Steven Saylor - Wrath of the Furies

“Oh, and freeborn males are necessarily more courageous than slave girls?” asked Freny, rolling her eyes. There seemed no end to her cheekiness. “Here we are,” she said, stopping at a closed door and gently rapping on it.

“Who’s there?” called someone from the other side. Hearing that voice, my heart beat faster.

“It’s only me,” said Freny. “And a surprise visitor.”

“Surprise?”

“You’ll see. Open the door, sister!”

A moment later the door began to open, slowly, so that the person on the other side could peek out discreetly with one eye. In that eye I saw at first caution, then a blink of surprise, then a wide-open stare expressing alarm or delight, or both.

The door swung open. Before me stood Amestris.

She was as beautiful as I remembered.

No, she was more beautiful.

She wore a garment with sleeves that modestly covered her arms and legs, and with a neckline that only hinted at the fullness of her breasts. Her beautiful body, that I remembered so well, was thus hidden, but no matter; this only served to concentrate my gaze on her face. I looked at it as a man looks at a much-loved city when arriving by ship, noting one by one each fondly remembered landmark: the smooth, olive complexion, the sensual mouth, the elegant nose, the dark eyes of Amestris.

“Gordianus!” she whispered. I couldn’t tell which was greater, her alarm or delight, but Freny read her sister’s expression more adroitly, for she clapped her hands and laughed with joy, and a moment later I was enveloped in the warm embrace of Amestris.

I would happily have remained in that embrace-I began to feel a stirring of arousal almost at once-but a moment later Amestris stepped back, holding my shoulders and looking into my eyes. I had to look up a bit to meet her gaze; I had forgotten she was slightly taller than me. That had made no difference when we had been horizontal together.

“Who is it, Amestris?” called another familiar voice from inside the room.

“See for yourself, mistress.” Amestris let go of my shoulders and gestured that I should step inside.

Anthea sat in a chair with her hands in her lap. Clusters of lamps hung from bronze stands to either side of her, so that the brightest light in the room fell upon her pale face and golden hair. Apparently she was in the midst of having her hair attended to by Amestris, for on a nearby table I saw various combs and pins. The arrangement remained incomplete, for some of her tresses were done up and some were not. She sat motionless, but smiled broadly at the sight of me.

When I had last seen Anthea, she had been only fourteen, about Freny’s age. Now she must be eighteen, and truly looked like a woman, not a girl. Like Amestris, she was even lovelier than I remembered.

“Gordianus!” she said. “Oh, I would get up to hug you, too, but-well, as you can see…” She gestured helplessly to her hair, which apparently was in such a delicate stage that she dared not disarrange it.

She guessed my reason for being there at once. “You’ve come to see Antipater, of course. Or Zoticus, as we’re supposed to call him, since the king insists that he maintain his masquerade.”

“Yes.”

Her face darkened. “Have you come from Alexandria? That’s where Antipater told us he last saw you.”

“Yes.”

“But why, Gordianus? Do you not understand the situation here in Ephesus? You’re a Roman-yet you’re not in a toga.” She scrutinized the yellow tunic the Megabyzoi had given me. “No Roman is safe here.”

“I realize that. Still, I’ve come to see Antipater.”

Anthea sighed. “I fear I have to disappoint you. He’s staying here, yes, but no one has seen him since early this morning. Am I right, Amestris?”

“Yes, mistress. Zoticus is not in his room and his attendants don’t know where he’s gone.”

“His attendants?” I asked.

“His two personal servants,” Amestris explained, “supplied to him by the royal household. They look after all his needs, which is why we sometimes hardly see him for days. But earlier today I sent Freny to find him, since of course he should be in attendance when our special visitor arrives.”

She exchanged a knowing look with Anthea, who raised a pale eyebrow. “Perhaps dear Zoticus wishes to avoid seeing her. As will I, if my hair is still only half-done when she arrives!”

Amestris laughed softly-the sound of that laughter sent a thrill through me-and picked up a comb from the table. “Don’t worry, mistress, we’ll be done before you know it. And you shall look very beautiful.”

“As beautiful as our visitor?”

“I’m sure she won’t think so!” said Freny. “The master says he’s never met such a vain creature-”

“Sister, enough of that!” said Amestris.

“Yes, Freny,” said Anthea. “You really must learn to curb your tongue.”

Freny put a finger to her lips to show that she understood. Then she commenced chattering again. “But sister, surely you want to visit with Gordianus. Let me finish the mistress’s hair. I can do it as well as you, if not better.”

“Who’s vain now?” said Amestris.

“You know it’s true.”

“So it is,” said their mistress. “Freny is right. Go find a quiet room, Amestris, and spend some time with Gordianus. Freny can finish my hair.”

“If you’re sure, mistress…”

“Go!” said Anthea. She smiled and shook her head, then stopped herself, reaching up to hold in place the delicate arrangement of her golden hair.

Carrying a lamp, Amestris led me down a hallway and into a room that startled me with its familiarity. I had lost my bearings in the house, but now I regained them, for this was the room where I had slept when I was a guest of Eutropius-the very room where I had lain with Amestris, and known the pleasures of coupling for the first time. Had she led me here to continue what we began those many months ago?

By the soft lamplight, she looked incredibly alluring. Her dress was modest, yes, but fitted her in such a way that the play of light and shadows displayed the contours of her hips and breasts to perfection. The sight of her took my breath away.

At the same time, I felt a stab of guilt, for what would Bethesda think if she were present? I tried to banish this most unRoman thought from my mind. Bethesda was my slave, after all. I was a free man and free to do whatever I pleased in pursuit of pleasure. If Amestris were willing, why should I not begin by kissing her? Looking at her lips, the desire to kiss them was irresistible.

But as I stepped toward her, she stepped back. A coincidence-or did she deliberately avoid my kiss?

“Amestris,” I said, “I’ve thought about you many times since we parted. I’ve pictured you in my mind, just as you look now-only you look more beautiful than I could imagine.”

There was something dismissive in the smile she gave me. Did she think I was merely paying her a pretty compliment? The words I said were heartfelt and true.

“And you look just as I remember,” she said. “Only…” She touched a fingertip to my forehead and traced the small scar. “I don’t remember this.”

“Oh, that,” I said. “It’s from a lion I met in the Nile Delta.”

“A lion!”

“This is the very fang that caused the scar,” I said, pulling the necklace from inside my tunic and showing her the talisman. She touched it with genuine wonder, and looked again at the scar.

Had I been entirely honest, I might have explained the series of events that resulted in that scar, which perhaps were not quite as perilous as she imagined. But if she saw my scar as a measure of manhood and the fang as a trophy, why not? How many men can say they were wounded by a lion’s fang and survived to tell that tale?