He drained his cup.
Phryne sat very still for a while. The wind mourned about the house,
wailed in the portico and rubbed leafless branches together. Another
rain-burst pelted the roof.
"Well!" said Eodan at last, "Enough of that, little Greek. I should
not have said anything, but for the wine, eh, and this leg feels as if
there were wolves at it." The arrogance slipped from him and she looked
into eyes hurt and helpless, which begged her to leave him his last
rags of pride. "You will not speak of what I said?"
"I swear so," she answered.
He regarded her for a very long while. Finally he nodded. "I think I
can believe that," he said.
Steps sounded on the brick floor. Phryne stood up, folding her hands
before her and casting duly meek eyes downward. Eodan remained as he
was, his gaze challenging those who entered. They were the major-domo
and Mistress Cordelia.
The major-domo, an Illyrian grown fat and bald in his own
self-importance till he could imagine nothing more than accounts and
ordering other slaves about, said: "Here the Cimbrian is, I am told, my
mistress. I shall call porters and have him carried back down to his
barracks."
Cordelia said: "Wait. I told you I would like to speak with this bull
wrestler."
Phryne raised her eyes, suddenly afraid for Eodan. He was so proud,
too much so for his own good. Slaves whom the dealer failed to break
inwardly, so that they let him chain their spirits as well as their
hands, might sometimes rise high and even regain freedom; but they were
more likely to end on a cross or in the arena. And Eodan was drunk
and--O sea-born Cyprian--he was looking at his owner's wife as he had
looked at her!
"You are a bold man," said Cordelia.
Eodan nodded.
She laughed. "And not overburdened with modesty," she went on. "Do not
tell me we have another of these barbarian kings!"
Eodan replied: "If you are Flavius' wife, then we have your husband's
one-time owner."
Phryne's heart seemed to crash to a halt. She stood for a brief space
feeling blood drain from her. Now the gods would have their revenge,
when a man bore his head so high.
Cordelia stepped back. For a moment she flushed.
She was a tall woman of Etruscan stock, perhaps descended from Tarquin
himself and some jewel of Tarquin's harem. Thirty years old, she had
the fullness of body that would turn to fat in another decade but was
as yet only superb. A silken dress violated every sumptuary law the
Republic had ever passed to emphasize hip and bosom, insolently. Her
hair was thick, its black copper-tinged, her face curve-nosed and
heavy-lipped, her eyes like southern nights. She had the taste to wear
only one ornament, a massive silver bracelet.
The major-domo turned red and gobbled his indignation. Cordelia glanced
at him, back at Eodan, then suddenly she laughed aloud.
"So this is what he looks like! And my husband, who has wearied Roman
dinners this half a year with his stories of the Cimbri, did not bring
you to show off!"
She paused, looked closely into Eodan's face--their eyes met like
swords--and murmured, "But I see why."
Phryne leaned against the wall; she did not think her knees would hold
her unaided. Now they were on a well-marked path; she knew what came
next. The final fate of Eodan was hidden--it could be gay or gruesome,
but this part of the way was mapped.
Young Perseus had entered the Gorgon's lair and come back alive.
She wondered why she felt like weeping.