By Jove

by Marissa Doyle

  “He’d better watch it. Henry rarely loses,” Grant said in her ear. Theo looked up at him and he offered her a contrite smile. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to behave myself.” To her surprise he held his wine cup up to her in salute, then drained it.

  A server approached the edge of the crowd with a large tray of hors d’oeuvres. Grant chose a tiny stuffed fig and held it to Theo’s lips. “Will you forgive me if I feed you?”

  She accepted the fig, stuffed with sweet cheese and chopped dates, and looked up into his face, glowing in the candlelight. Then, before he could move his hand away, she delicately nibbled the end of his finger and drew it into her mouth for a delicious, lascivious second. Though the people around them were laughing and cheering again he didn’t seem to hear them, but closed his eyes as she released him.

  “I’m sorry, was that too much?” she murmured to him around the sweetness of the fig. It nearly had been, for her.

  “You are not sorry. You enjoyed every second of that,” he accused, eyes still closed.

  “Yes, I did. Didn’t you?”

  “The least you could’ve done is warn me.”

  “What would the point be if I warned you? Consider that your punishment for being a spoilsport earlier.”

  He opened his eyes. “Punishment? Are you trying to encourage misbehavior?”

  “Some kinds of it, anyway.”

  “’Scuse me,” mumbled a voice. Andrew pushed past them, looking both green and red at the same time, still clutching the cup he had evidently just been forced to drink. Before the crowd flowed back, Theo saw Ms. Cadwallader seat herself on the couch and pick up the dice, fixing Dr. Forge-Smythe with her gimlet eyes.

  “Dear me, we need to teach that lad a few things,” said Marlowe, who had materialized next to Grant. He refilled Theo’s cup, squinted at the bottle, then upended it over his mouth. “He’ll never graduate if he doesn’t learn to hold his wine,” he added, wiping his mouth after he finished. A loop of golden ribbon suddenly descended around his shoulders and jerked him backwards. “Whoops! Hey cowgirl, you could have spilled something!” he cried, and turned in pursuit of a giggling, fleeing girl.

  The group around the dice game cheered once more, and Renee Frothington-Forge-Smythe pushed her way through it, violet crown askew, and came to stand protectively by her husband.

  “No! You know too much wine upsets his stomach!” she scolded June Cadwallader, who was holding a cup out to him with a grim smile.

  “Now, now!” Julian swept through the crowd and held up one hand. “Time to find our dinner partners.” He nodded to Renee, who took the cup of wine and drained it herself, then handed it back to June with a disdainful sniff. Someone whistled in admiration as she moved to another couch and patted it in invitation to her husband, who smiled sheepishly and pulled himself alongside her. Dr. Herman murmured to the green-eyed girl and led her to one of the dining couches.

  Grant’s hands circled Theo’s waist, and his breath tickled her ear as he opened his mouth to speak. At that moment, Julian appeared next to her.

  “My dear Theodora! You must dine with me and tell me how you are liking your first symposium.” He held his hand out to her with an inviting smile.

  But Grant’s firm grip on her waist held her back. “Sorry, Julian. I’ve claimed Theo for the evening,” he declared cheerfully. The pressure of his hands belied his light tone.

  Julian regarded him, head to one side, then smiled. “I see. But there will be other symposia. Surely you don’t wish to deny me the pleasure of honoring my friend at her first one?”

  Grant shrugged and maintained his grip. “As you say, there will be others.”

  The two men stared at each other, unblinking gray eyes meeting turquoise. Theo shivered as the temperature seemed to drop and the room to shift around her. But then Julian laughed.

  “You do not yield? Well then—a contest! You and I—and the winner may claim Theodora as his dinner partner.”

  This was too much. All of Theo’s latent feminist instincts came to indignant life. “Excuse me, but do I get any say in—” she began, wriggling under Grant’s implacable hands.

  “Very well,” Grant said. He released her and stepped toward Julian. “What do you propose?”

  Julian examined him, brow creased in a frown. Around them the faculty and students fell silent. Dr. Forge-Smythe on his couch shook his head and buried his nose in a wine-cup, but Renee sat up, her eyes darting avidly from Julian to Grant and back again. Marlowe stood watching, the little braids someone had plaited into his beard bristling comically in stark contrast to his sober expression. Dr. Waterman stepped forward, frowning, but halted at a glance from Julian. The implacable turquoise gaze fell on the dice abandoned by Dr. Forge-Smythe. “Tessellae,” he replied.

  Theo looked wildly down at her feet. What were they going to do to the floor? Then she realized that she’d misheard him. Not tessellae, but tesserae—dice. They were going to play a game of dice for the privilege of sitting with her at dinner. This was utterly crazy. She wanted to laugh, to tell them just how ridiculous they were being, to call back the cheerful silliness that dressing up in costumes and drinking excellent wine had engendered.

  But another look at their faces quelled that impulse. Julian’s eyes were more steel than turquoise as he seated himself in Dr. Forge-Smythe’s place, and Grant looked more than ever like a figure from an El Greco painting, his face somber and unreadable.

  Julian held up one hand, and a student hurried forward to hand him a cup of wine. He drained it, handed it back, and nodded at Grant. “One throw? I imagine everyone is eager to start their meal. I know I am.” He glanced at Theo.

  “One throw,” Grant agreed shortly. He took the three dice that Julian handed to him with exaggerated courtesy, and surveyed them for a moment.

  Theo felt Dr. Waterman sidle over to her and was grateful for the silent comfort of his presence. “This is nuts—” she whispered to him, but he shook his head and held a finger to his lips.

  Just then Grant’s hand flashed, and the cubes with their inked dots fell through the air and onto the couch. Theo had a moment to register the expression of concentration on his face before it relaxed into a satisfied smile.

  “Seventeen,” he said, and heads craned to see the three dice, two sixes and a five, resting on the linen-covered cushion. Theo exhaled, and realized she had been holding her breath.

  Julian did not smile back. He scooped the dice up and weighed them in one hand for a moment, as if lost in thought. The gold edging of his cloak caught the candlelight as he lifted the dice and breathed across them. Next to Theo Dr. Waterman stirred but remained silent.

  Then Julian’s hand shot out, and the dice tumbled through the air. Theo saw them fall as if in slow motion. Two fell swiftly and landed, six dots up on both, but the third bounced and rolled, following a declivity in the cushion. As it lost momentum it seemed to hover on edge for a moment.

  Julian smiled triumphantly. “Eighteen!” he proclaimed as the die started to settle back, six dots upmost. But then, as if nudged by an invisible finger, it toppled once more. Two dots, like tiny baleful eyes, stared up at them from the stilled cube.

  The room was silent. Even the candles seemed to stop flickering for a moment. Then Julian looked up from the die and into Grant’s calm pale face. His eyes burned not turquoise or steel, but pure electric blue. “Who are you?” he snarled.

  Grant smiled. “Don’t you know yet?” He stood up and shook out the folds of his toga in a theatrical gesture, then turned towards Theo.

  “You were right, Julian,” Dr. Waterman declared in a loud voice. “We are starving. So I’m claiming my student here as my dinner partner. Venite, mi amici. Cenemus!”

  He took Theo’s arm and pulled her away from the couch. She was grateful for his hand on her arm, for her knees had turned to water.

  The other professors and guests moved to the couches, conversing in hushed tones. In the corner one of Paul’s musician friends took up a
kithara and started to play. The undergraduates sorted plates and serving utensils over by the covered dishes of food. A strained air of normality settled over the room.

  “Here,” Dr. Waterman said firmly, choosing a couch across the circle. She climbed onto it, and he settled himself behind her. She saw Di already stretched next to Julian, and Grant nodding to June Cadwallader as he took the place next to her.

  “Disgraceful display,” she heard Dr. Waterman muttering under his breath. “Absolutely outrageous.” He leaned forward and poured two cups of wine from the flagon on their table. “Here,” he said, handing her one. “You probably need that. I know I do.”

  Theo drank gratefully then set down her cup. “What—” she started to say, but he shook his head.

  “I think it best if we all just try to forget that little scene. Both of them should have known better. What was Grant thinking of? I will have to speak to him. And Julian! He of all people should be setting an example. Completely irresponsible.” He refilled her cup.

  “Dr. Waterman,” she tried again, “I’m sorry about—”

  “It’s not your fault at all. No, it’s not,” he insisted as she opened her mouth. “The two of them behaved like a pair of children. Now please, let’s just forget it. My digestion is already upset enough, and I was looking forward to this.”

  He waved his cup toward the boy setting large silver plates at the tables, followed by a pair who carried a silver basin and ewer of warm water. She saw Grant hold his hands out to be rinsed under the scented water, and wished that they were back at their favorite Chinese restaurant and that she had never heard of the symposia.

  “No you don’t. You’ll enjoy this. I promise,” Dr. Waterman said. Theo sighed. It was getting unnerving, the way everyone around here read her mind all the time.

  Dinner arrived soon after, to her relief. Dr. Waterman was a courteous partner, filling her plate for her from the highly seasoned dishes proffered by the servers, explaining what each one was, gently quizzing her by asking the names of the ingredients in Latin. Theo was glad she had spent time reading that copy of Apicius. She knew exactly what he was trying to do: distract her, keep her from paying too much attention to the brooding looks both Julian and Grant constantly sent in her direction. His kindness touched her, so she did her best to play along with him. In the end it worked and she was distracted, so that when the dinner had reached the sweets-nibbling stage and Dr. Herman started asking Latin riddles, she was able to drink her wine and laugh and groan with the rest.

  Paul Harriman took out a flute and played a duet with his friend from the Music Department, a lively tune that sounded more Irish than Greek. Marlowe rose from his couch where he had dined with the girl in the disheveled costume and began to dance. Everyone clapped, and Paul increased the tempo of his playing. The girl jumped up to join him, and after a minute so did another; Theo saw that it was Dr. Herman’s green-eyed friend.

  Marlowe jigged and leapt with abandon while somehow still managing to take swigs from a bottle without spilling a drop. His partners were less adept, but matched him drink for drink. Then, unable to restrain themselves, first one, then three or four of the undergraduate servers jumped in as well. Marlowe roared his approval and waved a hand in invitation to all the diners to join them. His eye lighted on Theo.

  “C’mon, Theo! You too!” He waggled his bottle at her. She laughed but shook her head.

  “Well then! It’s getting a little close in here, my friends!” Marlowe shouted above the crescendoing music. He leaned forward and formed a huddle with his partners, dancing in place as he exhorted them. Then, with a shout that sounded suspiciously like “Yippee hi-yi-yi-yi!” he ran for the door, followed by the dancing women. Theo heard the outside door of Hamilton Hall bang open, and wild cowboy yells rise into the chilly November evening.

  Dr. Waterman chuckled. Theo looked at him in surprise.

  “They’ll not be a happy crew in the morning,” he commented, refilling his cup.

  Theo heard another whoop! from outside the building. “Won’t they get in trouble? They’re a little, uh, loud.”

  “No. Julian will smooth things over.” At the mention of Julian’s name his expression sobered. “The campus police are an understanding lot. They’ll leave them to run it off.”

  “So long as nothing gets in Marlowe’s path. Did you see what happened to those squirrels they came across last time?” Di called, dabbling her fingers in her cup and holding them up to the light so that wine dripped from them like blood. She had evidently been listening in.

  Dr. Waterman frowned at her.

  “Wish I could have gone with them,” Dr. Forge-Smythe said wistfully. Everyone laughed, and Renee tweaked his wreath with a coquettish smirk.

  By one-fifteen Theo had had enough. It was getting harder and harder not to rest her head on the soft cushions and abandon herself to the warm languor that Julian’s wine seemed to induce in her. Most of the faculty were still chatting and laughing with tireless vigor, but their student guests were drooping. Theo looked at Grant and saw that he was still watching her steadily.

  “I’m falling asleep. Is it all right for me to leave?” she murmured to Dr. Waterman.

  “What’s that? Had enough? But it’s early yet.” He peered into her face. “Well, maybe not so early. Yes, you may certainly run along if you wish, but we’ll be at this for a while longer.”

  “Next time, maybe. Thank you, Dr. Waterman. You were very kind.”

  He made a dismissive noise. “It was nothing. I hope you enjoyed yourself a little, anyway. See you on Monday.”

  Theo slid off the couch and walked up to Julian. From the corner of her eye she saw Grant rise as well.

  Julian regarded her, leaning back on his cushions. His hair was tousled, which made him look boyish, and his eyes were their usual warm turquoise as they rested on her. “I’m sorry to see you leave so early, my dear. I hope you enjoyed your first symposium.”

  She resisted the impulse to reach out and smooth his hair. “Thank you very much, Julian. I did.”

  “Then you must come to them all. Good night, my Theodora.”

  Grant came to stand behind her. She tensed, but Julian nodded politely to him as well. “Good night, Proctor.”

  Theo felt him nod in return, felt him slip an arm around her and lead her to the door of the Great Room. At the doorway she paused and looked back. Julian still watched her, but it was impossible at this distance to read his expression.

  In the entryway Grant knelt at her feet. Theo stared down at him. “What are you doing?”

  “Helping you with your sandals.” He slipped one then the other onto her feet, rose, and looked at her. Then, without a word, he folded her in his arms and fastened his mouth on hers.

  It was a queer sort of kiss. Even through her haze of wine and weariness she could feel that. There was passion, yes, in the way his lips took hers, rich and greedy, his tongue probing and coaxing so that she had to cling to him lest her knees give way as she concentrated on returning the kiss.

  But there was something else in it too, something that had little to do with desire. With a shock of embarrassment and chagrin, she realized what it was. The door to the Great Room was still open. When she broke the kiss and looked up, she could see that Julian had had a plain view of them. Are you watching, Julian? that kiss had said. No roll of the dice could give anyone this. Not even you.

  Theo jerked away from him. “Why did you do that?” she whispered fiercely, grabbing her coat from the rack.

  Grant looked at her, his face expressionless. “Why do you think?”

  “You knew that Julian could see us. I don’t care what you think, Grant, but I’m not going to be a pawn in whatever game you’ve decided to play with him.” Her hands shook as she tried to do up her buttons.

  “No, you’re not a pawn. You’re the prize.” Grant took his cloak from the rack and settled it over his shoulders.

  “Damn it, that’s a load of bull. Don’t you dare eve
r kiss me again unless you do it out of love, not to score a point on someone.”

  He sighed. “You don’t understand, do you?”

  “No, it’s you who doesn’t understand. Good night, Grant. I’ll see you on Monday. Monday,” she emphasized, as his mouth opened in protest. “I don’t want to see you tomorrow until you’ve had a chance to think about just what it is you want.” She swept past him and into the starry night.

  Chapter Eight

  On Monday morning Theo arrived to teach her Latin class a few minutes late, hoping to avoid Grant a little longer. It was no use. When she walked into her classroom she was greeted by whistles and catcalls from her students, and saw the reason why. An enormous bouquet of deep shell-pink roses, two dozen at least, stood on her desk, and Grant and half his class peered around the door that connected their rooms. The words “mea culpa” had been written in foot-high calligraphic script with colored chalk on her blackboard.

  “That means ‘my fault’, right? C’mon, Ms. Fairchild. Whatever he did, you have to forgive him. Those are the most gorgeous roses I’ve ever seen,” gushed one of her students.

  “Thank you, Kelly, your translation is correct. How would you say, ‘I’ll think about it’ in Latin?” she replied crisply, picking up an eraser and ignoring Grant. The entire room groaned.

  After class Grant sidled back around the door. Theo shooed away her remaining students, mostly girls, who looked disappointed as she closed the door behind them.

  “And?” Grant said.

  She studied him for appropriate signs of contrition as she put her books away, and decided to let him stew a little longer. Glancing at her watch, she said, “I’m sorry, Grant. I’ve got rhetoric in three minutes. We’ll have to talk later.”

  “No we won’t. I told Arthur you’d be late to his class this morning.” He stepped forward and put his finger on her lips to stop her indignant sputter. “I apologize, Theo. You were right. I shouldn’t have kissed you like that in front of everyone. It was rude and embarrassing to you. But I don’t apologize for my feelings about Julian.”