Lion Head Mesa tearstain

Arsenio followed Tamar’s instruction, stepping into the alcove with a curious smile on the corners of his lips.

When Tamar spoke to him, it was in whispers. The Greek leaned toward her, curious to know what had flustered her so. The fire that had burned beneath her surface did not scorch him, not like it had before. Something had changed in the autumn maid. As the guard listened to what she said, he rediscovered the sharp touch of flame – this one raced beneath his skin.

It is a trap, the misthofóros said, at once troubled. Arsenio moved toward her, hoping that he might offer comfort. The red fur of his chest pressed against her frame, but he was not incessant. The ice of his eyes searched her features, wondering what could have happened to have inspired the queen’s command.

Look at me, Tamar, he implored her. The man moved to nudge beneath her chin.

I will not lay with you if you do not desire it. I will help you with words for the queen, but you must… say you found another man. A wild man. The Pharaoh will kill the one who touches you, if it is not him. Arsenio believed this with all of his soul.