A picked handful of the Bodyguard, the Companions, the only men who might carry weapons at such a gathering as this, stood leaning on their spears behind the High Place, and Phaedrus's questing gaze found Conory in their midst. Not that he needed much finding. He must have bleached his hair freshly for the occasion, because it shone almost silver against the brown of his skin; and his odd-set eyes were painted like a woman's. Under the dark fold of the cloak flung back from one shoulder he wore kilt and shirt of some soft fine skin, dyed green. There were fragile wire-strung bracelets on his wrists, and strings of crystal and gold and blue faience about his neck, and on his shoulders, arched and swaying to his every movement, the striped hunting cat, whose collar, like his own belt, was studded with enamel bosses.
Phaedrus took the mead horn, grinning. "I was not asleep then. I was taking a look at this new seven-year King.
An older man leaned across him from the other side. "A good long look, then. Aye well, he's worth looking at, and he knows it," he snorted, but there was a hint of admiration in the snort. "Ever since he came to manhood he's been one that women watch - aye, and men too - and there's times I think he makes a sport of seeing just how far he can go.
Rosemary Sutcliff, The Mark of the Horse Lord
