Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [172]
"Yes, Imriel?"
"I heard that Master Strozzi announced his retirement today," I said. "Is he… is he well?"
"He's fine." Master Piero looked puzzled. "I spoke to him myself early this morning. It's not wholly a surprise; the man is over eighty years old, and he's been talking about it for some years. Why, did he seem ill when you saw him yesterday?"
"No, no." I backed away. "I'm sorry to trouble you, my lord."
In the lecture hall, Eamonn and Brigitta were immersed in conversation. Her arms were folded and she wore a stubborn look, but she was listening to him. I waited a moment, and Eamonn made a familiar gesture, one he used to give me during the summer we spent in Montrève when he was courting girls; a half-smile and a slight cock of the head, warning me to keep my brooding self at a distance. Brigitta noticed, following his gaze with a scowl.
I put up my hands and left him to it. I suspected Eamonn mac Grainne had met his match in that one, but I had underestimated his charms before.
The rostra was empty and the crowds in the Old Forum had dispersed, only a few knots of students standing around debating. By this time, the day's heat was at its zenith. I thought of the baths with longing, and decided to return to the insula to apologize to Gilot for vanishing this morning and see if he wished to accompany me.
Outside the insula, a powerful fragrance hung in the air, amplified by the midday heat. The incense-maker must be working hard at his trade. Canis the beggar poked his head out of his barrel as I drew near.
"Good day, young sir!" he called cheerfully. "Do you smell the myrrh?"
"I'd be hard put to miss it," I observed. "And my name is Imriel, by the way."
"Im-ri-el." He said my name slowly in his strangely accented Caerdicci, committing it to memory. "What does it mean, this name you bear?"
I shrugged. "Not much, I fear. 'Tis an old D'Angeline name." It was true, or almost. In Habiru, my name meant "eloquence of God," or so Phèdre had told me. Why my mother chose it, I have no idea. "Canis, where are you from?"
"From?" He looked surprised. "Why, I was squeezed out of my mother's loins, bloody and squalling. Where are you from?"
"Never mind." I shook my head at him, amused, and made for the gate.
"Wait!" He scrambled out of his barrel, his wooden begging bowl in one hand. I fumbled for my purse. "No, listen," Canis said. "Smell." He inhaled deeply. "There was a man once born of a tree," he said craftily. "Myrrha, the daughter of Kinryas, bore him. Her mother boasted of her beauty, and Aphrodite grew envious. She put a curse upon Myrrha and made her desire her own father, tricking him to her bed. When she got with child and he learned it was his, he tried to kill her."
My skin prickled. "That sounds like a Hellene myth," I said, striving to keep my tone light. "Are you from Hellas, Canis?"
He pointed at me. "The gods took pity on her," he intoned. "And they turned her into a myrrh tree. Ten months later, the bark was peeled away, and the boy-babe Adonis emerged." He gave me a gap-toothed smile. "And you know what happened to him!"
"Yes," I said. Memories descended on me; the banners of the Cruarch of Alba waving, the Black Boar of the Cullach Gorrym depicted on a red field. A scraping hoof, a looming shadow, the rank odor of pig and the rich scent of loam. Sidonie, trapped beneath me, laughing a full-throated laugh. I shuddered. "He was killed by a boar."
"Oh, the boar!" Canis waved a dismissive hand. "No, I meant the goddess of love, who made him her consort. Watch out for her, young Adonis. Betimes the gods take sides against one another, and we mortals are caught between them."
"Imriel," I said. "Who is this goddess of love, Canis?"
"Right." He nodded, ignoring my question. "Imriel." He held out his begging bowl, watching me place a few brass sestertii in it. "So tell me, pray. What was it like in the tree's womb, young Adonis? Did you find it a sticky place?"
"Canis!" I grasped his shoulders, exasperated.