Commodus at the top of the steps stared down at her.
“Back away,” she reiterated, “I’m coming up the steps.” Up the steps she came, very slowly. Planted on her right foot she would almost imperceptibly raise and advance her left foot. When it was firm on the step, she would gradually shift her weight to that foot, would very deliberately straighten up and very carefully draw up her right foot until both feet were together. So standing she would breathe several times before she repeated the process.
When she was standing firm on the top step on the level of the Quay platform, she raised both hands until the sieve was level with her chin.
“You have won,” Commodus exclaimed. “You have demonstrated your Goddess’s favor. The test is over.”
An arm’s length away stood Calvaster.
“It’s a trick!” he cried. “That is not water.”
“Not water!” cried Brinnaria.
All the forgotten tomboy of her childish girlhood surged up within her. The obsolete hoydenishness inside her exploded.
“Not water!” she cried, and smashed the sieve over his head.
The rim on his shoulders, his head protruding from the torn eb, frayed ends of broken horse-hair sticking up round his neck, the water trickling down his clothing and dripping from his thin locks, from his big flaring ears, from the end of his long nose, his face rueful and stultified, he presented a sufficiently absurd appearance.