thought dimly, I might play upon his honor, as Flavius did on his pride. I daresay he would allow me to remain in Pontus the rest of my life, did I show him a scar or two won in his service. But I am a Cimbrian.
He said heavily, in his rough Greek: "I ask no more than the rights of a man, My Lord."
"A barbarian is not a man!" snarled Flavius.
Mithradates shifted the weight on his elbow till he stared down at Phryne. "Well," he said, "we have one pure Hellene here. What does she think?"
"A Greekling slave!" exclaimed Flavius. "The King jests. He knows a slave is even less a person than a barbarian."
Phryne sat up and flung at him: "You were a better man's slave after Arausio. You needed the whole Roman army to make him yours in turn. Must we raise ancestors from Hades? Well, then, where were yours when mine fought at Salamis?"
Mithradates put on a frown. "Minewere in Persian ships," he said.
"Yet now you are called the protector of the Greeks," she answered promptly. He grinned. "Great King, who deserved better of you—the man who freed even one little Greek, or the man whose people laid Corinth waste?"
"I cannot believe you are at feud with all the gods, Eodan," said Mithradates. "At least one must love you, to send you so fair an advocate."
He sprawled lionlike, turning his maned head toward Flavius. "These people are still of my household," he said. "Let no man do them harm. The King has spoken."
Eodan's heart lifted, however somberly, as Flavius bent his stiff neck. "I hear and obey, Your Majesty," he mumbled.
"Well," said Mithradates, his solemnity leaping to become genial, "remain a while. Accompany us back to Sinope. There is much I would ask of you, and you shall not go home empty-handed. Now fill all flagons and drink with me!"
Phryne stared at Eodan a moment. Then her face sank into her hands.
"But what is the matter?" said the King. "You have won your cause, girl."
"Forgive me, Lord. That is why I weep."
"Come, drink of my cup. Those eyes are too beautiful to redden."
She accepted, shakily. Tjorr plucked at Eodan's sleeve. "We seem to've escaped that snare," he muttered. "Now we'll have to devise one for Flavius."
Eodan glanced across at the Roman, who was shaking in rage but somehow achieving mannered discourse with a Pontine officer. "Hm. Perhaps the King will let me pursue him when he departs.... No, I fear not, it would be an open act of war. It may be I shall have to wait until there is actual war with Rome." His fingers strained crooked upon the cushions. "Give it be otherwise!"
"Make not too free with such wishes," cautioned Tjorr. "They are often granted, in ways we mortals did not look for."
Eodan drank deep, as it was one means of easing the hate and the hurt within himself. He saw Flavius do likewise. Mithradates was in conversation with Phryne; none dared interrupt him. Eodan drifted about, playing some pachisi with one man—he played badly tonight—and talking of cavalry tactics with another. Time went.
He heard Mithradates at last, when the deep voice crashed through all the babble around: "Come with me now."
He swung about, suddenly cold. The king was standing up. Phryne had risen, too; her hands were lifted, and behind her thin veil he saw horror.
"What does My Lord mean?" she said, almost wildly.
Mithradates threw back his head and bellowed laughter. "You cannot be that much a maiden," he whooped. "They only raise them like that in Asia, for a novelty."
She sank to her knees, so that his bulk loomed up in shadow and she was only a little heap of gaily colored clothes before him. "Great King, I am not worthy," she stammered.
"What the skulls and bones is this?" muttered Tjorr at Eodan's ear. "Her luck has found her and she won't go with it!"
The Cimbrian's gaze swept the hall. Most of the court was too drunk to heed the byplay; a few watched with lickerish interest. Flavius stood under a pillar, grinning.
Truly, thought Eodan in the darkness of his head, some god had rewarded Phryne. A royal concubine was rich and honored; it was by no means impossible to become a royal wife; and Mithradates, they said, was man enough to satisfy all his harem. The Cimbrian took a step forward, feeling his skin prickle. He grew aware that his hand felt after a sword he did not have.
Phryne, huddled at the king's feet, looked sideways. Her look met Eodan's; it was black with ruin. He glided toward her, hardly knowing what he did. Phryne shook her head at him, and he jerked to a halt. O Bull of the Cimbri, what Power used his limbs tonight?
"You have shown yourself well worthy," said Mithradates on an impatient note. "Rise and come."
Perhaps only Eodan saw her lips tighten. She beat her head on the floor. "Lord, forgive your slave. The Moon forbids me."
"Oh. Oh, indeed." Mithradates stepped back, a primitive unease on his face. "You should have told me that earlier."
"I was too bedazzled by My Lord," she said. Her regained wit bespoke some resolution taken. Eodan wondered with a chill what it had been.
"Well ... rise." Mithradates stooped for her hand and pulled her up as if she were weightless. She stood trembling before him. "A week hence, my tent will be decked with kings' robes for you," he said. "In the meantime, you shall have a tent and servants of your own, and ride in the Tetrarch's litter."
"Great King," she whispered—had Eodan not been close, he would not have heard it—"if your handmaiden should in any way be displeasing to you ... should somehow wrong Her Lord ... you will not hold it the fault of her friends? They knew nothing of me save that I waited in Sinope to do the King's will, even as they wish only to do it."
"Indeed," said Mithradates roughly. "I am no fool. And have I not raised my shield above them?" He clapped his hands. "Let the chamberlain see to her well-being. Find me a couple of Gallic girls for tonight."
Phryne went past Eodan. She threw him only the quickest of glances, but never had he seen a look more lonely. The hurried whisper drifted to him: "Do not be troubled on my account. I do what is best. Make your own way in the world."
He stared after her. The Power drained from him, he felt tired and empty. He heard Tjorr rumble answer to Mithradates: "No, Lord, I'm sure she's not one of these women who hate the touch of men, even if she has stayed maiden uncommonly late. Haw! On the contrary, Lord, the man she likes will have enough to do!"
"I thought so myself," said Mithradates. "It is a good omen, that she was kept for me alone."
It went through Eodan like a sickness—they dared speak thus of his oath-sister! He would have challenged the king himself if—if—An exile ate bitter bread. He had only changed one slavery for another.