The promised Northern Night was a blast, and evoked some faint feelings of homesickness in Eirik.

The overall happy and elated mood of the morning was still predominant, and the Romans (and Greek) present took well to the quite uncommon location – a meadow behind the houses where next year, hopefully, mares and their foals would frolic. The only foal that frolicked on this meadow and around the bonfire now was of Greek origin, lovely to behold and fuelled with too much mead – Hylas. Despite Eirik’s and Felix’s warnings, the young Greek had tasted everything, liquid and solid, and then again and again, just to make sure the taste was as good as it had been before.

The slow beats of a drum and piercing sounds of bone pipes had called the guests shortly after sunset. After his walk with the Silure, from which they had returned just in time, Sextus seemed to feel much better, and Eirik smiled to himself about the miracles of love. Nevertheless, they had heaped several soft cushions for him close to the fire, so that Sextus seemed to preside over the group like a benign and slightly inebriated patron.

Over a pit, in which the dying remains of a fire still glowed when a breeze brushed over it, were the remains of their extravagant meal pierced onto a makeshift spit, carefully raised to a height where the assorted meat was kept hot but wouldn’t burn. The lovers had added little extras here and there, so that on this night the cups remained untouched as mead and fruit wines were served in drinking horns (that actually had been sold as souvenirs but served their purpose as well).

The guests listened to the unfamiliar rhythms of the drum, cringed sometimes at the shrill cadences of Spurius’ bone pipes and marvelled at the sound of Eirik’s voice, singing tales of heroes and gods in the rough and throaty tongue of his people, which emphasised the barbarian spell cast over them all. Every now and then, the Northerner fell silent, and Spurius intonated in an uncommon, almost eerie sing-song voice the translation of what had been related.

Felix sat on a blanket, hugging his legs and balancing a half-filled horn in his slender fingers as he stared dreamily into the dancing flames, taking a sip of apple wine every now and then. The ghost of a smile curled the corners of his lips, and one sandaled foot tapped the rhythm of the drum into the grass. He looked satisfied and at ease with himself and the world around him.

Sextus and Idris, of course, were inseparable, and in the dancing light of the fire it was almost impossible to tell which of the entwined limbs belonged to whom. The Northerner groaned inwardly and then smiled – the two of them still had only eyes for each other. How long would it last, he asked himself while his hands beat the gradually accelerating rhythms of a dance, after Sextus had returned to his usual life and was the undisputed master of Green Acres again? Would the two of them find an arrangement that suited them both? Sextus as well as Idris were independent creatures and were living lives that, on the surface, excluded them from each other. Eirik hoped they would adapt to the changes that had to follow the first rush of emotions.

Spurius’ shadow flickered over him. Eirik had taught him the dances of the North, and his lover had learnt them well. The blond man threw back his head and startled their friends with a shrill, trilling sound, and the Roman’s dance grew faster as he stomped his feet and whirled around, his long hair flying as he shook his head. Eirik didn’t have to look to know how beautiful and enticingly barbarian his lover appeared right now. Felix watched the spectacle for a while before he resumed his musings; two others, however, were following each of Spurius’ moves.

A faintly amused smile curled Rufio’s lips while his eyes reflected an elegiac acceptance of life’s twists and turns. With the tips of his fingers, the freedman tapped the rhythm onto the drinking horn, almost spellbound by the Roman’s whirling moves. Eirik knew his lover inside out, as well as he knew him as performing dancer, for this was part of their show, so it was easy for him to tell that tonight Spurius danced for Rufio. Eirik looked at his lover’s face and found his eyes half-closed, yet the smile glowing on his face rivalled with the flames of the bonfire.

Another pair of liquid eyes watched the Roman dance, taking in every move and gesture, making them his own. Hylas’ hands and legs, Eirik noticed, were twitching in eagerness to join Spurius. Never before had he seen the young Greek so utterly focussed on something. With his moist lips slightly parted and gleaming in the light of the fire, and his face slightly flushed, he reminded the Northerner of a precious horse, tearing at his reins only seconds before the race.

For a moment, Hylas’ gaze wandered over to the musician, and he flashed a dazzling smile as he found the Northerner’s eyes upon him already. Eirik nodded encouragingly and Hylas nearly leapt at Spurius’ side and joined the dance, accompanied by another trilling cheer that cut through the night as Eirik accelerated the rhythm once more. Seeing the two of them move side by side, it was obvious who the born dancer was. Spurius had learnt it, but Hylas lived it. At first, his supple body followed and echoed every move Spurius showed him, but swiftly had absorbed them and broke free from any boundaries.

What happened with Spurius only on rare occasions, Hylas managed effortlessly – music condensed into a living body, and a living body dissolved into music come visible. Both, dancer and musician, turned into vessels of their art, pulsing in a mutual rhythm, devoid of their senses, breathing the same breath, drawing from each other and giving back at the same time, elevating their gifts into a sphere none of them could have reached on his own, every sound and every move both prayer and praise.