Page 19 of Sword Dance

“I cannot agree,” he said stiffly at last. “I cannot approve of any of that.”

“Mm,” said Helenos. “As I said, I was mistaken about you. Still, respect is due to the service you gave the Republic.”

At that moment Damiskos’s line jerked in the water, and he was occupied with landing a large bonito, so it was Helenos who had the satisfaction of getting up and walking off without another word.

By the time Damiskos’s fish was safely in a basket on the pier, Phaia had come down to speak to Helenos. She looked worse than Kleitos, her eyes dark-ringed and her hair wilder than usual, though it suited her in a way. Helenos drew her away to talk privately.

Eurydemos arrived, with his mantle over his head, and sat down on the pier beside Damiskos.

“So how was he?”

Damiskos looked up. “Excuse me?”

“Aristokles’s exquisite Sasian. I hear you’ve beaten me to the finish line there.”

The words were archly coarse, but his tone was wistful.

“I didn’t—don’t know what you’re talking about,” Damiskos managed stiffly.

Of course that wasn’t true. He remembered that poem about the unfruitful tree. But Eurydemos smiled and let the subject drop.

Terza’s head, what a lot of ghastly people Nione seemed to have gathered around herself. Did he really have to stay out the week?

* * *

Damiskos took his fish and went back up to the house. He asked for the mistress, anxious to have that conversation that would determine how much longer he need stay in this wretched place. He was told she was out in the vineyard.

He took the fish to the kitchen himself—the slave offered to do it, but he said there was no need—and from there went across the yard to check on Xanthe. He spent some time chatting with the stable hand about the merits of different feed and grooming techniques. He felt as if there was something else he needed to be doing, but he reminded himself that he was on holiday; he was supposed to be enjoying himself. He enjoyed talking to people about horses.

He left the stable feeling somewhat more sanguine about the world again.

The villa’s stables lay next to the slave quarters, and there was a small, sunlit yard between the two. As Damiskos emerged into this space, a trio of domestic slaves—two young women and an elderly one—sat working in the yard and watching an impromptu performance. Varazda was practicing, dancing without music in a flat, sandy area between the stairs and the wall.

He was barefoot, his hair loose down his back. He wore a plain dark coat that swung around him, the fabric as much a part of the dance as the two swords that flashed in his hands. They were long, Zashian-style, singled-edged swords, and he handled them effortlessly, twirling them in elaborate arcs and slices as he moved. It was delicate and martial at the same time, a far more impressive and dignified use of the weapons than Damiskos had imagined. He stood with his hand on the stable door, watching, transfixed.

Varazda flipped the two swords to hold the hilts together, the blades pointing in opposite directions, and spun them as if they were one fearsome, twin-bladed weapon. He leaned gracefully back, long hair swinging free, as he flipped them up above his head. Then he separated them and swept them out to the sides as he dropped to one knee, the skirt of his coat settling around him. His audience—the ones he was aware of—applauded.

He got to his feet, smiling a kind of modest, genuine smile that Damiskos had not seen on his face before. Neither he nor the women had noticed Damiskos.

“Finished already?” said the older women, obviously disappointed, as Varazda picked up his swords and tucked them under one arm.

“It is getting late—I must go dress and attend my master.”

The women made regretful noises.

“If you want help with your hair or your makeup,” said one of the younger women, “let me know.”

The others laughed. It was at that moment that Varazda looked across the yard and saw Damiskos. His smile faded slightly.

“Thank you,” he said, replying to the women. “I think I’ll be all right.”

He turned and disappeared into the space under the stairs along the front of the slave quarters.

“Good morning, sir,” said the older woman, noticing Damiskos at last and scrambling to her feet. “Can we help you? Are you looking for someone?”

“No, no, thank you. Don’t mind me.”

The slaves went back to their work. Damiskos crossed the yard to the shadowed space under the stairs. He would compliment Varazda on his dancing and then bring up the subject of last night, he decided, after having established a more friendly mood.