He lay listening to himself blow across the earth, in darkness, in
darkness, with the unrestful slain Cimbri rushing through the sky
behind him. He searched all these evil plains for Phryne; the whole
night became his search for Phryne's ghost. There were many skulls
strewn in the long dead grasses, for this land was very old. But none
of them was hers, and none of them could tell him anything of her;
they only gave him back his own empty whistling. He searched further,
up over the Caucasus glaciers and then down to a sea that roared under
his lash, until finally he came riding past a bloody-breasted hound,
through sounding caves to the gates of hell; hoofs rang hollow as he
circled hell, calling Phryne's name, but there was no answer. Though
he shook his spear beneath black walls, no one stirred, no one spoke,
even the echoes died. So he knew that hell was dead, it had long ago
been deserted; and he rode back to the upper world feeling loneliness
horrible within him. And centuries had passed while he was gone. It
was spring again. He rode by the grave mound of a warrior named Eodan,
which stood out on the edge of the world where the wind was forever
blowing; and on the sheltered side he saw a little coltsfoot bloom, the
first flower of spring.
Then he rested with gladness. The earth turned beneath him; he heard
its cold creaking among a blaze of stars. Winter came again, and
summer, and winter once more, unendingly. But he had seen a coltsfoot
growing....
"There is light enough now."
Eodan opened his eyes. The gale had slackened, he saw. The air felt a
little warmer, and the wind had a wet smell to it. Southward, the world
was altogether murk. It must be snowing there, he thought dreamily. The
wind would bring the snow here before evening. Strange that the first
snow this year should come from the south. But then, perhaps the land
climbed more slowly than the eye could see ... yes, surely it did, for
he had heard that the Taurus Mountains lay in that direction.
"The Mountains of the Bull," he said. "It may be an omen."
"What do you mean?" Tjorr was a blocky shadow in the wan half-light,
squatting with a loaf of bread in his hands.
"We must cross the Mountains of the Bull to reach Parthia."
"If we live that long," grunted the Alan. He ripped off a chunk of
bread, touched it with his hammer and threw it out into the dark.
Perhaps some god or sprite or whatever lived here would accept the
sacrifice.
"That is uncertain," agreed Eodan. He shivered and rolled out of his
blanket. "Best we be on our way. The enemy will start at sunrise."
Tjorr regarded him carefully. "You are a man again," he said. "A
mortal, I mean. You are no more beyond hope, and thus not beyond the
fear of losing that hope. What happened?"
"Phryne lives," said Eodan.
Tjorr reached for a leather wine bottle and poured out a sizable
libation. "I would name the god this is for, if you will tell me who
sent you that vision," he said.
"I do not know," said Eodan. "It might have been only myself. But I
thought of Phryne, who is wise and has too much life in her to yield
it up needlessly. She would have known that one Pontine soldier, on a
single jaded horse, would invite a race between robbers and Romans. But
who heeds a wandering Phrygian, some workless shepherd?" He laughed
aloud, softly. "Do you understand? She stopped that man we saw--at
arrow point, I would guess--and made him lay down all his garments. She
could make her wish clear by gestures. Doubtless she flung him a coin;
I remember how he held something near his heart. When he had fled, she
rode on until her horse was too tired to be of use. Then she buried her
archer's outfit, taking merely the bow and a knife, I suppose, and went
on afoot."
Tjorr whooped. "Do you think so? Aye, aye--it must be! Well, let's
saddle our nags and catch her!" He ran after his own hobbled animal.
When he had brought it back, he looked at Eodan for a moment in a very
curious way.
"I am not so sure the witch-power I felt last night has left you,
_disa_," he murmured. "Or that it ever will."
"I have no arts of the mage," snapped Eodan. "I only think."
"I have a feeling that to think is a witchcraft mightier than all
others. Will you remember old Tjorr when they begin to sacrifice to
you?"
"You prattle like a baby. To horse!"
They moved briskly through the quickening light, Eodan ripping
wolfishly at a sausage as he rode. Now Flavius was going forth to hunt.
The Cimbrian would need strength this day.
The brown grass whispered; here and there a leafless bush clawed in
an agony of wind. Mile after mile the sun, hidden by low-flying gray,
touched the Axylon, until finally Eodan and Tjorr rode in the full
great circle of the horizon. A hunter could see far in this land.
They spied a sheep flock, larger than most, but spent no time on its
watchers. Phryne would be able to see at a distance, too; the need was
to come within eye-range of her. Close beyond, Eodan discerned what
must be the home of the owner or tenant or whoever dwelt here. It was
better than usual, being not of mud, but was still only a small stone
house--windowless, surely with just one room, blowing smoke from a
flat sod roof. There were a couple of rude little outbuildings, also
of moss-chinked boulders, and some haystacks. Nothing else broke the
emptiness, and nothing moved but a half-savage dog. The women and
children must be huddled terrified behind their door as the gleaming
mail-coats rode by. Eodan felt a sudden hurt; it was so strange to him
he had to think a while before he recognized it--yes, pity. How many
human lives, throughout the boundless earth and time, were merely such
a squalid desolation?
A king, he thought, was rightfully more than power. He should be law.
Yes, and a bringer of all goodly arts; a just man, who tamed wild folk
more with his law than his spear--though he was also the one who taught
them how to make war when war was needed--so far as the jealous gods
allowed, a king should be freedom.
And afterward, he thought wryly, when the king was dead, the people
would bring back all the reeking past in his now holy name. But no, not
quite all of it. Doubtless men slid back two steps for every three they
made; nevertheless, that third step endured, and it was the king's.
Phryne could show me how, he thought.
As if in answer, he saw the little figure rise from the bush where it
had lain concealed. Dwarfed by hundreds of yards, she came running in
her Phrygian goatskin and rags; but Eodan's gray horse hammered those
yards away, and he leaped from the saddle and caught her to him.
She held him close, weeping on his cold steel coat. "It was not what I
wanted, that you should come. It was not what I wanted."
"It was what I wanted," he said. He raised her chin until he could
smile down into her violet eyes. "I will hear no reproaches. Enough
that I found you."
"I shall never run from you again," she said. "Where you make your
home, there shall Hellas be."
Hoofs clumped at their backs. Tjorr coughed. "Uh-hm! The enemy is on
his way, with hounds and remounts. And we've only two beasts. Best we
flee while we can."