He handed her back the cup, still mute. “All of it?” she laughed. “But I wanted to share it with you. As a pledge of friendship. Now we must pour another.”
Her thigh brushed his as she turned. He gulped for air. “Come,” she said, took his hand and led him to the couch.
The flask gurgled as she poured from it. “My husband was wrong to set a king to work in his fields,” she went on. “For I will not believe you were anything less than a king of your people. Perhaps we two can reach a better understanding ― for a while… “ She looked up at him, slantwise. “It will depend on you, largely.” She lifted the beaker again. “To our tomorrows. May they be better than our yesterdays.”
They drank in turn. She sat down and drew him beside her. “I have tried and tried to pronounce that barbarous name of yours,” she said. “I will give you another. Hercules? Perhaps!”
Suddenly her mouth was hot upon his.
She stood up, breathing heavily. “I meant to eat first,” she said, quick slurred words through curling sweet smoke. “It would be leisurely, civilized, with much fine play. But that would be wrong with you, I see that now.” She reached out her arms. “Take off your tunic. Take off my gown. Let us keep the Floralia.”
Much later, when the wine and the food were gone, the lamps burned out and the first thin gray creeping into the eastern sky, she ruffled his hair and smiled sleepily. “I will surely call you Hercules.”
V
After festival time, the latifundium went back into harness. Up in the villa there was the measured pace of days ― housework, garden work, much dawdling until some overseer went by, backbiting gossip, petty intrigues for women and position, sometimes after dark a furtive Asiatic ritual of magic or mystery. A womanish world. Eodan considered himself well out of it.
But riding through the fields, where the sun and the whip blistered a hundred naked backs and all a man’s dreams finally narrowed to the day’s hoeing and the night’s shackled sleep, Eodan wondered with a chill how he had remained himself even for those few months he served. Winter had helped ― days on end where he sat idle with the others, dozing, cracking fleas, once or twice knocking a tooth out of someone who offered him loathsome consolations… Nevertheless, he searched himself as no Cimbrian had done before and knew that his servile time had indeed touched him. He went more warily through life, slowly learning how to guard his words. He would never again live wholly in the moment’s joy; he would always be thinking beyond ― where would the next attack come from, or how should he himself attack?
Even when Cordelia taught him some new pleasure ― and she had given her life to such arts ― a part of him wondered how long this would endure. For the rest, however, it had been a good month, or whatever time had passed. He had the name of bodyguard, though only the surly Nubian was allowed to bear weapons. He accompanied her on impulsive journeys about the countryside, organized hunts in the forests for her to watch, matched himself in athletic exhibitions with the brawnier slaves from this and surrounding farms. A few times she even sent him on errands of two or three days, as to a town to arrange for certain supplies. He thought of using the chance to escape ― but no, he knew too little of Italy; they would snare him and tie him up to die. Wait a little longer, make careful plans, or even win freedom for himself and Hwicca within this Roman world. It was not impossible, given patience…. Meanwhile, aloneness with a blooded horse, among hazy hills and through woods where only dryads and charcoal burners dwelt, was a gift to him, almost like being free again.
Now he was coming back from such a trip. He rode at an easy mile-eating pace, soothed by hoof-plop and saddle-squeak, the breeze in his face amid the clean summery odor of his mount. He was richly clad; his tunic, cloak, and boots were of simple cut and muted color, but he liked the sensuous fabrics. His hair fluttered in the light wind, and he sat straight as a lancer; and, when he saw the villa itself, dark against a sky turning pink and gold with sunset, he was close to letting out a Cimbrian whoop. After all ― Cordelia! He checked the noise and merely grinned instead, but he set the horse to a gallop, and they came ringing and snorting into the rear courtyard.
“Hoy-ah!” Eodan jumped to the flagstones, tossed his reins at a stableboy and strode quickly toward the garden gate. The shortest way to the atrium was through the roses.
As he passed into their fragrance, he stopped. Phryne was alone between the walls, gathering a few early blooms. A great cloud of hot bronze lifted far, dizzyingly far above her head; the sky beyond it was taking on the color of her eyes.
“Hail,” he said.
She straightened herself. The plain white stola fell in severe folds, but could not hide a deerlike grace. She had not Cordelia’s opulence, and she barely reached to his heart; yet it came to him that he had never thought of her as boyish, nor as just a little bit of a thing.
Her face, all soft curves and a few pert, nearly rakish angles, stiffened. She turned as if to go, but resolve came back; she continued her work, ignoring him.
He did not know why, unless was that his small journey had given certain unseen chain-galls time to heal, but he went toward her and said, “Phryne, if I have wronged you, how can mend it unless you tell me what did?”
Her back was turned, her head bent. Under the softly piled black hair, he saw that her nape was still almost childish. Somehow that filled him with tenderness. She said, so low he could scarcely hear it, “You have not harmed me.”
“Then why have you circled so wide of me? You never answered when I greeted you in passing. You have said me no word in weeks.”
Her voice rose a little but shook: “Well, some women may be glad of your pawing. I was not!”
Eodan felt himself flush, as deeply as the western sky. He responded clumsily, “Why have you given me no chance to say what I meant? It was wrong of me to ― to kiss you. I ask your pardon. But I was driven; there was a Power in that place ― and did I hurt you so much?”
Then she looked up at him and said in a tone heavy with unshed tears: “It was chiefly yourself you harmed.”
Eodan looked away. For a moment he trod from her, up and down a graveled path that mumbled beneath his feet. The bronze cloud cooled toward newly blown roses. In the west, just above the crumbling vine-covered wall, he could see a green streak, unutterably clear. Somewhere a cow lowed; otherwise it was very quiet.
Eodan said at last, slowly, word by word, as he hammered its shape within himself: “I understand. But you do not understand me. They say you are still a maiden. Well, you have called a curse on me for doing something of which you have no knowledge.”
Phryne’s fingers clenched about a rose stalk. The thorns bit. She stared at the bright blood drops, wiped them on her gown in a blind fashion and said through unfirm lips: “Perhaps it is true. I thought one thing of you. When you did something else, that is how you hurt me. But perhaps I have indeed not understood.”
“I am not wont to speak of these matters,” he told her, with effort. “Among the Cimbri, it was not so ― so twisted together. Wives did not betray their husbands. Husbands ― well ― a man is otherwise than a woman. He has other needs. I was driven by the Powers of earth; the Bull was within me that day, Phryne. And more than that ― Can you understand how it felt to hear you tell what has ― has become of my wife, the mother of my son, whom she killed to keep him free? Can you understand how I would turn for any ― what is the word? ― any comfort that you could give ― or anyone could ― Do you see?” he pleaded, facing her with his hands outspread.