I did not wait anymore for them to stand and come at me. I raised my staff, I spoke the word. They went crying to their pen like all the rest.
The nymphs were helping me set right the toppled benches and scrub away the wine stains when one of them glanced at the window. “Mistress, another on the path.”
I had thought the crew too small to man a full ship. Some of them must have waited on the beach, and now one had been sent to scout after his fellows. The nymphs set out new wine and slipped away.
I opened the door at the man’s knock. The late sun fell on him, picking out the red in his neat beard, the faint silver in his hair. He wore a bronze sword at his waist. He was not so tall as some, but strong, I saw, his joints well seasoned.
“Lady,” he said, “my crew has taken shelter with you. I hope I may as well?”
I put all my father’s brightness into my smile. “You are as welcome as your friends.”
I watched him while I filled the cups. Another thief, I thought. But his eyes only grazed my rich trappings. They lingered instead on a stool, still upended on the floor. He bent down and set it upright.
“Thank you,” I said. “My cats. They are always tumbling something.”
“Of course,” he said.
I brought him food and wine, and led him to my hearth. He took the goblet and sat in the silver chair I indicated. I saw him wince a little as he bent, as if at the pull of recent wounds. A jagged scar ran up his muscled calf from heel to thigh, but it was old and faded. He gestured with his cup.
“I have never seen a loom like that,” he said. “Is it an Eastern design?”
A thousand of his kind had passed through this room. They had catalogued every inch of gold and silver, but not one had ever noticed the loom.
I hesitated for the briefest moment.
“Egyptian.”
“Ah. They make the best things, don’t they? Clever to use a second beam instead of loom weights. So much more efficient to draw the weft down. I would love to have a sketch.” His voice was resonant, warm, with a pull to it that reminded me of ocean tides. “My wife would be thrilled. Those weights used to drive her mad. She kept saying someone ought to invent something better. Alas, I have not found time to apply myself to it. One of my many husbandly failings.”
My wife. The words jarred me. If any of the men in all those crews had had a wife, they never mentioned her. He smiled at me, his dark eyes on mine. His goblet was lifted loosely in his hand, as if any moment he would drink.
“Though the truth is, her favorite thing about weaving is that while she works, everyone around her thinks she can’t hear what they’re saying. She gathers all the best news that way. She can tell you who’s getting married, who’s pregnant, and who’s about to start a feud.”
“Your wife sounds like a clever woman.”
“She is. I cannot account for the fact that she married me, but since it is to my benefit, I try not to bring it to her attention.”
It surprised me to a huff of laughter. What man spoke so? None that I had ever met. Yet at the same time there was something in him that felt nearly familiar.
“Where is your wife now? On your ship?”
“At home, thank the gods. I would not make her sail with such a ragged bunch. She runs the house better than any regent.”
My attention was sharp on him now. Common sailors did not talk of regents, nor look so at home next to silver inlay. He was leaning on the carved arm of the chair as if it were his bed.
“You call your crew ragged?” I said. “They seem no different from other men to me.”
“You are kind to say so, but half the time I’m afraid they behave like beasts.” He sighed. “It’s my fault. As their captain, I should keep them in better line. But we have been at war, and you know how that can tarnish even the best men. And these, though I love them well, will never be called best.”
He spoke confidingly, as if I understood. But all I knew of war came from my father’s stories of the Titans. I sipped my wine.
“War has always seemed to me a foolish choice for men. Whatever they win from it, they will have only a handful of years to enjoy before they die. More likely they will perish trying.”
“Well, there is the matter of glory. But I wish you could’ve spoken to our general. You might have saved us all a lot of trouble.”
“What was the fight over?”
“Let me see if I can remember the list.” He ticked his fingers. “Vengeance. Lust. Hubris. Greed. Power. What have I forgotten? Ah yes, vanity, and pique.”
“Sounds like a usual day among the gods,” I said.
He laughed and held up his hand. “It is your divine privilege to say so, my lady. I will only give thanks that many of those gods fought on our side.”
Divine privilege. He knew I was a goddess then. But he showed no awe. I might be his neighbor, whose fence he leaned over to discuss the fig harvest.
“Gods fought among mortals? Who?”
“Hera, Poseidon, Aphrodite. Athena, of course.”
I frowned. I had heard nothing of this. But then, I had no way to hear anymore. Hermes was long gone, my nymphs did not care for worldly news, and the men who sat at my tables thought only of their appetites. My days had narrowed to the ambit of my eyes and my fingers’ ends.
“Fear not,” he said, “I will not tax your ear with the whole long tale, but that is why my men are so scraggled. We were ten years fighting on Troy’s shores, and now they are desperate to get back to home and hearth.”
“Ten years? Troy must be a fortress.”
“Oh, she was stout enough, but it was our weakness that drew the war out, not her strength.”
This too surprised me. Not that it was true, but that he would admit it. It was disarming, that wry deprecation.
“It is a long time to be away from home.”
“And now it is longer still. We sailed from Troy two years ago. Our journey back has been somewhat more difficult than I would have wished.”
“So there is no need to worry about the loom,” I said. “By now your wife will have given up on you and invented a better one herself.”
His expression remained pleasant, but I saw something shift in it. “Most likely you are right. She will have doubled our lands too, I would not be surprised.”
“And where are these lands of yours?”
“Near Argos. Cows and barley, you know.”
“My father keeps cows himself,” I said. “He favors a pure-white hide.”
“They are hard to breed true. He must husband them well.”
“Oh, he does,” I said. “He cares for nothing else.”
I was watching him. His hands were wide and calloused. He gestured with his cup now here, now there, sloshing his wine a little, but never spilling it. And never once touching it to his lips.
“I am sorry,” I said, “that my vintage is not to your liking.”
He looked down as if surprised to see the cup still in his hand. “My apologies. I’ve been so much enjoying the hospitality, I forgot.” He rapped his knuckles on his temple. “My men say I would forget my head if it weren’t on my neck. Where did you say they’ve gone again?”
I wanted to laugh. I felt giddy, but I kept my voice as even as his. “They’re in the back garden. There’s an excellent bit of shade to rest in.”
“I confess I’m in awe,” he said, “they’re never so quiet for me. You must have had quite an effect on them.”
I heard a humming, like before a spell is cast. His gaze was a honed blade. All this had been prologue. As if we were in a play, we stood.
“You have not drunk,” I said. “That is clever. But I am still a witch, and you are in my house.”
“I hope we may settle this with reason.” He had put the goblet down. He did not draw his sword, but his hand rested on the hilt.
“Weapons do not frighten me, nor the sight of my own blood.”
“You are braver than most gods then. I once saw Aphrodite leave her son to die on the field over a scratch.”
“Witches are not so delicate,” I said.
His sword hilt was hacked from ten years of battles, his scarred body braced and ready. His legs were short but stiff with muscles. My skin prickled. He was handsome, I realized.
“Tell me,” I said, “what is in that bag you keep so close at your waist?”
“An herb I found.”