It would serve perfectly.
The slaves were outside in the garden, and Luca felt self-conscious at the thought of practicing where they might see. The furnished rooms were of course impossible. He glanced up and climbed the stairs.
Yes, like many houses near the coast, the flat roof was a paved terrace. He ducked under the low cover for the stairs and walked out onto the sun-warmed tiles. A waist-high ledge enclosed the terrace, walling it like a smaller garden, with leaf-shaped holes along the base to drain water. It was perfect.
He returned to the center of the roof and stood still for a moment, balancing the staff in his hands.
“Take it.”
“No! Master Shianan, I cannot. I am a merchant’s son, a bookkeeper—”
“Are you? I thought you were a slave. My slave, bound to obey my orders. Pick it up.”
Luca closed his eyes and saw Shianan standing opposite him, his fingers deceptively loose on the staff. His master had ordered him to defend himself, had forced him to hold his ground. The military commander had ordered the Furmelle prisoner to learn to fight.
The imaginary Shianan before him attacked. Luca moved the staff and brought it into the first posture he’d learned. Again. Again. He fell into a rhythm—fifty repetitions, Shianan had said. But fifty thoughtful, correct repetitions. And then there was another movement to practice, and then another.
The wrappings over his wrists were hot and irritating, so he slipped them off before continuing. The actions came more easily to him as he concentrated, recalling his lessons. He began to sweat freely; the walled terrace trapped the sun’s warmth just as the walled garden did below, prolonging the growing season. He stripped first his tunic and then his shirt, knowing no one could see him here. It was good to stretch his muscles, to move as he wanted, to smash unseen enemies and be victorious each time.
He smiled to himself and recalled Giusto’s arrogant figure. He brought his staff up to deflect and then shifted his hands, bringing the tip over his shoulder, toward the tiles and forward, directly into the blustering soldier’s groin.
He had been so terrified, then. But Shianan had laughed. Luca grinned and did it again, just for fun.
He was far from being a trained fighter. He had only to recall Shianan’s whirlwind defense against the swordsmen’s ambush to see the difference between them. Mere weeks of training could not make him competent to really fight—but they had given him a glimpse into something he’d forgotten, or possibly had never known. They had given him the strength to hold his place before the overseers, to bargain for Cole and then to protect him.
He spun the staff, still pleasantly surprised that it moved in his hands as it had in Shianan’s. He pictured the road and ambush. The man on the left had come first, and Shianan had checked his charge with a wide sweep...
He moved forward, recreating the battle as best he could recall. A sweep, a jab to the torso—wait, he could not have done that without reversing the staff—turning to the new threat, rotating as the stick shattered with the sword hit— Luca remembered that well, certain it was death—a blow to the temple...
He lunged, extending the staff horizontally to catch the swordsman’s descending elbows, and then he drove the tip into the invisible swordsman’s throat. He moved with more deliberation than speed. Slow practice could pick up speed more easily than sloppy practice could pick up accuracy, Shianan said. He whirled to face the next threat and saw a human form.
She was standing on the upper stairs, stooped to clear the small angled roof, holding a tray. Luca drifted to an uncertain halt, letting the staff spin down and clatter on the tile.
For a moment neither of them moved. Luca forgot he was master here, forgot he owed her no explanation. He could only stare dumbly and wonder what would come next.
And then she moved forward, onto the roof, and straightened. “I brought you some refreshment, my lord.”
He stepped over the fallen staff. “Thank you.”
She offered him a cup filled with some sort of fruit juice. It was sweet and amazingly good, a delicacy as he had not tasted in years. He gulped it, thirsty and suddenly greedy for the sweetness.
“I did not know you were working, or I would have brought more. I will bring something else, if you like.” She glanced at the staff. “You are a soldier, my lord?”
He laughed. “Oh, please, no. No, I was never a soldier, and I’m not much of a fighter of any sort. This was—this was tribute.” He sobered.
“Tribute?”
“To a friend.” He cleared his throat. What was she thinking?
She took the empty cup. “I am sure he would be honored.” She hesitated. “Would you like those treated?”
He knew she had to have seen, but still the mention made his throat close. “I’m fine.”
“I can help so—”
“I’m fine,” Luca repeated, hearing a note of desperation in his voice.
“As you wish. I’ll bring more to drink.”
When she returned, he was fully dressed, toying with the strips of linen. There was no point to them now. He would stay in the sun and let the skin color to match the rest.
This time she had both water and juice, which she left before returning silently downstairs. He drained the water and then sipped the juice, enjoying its rich sweetness.
There was another narrow bench at the end of the terrace, and Luca sat on it and looked over the small garden. The house’s position against the face of the mountain created a series of hothouses, trapping the sun first before the mountain, then within the garden walls, and then within the terrace walls. It was a simple and ingenious design.
Cole was still turning earth below, his movements unevenly slow. He was tiring, Luca guessed, or his back was paining him. Cole jabbed the fork into the ground and straightened, reaching over his shoulder and plucking at his torn shirt. It clung to his back.
Marla crossed toward Cole. He didn’t see her at first, but when he did he hastily released his shirt, feigning an indifferent stretch. She was not fooled. She went directly to him and asked a question Luca could not hear. He answered evasively, and as she handed him water she ran the tips of her fingers lightly over his back.
Caught, Cole blustered indignantly, but as she spoke he surrendered. She went behind him and carefully teased the fabric from the healing wounds.
Luca swallowed and looked away. He hadn’t thought to ask the condition of Cole’s back before sending him to work. Was he the same as any other callous master? What would Cole and Marla think?
She left Cole’s back, asked him a question, and then returned to the house as he drank his water. Luca saw him set the cup aside and return to his work, moving a little more freely but still tentatively. Luca would tell Cole that the rest of the day was his own. He rose from the bench and started downstairs.
Marla was in the kitchen, checking a pot beside the fire. “My lord,” she said upon seeing him, “will a capon be acceptable for supper? I can start it early, and we might have a light lunch now.”
Luca’s mind was not prepared for such questions. “That sounds fine,” he answered mechanically. “I’ll call Cole in.”
The slave saw him as soon as he came around the corner, so Luca merely gestured and returned to the kitchen. Surely the house had a dining room, but he did not want to use it. He wanted to be here in the kitchen, with Cole and with Marla.
Cole came, nodded to his master, and sat across the table. Marla gave them each a bowl of soup, a cooled blend of vegetables and cream, probably from the goats in the rear. It was good after the morning’s exercise. The three of them ate in silence, but it was not awkward, Luca thought.
As he finished his soup, he glanced at Cole. “You needn’t finish that plot today, Cole. I don’t want you opening anything.”
“It’s late for that,” Marla said. “With your permission, my lord, I’ll see to his back.”
Luca blinked. “Of course.”
Cole looked worried. “Master, I—
I don’t need much...”
He was easier to correct. “Let her see to you, Cole.”
“I wasn’t slacking.”
“I know that,” Luca said quickly. “I also know there’s no hurry, and you could use some rest. It will be there tomorrow.”
“Good.” Marla rose from the table, collecting bowls. “Then you can pluck the capon this afternoon.”
“What?” Cole asked bluntly, as if she had spoken in a foreign tongue.
Marla chuckled. “Pluck the capon.” Cole started to rise, but she pressed his shoulder, holding him in the seat. “Slip off your shirt. I’ll get the salve.”
Luca retreated to the next room. Through the open door he could see Cole sitting stiffly at the kitchen table, his shirt across his knees, his shoulders rigid. Marla’s offer must have seemed an unfamiliar threat.
No matter, Luca thought. It would be good for him. He could do with having his expectations overturned, with discovering that not everyone meant to wring what they could from him.
Marla stood behind Cole and gently pressed him forward to expose his back. He resisted tautly. She ignored this, rubbing her hands briskly together and then placing them on Cole’s shoulders. Luca saw her fingers move, and then her hands, and then she was pressing deliberately over his neck and shoulders. Cole gave a little, and then another inch, and then he bent like a reluctant willow as she eased him forward. Marla continued massaging one hand over his neck as she smoothly scooped a globule of salve from a wide, squat jar and gently slid it over the first stripe.
Luca slid back in the chair, drawing one knee to his chest. Yes, it was good for Cole to find that he needn’t be wary of every interaction. He was relaxing under Marla’s ministrations, physically and mentally. She was treating body and mind, all that Cole needed.
All that Luca wanted.
Cole saw to the weal across his stomach himself—he had not relaxed so much—but when Marla stepped away, Luca thought he was disappointed. He rose slowly from the table, as if he wanted to linger. “One moment,” the slave woman said, and he was rooted to the stone-paved floor.
Marla left the kitchen through the rear door, and a moment later there was a frantic chorus of squawking from outside. She returned, brushing dust from her skirt, and handed Cole a dead chicken. “The capon. Pluck it in the rear, so the feathers don’t litter the front garden.”
Cole was visibly disconcerted. “How...?”
She demonstrated, making Cole flinch. “He’s dead, he won’t feel a thing. And he’ll be good eating.” She smiled and closed his hands on the bird. “Out back, please.”
Luca smiled. Yes, Cole’s world had changed.
Had his?
Marla gathered the medicinal jars into a basket. Then she came into the sitting room, where Luca sat with his heels on his chair, his arms and chin resting on his knees. “My lord?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t call. Don’t let me keep you from your work.”
“I have nothing that cannot wait.” She looked at him with calm, appraising eyes. “I could see to your back now, if you would.”
He looked at her. “I...” How had she known? “Yes, please.”
She nodded, unsmiling. “I’ll bring my things to the roof, my lord.”
Luca had not expected that, but he saw no reason to protest. He stood and started up the stairs, loosening the laces of his tunic. On the roof, warm with the captured afternoon sun, he sat on the bench and looked out. Three goats moved lazily on their tethers, ignoring the chickens which had gone back to scratching.
“Your shirt and tunic, please.”
He drew them off, the air cool against his skin until he grew accustomed to it. “They are not fresh,” he said awkwardly, unsure of why he’d consented to her attention.
“These welts are not old, only a few days, perhaps. Not severe, but there is no reason to ignore them.”
She folded his tunic and shirt at the end of the bench before him. Then she took a thin, upright jar from her basket and poured oil onto her fingers. Luca felt something almost like disappointment. The oil Jarrick had given them had not been so helpful as the ointment Shianan had. Probably a soldier by necessity found better products. At least this smelled pleasant, like almonds.
But Marla did not immediately apply the oil to the faintly sore welts. Instead, she rubbed her hands to warm the oil and, fingers spread wide, eased them into his shoulders with a sweeping, circular motion. Luca, surprised, shifted, but her hands followed him smoothly. “Don’t fret, my lord. You saw how it helped your servant, didn’t you?” The motion spread over his back. “And shouldn’t a master receive as much care as his servant?”
Luca was softening under the steady motion. “I don’t...”
She shifted to include his upper arms, making the nerves tingle down to his hands with released tension. “Please, lord, trust me. If afterward you think I have done wrong, then deal with my master as you will. But give me a chance to help you.”
He did not answer. Indeed, the simple strokes were soothing, steadying. Her hands were warm, firm, calming. He began to slump.
“Right, my lord,” she whispered. “Lie forward and let me work.”
Luca did not argue as she pressed him chest-down onto the bench, pillowing his head on the folded clothing. He’d experienced massage before, of course, in the baths as a young man, and he’d seen it offered to rich and poor everywhere, at varying prices and in varying skills. But it had never reduced him so quickly to quiet compliance.
She added more oil to her hands and began a deeper pressure, working across the rigid muscles and coaxing them to loosen. Luca ceased to worry about the massage and let her dig into his tight places, smoothing them. For long minutes there was only a steady thrumming contact over his back, working from shoulders to hips. At last, he felt her remove one hand and trace a sore welt with something cooler than the warm oil, but her other hand kept an even, soothing motion over his shoulder blade and he couldn’t summon the effort to brace himself for the salve’s application. He needn’t have bothered; he barely felt it. He barely felt anything but the gently insistent rolling...
A moment later, she shifted both hands to one of the welts, moving across it rather than along it. “Does this hurt you, my lord?”
“Hm.” It was surprisingly difficult to talk. “Hnyeah.”
“It’s unpleasant?”
She must have been practiced at interpreting half-blissed subjects. “Mm. Not quite good.”
“They need a few more days, then. That will help it to heal with less of a mark, when it’s comfortable.” Her hands slid smoothly to another place. “What about here?”
“Mmmm.”
“These are older.” She fell silent again, and Luca wondered for a moment if she was trying to guess at the scarring. But he couldn’t maintain the worry and, sighing at last, he let her knead him into pliant jelly.
Luca was not sure how long she worked. He slipped into a waking dream, where sounds and colors danced about him indistinctly. But gradually he became aware of the distant splashing of the fountain, and of a faint muttered curse from Cole regarding feathers, and of Marla’s hands moving gently over his back as they had started, no longer pressing deep.
She seemed to know when he had returned to coherence. “How do you feel, my lord?” The soothing hands changed to a small towel, wiping away the remaining oil.
He wanted to speak, but his face was heavy and damp against the folded clothing. He wondered briefly if he’d wept or drooled in his removed state. “Nnthya...” With effort he lifted his head and drew himself up on an elbow. “Thank you.”
She ceased working, leaving one hand lying warmly between his shoulder blades. “I did salve the welts, and I worked across the older scars. They are recent enough that they can be helped if you choose.” If she wondered at them, she had tact enough not to ask. “I took the liberty also of helping you to relax somewhat. My master said you were here for solitude and retreat, and he instructed me to serve yo
u to that end. I hope you are not displeased.”
Luca managed a smile, which felt odd on his limp face. “Displeased?” He sighed. “I’m sorry I ever thought to stop you.”
She chuckled. “Thank you, but that was only a portion. If my lord wishes, I can work more completely, perhaps tomorrow?”
He dropped his head and looked under his arm at her. “Your master won’t be angry that you...?”
She laughed aloud. “No, my lord, you misunderstand. I am a trained aelipto. That is my primary purpose here. Nothing more.”
Luca flushed. “I didn’t mean...”
“I didn’t think you did. I am sure my lord is perceptive enough to recognize the difference between a touch which lays him blissfully down and one which brings him happily standing.”
Luca blushed hotter and gave an embarrassed laugh. She was free with her speech. It was obvious no one could be angry with her after she’d performed her ministrations. He liked her. “And your master keeps an—what did you call yourself?”
“An aelipto, one trained in specialized healing massage. You don’t know my master well?”
“We met only yesterday. We share a friend in Jarrick Roald.”
Her voice deepened slightly. “My master was a soldier before he was a merchant. He was wounded, twice seriously, in his back and hip. There are days when he needs my help to leave his room.” She turned one palm up. “Other days, he does very well. But he needs care.”
Luca’s breathing seemed deeper than before. “Thank you again for your help, beyond what I asked.” He sat up slowly, letting her hand fall from his back, and rubbed at his face. The air was cooling, and he picked up his shirt. “I might...”
She understood. “If I can serve my lord, you need only ask.” She retrieved two or three jars and returned them to her basket. “And now, unless my lord objects, I will go to see how Cole is faring with the capon.”
Luca stayed on the bench for a few moments, dressing slowly, unwilling to move and disrupt the hazy contentment that he had, just for now. But as he descended the stairs, feeling startlingly tall and—yes, assured, that was it—self-assured, the contentment followed.
Blood & Bond Page 18
