Eodan put his helmet under his arm, strode to the king and bowed to one knee--a special favor, granted for his blood of Boierik. "What does My Lord wish from his servant?" "Stand, Cimbrian." Eodan saw a troubled look on the heavy face. "Today there came an embassy." Mithradates leaned toward a runner who crouched under the secretary's feet. "Bring them in." Eodan waited. The king said slowly: "You have been welcome at court and camp--not for your knowledge and tales of far places, though they delighted many hours of mine; not for your sword, though it has sung me a gallant song; but for something that is yourself. Whatsoever may happen, Eodan, remember what has been between us. The gods themselves cannot take away the past." A door at the far end was flung wide. Two came through it. One was a man in a toga; Eodan could not see his countenance by the dim unrestful light. But even through a long, hooded mantle he would know the shape and gait of the other. His blood pulsed with a quick unreasonable gladness; he forgot himself in the king's presence and ran toward her with his hands outstretched. "Phryne!" he cried. Reaching her, he grasped her by the elbows and looked down into the pale heart-shaped face and said in his lame Greek: "Now I can tell you with your homeland's speech how I have missed you." "Eodan--" She shivered violently, as if winter had come with her all the way down from the north. "Eodan, my only gift to you is woe." He raised his eyes, most carefully, and looked upon Gnaeus Valerius Flavius. Eodan howled. He sprang back, snatching for his sword, but the empty belt mocked him. The Roman lifted an arm. "_Ave_," he said. His closed-mouth smile creased cheeks grown gaunt; Eodan could see how the bones stood forth in his face. Eodan remembered the king, motionless on the knees of a conquered god. He choked back his breath; one by one easing muscles that had stiffened to leap at a certain throat, he wheeled and marched to the high seat and prostrated himself thrice. "Great King whose glory lights the world," he said thickly, returning to the Latin he could best use, "forgive your slave. This Roman slew my wife. Give him to me, lord of all the earth, and I will afterward eat that fire for your amusement if you wish." Mithradates leaned back. He considered Flavius, who saluted him with no more respect than a high-born Roman was allowed to show any foreign despot. Lastly his glance fell upon Phryne, kissing the floor beside Eodan. "Who is that?" he asked. Then, with a sudden chuckle of pure pleasure--the laughter of a little boy shown some wholly unawaited novelty--"Why, it is the Greek girl who fled with the two men. This I was not told. Rise, both of you. Woman, explain your arrival here." Eodan stood up. His jaws were clenched so they ached. He looked across a few feet at Flavius--no, he would not look--he shifted his eyes to Phryne. She stood before the king, her bowed head shielding her face, and said in Greek: