“Killing you seems an unexpectedly harsh response,” murmured Marius, smoothing the red-gold splendor of his mustache with finger and thumb.
“He was very angry,” I said dully.
“Where do you go now?”
“To find and warn my cousin. Four Moons House still wants her.”
Amadou sipped thoughtfully at his cup and set it on the bench. “Why would Four Moons House so desperately want the daughter of an impoverished Phoenician clan, no matter what secrets the Barahals might have to sell and what business they might have done for Camjiata back in the old days?”
I felt a pinch of curiosity, wondering at the true extent of Barahal double-dealing. But I knew better than to reveal more than I already had. “I can say nothing more until I talk to Beatrice. Surely you understand.”
“She’s got you there,” said Marius with an amused snort.
“We’ll escort you to Adurnam and your cousin,” said Maester Amadou.
“My thanks.” Tears welled, and I blinked them back. I said, in a low voice, “Saw you any prisoner among the House soldiers?”
“No. Do you expect there to be?”
“No,” I whispered. “No.”
He waited a moment, to see if I would say more. When I did not, he gestured decisively. “We leave at dawn. We can make it in two days.”
Marius nodded in answer, and the discussion was over, just like that.
At a signal from one of the priests, Marius rose to make the offering of the first cut of roasted meat at the altar, pouring an entire cup of wine over it. Afterward, we retreated to the largest tent, sparely furnished with a pair of campaign cots in the back half, each one neatly made up with blankets. An attendant took our cloaks and hung them from iron hooks. We sat in the front half on unfolded camp chairs, at a small table. Two braziers heated the interior, and three lamps lit our campaign meal of roasted beef, turnip, and apples. I was ravenous, despite everything, and it was easy to eat with their conversation flowing briskly around me. The two men knew each other well and bantered like brothers. Marius was about five years older, the same age, it transpired, as Amadou’s older sister.
“How did a young woman newly arrived in Massilia come to marry a Tarrant nobleman far to the north?” I asked Marius.
He cast a look at Amadou, who shook his head. The lord shrugged as he smiled at me. “Do you Phoenicians like music? I’d be a sad son of the Tarrants if I could not entertain my guest with a few songs.”
“After all I have been through these last weeks,” I said, very rudely I am sure, “you will excuse me if I seem burdened by a lack of trust. What if you are in league with Four Moons House, and mean to use me to lure Bee into your clutches?”
“Then we are at an impasse, Maestressa Barahal,” said Maester Amadou in the same polite voice he had used to cow our academy proctor, Maestra Madrahat, by being better mannered and milder than you could ever be. “I have divulged as much as I can. You have revealed as much as you are willing. Either we trust each other, or part ways.”
“That I have little choice but to accept your help must be apparent to all of us.” I did not mean my tone to grate so grudgingly, but it did. “If I seem unappreciative, it is just that I have been running for my life under difficult circumstances, as I am sure you can deduce by my state of disorder and dirt. If you can get me alive to Adurnam, you will have my thanks and my cousin Beatrice’s as well.”
Amadou’s mouth tightened on unspoken thoughts and emotions.
Lord Marius laughed. “What’s this, brother? Have you actually fallen for a woman’s fine eyes and pleasing form?”
“Excuse me, Lord Marius, but I cannot like to hear my cousin spoken of in such a trifling way.”
“Oh, it would not be trifling in Amadou’s case, I shouldn’t think.” Marius rose and fetched a case from beneath the cot on the left. He brought out a small harp, set it on his knee, and began to tune it. His features relaxed into a serious expression as he listened to the vibrations of each string. He seemed suddenly removed from us, following the overtones, and for a moment I thought a door might open into the spirit world and we might fall through.
A burst of male laughter from outside slammed closed the shutters of reality over my dreaming. At a nod from Amadou, the trooper attending the door stepped out. One breath later, he returned with another soldier in tow.
“What news?” Lord Marius asked without looking up from his harp.
The soldier started to laugh, thumped his own chest twice, and coughed to contain himself before addressing the two men. “Lord Marius. Legate.”
Legate? I stared at Amadou Barry, but he was not looking at me. Only the Romans in their much shrunken imperial republic used the term legate for highly placed commanders and ambassadors.
“There’s a… naked… man at the ramparts. He baldly requests permission to—”
I stood so fast I banged a knee against the table and had to catch its edge to prevent it from toppling over. My heart had galloped ahead. I could barely string coherent words together. “Let him in. Quickly! Can clothing be found?”
Lord Marius set to laughing in earnest. When he had controlled himself, and wiped his eyes, he managed to speak. “A naked man, come to my camp? Is it your abandoned husband, Catherine Hassi Barahal? Come to display himself for your benefit?”