"Oh," purred Hwicca. "One of those."
He said in a rage, "You learned too much filth in Rome. I'll speak to
you again when you have curbed your tongue."
He left her staring after him and went forward. "Heat me some water!"
he barked. The cook, a deckhand told off to this task among all others,
gave him a surly glance and obeyed. Eodan crouched by the hearth with
a mirror and scraped the stubble off his face. He cut himself several
times.
When he walked aft again, he saw that Flavius had come from the
forecastle and stood where he himself had been, talking to Hwicca. Her
face was bent from Eodan, but he saw woe in her twining hands. The
Roman did not smile this time; he spoke gravely.
Eodan clapped a wild hand to his sword haft. By all the hounds on
hellroad! No. It was beneath him. If she chose to betray him with a
greasy Southlander, let her--and wolves eat them both.
When he looked again he saw that Hwicca had gone back inside. Flavius
stood looking out to sea. The eagle face was unreadable; then it
firmed and his fist struck the rail. Thereupon Flavius went quickly to
the poop, where Quintus of Saguntum squatted on standby duty with a
red-streaked back. Those two fell into talk.
The day passed. There were many ships. Now and again a man asked the
captain if they should not take one. Eodan dismissed the question with
scorn--this galley was armed, that one in plain sight of two others....
The man would go off muttering. Tjorr said nothing, but took the
carpenter's tools and worked on a boarding plank.
Toward sundown, Phryne, who had spent the day making herself a
dress from some man-garments--no easy task with only a sail-maker's
equipment--came to get her food. She found Eodan standing alone,
chewing a heel of bread and watching two or three crewmen whisper
beneath the mast. "We must be far from land now," she remarked.