And he was afraid, but not of that madness, only of what might come from it. His lips found hers. The kiss was deep and desperate: drowning-deep, and he never wanted to come up for air. At last, he had to. He trailed more kisses along the angle of her jaw, the side of her neck, the lobe of her ear, her fluttering eyelids. When his lips touched her cheek, he tasted tears, but she clung to him as if her ship had sunk and he were the only floating spar.
She still might have fled. When he cupped the round fullness of her breast through her tunic, he thought for a moment she would, even if her firm nipple thrust against the soft wool of the chiton. But then, with what might have been laugh or sob or both commingled, she clung to him more fiercely than ever. They kissed again. Baukis moaned, down deep in her throat.
Menedemos led her back to the shadowed wall where he’d waited. Some things, even the silent moon should not see. Baukis bent forward. “Oh,” she said softly when he went into her. He set his hands on her hips, just where they swelled from her narrow waist. She looked back over her shoulder at him. “Hurry!”
Menedemos also knew he had to be quick, and did his best. But as much as he wanted to hurry, he wanted to please Baukis more. If he didn’t, after waiting so long… The irony there was too cruel to contemplate. As his pleasure mounted and his breath came short, he listened anxiously to make sure hers did, too. Then a small mewling cry burst from her lips. She quivered, inside and out. Menedemos groaned as he spent himself.
Baukis pulled away from him and straightened. Her hiked-up chiton fell down around her ankles once more. “Darling,” Menedemos said, quickly setting his own tunic to rights. He kissed her again. “I do love you.”
“Yes.” Baukis sounded as if she’d only half heard him. Her thoughts were elsewhere. “I’ll go in first, and I won’t bar the door. If you don’t hear a commotion, you’ll know your father-my husband-is still asleep.” She gulped. He wondered if she would start to cry. Guilt filled some women after they were unfaithful; the innkeeper’s wife Sostratos had known in Ioudaia was of that sort. But Baukis gathered herself, finishing, “And the slaves, too, of course.”
“And the slaves,” Menedemos echoed. “We’ll have to act as though nothing’s happened in the morning, you know.”
She dipped her head. “Oh, yes. I’ll remember. Don’t you forget.”
That was probably-no, certainly-good advice. Menedemos knew how much his father tried him. The temptation to fling this in Philodemos’ face might grow overwhelming. He would have to hold it down. From the very first, he’d seen this could be death between them if it ever came to pass. Now it had, and now the secret had to stay a secret forever.
He kissed Baukis once more. She clung to him for a moment, then twisted free. “I’m going. If there’s any trouble, I’ll try to let you know. I-” She stopped. Had she been about to say, 1 love you? He never knew. She squared her shoulders and, almost as if marching into battle, went into the house.
Menedemos waited, there in the shadows. He cocked his head to one side, anxiously listening. All he heard were an owl and, off in the distance, a last hymn to Hera that suddenly stopped as the woman singing it found her way home. No sound of any sort came from inside the house.
He waited a little longer all the same. Then, as quietly as he could, he went to the door. He opened it, slid inside, and closed it behind him. When he reached for the bar, he made sure he took firm hold of it and didn’t drop it as he set it in the brackets: the clatter would have roused the whole household. He breathed a silent sigh of relief after setting it in place.
At the edge of the courtyard, he paused again to listen. Everything was quiet but for a horrible rasping snore coming from Sikon’s room. Sleeping on his back, Menedemos thought. Whenever the cook rolled over, he sounded like a sawmill.
Quickly, Menedemos crossed the courtyard, tiptoed upstairs, and ducked into his own room. He barred his door as carefully as he had the one to the house. Then he lay down, stared at the ceiling as he had earlier in the night, and let out a long sigh. “I did it,” he murmured. “I really did it.”
That wasn’t pride talking. He didn’t quite know what it was. Guilt? Shame? Some of those, more than he’d expected. Adultery for adultery’s sake was losing its appeal. But what had passed between Baukis and him was more than adultery for adultery’s sake, and what he felt had little to do with pride. Even though guilt and shame were mixed into it, they were only part-and a small part at that-of what crashed through him like storm waves. Up till now, he’d never made love with a woman with whom he was in love. All at once, he fully understood why the passion was so powerful, so dangerous. The only thing he could think of was making love to Baukis again.
I can’t do that, he realized, and the knowledge burned like a viper’s venom. The next time Baukis made love, she would lie in his father’s arms. The mere idea filled Menedemos with fury. He’d long known that, if he was to lie with his father’s wife, that could make Philodemos want to kill him. He’d never dreamt lying with Baukis might make him want to kill his father.
I can’t do that, either, he thought. Part of him wished he’d stayed here alone in his room the whole night long. The rest, though… The rest wanted, yearned for, craved, more of Baukis than he could get from a quick coupling in darkest shadow. He wanted… He wanted to yawn, and did, enormously.
Next thing he knew, the morning sun was streaming through that east-facing window. He yawned once more, and stretched, and got out of bed. Had last night been real? Memory flooded back. It had! He put on his chiton and went out into the courtyard, intent on getting some breakfast.
His father was already there, talking with one of the house slaves. “Good day,” the older man said when Menedemos emerged. “I wondered if you’d sleep the sun around and only come out at night, like an owl.”
“Hail, Father,” was all Menedemos said in reply. He glanced at the sun. It had risen almost three hours earlier, or he missed his guess.
Philodemos’ eyes went the same way. “Don’t tell me you were playing games with Sostratos all night long,” Menedemos’ father said. “He’s not in the habit of staying up so late. You went prowling for women afterwards, didn’t you? You must have found one, too, eh?”
A southbound crane flew by overhead. Menedemos watched it without saying anything. It was a straggler; most of its kind had gone south nearly a month before.
With an exasperated sigh, Philodemos asked, “Did you bring scandal down on our house? Will some angry husband lurk in the street outside, waiting for the chance to stick a knife in you?”
Still watching the crane, Menedemos tossed his head. “No, Father. You don’t have to worry about that.” True. You wouldn’t need to lurk in the street if you decided to knife me.
“You must have found some slut, then, a wench who’s as sunk in vice as you are,” Philodemos growled.
Rage and horror filled Menedemos. You fool! You’re talking about your own wife! One more thing he couldn’t-mustn’t-say. This felt like something out of a tragedy. And was Baukis listening, up there in the women’s quarters? How could she be doing anything else? What sort of fight would she have to make now, just to hold her face straight?
“By the dog of Egypt, son, what am I going to do with you?” Philodemos said.
Menedemos only shrugged. “I don’t know, Father. If you’ll excuse me…” He hurried off to the kitchen, where he got a couple of barley rolls, some olive oil, and a cup of watered wine for breakfast. He watered it less than he might have; Sikon, who was kneading dough for the day’s baking, leered at him. Menedemos ignored the cook. He made a point of ignoring him: made it so obviously, Sikon couldn’t keep from laughing.