The head of the poet Bran Cof rolled his eyes at this stilted speech in a way that made me want to giggle. Fortunately both men were gazing outside and missed it.

“Bald Teutates! You haven’t a Celt’s gift of poetry, that is certain, Amadou. You mistook another woman’s black curls.” Marius wandered over to the table. He picked up several bottles in turn, clearly astounded that they were all empty. “You must give up this unseemly obsession. Your wedding feast will be celebrated the day after tomorrow. Notable men and their retinues have traveled for days to gorge themselves at the table and toast your virility. You will do your duty, as I did mine when I married your sister.”

“You can’t compare your marriage to mine! You and my sister are well matched in every room except the bedroom. Whereas I am to marry a trembling mouse of a fifteen-year-old who has no conversation, little education, and less personality.”

“Her nose twitches, too, have you noticed that? And she has a pointed, rattish chin.”

“Stop, Marius! Have pity on me!” the legate said with what I considered a sad lack of generosity. He did not even defend the poor nameless girl from such an unfortunate comparison.

Marius laughed in the hearty way he had, which, I reflected, could start to grate. “You’ll be happier with a biddable wife.”

“I don’t agree.” Amadou paced. “My chief pleasure when I was pretending to be a student here was my mathematics seminar. Beatrice sat on the women’s side of the room, answering questions with a bold intellect worthy of a man. I could never concentrate. It’s just as well your cousin ended the practice of allowing girls to attend the academy when he became headmaster last year. It was too distracting.”

Marius examined the skulls and, to my horror, fetched up beside the pedestal. Bran Cof stared at the far wall. Neither of the men seemed to notice the flush of life in the poet’s cheeks or the steely glamour of his blue eyes. Their petty self-absorption blinded them to the astonishing magic in the room. “I don’t think you truly love her, Amadou. You’re just not accustomed to being turned down. That’s what has put you in a pique.”

“She was too proud.”

“You adored her pride until she refused your offer to make her your mistress.”

“Too much pride is deadly in a woman. Mine was as good an offer as she will ever get. Yet what can I have expected from a Phoenician woman! They prostitute themselves for their greedy goddess, to gain whatever material wealth and trade advantage they can.”

Perhaps his words angered me a trifle, enough that I let slip a thread or two.