“Greetings, noble legionnaire,” the dhow captain answered in his best Greek. The legionnaire grunted again and cocked his head to one side. The dhow captain swore under his breath. Couldn’t the Empire post soldiers to Alexandria who at least spoke some kind of civilized tongue? A long passage – of hand waving, pantomime and, finally, shouting passed before the guards got the idea that the dhow captain had something in his boat for them.
The mate, meanwhile, had gone through Dwyrin’s cloak and traveling bag, stealing the food therein and anything else of value. This crucial task accomplished, he bundled the boy up in the blanket and carried him up on to the dock. By this time the dhow captain was at his wits end. The two blond giants were laughing and shouting back at him. The mate came up with the boy and the captain handed him off to the larger of the two, waving the packet of travel orders in their faces.
Saemund, ouragos of the II Triana Legion, stared in surprise at the backs of the two little dark men who had come from the boat. At first he had thought that they were native merchants trying to sell him something, but they had not understood his plain speaking when he told them that he had lost all of his money at dice the night before. He shook his shaggy head in amazement and unwrapped the large, clumsy bundle they had given him. At his side, Throfgar, his battle brother, turned the papyrus sheets this way and that, trying to make head or tail of the spindly runes marked on them.
“Ach, brother,” Saemund exclaimed as he turned back the motheaten blanket to expose Dwyrin’s flushed and sweating face, “they’ve left us a foundling!”
Throfgar stared over in surprise, for the long red-gold braid of the youth marked him as a northerner like himself. He scratched the fleas in his beard in thought.
“Could he be the son of one of the other fighters?” he ventured.
“None that I have seen,” Saemund answered as he carried the sick boy into the guardroom. There he gently placed the boy onto the duty cot at the back of the small, smoke-blackened room. He turned the blanket out and laid it over the boy, tucking it in under his feet. Then he turned to Throfgar with a puzzled expression, cracking his large knuckles.
“We should report this to the tetrarchos,” he said. “I’ll stand the watch here, you go and tell Tapezos what has happened.”
Throfgar nodded in agreement and tossed the packet of papyrus sheets into the kindling box next to the small, narrow fireplace. He went to the back of the guardroom, where a narrow passageway led up a flight of steps to a stout wooden door. He pounded on the thick striated panels for a moment. Then a narrow metal cover turned back from a slit in the door at eye level.
“Ho, Tapezos,” Throfgar rumbled, “tell the tetrarchos that we’ve got a visitor for him.”
Tapezos muttered something on the other side of the door and slammed the viewport closed. Throfgar shrugged and ambled back down the stairs. Saemund had returned to his post on the dockside. Throfgar checked the boy, who moaned slightly as the German turned back his eyelids, and then joined his battle brother on the watch.
A few moments later there was- a clattering sound as the inner door opened and Michel Pelos stumbled out, yawning, and walked out onto the quayside. Throfgar and Saemund grinned broadly at the Greek, who had drunk overmuch for his stomach the night before. Michel rubbed one side of his lean, scarred, face and hitched his sword-belt up.
“What the hell’s the matter with you two grinning idiots?” he snarled in poor Latin.
Saemund pointed back into the little watch-room. “There’s a package for you,” he said.
Michel grimaced at the two Scandians. He went back inside, then they heard him cursing. He came back out. He was not amused. “A funny joke. I may be Greek, but that does not mean that I like little boys.”
Throfgar laughed again, braying like a camel. Saemund smiled too, though he had noticed that the tetrarchos was becoming an odd reddish color in the face. He hit his battle brother in the arm to. shut him up and told the tetrarchos what had happened.
“Huh.” Michel pondered the situation. “A foundling, but probably not a citizen. And sick to boot. Well, there isn’t much we can do for him here. I’ll send a runner to the centurion and see what he wants to do.”
Several hours later two camp physicians came and carried the boy away. He was still flushed and sweating, his eyes unseeing. Saemund and Throfgar had finished their watch by then and did not see him go. The next pair of guardsmen on duty lit a fire in the little oven with the papyrus sheets.
THE VILLA OF SWANS
Anastasia groaned theatrically and waved for her handmaiden to lay another chilled cloth on her forehead. “The heat is terrible.” She moaned. “Like the forges of Vulcan.”
Thyatis, sitting on a low stool next to her, eyed the slave Krista out of the corner of one eye. Krista knelt at Anastasia’s side. The slave rolled her eyes while deftly picking a second cloth out of the chilled ewer. Another slave, this a handsome Nubian lad in a short tunic, slowly waved a fan over the recumbent form of the mistress of the house.
At last, Anastasia sat up and Krista plumped the pillows behind her so that she might rest more easily. A small plate of freshly pitted cherries was placed near the Lady’s hand, in case she desired refreshment. Having come from the Offices only moments before, Anastasia was dressed in a regal yet subdued outfit. Somber colors, showing very little skin, and restrained makeup. In the dim light of the sitting room, under the frescoes of forest creatures, nymphs, and centaurs, she seemed to Thyatis to show her true age. There was a drained look about her eyes that the carefully applied powders could not disguise. Thyatis sat straighter and composed herself as Anastasia’s languid gaze fell upon her.
The Duchess shook her head slowly, picking up a cherry from the little porcelain bowl. “I fear that I made a mistake with you, my dear. One of the first things that my late husband told me when he decided to accept me as a partner and equal in his business here in the city was: to each tool a proper purpose.”
Inwardly Thyatis quailed in fear. The moderate-seeming disaster of the dinner party for the Prince now assumed much larger character. It was a struggle to keep from breaking into tears, yet she managed. It was not fair! I tried my best… it’s not my fault I don’t know how to be coy!
Anastasia leaned a little closer, her eyes intent upon Thyatis. “I apologize for misusing you.”
The words took a long tick of the water-clock to make themselves known in Thyatis’ conscious thought. When they did, she smiled in relief and quickly composed herself again. Anastasia nodded, picking one of the cherries off of the plate and rolling it between her long fingertips.
“You have tremendous skills for one so young-skills that I value very highly-but not the ones that I attempted to foster in you for this one purpose. At the time, the throw seemed worth the risk. However, the tactics of seduction and pleasant intrigue are not what I have had you trained in for five years. Your talents so obviously lie in direct action. It was a mistake on my part, one that I will not make again. I confess that I was tremendously angry at the outcome of that night.”
She glared at Krista, who prostrated herself to the floor. As the slave girl put her forehead to the pale rose tiles, Thyatis caught the edge of a self-satisfied smirk, like the little cat Bastet lapping up fresh cream. Anastasia continued, “When one manages-after weeks of effort-to get a Prince of the Empire to spend the night in one’s house, it should be in the bed of the intended, not with some minx of a slave girl.” The Duchess sighed.