Free Videssos Cycle, Volume 2 by Harry Turtledove Page B

dream.
    The leather curtain twitched aside; Goudeles opened his mouth to make his request of Plinthas. But it was not the headman who entered the shrine-turned-serai. Half a dozen young women came in, some carrying food, others cooking tools and soft sleeping mats, the last almost staggering under the weight of several skins of what Gorgidas was sure would be either kavass or beer.
    Olbiop gave a roar of approval. He leaped to his feet and grabbed at one of the women, kissing her noisily and folding her into a bear hug. She barely had time to pass the skillet and saucepan she bore to a companion before his hands were greedy on her, squeezing her rump and reaching inside her loose tunic.
    “The Khamorth is a pig, aye, but no need for such horror on your face,” Skylitzes said softly to Gorgidas. “Giving guests women is a plains courtesy; the unforgivable rudeness is to decline.”
    The Greek was still dismayed, but for a reason different from the one Skylitzes might have guessed. He could not remember how many years it had been since he last coupled with a woman—fifteen at least, and that final time had been anything but a success. Now it seemed he had no choice—refusal, the Videssian had made clear, was impossible. He tried not to think about the price failure would cost him in the eyes of his fellows.
    Viridovix, on the other hand, shouted gleefully when he overheard Skylitzes. He swung one of the girls into his arms; choosier than Olbiop, he picked the prettiest of the six. She was short and slim, with wavy brown hair and large eyes. Unlike the rest, she wore a brooch of polished jet near the neck of her blouse. “And what might your name be now, my fine colleen?” the Celt asked, smiling down at her; he was almost a foot taller than she.
    “Evanthia, Plinthas’ daughter,” she answered shyly.
    “You mean himself outside? The headman?” At her nod Viridovix chuckled. “Then it must be your mother you look like, for he’s no beauty.”
    She bobbed in a curtsey, smiling back at him now. Gorgidas had seen him weave that spell before; few were immune to it. Evanthia said, “I never knew there were men with hair the color of rust. Your speech rings strangely, too; what far land are you from?”
    With that invitation Viridovix was off, launching into his tale like a man diving into the sea. He paused a few seconds later to take a mat from Evanthia and spread it on the ground. “Here, sit by me, my darling, the which’ll make it more comfortable for you to listen.” He winked at Gorgidas over her shoulder.
    The other partnerings were quickly made. The girls from the village did not seem upset at the arrangement—save perhaps Olbiop’s chosen, for he pawed her unceasingly. On reflection, Gorgidas found no reason why they should be. They were but following their people’s longtime custom, a practice he had extolled not long before.
    His own companion was named Spasia. She was not as well-favored as Viridovix’ lady; she was plump and had a faint fuzz above her upper lip. But her voice was pleasant, and Gorgidas soon saw she was not stupid, though she had no more idea of the world around her than any villager would. Her eyes kept flicking to the Greek’s face. “Is something wrong?” he asked her, wondering if she could sense she did not rouse him.
    But her reply was altogether artless: “Are you what they call a eunuch? Your cheeks are so smooth.”
    “No,” he said, trying not to laugh. “My folk have the custom of shaving their faces, and I follow it even here.” He reached into his pack to show her the leaf-shaped razor he used.
    She felt the edge. “Why keep such a painful custom?” she asked. He did laugh then, for he had no ready answer.
    The women readied the food they had brought: chickens, ducks, rabbits, fresh-baked loaves of bread—real bread, for, being settled, they could have a permanent oven—several kinds of berry tarts, and various herbs and leafy vegetables mixed together into a