“I believe you are at feud with all the gods, Eodan,” said Mithradates. “At least one must love you, to send you so fair an advocate.”
He sprawled lionlike, turning his maned head toward Flavius. “These people are still of my household,” he said. “Let no man do them harm. The King has spoken.”
Eodan’s heart lifted, however somberly, as Flavius bent his stiff neck. “I hear and obey, Your Majesty,” he mumbled.
“Well,” said Mithradates, his solemnity leaping to become genial, “remain a while. Accompany us back to Sinope. There is much I would ask of you, and you shall not go home empty-handed. Now fill all flagons and drink with me!”
Phryne stared at Eodan a moment. Then her face sank into her hands.
“But what is the matter?” said the King. “You have won your cause, girl.”
“Forgive me, Lord. That is why I weep.”
“Come, drink of my cup. Those eyes are too beautiful to redden.”
She accepted, shakily. Tjorr plucked at Eodan’s sleeve. “We seem to’ve escaped that snare,” he muttered. “Now we’ll have to devise one for Flavius.”
Eodan glanced across at the Roman, who was shaking in rage but somehow achieving mannered discourse with a Pontine officer. “Hm. Perhaps the King will let me pursue him when he departs … No, fear not, it would be an open act of war. It may be shall have to wait until there is actual war with Rome.” His fingers strained crooked upon the cushions. “Give it be otherwise!”
“Make not too free with such wishes,” cautioned Tjorr. “They are often granted, in ways we mortals did not look for.”
Eodan drank deep, as it was one means of easing the hate and the hurt within himself. He saw Flavius do likewise. Mithradates was in conversation with Phryne; none dared interrupt him. Eodan drifted about, playing some pachisi with one man ― he played badly tonight ― and talking of cavalry tactics with another. Time went.
He heard Mithradates at last, when the deep voice crashed through all the babble around: “Come with me now.”
He swung about, suddenly cold. The king was standing up. Phryne had risen, too; her hands were lifted, and behind her thin veil he saw horror.
“What does My Lord mean?” she said, almost wildly.
Mithradates threw back his head and bellowed laughter. “You cannot be that much a maiden,” he whooped. “They only raise them like that in Asia, for a novelty.”
She sank to her knees, so that his bulk loomed up in shadow and she was only a little heap of gaily colored clothes before him. “Great King, I am not worthy,” she stammered.
“What the skulls and bones is this?” muttered Tjorr at Eodan’s ear. “Her luck has found her and she won’t go with it!”
The Cimbrian’s gaze swept the hall. Most of the court was too drunk to heed the byplay; a few watched with lickerish interest. Flavius stood under a pillar, grinning.
Truly, thought Eodan in the darkness of his head, some god had rewarded Phryne. A royal concubine was rich and honored; it was by no means impossible to become a royal wife; and Mithradates, they said, was man enough to satisfy all his harem. The Cimbrian took a step forward, feeling his skin prickle. He grew aware that his hand felt after a sword he did not have.
Phryne, huddled at the king’s feet, looked sideways. Her look met Eodan’s; it was black with ruin. He glided toward her, hardly knowing what he did. Phryne shook her head at him, and he jerked to a halt. O Bull of the Cimbri, what Power used his limbs tonight?
“You have shown yourself well worthy,” said Mithradates on an impatient note. “Rise and come.”
Perhaps only Eodan saw her lips tighten. She beat her head on the floor. “Lord, forgive your slave. The Moon forbids me.”
“Oh. Oh, indeed.” Mithradates stepped back, a primitive unease on his face. “You should have told me that earlier.”
“I was too bedazzled by My Lord,” she said. Her regained wit bespoke some resolution taken. Eodan wondered with a chill what it had been.
“Well… rise.” Mithradates stooped for her hand and pulled her up as if she were weightless. She stood trembling before him. “A week hence, my tent will be decked with kings’ robes for you,” he said. “In the meantime, you shall have a tent and servants of your own, and ride in the Tetrarch’s litter.”
“Great King,” she whispered ― had Eodan not been close, he would not have heard it―”if your handmaiden should in any way be displeasing to you … should somehow wrong Her Lord … you will not hold it the fault of her friends? They knew nothing of me save that I waited in Sinope to do the King’s will, even as they wish only to do it.”
“Indeed,” said Mithradates roughly. “I am no fool. And have I not raised my shield above them?” He clapped his hands. “Let the chamberlain see to her well-being. Find me a couple of Gallic girls for tonight.”
Phryne went past Eodan. She threw him only the quickest of glances, but never had he seen a look more lonely. The hurried whisper drifted to him: “Do not be troubled on my account. I do what is best. Make your own way in the world.”
He stared after her. The Power drained from him, he felt tired and empty. He heard Tjorr rumble answer to Mithradates: “No, Lord, I’m sure she’s not one of these women who hate the touch of men, even if she has stayed maiden uncommonly late. Haw! On the contrary, Lord, the man she likes will have enough to do!”
“I thought so myself,” said Mithradates. “It is a good omen, that she was kept for me alone.”
It went through Eodan like a sickness ― they dared speak thus of his oath-sister! He would have challenged the king himself if ― if ― An exile ate bitter bread. He had only changed one slavery for another.
XVIII
In the morning, after a few dark hours of wakefulness or nightmare ― he was unsure which ― Eodan rose to take up his officer’s duties. The Pontines would start home at dawn the next day; though the army itself could have struck camp in an hour, its train of plunder, captives and tribute was something else. Eodan was glad enough to lose himself in a whirl of horses. Now and then he glimpsed the Romans, fully armed before their little resting place ― no more than a decury, and yet they had crossed half Asia to make a demand upon the king in his host. It came to him, even in his anger, that he was honored to have one child who would be Roman.
This day was also cold and blustering. Dust flew about his boots, up into his eyes and nose and gullet; the clash of iron and brass had a somehow wintry sound. Up over the Axylon bulked monstrous blue-black clouds with rain or snow in their bellies, but the earth remained mummy-dry. Tent canvas cracked in the wind.
About mid-morning Eodan saw a royal runner weave between the mules whose roundup he was overseeing. He thought nothing of it until the boy plucked at his foot. Then he looked down from the saddle and heard: “Master Captain, the king commands your instant attendance.”
“I hear and obey,” said Eodan’s training. He snapped an order to a younger horseman to continue the task and trotted through the scurry of the camp. Inwardly he felt a tightening. What would the ruler want of him now?
When he yielded his sword he felt wholly alone. He had not even a mail-coat today, only dirt-streaked tunic and breeches in the Persian manner, a plumed helmet to mark his rank. The guards at the gate squinted against wind and dust, making their faces somehow inhuman. Eodan crossed the courtyard and entered the keep.
The hall was nearly empty; one never thought of the rigid troopers around the walls, of the secretary with tablet and stylus or the runners crouched at his feet. Mithradates paced before a fire-pit, where flame welled up. He himself was Persian clad; a ruby upon his brow gleamed like a red third eye. He wore a dagger at his hip; from time to time he half drew it and then snicked it back into the sheath as though into an enemy’s heart.