"The oath-ring on which I was wedded must have been cast into bangles
for some Roman whore," he said bitterly. "However, I shall swear anyway
to lay no hand upon you, as a man does on a woman, unless you ask it
yourself. And I do not expect you will."
"Why--"
"I would like you to think you had one friend to trust," he blurted.
And he did not know why he had made such an offer, unless it was that
his memories of Hwicca had begun to shriek again.
"I will take your oath," she whispered.
Suddenly she fled. He heard her weeping in the dark. At such times most
folk would liefer be alone. He went on into the villa, heavily.
Cordelia was sitting in the atrium, lamplight glowing on her; she was a
roundedness of shadow and rich highlights. She was toying with a loom,
because it was fashionable still for Roman matrons to pretend they
were housewives. Outside, among the white pillars of the portico, a
boy-slave from Sicily was singing and playing an illegal lyre. His high
clear tones were so lovely it had been decided he should always keep
them.