Harry Turtledove - The Gryphon's Skull

“Euge,” Sostratos said again. “Wear a sword, though.”

“A sword?” Menedemos tossed his head. “I intend to use my spear.”

Sostratos snorted. “I know what you intend. I don't know what Nikodromos and the woman have in mind. He may come back to the house when you don't expect him to—remember the window you jumped out of in Taras last summer? Or the woman may be playing a different game from the one you think she is. Wear a sword.”

When Menedemos saw Asine, he saw what he wanted. When Sostratos thought about her, he saw trouble. If that didn't sum up the differences between them, Menedemos didn't know what did. But he hadn't seen that trouble himself, and he couldn't deny it might be real. “All right,” he said. “I'll wear one. I'll swagger through the streets like a bandit or a barbarian.”

“Good,” his cousin said.

When morning came, Menedemos couldn't go into town as early as he would have liked. Nikodromos liked to sleep late, and knocking on the door before the priest left didn't strike him as a good idea. He made himself wait till the sun stood well above the eastern horizon before leaving the harbor and heading into Aigina. The bronze scabbard of his sword bumped against his left hipbone at every step. A couple of Aiginetans gave him odd looks, but no one seemed inclined to ask too many questions of an armed man.

He knocked on Nikodromos' door. As soon as he did, his hand fell to the hilt of the sword. If Asine was playing games of the sort Sostratos imagined . . .

She opened the door. “Come in,” she said. “Quick. Don't hang around for the neighbors to see.”

She sounded practiced at deceit. Maybe I'm not the first one who's come in while her husband's away, Menedemos thought. But if she was so practiced . . . “Should you be wearing that perfume?” he asked. “Nikodromos is liable to notice it.”

“He'll think I put it on for him. He thinks everything's for him.” Asine didn't try to hide her scorn.

“Ah,” Menedemos said politely; that fit what he'd seen of the priest. He smiled at Asine. “When he has such a pretty wife, I can understand why he feels that way.”

She studied him as he was studying her. “You're smooth, aren't you?” she said. “How many times have you done this?”

“Often enough to know that's a question better left unanswered.” Menedemos wagged a finger at her. “It's better left unasked, too.”

He watched her think it over. She dipped her head. “You're probably right. So ...” She took a step toward him.

He put his arms around her. She was only a couple of digits shorter than he was. She hardly needed to tilt her face up at all to let her mouth meet his. Her breath was sweet. She was somewhere not far from twenty: too young to have had much trouble with her teeth. The kiss went on for a long time.

When Asine at last drew back, amusement danced in her eyes. “I will say I haven't kissed a man who shaves before. It's . . . different.”

For a moment, Menedemos' mind worked as precisely as Sostratos' so often did. Just because you'll say it doesn't mean it's true. “Is it better or worse?” he asked, and then went on before she could answer: “Why don't we try it again, so you have a better idea?”

They did. Her body molded itself to his. Her breasts were soft and firm. He stroked her hair with one hand; the other cupped a buttock. Before long, he was firm himself, though far from soft. Asine rubbed herself against him. “Sweet,” she murmured.

He kissed the side of her neck and nibbled at her earlobe. His thumb and forefinger teased her nipple through the thin linen of her tunic. Her head fell back. She sighed softly. He took her hand and guided it to his manhood. Her fingers closed on him. She squeezed, not too hard. After a little while, he pulled away. He'd been at sea for a while. He didn't want to spend himself too soon.

“Come on, then,” she said. “Let's go up to my bedroom.”

They were walking through the courtyard when he said, “Wait.” Asine stopped, raising an eyebrow. Menedemos said, “Why not right here?”

“In the sunshine?” Both eyebrows rose this time. “You are shameless.”

“You make me that way.” Menedemos untied the girdle that bound her tunic at the waist, then pulled the tunic off over her head.

When she was naked, he bent his head to kiss her breasts. Her nipples were wider and darker than he'd expected; faint pale lines marked her belly. “You've borne a child,” he said in surprise.

Her face clouded. “I've borne two. Neither lived past its second birthday. Maybe your seed will be stronger than Nikodromos'.”

“I hope so, if that's what you want.” His hand slid down toward the joining of her legs. She spread them a little to make it easier for him to stroke her. After a while, he said, “Bend forward.” Asine did, resting the palms of her hands on a stone bench. She looked back over her shoulder as Menedemos took off his own chiton and poised himself behind her.

“Oh,” she said softly when he went into her. He held her by the waist—his skin sun-darkened, hers almost white—as he thrust home again and again, pausing every now and then to spin out the pleasure for him and for her. She shook her head. Her dark hair flew back and forth. She gasped and shuddered and let out a little muffled cry. At the same time, she squeezed him from within, so that he couldn't hold back another instant. He drove deep, the world utterly forgotten in his moment of joy.

He patted her backside. She started to pull away and straighten up. “Don't,” he said, beginning once more: he had been at sea for a while.

Asine looked back at him again. “Well, well,” she said. “No wonder you've been able to do this before.”

“No wonder at all,” he said, so smugly that she laughed. He kept on with what he was doing. He didn't have to pause this time to keep from spending too soon; despite his boast, he began to wonder if he would be able to spend at all. But, panting, he managed, and brought Asine with him, too. No sooner had he finished than he flopped out of her. A third round wouldn't come soon, which meant it likely wouldn't come at all.

He and Asine both dressed in a hurry. Now that they'd done what they'd set out to do, they were warier with each other than they had been. Maybe it's just that we aren't blind with lust any more, Menedemos thought as he put his sword belt on again. “You didn't need that,” Asine told him.

“Never can tell who might get home at the wrong time,” Menedemos answered. He didn't mention that he'd worried Asine might be helping her husband play a game of their own.

She tossed her head. “He'll be out there all day. He cares about that more than he cares about me. He cares about everything more than he cares about me. Maybe if my son had lived ...” Asine tossed her head again. “I don't think so. He would have cared about the boy, but not about me.”

“I'm sorry,” Menedemos said.

“Are you? Why?” Her laughter was barbed as an arrow point. “You got what you wanted. What do you care now?”

How many men had come through the door while Nikodromos went to the temple? Menedemos almost found himself sympathizing with the priest, the last thing he would have expected. Nettled, he said, “I wasn't the only one.”

“No,” Asine said. “You gave me what I needed. You couldn't possibly give me what I want.”

What would that be? Menedemos wondered. The answer took shape in his mind almost at once. A couple of slaves, a better place among the families of Aigina. Sure enough, these sweaty couplings couldn't give her that. She could get it only from her husband—and he didn't much care whether she had it or not.