"What is the Roman consul's name?" went on Flavius. "Not Catulus, whom
you beat at the Adige, but the new one they say has been given supreme
command."
"Marius."
"Ah, so. Gaius Marius, I am sure. I have met him. A plebeian, a
demagogue, a self-righteous and always angry creature who actually
boasts of knowing no Greek ... indeed. His one lonely virtue is that he
is a fiend of a soldier."
Flavius had murmured his remark in Latin. The Cimbric, the speech
of barbarians, could not have been used to say it. Eodan followed
him without much trouble; he had had Flavius teach him enough Latin
for everyday use, looking forward to the day when he dealt with many
Italian underlings.
Eodan said, "In my baggage cart you will find my chest of armor. Polish
the helmet and breastplate. I would look my best tomorrow." He paused
at the wagon. "And do not sit close to here."
Flavius chuckled. "Ah--I see what you have in mind. You are to be
envied. I know all Aristotle's criteria of beauty, but you sleep with
them!"
Eodan kicked at him, not very angrily. The Roman laughed, dodged and
slipped off into darkness. Eodan stared after him for a little, then
heard him strike up a merry melodious whistling.
It was the same air Gnaeus Valerius Flavius had been singing at Arausio
in Gaul, to hearten his fellow captives. That was after the Cimbri had
utterly smashed two consular armies, while Boierik was sacrificing all
the prisoners and booty to the river god. Ha, but the hag-wagon had
stunk of blood! Eodan had been a little sickened, as one helpless man
after another went to be hanged, speared, cut open and brains dashed
out--the river had been choked with the dead. He had heard Flavius
singing. He did not know Latin then, but he had guessed from the kind
of laughter (the Romans had laughed, waiting to be murdered!) that the
words were bawdy. On an impulse he had bought Flavius from the river
for a cow and calf. Later he had learned that he now owned a Roman of
the equestrian class, educated in Athens, possessor of rich estates and
tall ambitions, serving in the army as every wellborn Roman must.
Eodan went up two steps and drew aside the curtain in his doorway. This
was a chief's wandering home, drawn by four span of oxen, walled and
roofed against the rain.
"What is that?" The low woman-voice was taut. He heard her move in the
dark wagon body, among his racked weapons.
"I," he said. "Only I."
"Oh--" Hwicca groped to the door. The dim light picked out her
face--broad, snub-nosed, a little freckled, the mouth wide and soft,
the eyes like summer heavens. Her yellow hair fell so thickly past the
strong shoulders that he could hardly see her crouched body.
"Oh, Eodan, I was afraid."
Her hands felt cold, touching his. "Of a few Romans?" he asked.
"Of what could happen to you tomorrow," she whispered. "And even to
Othrik.... I thought you would not come at all tonight."
His arm slipped down under the wheaten mane, across her bare back, and
he kissed her with a gentleness he had never had for other women. It
was not only that she was his wife and had borne his son. Surely it was
not that she also came of a high Cimbrian house. But when he saw her it
was like a springtime within him, a Jutland spring in lost years when
the Maiden drove forth garlanded under blossoming hawthorns; and he
knew that being a man was more than mere war-readiness.
"I went out to look at things," he told her, "and spoke with some men
and with Flavius."
"So.... I fell asleep, waiting. I did not hear. Flavius sang me a song
to make me sleep when I could not ... he had first made me laugh, too."
Hwicca smiled. "He promised to bring me some of these flowers they
have--roses, he calls them--"
"That is enough of Flavius!" snapped Eodan. May the wind run off with
that Roman, he thought, the way he bewitches all women. I come back and
the first thing I hear from my wife is how wonderful Flavius is.
Hwicca cocked her head. "Do you know," she murmured, "I think you are
jealous? As if you had any reason!"
She withdrew. He followed, awkwardly taking off his clothes in the
black, cramped space. He heard Hwicca go to Othrik, the small, milky
wonder who would one day sit in _his_ high seat, and draw a skin over
the curled-up form. He waited on their own straw. Presently her arms
found him.