underfed beside him. “Good day to you, gentlemen,” he called with a smile when priest and Roman entered.
“And to you, Tatikios,” Marcus replied, wiping his feet on the rushes strewn inside the doorway. Tornikes beamed at him—the taverner was a stickler for cleanliness.
Scaurus liked the Dancing Wolf and its owner. So did most of his men. The only complaint he’d heard came from Viridovix: “May his upper lip go bald.”
The Celt had reason for envy. Going against usual Videssian fashion, Tatikios shaved his chin, but his mustachios more than made up for it. Coal-black as his hair, they swept out and up; the taverner waxed them into spiked perfection every day.
The tribune and Nepos, glad of the roaring fire Tatikios had going, sat down at a table next to it. A serving girl moved out from behind the bar to ask what they cared for.
Staring into the flames, Marcus hardly noticed her come up. His head jerked around as he recognized her voice. Someone had told him Damaris was working at the Dancing Wolf, he realized, but this was the first time he’d seen her here.
He frowned a little; for his money, Quintus Glabrio was well rid of the hellcat. Today, though, he felt too good to be petty. “Mulled wine, nice and hot,” he said. Nepos echoed him.
His nose twitched at the spicy scent. The handleless yellow cup stung his hands as he picked it up. The Dancing Wolf did things right. “Ahhh,” he said, savoring the hot cinnamon bite on his tongue. The wine slid down his throat, smooth as honey.
“That calls for another,” he said when the cup was empty, and Nepos nodded. Now that they were warmed inside and out, they could savor the second round at leisure. He waved for Damaris.
While she heated the wine, Tatikios wandered over to their table. “What’s the news?” he asked. Like every taverner, he liked to be on top of things. Unlike some, he did not try to hide it.
“Precious little, and I wish I had more,” the tribune answered.
Tornikes laughed. “I wish I did, too. Things get slow, once winter sets in.” He went back behind the bar, ran a rag over its already gleaming surface.
“I wasn’t joking, you know,” Marcus said to Nepos. “I wish Senpat and Nevrat would get back with word of Thorisin Gavras, whether good or ill. Not knowing where we stand is hard to bear.”
“Oh, indeed, indeed. But friend Tatikios was perhaps lighter than he knew—everything moves slowly in the snow, the Vaspurakaners no less than other men.”
“Less than the nomads,” Scaurus retorted. He shook his head, smiled wryly. “I worry too much, I know. Likely the two of them are holed up in some distant cousin’s keep, making love in front of a fire just like this one.”
“A pleasant enough way to pass the time,” Nepos chuckled. Like all Videssian priests, he was celibate, but he did not begrudge others the pleasures of the flesh.
“It’s not what I sent them out for,” Marcus said, a little stiffly.
Carrying an enameled tray in one hand, Damaris took two steaming cups from it and set them down. “Why should you fuss over a man lying with a woman?” she said to Scaurus. “You’re used to worse than that.”
The tribune paused with the hot cup halfway to his mouth. His right eyebrow arched toward his hairline. “What might that mean?”
“Surely you don’t need me to draw you pretty pictures,” she said. The undertone in her voice sent a chill through him, crackling flames and warm wine notwithstanding.
Malice leaped into her eyes as she saw his confusion. “A man who uses a woman as he would a boy would sooner have a boy … or be one.” Wine slopped in Marcus’ cup as he grasped her meaning. She drove the knife home: “I hear my sweet Quintus has taken no new lover these past weeks—or has he?” Her laugh was vicious.
The tribune looked Damaris in the eye. The vindictive smile froze on her face. “How long have you been putting this filth about?” he asked. His voice might have
“And to you, Tatikios,” Marcus replied, wiping his feet on the rushes strewn inside the doorway. Tornikes beamed at him—the taverner was a stickler for cleanliness.
Scaurus liked the Dancing Wolf and its owner. So did most of his men. The only complaint he’d heard came from Viridovix: “May his upper lip go bald.”
The Celt had reason for envy. Going against usual Videssian fashion, Tatikios shaved his chin, but his mustachios more than made up for it. Coal-black as his hair, they swept out and up; the taverner waxed them into spiked perfection every day.
The tribune and Nepos, glad of the roaring fire Tatikios had going, sat down at a table next to it. A serving girl moved out from behind the bar to ask what they cared for.
Staring into the flames, Marcus hardly noticed her come up. His head jerked around as he recognized her voice. Someone had told him Damaris was working at the Dancing Wolf, he realized, but this was the first time he’d seen her here.
He frowned a little; for his money, Quintus Glabrio was well rid of the hellcat. Today, though, he felt too good to be petty. “Mulled wine, nice and hot,” he said. Nepos echoed him.
His nose twitched at the spicy scent. The handleless yellow cup stung his hands as he picked it up. The Dancing Wolf did things right. “Ahhh,” he said, savoring the hot cinnamon bite on his tongue. The wine slid down his throat, smooth as honey.
“That calls for another,” he said when the cup was empty, and Nepos nodded. Now that they were warmed inside and out, they could savor the second round at leisure. He waved for Damaris.
While she heated the wine, Tatikios wandered over to their table. “What’s the news?” he asked. Like every taverner, he liked to be on top of things. Unlike some, he did not try to hide it.
“Precious little, and I wish I had more,” the tribune answered.
Tornikes laughed. “I wish I did, too. Things get slow, once winter sets in.” He went back behind the bar, ran a rag over its already gleaming surface.
“I wasn’t joking, you know,” Marcus said to Nepos. “I wish Senpat and Nevrat would get back with word of Thorisin Gavras, whether good or ill. Not knowing where we stand is hard to bear.”
“Oh, indeed, indeed. But friend Tatikios was perhaps lighter than he knew—everything moves slowly in the snow, the Vaspurakaners no less than other men.”
“Less than the nomads,” Scaurus retorted. He shook his head, smiled wryly. “I worry too much, I know. Likely the two of them are holed up in some distant cousin’s keep, making love in front of a fire just like this one.”
“A pleasant enough way to pass the time,” Nepos chuckled. Like all Videssian priests, he was celibate, but he did not begrudge others the pleasures of the flesh.
“It’s not what I sent them out for,” Marcus said, a little stiffly.
Carrying an enameled tray in one hand, Damaris took two steaming cups from it and set them down. “Why should you fuss over a man lying with a woman?” she said to Scaurus. “You’re used to worse than that.”
The tribune paused with the hot cup halfway to his mouth. His right eyebrow arched toward his hairline. “What might that mean?”
“Surely you don’t need me to draw you pretty pictures,” she said. The undertone in her voice sent a chill through him, crackling flames and warm wine notwithstanding.
Malice leaped into her eyes as she saw his confusion. “A man who uses a woman as he would a boy would sooner have a boy … or be one.” Wine slopped in Marcus’ cup as he grasped her meaning. She drove the knife home: “I hear my sweet Quintus has taken no new lover these past weeks—or has he?” Her laugh was vicious.
The tribune looked Damaris in the eye. The vindictive smile froze on her face. “How long have you been putting this filth about?” he asked. His voice might have
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