“My what?” He looked up at her, confused.
“Your girlfriend. The Olivia I’ve heard so much about.”
“Olivia? My girlfriend?” To her amazement, Grant sat back and started to chuckle, then guffaw. “My girlfriend? Oh, wait till she hears that! She’ll have a fit.”
“I’m not sure what you find so funny,” she said stiffly.
“Oh, Theo.” Grant pulled her down to the floor beside him, still chortling. “Olivia’s not my girlfriend. Really, she’s not. Ohh—” He shook his head.
“Everyone else seems to think it’s a reasonable assumption to make.”
“Who, Marlowe? You’re going to take Marlowe’s word for anything?”
“He’s a very nice person, despite his habits,” she protested.
“Yes, he is. He should also know better. Olivia’s my friend, yes, and one of my very best ones. But a lover? No, never. Theo—” He leaned forward and took her hands. “Listen to me. I love you. You have no idea what you mean to me. When I see Julian watching you—”
“Now it’s my turn. Julian is not and never will be anything more than my friend. Grant, what’s going on with you? I don’t know how much I mean to you—you’re right about that. Because when I told you that I love you at Halloween, you disappeared for two days. How do you think that made me feel?”
He shook his head. “But that wasn’t why I ran away. That wasn’t it at all.”
“No? Then what was it?”
“It was—” His mouth opened, then closed. “I can’t explain it,” he said at last, looking away.
“Grant, I can’t love you if you run away from me as soon as I get too close.” To her mortification, tears trickled down her cheeks.
“Theo” Grant leaned forward to touch her face, then stared in wonder at the moisture on his fingers. Abruptly he bent and scooped her into his arms, holding her close to his chest. She leaned her head against him and sobbed harder as he cradled her and murmured endearments. “My sweet Theo. Why does this have to happen? Why does love have to hurt like this?” he whispered.
“It’s not the love that hurts. It’s the doubt that sometimes comes with it,” she croaked into his neck.
“But I have no doubt. I know that I love you.”
“But if I’m not sure that you love me, I do.”
He sighed. “I can understand that. I’m sorry, Theo. So I’ll tell you now. Never doubt that I love you. No matter what. Because I do. I just can’t seem to get the hang of showing it.” He blotted her cheeks with his sleeve. “Now, come on. This floor is cold, and I’m starving. We’re going to go have some dinner, and then we’re going to come back here so I can do my best to convince you that I love you.”
Chapter Seven
On the afternoon of the symposium Theo was curled up on a sofa in the Great Room, reading a translation of Apicius’s De re Coquinaria, a treatise on ancient Roman cookery. She turned the pages and hoped dinner tonight wouldn’t be too authentic.
“Apicius, eh? Studying for the symposium, Theodora?” Julian had come in, noiselessly as always, and smiled down at her.
“Why not? It’s pretty wild reading. I thought I’d give my students copies of the more bizarre recipes in here to take home for Thanksgiving. Hmm, stuffed dormice with sardine sauce. I doubt you’ll be serving them tonight.”
“Oh, we have our sources.”
She looked up at him in alarm. “You are joking, right?”
He laughed. “Of course I’m joking. We try for the spirit of authenticity, not the letter.” He sat down on the couch next to her and stretched out his long khaki-clad legs. “Any luck with your costume?”
She grinned. “You’ll see.”
“Now you’ve got me wondering. Not Marlowe’s SpongeBob toga, is it?”
“No. I doubt I could wheedle it out of him, anyway. I think you’ll be pleased with mine, though.”
“I’m sure I will.” He sighed. “These things are a lot of work. But we do enjoy them. I think they help us remember why we teach—to bring the ancient world back to life, if only for a little while. Sometimes as we drink and talk, I feel as if I should expect our old friends Heracles or Theseus to wander in and demand a cup of wine.”
“Or Jason? Or Achilles?” Theo smiled at the fancy. It was something she had often dreamed of as a child, reading and rereading the Greek myths: wondering what would happen if Heracles showed up at the door. Daddy had often compared her brothers’ rooms to the Augean stables, so it wouldn’t have been too surprising—
“Oh, not Jason. He was a dreadful boor. Manners of a Thracian and breath like a wild pig. And Achilles was spoiled, no matter how good he was. And he was good. But he knew it, and that made him even worse.”
She laughed in delight. “And surely Heracles couldn’t have been the most polished dinner guest.”
Julian crossed his arms behind his head and smiled up at the ceiling. “That’s true. He wasn’t the brightest lad, but his intentions were good. He had the biggest, saddest brown eyes you’ve ever seen. Rather like a spaniel. They were probably at least as effective as his muscles in many situations.”
“And Theseus?”
“Ah. My favorite, despite his occasional cheekiness. But a true gentleman nonetheless, in a time when the concept of gentleman had yet to be thought of. He stuttered, though. Did you know that? I’ve always thought it was the source of his compassion for others. It’s also why he didn’t last as long as he should have as king of Athens after his adventures. Good oratory was too necessary a skill then and there.”
She shook her head in admiration. “That’s wonderful, Julian. You should write your own mythology book.”
“Maybe when I retire. Who knows? I may just dedicate myself to my vines. I’m not sure the world would be ready for the real stories of the Greek legends.” He rose and stretched. “I’m off to finish up the last-minute details. Oh, what kind of wreath would you prefer, oak or laurel?”
“Wreath?
He patted his sleek gray hair. “Crown. Garland. For your head. It’s traditional at a symposium.”
“Oh.” Theo thought of Paul Harriman and his lyre. Definitely not laurel. “Oak, I think.”
“Ah.” The turquoise eyes gleamed. “Excellent choice. Till tomorrow, philotate Theodora.”
…
“What? No Disney princess sheets? You disappoint me, Theo.”
Marlowe was taking coats in the entry to the Great Room and hanging them on the coat rack there. After he hung hers up he took her hand and looked her up and down. “Well, all right. I’ll forgive you. You’re stunning in that. Shoes over here, please. I’m afraid our shoe-slave has the night off, so you’ll have to remove your own.”
Theo smiled as she slipped off her sandals. Mom had been as good as her word and sent not the tunica and stola that she as a married woman wore to Dad’s Latin dinners, but a brand-new toga praetexta with a deep purple edging stripe as befit Theo’s unmarried status. She had even gotten the length right. “Thanks, Marlowe. So where’s SpongeBob?”
“I had to return him to Allie’s little brother. I’m going to look for a set of sheets next time I’m at the mall, though I’m not sure I’ll be able to find them in king size. But you don’t wear SpongeBob to a symposium.”
“Not even you?”
For once he did not smile. “Not even me. Oh, hello, Grant.”
She turned to see Grant standing in the doorway, wrapped in a cloak. “Theo,” he said quietly, his eyes riveted on her.
“Do you like it?” She smoothed the shimmering folds of fabric over one arm. Mom had splurged and bought yards and yards of creamy white linen for her toga. She was in agony at the thought of staining its whiteness with food or drink, but the sheer luxury of being robed in so much linen was irresistible. She had put her hair up in a simple knot, not tight and strained as she had once worn it, but soft and loose. Grant came forward now and brushed an escaped tendril from her cheek.
“Yes,” was all he said, but the expre
ssion on his face was enough.
“You’re holding up traffic, you two. Are you going to go in, or just stare at each other?” Marlowe interjected.
Grant stepped back and reached for a coat hanger, still looking at her. Marlowe snorted and put one in his hand. Then, as Grant unfastened his cloak, it was her turn to stare. She had always been drawn by the handsome melancholy of his deep-set eyes and narrow cheeks. But the impeccably arranged folds and sweep of his snowy white toga virilis accentuated the austere beauty of his face.
“It’s a good thing you don’t always wear that,” she murmured as she took his arm and moved toward the door of the Great Room. Behind them she could hear Di Hunter slap Marlowe cheerfully on the back as she greeted him.
“Why not?”
“Because none of the girls in your Latin class would be able to keep their minds on their grammar. I can barely keep my mind on walking right now.”
He held the door open for her. “We could always skip this and go somewhere else,” he said, smiling into her eyes.
Theo felt her heart beat a little faster. Thoughts of unwrapping him from his toga, running her hands over the strong chest while she kissed him, intruded on her attention. Only when Grant stopped a few paces into the room and murmured, “What have we here?” did she take full notice of her surroundings.
The room was lit by candles. Only candles. All the usual lamps in the room had been banished, and the chandeliers were off. The linenfold paneling on the walls reflected the candlelight with a soft apricot glow that made the mosaics of the floor look subtly three-dimensional, as if the figures were straining to rise. The usual squashy chairs and couches had vanished as well, and in the center of the room was a great circle of cushion-covered divans, each with a small table by it. So they would eat reclining, just as the Greeks and Romans had. Larger tables outside the circle were set up as serving tables and a bar. On the tables, small covered braziers emitted thin streams of smoke. Theo guessed they were incense burners, and sniffed the air. A faint scent, flowery but pungent, made her nose tingle slightly, and she was reminded of Dr. Waterman’s fish flakes.
Undergraduates clad in tunics passed plates of hors d’oeuvres and wine. As she accepted a cup of wine Theo recognized Allie, whose little brother had lent his sheets to Marlowe for the Halloween party. Savory smells trailed behind another server holding a tray of puffy little meatballs; she caught hints of bay leaf and cumin as the boy passed by. Paul Harriman sat in a corner, quietly playing one of his lyres, watched by Dr. Herman and a green-eyed girl from historiography class.
“I hope I can manage to eat dinner lying down. It doesn’t seem like the best position in which to digest anything,” she said to Grant.
“It’s all in what you’re used to,” he replied absently, watching Paul. “In the old days we—they ate more slowly than do people today, so it evens out, I think. Besides,” he turned back to her and grinned— “eating in that position is much friendlier, if you happen to have a congenial dinner companion.” He squeezed her arm.
“Theodora, my dear! You were right. I am pleased with your costume. The toga becomes you.”
Julian had appeared at her side, his eyes warm and glittering as an Aegean bay. Instead of a toga he wore a Greek chiton and himation, less bulky than the Latin costume. Its graceful sportiness suited him, and she couldn’t help once more admiring his trim, muscular figure. He held out a hand to her, and she was forced to release Grant’s arm.
“But where is your garland? Here.” He reached up and took off his own crown of oak leaves, placed it on her head, and surveyed her with satisfaction. “There. Much better. Don’t you think, Proctor?”
“Myrtle would be more becoming,” Grant said pleasantly, but Theo caught an edge in his voice.
“But Theodora requested oak. Didn’t you, my dear?” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Enjoy yourselves. That’s why we’re here.” He glided away, still smiling.
Di came in then, looking like an ancient Greek field hockey player in a short tunic kilted up around her knees, followed by Dr. Forge-Smythe and his wife. A toga suited the professor, covering his wasted legs and somehow making his crutches less obvious. Renee was so beautiful in a lavender tunica and stola edged in gold and a crown of real violets that Theo could hardly, to her surprise, find it in her heart to hate her. At least Renee couldn’t find fault with her appearance tonight.
“Good evening, Theo, Grant.” Perched on the edge of one of the dining couches, Dr. Waterman greeted them with a cheerful wave as they approached. Ms. Cadwallader, wearing Greek dress and a veil on her head, sat with him. She surveyed Theo coolly.
“You managed to find something to wear,” she observed.
“I did, thank you,” Theo said, squeezing Grant’s arm to keep from laughing.
“At least I’m decently covered,” she said to Grant as they moved past the pair. “Check her out.” She nodded toward another graduate student, in short attire similar to Di’s, that seemed in imminent danger of complete disarray. Marlowe had finished his cloakroom duties and now stood with her, looking up to no good. As they watched, the girl threw her arms around his neck and stole his garland, put it on her own head and darted away, laughing back over her shoulder at him in a clear invitation to give chase.
“It seems the wine’s been flowing for a while, doesn’t it?” Grant agreed. “You see why I say we’re still recovering from Marlowe’s time with us at the institute?” He halted and turned Theo to face him. “Speaking of garlands, take that thing off. You’re more beautiful without it.”
Theo put her hand up to touch the crown of oak leaves. “I can’t. It would be an insult to Julian.”
“Even better, then.”
“Stop it, Grant. Not now.”
He glowered at her, but held his tongue.
“More wine!” Marlowe roared. Theo jumped; he had come to stand right behind her. “Ho, Theo. Don’t you know it’s bad manners to take mincing little sips of wine at a department symposium? Here, I’ll drink to you, and you must drink to me. You too, Grant. You should know better.” He refilled their cups from the bottle he carried, then held his cup up to hers for an instant before emptying it in one swallow.
She laughed. “I have to match that, huh?”
“As well as you can, anyway. I understand that you might not have my expertise.”
“Or your hollow leg.” She raised her cup to him and took a long drink. “Julian’s wine,” she said with relish as a heady shiver rippled through her.
“Of course,” Marlowe confirmed. “C’mon, Grant. Your turn.”
His jaw tightened, but then he relaxed and nodded. However, Theo saw that he took the barest of sips. What was wrong with him tonight? This was fun—the elegant classical costumes, the candlelight, Julian’s wine, Paul’s music. No wonder it was considered an honor to be invited.
“Don’t you like it?” she asked, watching him set his cup down on a table after Marlowe had wandered off.
“No, I don’t,” he said shortly, glancing at his cup with a frown.
“Because you don’t like the wine, or because you don’t like Julian?” she persisted.
“Stop being so perceptive, please.”
“Just behave yourself. We’re guests, remember? Now come on, admit that the wine is good and relax and let me admire you in your finery. Marlowe!” She gestured at him, and he hurried over with a fresh bottle and grinned his approval as she took another deep drink. The golden syrupy tingle seemed to spread clear down to her toes.
“Careful, Theo,” Grant said. “I might have to carry you home to bed if you keep that up.”
She laughed and looked at him sideways. “Would that be such a bad thing?”
He frowned. “When I carry you home to bed some night, I don’t want you drunk on Julian’s wine.”
Theo’s insides quivered at the intensity in his voice. Grant’s scholarship of humanities had improved somewhat of late. He was learning the joys of physical closeness: of
holding hands under the table in the university coffee shop, of neck massages during late-night study sessions in the Great Room, of kissing with slow heat or swift ardor. That was as far as she’d taken it so far, until he seemed ready for more intimate contact. Not that she hadn’t thought about more. Had thought about it frequently, in fact. But she was waiting for a cue from him. Was this one?
But no. He was still frowning at his cup. She sighed to herself and rubbed her toes on the floor. The tiny tessellae that made up the mosaic’s surface were of different materials—stone, glass, ceramic—and all differed subtly in texture under her bare feet. She had expected that the floor would be cold, but instead found that it was oddly warm—yet another delight to the senses tonight. She thought about pointing it out to Grant but his expression was still too forbidding.
So she wandered from his side, enjoying the feeling of the floor under her feet as she walked, and joined the small throng that had gathered around one of the couches. As she peered past Di Hunter’s shoulder, she could see that Drs. Herman and Forge-Smythe were the focus of attention. They were playing some kind of game involving dice. As she watched, Dr. Herman threw the dice and groaned; then, while everyone laughed and cheered, he held out his hand for the large beaker of wine Marlowe brought him. Evidently he had lost his toss and had to pay a penalty. While everyone else clapped rhythmically, he drained the cup in one long draft. Cheers erupted as he flourished the empty cup and bowed.
“Again?” Dr. Forge-Smythe challenged, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.
“Not I. Not for a few minutes, anyway. I don’t think I could manage to lose again just yet.” Dr. Herman stumbled back to the side of the green-eyed girl and slid a casual arm over her shoulder. She looked both delighted and nervous at the contact.
“I’ll have a go, sir,” Andrew Barnes said in his sloppily draped toga, and took Dr. Herman’s place. The audience cheered him in turn and Ms. Cadwallader came to stand behind him, keeping a stern eye fixed on Dr. Forge-Smythe.
By Jove Page 8
