"You will disappoint the king," she said in an acrid voice. "He is looking forward to the subtlest gladiatorial contest."
Eodan strode from her. Flavius wrapped his toga more closely against the cold bluster of the air. He smiled, raising his brows, and stood waiting; his dark curly hair fluttered. But somehow no youth or merriment were left in him.
"Will you be kind enough to assault me?" he asked.
"I am not a fool," grunted Eodan.
"No, not in such respects.... Since your life hangs now on the king's pleasure, you will heel to his lightest whim like any well-trained dog." Flavius spoke quietly, choosing each word beforehand. "Thus it is seen—he who is born to be a slave will always be a slave."
Eodan held onto his soul with both hands. At last he got out: "I will meet you somewhere beyond the power of both Rome and Pontus."
Flavius skinned his teeth in a grin. "Your destruction is more important to me than the dubious pleasures of single combat."
"You are afraid, then," said Eodan. "You only fight women."
Flavius clenched his free hand. His whittled face congealed, he said in a flat voice: "I cannot help but smite those women whom you forever make your shields. Now it is a Greek slave girl. How many more have you crawled behind, even before you debauched my wife?"
"I went through a door that stood unbarred to all," fleered Eodan.