Or it might be a certain aloneness. Phryne had not understood ― maybe no woman could understand ― how a man was driven to one after another, by the ruthless force of the Bull, merely so that he could sleep afterward … when the only one he truly wanted had dwindled to a small burning star on a windy sea. Wherefore Phryne had coldly avoided him. In the bustle of an army that made ready to go, he had found no chance to seek her out and gain back a friendship he missed; there was little privacy in an Eastern palace. He contented himself with making certain she would have an honorable, paid position in the household.
Could I write, he thought, my words would have reached her during these months. But since I lack that great witchcraft, I was only able to make sacrifices, hoping the gods would bring her a dream of me.
He had offered to many powerful gods: Cimberland’s Bull, who was also in some way Moon and Sun, and Hertha the Earth Mother, whom they called Cybele down here; even Jupiter and the fork-tongued thunder-snake that Tjorr invoked. He would have given Mithras precedence, that being the favored god of Pontus, but the king explained it was forbidden to call on him unless one had been initiated into his mysteries. And thereafter: “But you can be instructed this winter, when we have come home, and I myself will stand as your sponsor. For our hearts are much alike, Eodan.”
The Cimbrian was ready enough to go under the banner of Mithras, who was not only strong but consoling. He had been born of a virgin through the grace of Ahura-Mazda the Good, that all his followers might live in heaven after death ― which seemed a better fate than that granted the puzzled quiet shades of the Greeks. Perhaps Mithras could even call Hwicca back from the night wind, though Eodan dared not hope it. The god’s midwinter birthday was a cheerful occasion, where men feasted and exchanged gifts. One day, when evil Ahriman rose up for a last onslaught, all those warriors whom Mithras had been guesting in heaven would ride with him to battle.
Eodan thought sometimes that the North might welcome such a god, more humanly brave than the dark, nearly formless wild Powers of earth and sky. But it seemed unsure that he would ever again see the North.
“There, now! Shall we enter in the horseman’s manner?”
Eodan looked up, blinking to awareness. The camp was in view, not very far ahead. “Indeed,” he said, wondering where the time had gone. It was mid-afternoon. He signaled his trumpeter, and the call rang out, cold and brassy in the gray cold light; the wind made it ragged. But the troopers raised their lances and smote with their spurs. As one, they came a-gallop under streaming flags, through the tents and a burned village to the castle walls.
Eodan jumped to the ground and flung his reins at a groom. The captain of the watch saluted him before the gates. “Let it be known,” said Eodan, “that the Cimbrian has returned from Ancyra as ordered and will see the king when the king pleases. May the king live forever!”
After quartering the hostages, he walked toward his own tent. There was much he did not like in Asia, he reflected, and this crawling before the high, in both words and flesh, was not the least. Mithradates deserved respect, yes, but a man was not a dog. Nor was a woman an animal, to be kept for breeding or pleasure alone. A few months of giggling Eastern wenches had shown Eodan how sheer tedium could drive so many men to catamites. He thought of Phryne, born a slave, less chained in her soul than the High Queen of Pontus. It is better in the North, he thought, overwhelmed by his earliest years. They are still free folk on Jutland’s moors.
“Master!”
Eodan paused before his tent. Tjorr, who had just left him, returned quickly. A slave bent his knee to him. “Master, the great king would see the Cimbrian at once.”
“What?” Eodan looked down at his mail, flowing trousers, spurred boots and flapping red cloak ― all dulled with dust. Well, Mithradates was a soldier, too. “I come.”
“What might it be?” asked Tjorr, pacing him as he hurried back under the grassy earth wall. “Has something happened?”
“Surely it has,” said Eodan, “or the king would allow me a rest and a bite to eat first.”
“Maybe a new war has begun somewhere?”
Eodan grinned with a sour humor. “We’re not so important, you and I, that we’re summoned in person to plan the royal strategy. I think this concerns us ― me, at least ― alone.”
He paused at the castle gate to surrender his longsword. Tjorr scowled unhappily. “I shall wait here,” he said. “Perhaps my hammer will fend off bad luck.”
Eodan said, with the bleakness of wind and treeless uplands taking him, “I think our luck has already passed these doors and is waiting inside.”
He crossed a flagged courtyard, where guardsmen drilled among the lesser buildings. The keep was a gloomy stone hall, sod-roofed and galleried. Beyond its entryroom was a long feasting chamber, where Mithradates had established his court. Fires burning in pits along the rush-strewn dirt floor gave some warmth, though not all their fumes went out the smokeholes. The king had added charcoal braziers and had hung his lamps from captured swords thrust into wooden pillars carved with gods. He sat in the canton chief’s high seat, which was shaped like the lap of stag-horned Cernunnos. A robe of Sarmatian sable and African leopard warmed Mithradates’ huge frame; his golden chaplet caught the unsure light like a looted halo. Around the room gleamed his unmoving hoplites; a few courtiers and some mustached Gauls huddled at one end, where a boy plucked an unheeded lyre.
Eodan put his helmet under his arm, strode to the king and bowed to one knee ― a special favor, granted for his blood of Boierik. “What does My Lord wish from his servant?”
“Stand, Cimbrian.” Eodan saw a troubled look on the heavy face. “Today there came an embassy.” Mithradates leaned toward a runner who crouched under the secretary’s feet. “Bring them in.”
Eodan waited. The king said slowly: “You have been welcome at court and camp ― not for your knowledge and tales of far places, though they delighted many hours of mine; not for your sword, though it has sung me a gallant song; but for something that is yourself. Whatsoever may happen, Eodan, remember what has been between us. The gods themselves cannot take away the past.”
A door at the far end was flung wide. Two came through it.
One was a man in a toga; Eodan could not see his countenance by the dim unrestful light. But even through a long, hooded mantle he would know the shape and gait of the other. His blood pulsed with a quick unreasonable gladness; he forgot himself in the king’s presence and ran toward her with his hands outstretched. “Phryne!” he cried. Reaching her, he grasped her by the elbows and looked down into the pale heart-shaped face and said in his lame Greek: “Now I can tell you with your homeland’s speech how I have missed you.”
“Eodan―” She shivered violently, as if winter had come with her all the way down from the north. “Eodan, my only gift to you is woe.”
He raised his eyes, most carefully, and looked upon Gnaeus Valerius Flavius.
Eodan howled. He sprang back, snatching for his sword, but the empty belt mocked him. The Roman lifted an arm. “Ave,” he said. His closed-mouth smile creased cheeks grown gaunt; Eodan could see how the bones stood forth in his face.
Eodan remembered the king, motionless on the knees of a conquered god. He choked back his breath; one by one easing muscles that had stiffened to leap at a certain throat, he wheeled and marched to the high seat and prostrated himself thrice.
“Great King whose glory lights the world,” he said thickly, returning to the Latin he could best use, “forgive your slave. This Roman slew my wife. Give him to me, lord of all the earth, and I will afterward eat that fire for your amusement if you wish.”