The Golden Slave (25 page)

“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.

Eodan advanced until he caught the royal glance and made his usual obeisance.

“Down on your face, barbarian!” roared Mithradates.

That was no moment to haggle about pride. Eodan threw himself flat. “How have I offended My Lord?” The upsurge of his own wrath came to him as a shock. He had thought this man was his friend.

“Where is the woman Phryne?” the voice thundered over his head.

Eodan leaped to his feet. “Is she gone?’ he shouted.

“I gave you no command to rise,” growled Mithradates.

“Is she gone?” yelled the Cimbrian again, out of a feeling that fire had touched him.

Mithradates stared at him for a long while. Slowly, the king’s visage softened. “Then you do not know?” he asked quietly.

“By my father’s ghost, Lord, I swear I do not.”

“Hear, then. Her maids entered her tent this morning to help her arise. She was not there. The eunuch on guard says he knows nothing. I believe him, though he shall still drink poison for his stupidity, and be pardoned only if my new antidote saves him. There was a hole in the tent, at the rear; she must have slashed it with a knife among her possessions. When word of this finally came to me, I had inquiries made. An under-groom of your own, Cimbrian, says she came to him in the night, demanding horses, clothing, arms and food, and rode off. He says he had received orders to give her whatever she wished without question.”

“That is true, Great King, but―I never thought―I never―Why would she have gone, whose destiny had just blossomed?”

“And into the Axylon! She was last seen riding south on the road into the Axylon!”

“Surely there is witchcraft here,” said Eodan. “She never showed any sign of madness, Lord. An evil spirit must have seized her, or some spell―”

Inwardly, coldly, his mind raced and dodged, like a hare with wolves behind. He did not know what might haunt these dreary plains; perhaps she was indeed harried out by a troll. He was thinly surprised that he did not cower at the thought, as once he would have done, but wished only to find that creature and sink iron into it. Yet maybe she had done this of her own will, for some reason unknown to him. He found it hard to imagine his cool Phryne, who knew what the stars were made of, seized by some misshapen Phrygian shadow; or was it just that he dared not imagine it?

Whatever the truth, he wanted to go after her himself. No yapping Asiatics would carry her back in ropes to the king’s bed. It was not meet!

Eodan’s green gaze narrowed upon Mithradates. He saw the terrors of a thousand generations, who had muttered in dark huts and brewed magic against a world they peopled with demons, flit over the lion-face. Let him dissect as many criminals and cast as many learned horoscopes as he wished; Mithradates remained only half a Greek.

“They deal in black arts here,” said the king. His finger traced a sign against evil, the Cross of Light that stood on the banners of Mithras. “I’ll hale the wizard we saw up onto a rack before this hour is out.”

A scheme sprang into Eodan’s head. His heart leaped with it.

“Or the Romans?” he said.

“What? No, their law forbids magic.”

“I have seen much Roman law broken by Romans, Great Master. Also, this may not be sorcery after all; it may be some trick of theirs.”

Mithradates whirled on a runner. “Bring me the Flavius,” he rapped.

Thereafter he paced, up and down, up and down; the only noise being his boots thudding, the fire that hissed in the pits and the wind whining outside. There was much smoke in the hall today; it stung tears from Eodan’s eyes.

He thought back to the night before … how small she had been, under the tower which was the king … and why had she been so afraid that his displeasure with her might be visited on her comrades? When the king tired of a concubine, even if she had only been with him one night, he did not rage about it. He always had enough women. He gave her to some noble, as a special mark of favor, and of course the noble would never be anything but gentle toward such a token. Usually he made her his chief wife. So Phryne’s luck had come golden to roost on her shoulder, by the mere fact of a royal command to bed.

Yet she had looked upon Eodan with desolation. And she had thrown him a final furtive word, not to trouble himself about her, for she would do what was best.

He thought, stiffening: It was so little to her liking, to enter a harem, that she rode forth alone. Out there is a land of wolf, bear, lynx and herdsmen wilder than they; south are Lycaonia and Parthia, where a woman is also only an animal. If she is not slain along the way, there will come a time when she must turn her dagger against herself.

Flavius entered. “Hail, King of the East,” he said. He saw Eodan and stopped. The Cimbrian remained unmoving.

Flavius bit his lip. Then: “How may I serve Your Majesty?”

“You can tell me what you know of Phryne’s vanishing,” spat Mithradates.

“What?” Flavius took a step backward. His eyes flickered to Eodan, then returned―and suddenly a faint smile quivered upon his mouth.

“I know nothing, Lord,” he murmured. “Yet I would venture that she fled in the night?”

“It is so told,” Mithradates answered. “Is this any work of yours?’

“Of course not, Great King! I suggest―”

“He
says
it was not caused by him,” snapped Eodan. “Yet My Master knows he was never a friend to me or mine. Nor is Rome itself a friend of Pontus. What better way to harm us all at one blow?’

Flavius looked at Mithradates, who rumbled like a beast in the arena. Then, slowly, the Roman’s ruddy-brown eyes sought Eodan’s, held them and would not let go. “This was your plan to strike at me, was it not?” he murmured.

“I know nothing of it!” shouted Eodan. “I only know―”

Flavius shook his head, smiling. “Cimbrian, Cimbrian, you have laid down your natural weapons and tried a womanish trick. You will gain no victory with it. There is never any luck in demeaning oneself.”

Eodan sought for words, but he found only a black mist of his rage and fear. And of his shame―that he should have tried to use Phryne’s plight as a dagger in a Roman back. Yes, he thought, shaken, I have called down evil upon myself and now I must somehow endure what comes.

Flavius turned back to Mithradates. He flung out speech as crisp as though to an army: “Great King, you are insulted by so clumsy an attempt at dividing me from your royal favor. Is it not likelier that this man, who knows the girl―we have only his word and hers that she is even a maiden―this man plotted with her to flee? Surely she had more chance to conspire with him and his friend than me; the caravan master who brought us here from Sinope will testify that she shunned me the whole trip, whereas she was in Eodan’s tent yesterday afternoon. And would she go out into that desert with no hope of succor? Would she not assure herself of an accomplice, a captain who could ride out from the army whenever and wherever he wished―to bring her food, protection, ultimately to smuggle her back?”

Mithradates hunched his thick frame. His knuckles stood forth white on the knife hilt; he glared with three red eyes at Eodan and hawked out: “What have you to say?”

“That I serve the King and this Roman does not,” answered the Cimbrian frantically.

He felt himself driven back by Flavius’ marching phrases: “Protector of the East, there is a simple explanation for what has occurred. Rather, there are two. First, the barbarian and the Greekling feared what would happen when you, their master, learned she had lied to you and was only the leavings of a runaway slave. Thus he sent her out and will try to lead her back in the wake of the army; she may live with him, disguised, in Sinope itself; or conceivably he lured her forth with some such promise, murdered and buried her. Second, it is possible that he himself speaks truth for once, and it was her decision alone to flee. Like unto like―she, a slave born, would rather lie with some Phrygian goatherd than with the King!”

Mithradates bellowed, as though he had been speared. He seized a lamp, broke its chains with a jerk and hurled it into the fire-pit. When his working face came under Eodan’s eyes, the Cimbrian knew where he had seen such a look before―in small children, about to scream from uncontrollable rage.

“She will follow that lamp into the flames,” said the Pontine. It was almost a groan.

“The Roman lies!” Eodan stalked toward Flavius, raising his hands. The worn eagle face waited for him with a smile of mastery. “I will tear out his throat!”

Remembering himself, he turned about and cried: “We do not know it was not witchcraft, Lord.”

Mithradates swallowed hard. He beat a fist into his palm, walked back and forth under the twisted Celtic gods and, inch by inch, drew a cover across his wrath. Finally his giant striding halted. He searched Eodan’s countenance somberly and asked, “Will you swear, by all which is holy to you, you have never known her body, and this is no work of yours?”

“I swear it, My King,” said Eodan.