He went to her and said, striving to be calm, "I hope you feel yourself again."
"Oh, yes. I am used to the movement now." Hwicca smiled at him, shy as a child, and he remembered that she was after all no more than eighteen winters. "Indeed this is a lovely way of faring, as if we rode on a great bird."
Hope kindled him. He rubbed his chin weightily—let him not urge himself too fast—and answered: "Yes, I could become as much a shipwright as a horse tamer, I think. When we return to the North, we shall begin making some real ships. I only remember boats from my boyhood. Already I think I could teach their builders some new arts."
Her pleasure faded a little. "Are you indeed bound to return to Cimberland?" she asked.
"If not to the same place, somewhere near," he said. "I remember my father speaking of tribes not far eastward, Goths and Sueones, strong wealthy folk who speak a tongue we could understand. But I would at least be among my own folk again."
She lowered her face and murmured, "They have a saying here, that nothing human is alien to them."
"Would you liefer stay in Rome?" he asked, stabbed.
"Let us not talk of that," she begged. Her hand stole up to his chin, bristly after the past few unshaven days. When she touched him, it seemed almost pain. "You look so funny," she smiled. "Black hair and yellow whiskers."
"Hm, thanks," he said, gripping his temper tight. "Since the dye will linger, Phryne told me, I'd best shave myself."
"How did it happen Phryne came with you?" asked Hwicca, a little too lightly.