"She attended a matron at the farm, Flavius' wife. We came to know each other."
"How well?" Hwicca arched her brows.
"She is my friend," he fumbled. "Nothing else."
"Cordelia is a bitch," said Hwicca, flushed, "but her maids have an easy enough life. What drove this Phryne to forsake it?"
Eodan bridled. "She wanted freedom for herself. She has a man's soul."
"Oh," purred Hwicca. "One of those."
He said in a rage, "You learned too much filth in Rome. I'll speak to you again when you have curbed your tongue."
He left her staring after him and went forward. "Heat me some water!" he barked. The cook, a deckhand told off to this task among all others, gave him a surly glance and obeyed. Eodan crouched by the hearth with a mirror and scraped the stubble off his face. He cut himself several times.
When he walked aft again, he saw that Flavius had come from the forecastle and stood where he himself had been, talking to Hwicca. Her face was bent from Eodan, but he saw woe in her twining hands. The Roman did not smile this time; he spoke gravely.
Eodan clapped a wild hand to his sword haft. By all the hounds on hellroad! No. It was beneath him. If she chose to betray him with a greasy Southlander, let her—and wolves eat them both.