Davus snorted. "You could say the same thing about a man and a horse."

"Cydimache is a woman, Davus."

"A woman, a horse-if Zeno is as calculating and ambitious as Arausio thinks, which woman he marries may matter to him no more, and no less, than which beast he takes for transport. All he's looking for is a reliable means to get where he's going, and marrying Cydimache took him straight to the top. But now that he's arrived, he's stuck with her, and he'll have to get her with child if he's to become a Timouchos. So he's forced himself to do the act with her, and for that she's grateful. Why shouldn't she coo and comfort him? And in the process, he's gotten used to her. A man can get used to just about anything in this world-any man who's ever been a slave can tell you that. So Zeno is able to touch her without shuddering-what of it? Especially the way she keeps herself covered; probably she stays bundled like that when he makes love to her, and Zeno just shuts his eyes and thinks of pretty Rindel."

"What! Pictures the girl whom, according to you, he cold-bloodedly pushed off the Sacrifice Rock?"

" 'Cold-blooded'-that's exactly the word for a man like Zeno!"

I shook my head. "No, there's more to this marriage between Zeno and Cydimache than you credit. The way they touched-it reminded me of the way that you and Diana touch, not even realizing it. Yes, exactly the same."

Davus lowered his eyes. A frown pulled at his mouth. With his relentless good nature, it was sometimes easy for me to forget that Davus, too, was far from home, and homesick. He cleared his throat and asked, a little dully, "What was the third thing? You said you knew three things for certain now-that Zeno recognized the ring, that he truly cares for Cydimache… and what else?"

"That Zeno is no coward. The tale he told at dinner made my blood run cold. The things he saw today must have been terrifying, yet he kept his wits about him and brought his men safely home. And he didn't hesitate to stand up to his father-in-law. Zeno has nerve. He has courage. I have to ask myself: Is this the sort of fellow who would push a defenseless woman off a cliff?"

Davus crossed his arms, unimpressed. "He would if she was making trouble for him-the kind of trouble a mad, spurned woman might make for an ambitious climber."

"So you saw nothing good in Zeno? No good at all?"

"Not a thing."

"You seem very sure of yourself," I said quietly.

"Why not? I've met Zeno's type before. Haven't you?" Now it was Davus's turn to tick points off his fingers one by one. "Does he love Cydimache? It certainly profits him to put on a show of pretending to, so he does.

"Is he heroic? Well, if his ship goes down in battle, he'll drown like the rest, so why shouldn't he fight as bravely as the next man?

"Does he have nerve? Undoubtedly. You seem to admire him for talking back to Apollonides in public, but I hardly think you'd like it if I showed that little respect for you, father-in-law.

"Could such a fine fellow kill a woman he once loved, in cold blood? Zeno happens to be good-looking and he comes from a good family, so why shouldn't he be charming and likable? That makes it all the easier for him to get away with something truly outrageous, like pushing a troublesome old lover off a cliff."

Satisfied that he had made his points, Davus tilted back his head, squeezed his eyes shut, stretched his arms over his head, and opened his jaw in a great yawn.

It was time for sleep. I doused the light. The room was so dark that I saw the same blackness whether my eyes were open or shut.

Had I judged Zeno's character so wrongly? I felt weary and confused, like an old hound who can no longer trust his nose and who finds himself, at the end of a long day's wandering, lost in fields far from home.

When I opened my eyes the next morning, I couldn't tell if it was hunger that awakened me or the noise from my stomach, so loud was the growling it made. The windowless room was dim; the only light came from the open doorway and the shadowy hall beyond. Vaguely I heard distant voices, hurried footsteps, and indistinct clattering, the sounds of a great household stirring.

It occurred to me that my preoccupation with Zeno and the incident on the Sacrifice Rock was no more than a distraction, an indulgence to keep my mind off the trouble we were in. Massilia was on the verge of chaos, perhaps complete destruction. It was one thing to pass idle days in the comfort of the scapegoat's house, quite another to face the prospect of house arrest, or worse, in the hands of Apollonides. Rather than twisting my mind around the sins of the First Timouchos's son-in-law, I should probably have spent the previous night doing everything possible to ingratiate myself with Domitius, who might be induced, if I groveled enough, to offer his protection to Davus and me.

That idea was so repugnant that I found myself instead holding up the ring in the dim morning light and peering into the depths of the black skystone.

Davus stirred. His stomach growled even louder than mine, reminding me that our most immediate problem was finding food. It seemed hard to imagine that Apollonides, with all that was on his mind, had bothered to make any provision for feeding two Roman troublemakers who had become his unwanted and unwilling houseguests. We could, I thought, set out in search of the kitchens, though it seemed unlikely that the previous night's grim travesty of a banquet had yielded much in the way of leftovers.

Davus sat up, stretched, and yawned. He stared at the ring in my hand. He blinked. His eyes narrowed. His nose twitched. As he turned and looked toward the doorway, I too caught the unmistakable scent of bread.

The loaf appeared first. The hand that held the flat, round disk was concealed behind it, so that it seemed to levitate, moonlike, of its own accord. It was followed by an arm, and then the smiling face of Hieronymus peering around the corner. "Hungry?" he asked.

"Famished," I admitted. "I left Apollonides's banquet last night hungrier than when I arrived."

"Then his skills as a host exactly match his gifts as a military man and a leader of the people," remarked Hieronymus dryly. "I brought a bit to drink as well," he said, producing a bloated wineskin.

"May the gods bless you!" I said, not thinking.

"Actually, that's the one favor I'm not allowed. But of earthly blessings, my cornucopia is filled to overflowing. Last night, while you starved at Apollonides's banquet, I dined in seclusion on-would you believe it?-not one but two roasted quails, with a lovely olive and fish-pickle garnish. I'd have saved some for you, but sitting up on that rock all day and then promenading through the streets was hard work for a humble scapegoat such as I." I remembered the ordeal of yesterday's near-riot and wondered how he could make a joke of it. "And after the quail came the red mullets in almond sauce, the boiled eggs rolled in lemon zest and asafetida, followed by-well, suffice it to say that the priests of Artemis insisted I stuff myself. The worse the battle news, the more they give me to eat. I feel like a goose being fattened for a feast." He patted the round belly that protruded incongruously from his tall, lanky frame. "When I woke this morning, I was still too stuffed to eat another bite-so when they brought me this freshly baked flatbread, I thought of you."

I tore the soft loaf into semicircles and gave half to Davus. I forced myself to take small bites. Davus seemed to inhale his portion without even chewing.

"You're allowed to move freely about the house, then?" I asked.

"No one dares restrain me. The slaves scatter before me like autumn leaves before Boreas. Of course, I do my best to be unobtrusive. I've no intention of barging into meetings of the war council or pestering the starry-eyed newlyweds. Otherwise, when Caesar crashes through the city gates and Cydimache produces a squalling monster, Apollonides will blame both catastrophes on me."