Flavius clicked his tongue, but turned the chariot down toward the waterfront. There was just enough light, from the city and the pharos in the outer harbor, for Eodan to see a world of ships. Their spars hemmed in the sky. Many of them were lit by torch or firepot, so that slaves could continue loading. Such was the galley they sought.
It was, indeed, neither large nor beautiful. It was battered, in need of paint, reeking of tar and slavery. The small bronze figurehead was so corroded you could not tell what it had been intended to depict. Ten ports on a side showed where the oars would emerge; through them came a sound of chains and animal sleep. Phryne gagged at the smell. A line of near-naked dock workers moved up and down a gangplank, bearing cases to be stowed in the hold, while an overseer and an armed guard watched. There was also a stout, dark, bearded man with a rolling gait who came up, gave a bear’s bow and said he was Demetrios, captain of this vessel. He had not been expecting his distinguished passengers yet.
“Take us to our cabin,” said Flavius. “We would sleep a few hours before you leave.”
“The noise, master,” said the captain. “You would not sleep at all, I fear.”
Eodan looked wildly about. He had not thought of this … if the Demetrios man grew suspicious ― what to do, what to do?
Flavius winked and jerked his thumb at Hwicca and Phryne. “I should not have said ‘sleep,’ captain.”
“Oh,” said Demetrios enviously. “Of course.”
They went up on deck. There was a high poop, where the great steering oar was lashed; the stem-post curled up over it like a flaunting tail. The forecastle stood somewhat lower, bearing a rough tent erected for the officers. The free deck-hands would bed in the open, as always. Amidships rose the single mast, with a flimsy cabin just aft where Flavius’ attendants laid down his gear. A lamp showed it windowless, though crannies let in ample cold air, and bare save for a little wooden sea-god nailed to his shelf.
Demetrios bowed in the doorway. “Good night, then, noble master,” he said. “I hope we’ll get a pleasant voyage.” Flavius smiled graciously. “I am sure we will.”
IX
Well, Now!” said the Roman when they sat behind a closed door. He stretched himself across one of the mattresses, boylike on his belly, and reached for a leather bottle of good wine. His grin leaped at the others. “Thus far, my friends, well done. Shall we pledge our mutual success?”
Eodan opened his cloak and let the sword slide to his knees. His left arm was stiff and pained from holding the blade pressed to his ribs, hours at a time. He looked with sullen red eyes at his enemy and said: “No. I will pledge your ghost in your own blood, nothing else.”
Phryne hugged her knees and stared from a drawn small face. “It is best that Flavius not leave this cabin all the voyage,” she said. “He can plead seasickness. Two of us must be with him at any time, awake.”
“Oh, one will do,” said Eodan. His jaws felt rusty. “At least, if the other two are here, asleep but ready to be called.”
“Bind him,” said Hwicca timidly.
Flavius raised his brows. “If a sailor should chance to look in upon us and saw me bound―” he murmured.
“It is true.” Eodan’s head drooped. He jerked it back again. “Be as wise in our behalf as you have been, Roman, and you will see Rome again.”
Flavius poured himself a cup. “Do you think so?” he asked lightly. “I doubt that.”
“I have promised.”
“How much will your word be worth to you, once we reach a wild land where you have no further need of me for shield?” Flavius’ eyes rested candidly on Hwicca, above the rim of his cup. A slow, deep flush went up her throat and cheeks. She drew herself into a corner, away from them all, but her gaze remained locked with his.
“Not that I expect us ever to get that far,” went on Flavius. “Your luck has been good until now―”
“A Power has been with me,” said Eodan, and touched his forehead where the holy triskele lay under a grimy cloth.
“So you may think. But what educated man can take seriously those overgrown children on Olympus?” The Roman nodded at Hwicca. “We spoke of this now and then, you and I. Do you remember? There was a time you gathered jasmine blossoms―”
“Be still about that or I will forget my word!” roared Eodan in the Cimbric. Hwicca huddled back and lifted an arm, as though to ward off a blow.
“As you wish,” said Flavius, unruffled. “To continue―” A crash outside, and the sound of swearing and a whip, interrupted him―”I myself do not believe in any Power except chance. There are blind moieties of matter, obeying blind laws; only the idiot hand of chance keeps each cycle of centuries from being the same. Now it is very possible, by chance, to throw the same number at dice several times sequentially. It is not possible forever, my friend. I think you have thrown about as many good numbers as any man in the world ever did. Soon your luck must turn. You shall be found out through some happenstance. You will then try to kill me. One way or another, we shall all die. You and Phryne and Hwicca and myself, all dead ― mold in our mouths and our eye sockets empty.” Flavius tossed off his wine and poured another cup. “It is inevitable.”
Eodan snarled, out of a chill, dreary foreboding, “If you say more such unlucky words, I will ― no, not kill you ― each such word will cost you a tooth. Now hold your mouth!”
Flavius shrugged gracefully. Phryne closed her eyes. Beneath the booming and the voices on deck, there was silence.
Finally Eodan turned to his wife. She would not meet his look. When he took her hand, it lay slack on his palm.
“Hwicca,” he said, burred Cimbric low and unsure in his throat. “Pay him no heed. We shall be free.”
“Yes,” she said, so he could scarcely hear it.
“That ‘yes’ was not meant,” he told her. His heart lay a lump in his breast.
She said in a torn voice: “There is no freedom from that which was.”
“Little Othrik,” said Eodan. He looked at his wife’s hand and remembered how his son’s baby fingers had curled about his thumb. He shook his head and smiled. “No ― him we shall always mourn.… But it would be worse if we sailed off leaving him to grow up a Roman’s beaten beast. You could not have done otherwise. There will come more children to us, and some of them will die of this or that; so it has ever been. But some will live, Hwicca.”
She shook her head, still averting herself. “I am dishonored.”
“Not so!” he said harshly. “If you would―” He glanced at Flavius, who raised brows and smiled. Then he put his lips by Hwicca’s ear to breathe: “I gave him no true oath. We can sacrifice him in Gaul; that will remove all stain from you.”
“No!” She cried it aloud, pulling free of him. The face he looked upon was filled with terror.
“As you like,” he floundered. “Whatever you wish. But remember, I am your husband. It is for me to say if you are guilty, and I say you are not.”
“Let me alone,” she pleaded. “Let me alone.”
Eodan sat listening to her dry sobs. He hefted his sword, dully thinking about its use. He had never fought with such a weapon; the Cimbrian blades were for hewing, and this was for stabbing.…
Phryne crept over the narrow space and touched his arm. “Wait,” she whispered. He saw a helpless look in her eyes, as if she sat watching a child being burned out by fever. “Give her time, Eodan. I know not what the Cimbrian law is ― I suppose your women were chaste ― it means more to her, what has happened, than you can know.”
“I do not understand,” he said. “There is some witchcraft here. I do not understand her any longer.”