by Scott Bury
Photius stretched out, wriggled in the water to get more dust off his skin, dunked his head under and washed his hair. Then he climbed out, taking a towel from Ulf and wrapping it around himself.
Javor copied as best he could. He felt completely lost. Naked but for a towel, he was weaponless, among strangers, wet and uncomfortable. But Photius, whom he had been following like a dog for months, was exultant.
They went into another room, where two men in tunics waited for them. “Ah, the massage!” exclaimed Photius, and immediately lay face-down on a kind of narrow, padded table. The masseur poured oil on Photius’ back and began rubbing vigorously.
Javor didn’t like the looks of that. But the other masseur was pointing at the table, so he lay down like Photius. He didn’t like the feel of the oil on his skin, and recoiled at the feel of the man’s hands on his shoulders, but gradually relaxed. Soon, he realized just how good the massage felt. All too soon, the massage was over. Javor stood, flexed his shoulders and felt somehow less tired.
Next was a tiled room that Photius called the caldarium. Javor jumped as Photius opened the door and clouds billowed out. But Photius stepped through the steam and sat on a bench, motioning Javor to sit beside him. The older man leaned back and closed his eyes, breathing deeply.
“It’s awfully hot in here, Photius,” Javor said.
Photius chuckled. “That’s the point, my boy. The heat makes you sweat and cleans out your skin. It takes away all the deep ground-in dirt and filth. And it takes out the minor spirits, too, from deep inside your being and exorcises them gently.”
Javor noticed a number of braziers placed in the room. On each one was a wide pan filled with water and several good-sized round stones. Beside each was a bucket with a long-handled wooden ladle. After a few minutes, Photius poured a ladle of water over the stones, which hissed as steam filled the room even more thickly, and Javor felt the higher temperature like hundreds of needles prickling his skin. His head felt tense, like his scalp was too tight. The air got hotter. Photius breathed in deeply, a content smile crossing his face, and leaned back again.
Javor breathed in and felt his nasal passages open. Gradually, he got used to the heat. It is relaxing, he thought. Water trickled down his back and he couldn’t tell whether it was sweat or collected steam.
After a while, Photius picked up a small curved metal tool and, to Javor’s amazement, scraped it along his skin. A wave of steam and sweat preceded its leading edge, splattering onto the floor. Photius scraped his neck all around, then his shoulders, his chest, torso, arms and legs, then wiped the tool on a towel and handed it to Javor.
“Do my back.”
Javor hesitated, but Photius turned his back to the younger man. Javor shrugged and scraped the tool down one side of his back. “Ouch! Not so hard!” Photius protested. Javor relaxed the pressure and more gently swept the tool down, pulling a wave off the old man’s back.
“Now, you do it,” Photius said after Javor had finished scraping his back. Javor looked at the iron tool. “It’s called a strigil,” Photius explained. Javor copied the older man’s actions, scraping sweat, water and dirt off his skin. After, he felt renewed, smoother, cleaner.
Javor followed Photius to the side of the room, where a deep bath was sunk into the floor. Photius dropped his towel and without hesitating plunged in and climbed out immediately. Javor copied him. “Ahh! It’s hot!”
“Of course,” Photius chuckled. “It’s in the caldarium, the hot room.” He didn’t stay, but wrapped the towel around himself again and went out to the cooler room where they had been massaged, where Javor now felt chilled in comparison. Servants handed them more wine. Photius waited a few minutes until he felt he had cooled enough, then said, “Back to the frigidarium.” The baths had been refilled, and again without hesitating, he plunged in. Javor hesitated this time, and then lowered himself gingerly. The cool water felt icy on his goose-pimpled skin. Photius was splashing the water over his body, and Javor copied him again.
“The heat in the caldarium opens the pores of the skin, allowing sweat to flush out the dirt that has been ground in over these weeks over travel and travail,” said Photius in his expansive way. “You scraped much of it off with the strigil in there, and then the hot bath washed the rest away. Now, the cold bath closes the pores again to help prevent more dirt from getting in. The whole process very much promotes good health.”
Back in the changing room, they found fresh Roman-style tunics laid out for them. “Where are our clothes?” Javor asked.
“We have taken them to be laundered, sir,” Ulf replied, bowing his head. Javor was amazed. “The legate invites you to the officers’ mess for evening meal, in about an hour.”
“An hour! How long were we in the bath, Photius?”
The older man just laughed and pulled on the fresh tunic. He combed his hair and showed Javor how to do it, and then Ulf held up a bronze mirror. “Ah, that’s much better!” Photius exclaimed. “I look like a civilized man again!”
Ulf held up the mirror for Javor. He had seen his reflection before, in streams and pools of water, but had never seen a mirror. He was surprised by what he saw: his face was longer than he remembered, and his blonde hair hung in long wet waves almost down to his shoulders. A wispy beard straggled across his jaw and his lip hinted at a moustache.
“Looks like you’ll be needing a shave!” said Photius.
“Oh, no, I want a beard like my father!” Javor protested, alarmed. But Photius just laughed. “Thank you, Ulf. We will stroll about the fort until it’s time.” Ulf bowed again and left them. “Come, Janus. Let’s look around.”
“What about Danisa?”
“To tell you the truth, I could use a little break from Danisa. Let’s you and I keep each other more manly company for a short time.”
The sun was getting well to the west, and the shadows were getting longer. Photius strolled casually around, but Javor could tell he was evaluating the fort’s strengths. “Ah, it’s good to be in civilization again, Janus.” They walked to the little church and peeked inside. The westering light streamed in the open door, falling on a picture made of an arrangement of many small, coloured tiles that Photius called a mosaic. It depicted a woman with a long face wearing a hood, holding a strange-looking baby— who appeared to Javor more to be a miniature adult wearing flowing robes. “That is the Virgin Mary, holding the infant Christ,” said Photius. Above it was a sort of wooden table, covered with a pure white cloth, and behind it another table with a kind of box. Javor wondered at it all, but Photius led him away, preferring to inspect the fortifications.
The people in the fortress studied them furtively, and Javor knew they were wondering who they were and why they were given such freedom in the fortress. But no one spoke to them. Legionnaires standing guard at various points drew themselves to attention as they approached, but no one asked any questions.
Finally, a gong sounded. People put down their tools and headed into various buildings. Photius followed a group of officers into the main hall. Javor saw someone leading Danisa in ahead of them.
Long rows of high torches on poles, plus more on sconces all around the walls, made it brighter and warmer than outside. Down the middle of the hall, a long table was covered with platters of food: roasted chickens, a haunch of beef, plates of grapes and others with cheeses, bread, fruit, a platter of olives. Servants or slaves poured wine into cups and goblets. The air was filled with appetizing odours and cheerful chatter of officers.
And at the head of the table, on a chair set at the foot of his dais, sat the Legate, Valgus, in a loose, pure-white toga. He smiled and chatted cheerfully with men on either side, dressed in military uniforms but no armour.
“Ah, Photius, Danisa and Janus, my guests, welcome to our dinner!” he exclaimed. “Forgive me if I don’t get up, but your orders were to relax. Still, I must thank you!” He raised a golden goblet and some red wine sloshed over the rim. Valgus ignored the wine dripping over his fingers. �
��A salute to the miraculous healer from the north! For the first time in a year, the pain has diminished!” and he drained the goblet.
Servants pressed goblets into Photius’, Danisa’s and Javor’s hands, and officers moved away from couches at Valgus’ side. “Come, sit down with me, my friends! Eat, enjoy all the poor repast we can offer in this remote fortress!”
Javor looked uncertainly at the strange furniture that was offered: it seemed like a cross between the bed in his sleeping quarters and a chair. Photius lay down on his side, propped up on one elbow, and started picking up food from a plate that a slave put in front of him. “Oh, Legate Valgus, you needn’t be so modest with three simple travellers. This is the best supper we have had in months!”
Javor tried to lie down like the Photius. It was uncomfortable, and his side and neck cramped. Danisa, he noticed, did not seem to have any such trouble. Soon, he sat up and put a plate on his lap. But the food was delicious. He tore into it. “Remember to chew, Janus,” Valgus chuckled.
And no matter how much wine he drank, someone kept refilling Javor’s goblet. Soon, he just sat, hunched forward on his couch, listening as Photius and Valgus talked and joked and laughed with the other officers. He chewed absently on chicken and veal and strange dishes that tasted like fruit he had never eaten before, until he couldn’t eat another bite. Gradually, as he drank more wine, the whole room began to sink into a pleasant haze until he woke to find Photius coaxing him to drink a big cup of water. “Trust me, my boy, you’ll feel much better in the morning if you drink this now.”
Danisa was tipsy, too. After the sun had gone down, she asked to return to her quarters. Gallantly, Javor accompanied her, but all he could think was Why is she so cold to me, now?
At their quarters, Javor touched Danisa on the shoulder. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
She ignored him and went into the bedroom; Javor followed. “Ever since we made love, you’ve acted like I have a disease,” he said, following a script he had rehearsed in his mind. “You know I love you, and you love me. So why are you acting this way?”
She just glared at him and tried to shut the door, but he blocked it. “Danisa, what is wrong?”
“You do not even know who I am!” she snarled, retreating to the back of the room. “I am the daughter of a king! I am a princess! What are you but a simple farmer!”
He was ready for that one. “And what is a king but the toughest farmer? I am the seventh son of a seventh son.” That did not seem to impress her. “I love you, and you love me,” he repeated.
She laughed so he took her in his arms. She pushed back, but she could not break his grasp. She pushed and cried out a little, but then his mouth found hers and she kissed him back, hard.
They fell together on the bed and soon they were naked. They made love intently and sweetly as the moon rose higher outside the window.
Later, she rolled on top of Javor and he marvelled at the sight of her naked breasts in the moonlight through the window. She moved back and forth, eyes squeezed shut, then froze at knocking on the door.
“Danisa?” It was Photius’ voice. “Danisa, are you there?”
“Don’t come in!” she said in her haughtiest voice. How can she do that now? Javor wondered.
“Have you seen Javor?”
“What am I, his keeper? Go away—I need my sleep!”
Under her, Javor stifled a giggle, but snorted through his nose. Danisa leaned down until her lips were touching his ear. “Quiet!” she hissed. Javor bit his lips and held his breath until they heard Photius going out again. Danisa stayed motionless above him, until Javor craned his head to kiss her nipple. She did not pull back, but stayed attentive for noise until she could not help moving on top of Javor again. He could not hold back for long. They fell asleep in each others’ arms.
Danisa woke Javor before dawn with soft, quiet sex, covering his mouth when he made any noise. She bit her lower lip and held him still, hand over his mouth as he climaxed. And when the sky greyed, Danisa pushed Javor out of the bed, threw him his tunic and pushed him out the door. After she saw him collapse onto his straw bed beside Photius, she closed her door in relief.
Javor woke with the sun falling full and hot on his face. His mouth felt full of straw and his eyes felt heavy. He looked and seemed to be in the middle of a cloud: everything was white and blurry. He blinked and sat up, then groaned.
“Well, good morning, sleepyhead,” came Photius’ voice. Javor blinked, and gradually the room came into focus. He was in Didius’ quarters again, lying on the bed. Photius was standing in the doorway, smiling.
Did that happen last night, or did I dream it? His head was starting to hurt.
“I should have warned you about drinking so much wine at once.” He sighed. “Still, I suppose that every young man has to go through his own first hangover. Experience is the best teacher.”
Javor felt awful: sick to his stomach, sore in the head. His tongue felt thick and dry. He tried to drink water, but that just made him vomit. Fortunately, Photius had placed a bucket near the bed.
Javor spent the day lying in his bed, trying to stay in the shade as much as possible. At Photius’ urging, he occasionally drank water as long as it didn’t make him feel too sick. Eventually, he ate some dry bread. Every so often, Danisa would come into his field of vision and give him a look of distaste.
When Javor’s stomach settled enough, Photius gave him a mild potion. By suppertime, he felt just well enough to eat some bread and cheese and one glass of red wine. I’ll never drink that much wine at one time again, he vowed. And to his credit, Javor never did.
Chapter 15: Dragon attack
To Javor, the fortress, rough by Imperial standards, was the most luxurious, civilized place on earth. All he had to do for days was stroll the dusty grounds, drink wine and take steam baths every evening.
And the food! The thankful Valgus welcomed the travellers to his table, and Javor stuffed himself at every meal. At least four different types of bread, cheeses of strong and delicate flavours, grapes and preserved meats, olives and cows’ milk and so much more! There were combinations of cooked food that Javor could never have imagined.
Valgus grew noticeably stronger every day. In the mornings, Javor watched the commander moving about his men, laughing and slapping them on the back. It’s a big change since the day we arrived!
One bright and sunny day, the locals who were staying in and around the fort set up a little market in the courtyard. On tables and under awnings made of fresh-cut pine boughs, they offered apples and grapes, bags of flour, chickens in cages. One man sold cheeses, another gourds filled with wine, others handicrafts or clothes they had made. The Legionnaires and some women who had attached themselves to the soldiers milled among the makeshift stalls and made occasional small purchases. Still, everyone seemed to be speaking in hushed tones. Photius actually remarked on it: “In every market I’ve ever seen, there are at least a few vendors shouting out praises of their own wares. These people are terrified, Javor.”
Javor took a few coins he had taken from Ghastog’s hoard to the market. He bought a long, colourful scarf from a crone who grinned toothlessly when he pressed a copper coin into her hand, and a tall, pointed hat of red cloth from another man. The food looked good, but he thought he could get all he wanted for free from the Romans.
Javor bent to look over some jewelry one of the locals had fashioned out of shells from the river and brightly-coloured pebbles when he felt a twinge from the amulet under his tunic. At the same time, a soldier, out of uniform and wearing just a plain blue tunic and carrying a load of apples in his arm, bumped into him and dropped all the apples into the dust. “Now look what you’ve done,” he said in thickly accented Greek.
“Sorry, but you bumped into me.”
The soldier’s face twisted, showing a few broken, yellow teeth. He was short and stocky, but his arms were thick like heavy rope. Except for his shaven face, every bit of skin seemed covered with black hair
. His nose had been repeatedly flattened between beetling brown eyes, and scars crossed his face. A gold chain with a heavy cross on it dangled from around his neck. “Don’t talk back to me, boy,” he snarled, spit flying with every consonant. “I paid good money for them apples, and now you’ve gone and spoiled them!”
“I said I was sorry,” Javor protested, struggling to find the right words in Greek. “Look, they’re not spoiled, just a little dusty.” He bent to start picking them up and his face met the Roman’s boot.
Javor sprawled into the dust. “What did you do that for?” He scrambled back to his feet.
“To teach you a lesson, brat,” the Roman yelled. “You don’t know your place, you don’t.” He raised his fists and stepped closer.
Javor stepped back and found himself backed into a vendor’s stall. The locals yelled, protesting, telling the combatants to get away from their produce. The soldier stepped in and swung a heavy fist at Javor’s head. Javor ducked and the fist hit the vendor, who crashed to the ground. But the soldier did not take just one swing at a time—his left caught Javor on the side of the head and he, too, flopped onto the ground, smashing a flimsy table and scattering cheese.
The gathered locals tried to clear their property out of the way of the fight while avoiding fists themselves. Javor struggled to his feet when the Roman’s boot hit him in the chest, but it struck the amulet, which deflected the blow. Javor rose again to see the soldier in a boxer’s stance: fists up, elbows in, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. Javor copied him. The man was at least twenty years his senior, toughened with years of drilling and war. He was a head shorter, but much broader. Thick muscles showed where his tunic parted. He clearly had the advantage over Javor, but he waited. He’s measuring me, Javor realized. He’s looking at my size, my moves. Javor lunged forward and jabbed at the soldier’s jaw.
