A Bargain by the Jackal Throne part four
[page back]
“You may leave,” Azhtoc said icily. “I shall be watching the games. Take pains on my behalf.”
Which meant that anything other than victory would rouse his vengeful streak, Soran knew, and there could be real danger for Faunos here. Azhtoc could have him indentured to the temple, for sheer spite. Faunos might be initiated before Helios, just another shave-pate eunuch, in a week. Even if Soran won this afternoon, Azhtoc might still seize Faunos on a whim.
As Soran walked backwards from the chamber, spine bent, eyes downcast, hands crossed over his breast, he swallowed his own rage and made a pledge to both Faunos and himself. Baobo would find him, but Faunos would be kept separate, well away from the gilded vulture who perched on the Jackal Throne. Azhtoc’s fancy was almost always for women, the more ripe and round the better; and Soran would make sure he was amply diverted.
The morning was already warm when he strode out to the ball courts. He had not played in weeks, and if he intended to win in the afternoon, he needed to practice. His skills were lifelong, they needed only honing, and for years Soran had known that he did his best thinking when he was moving.
He could keep Faunos out of the palace altogether. The idea appealed to him greatly. He might take one of the white-columned villas on the hills overlooking the bay, install Lydias as the house master and trust the lad to hire a dozen servants and bondsmen to keep the villa and grounds. No doubt Faunos would appreciate being out of the palace, and for the first time in many years, Lydias would be able to spend the day on his feet rather than his knees and his belly, showing the proper respect to his betters.
The game was played with a leather ball exactly the size, shape and weight of a man’s head. In the days of Azhtoc’s grandsire, it would have been a man’s head – that of an enemy, a criminal, a traitor or blasphemer. The ball was wrestled for, tossed between the three members of a team, and lobbed through a hoop set into the crown of a column, high above Soran’s own head.
Five boys from the Legion came out to practice with him, but he knew they were making it easy. Not one of them dared bruise him, or steal the ball, or get in his way when he aimed a throw at the hoop. In the games this afternoon it would be very different – he could be gashed and gouged, even his bones might be broken. Soran relished the challenge.
His body shone with sweat before he was done. In the gathering heat of late morning he padded barefoot, naked, into the courtyard below the south vestibule and dove into the pool. Even the water reminded him of Faunos, who had smelt like the ocean.
The wanting to have him, possess him – not merely his body, but his passion, his soul – was an ache Soran could not set aside. If Faunos had not stolen away like a thief, it might have been him working up a sweat, practicing in the ball court. And then love would have been made in the rushes at the water’s edge.
“One day,” Soran swore as he broke surface and sculled on his back, the length of the pool. He was already waiting to hear from Baobo. How far could the Zehefti youth get in the few hours before dawn? Soldiers would have been on every wharf for hours by now, asking for him by name, describing him, looking out for any beautiful young man with a cape of bright Keltoi red hair. “And you’ll be mine,” Soran murmured drowsily, pillowing his head on his folded arms to rest.
He opened his eyes wide to the morning sun, and Helios flooded them with tears inspired by the brilliance and glory of the god. The games would be a pleasure – he needed the release of movement, effort, honest sweat. He would win, and not because his opponents would hand victory to him.
Every man on the court knew he would bear a merciless flogging if he tried to curry favor, and Soran would be given no quarter. He would win because he was the best. He was the best in the games. The best witchfinder in the New Kingdom. The best lover in the city of Vayal.
Complacent, content, he dove out into the water once more and began to swim strongly for the joy of working his body hard.
Two posts today:
[page back]
“You may leave,” Azhtoc said icily. “I shall be watching the games. Take pains on my behalf.”
Which meant that anything other than victory would rouse his vengeful streak, Soran knew, and there could be real danger for Faunos here. Azhtoc could have him indentured to the temple, for sheer spite. Faunos might be initiated before Helios, just another shave-pate eunuch, in a week. Even if Soran won this afternoon, Azhtoc might still seize Faunos on a whim.
As Soran walked backwards from the chamber, spine bent, eyes downcast, hands crossed over his breast, he swallowed his own rage and made a pledge to both Faunos and himself. Baobo would find him, but Faunos would be kept separate, well away from the gilded vulture who perched on the Jackal Throne. Azhtoc’s fancy was almost always for women, the more ripe and round the better; and Soran would make sure he was amply diverted.
The morning was already warm when he strode out to the ball courts. He had not played in weeks, and if he intended to win in the afternoon, he needed to practice. His skills were lifelong, they needed only honing, and for years Soran had known that he did his best thinking when he was moving.
He could keep Faunos out of the palace altogether. The idea appealed to him greatly. He might take one of the white-columned villas on the hills overlooking the bay, install Lydias as the house master and trust the lad to hire a dozen servants and bondsmen to keep the villa and grounds. No doubt Faunos would appreciate being out of the palace, and for the first time in many years, Lydias would be able to spend the day on his feet rather than his knees and his belly, showing the proper respect to his betters.
The game was played with a leather ball exactly the size, shape and weight of a man’s head. In the days of Azhtoc’s grandsire, it would have been a man’s head – that of an enemy, a criminal, a traitor or blasphemer. The ball was wrestled for, tossed between the three members of a team, and lobbed through a hoop set into the crown of a column, high above Soran’s own head.
Five boys from the Legion came out to practice with him, but he knew they were making it easy. Not one of them dared bruise him, or steal the ball, or get in his way when he aimed a throw at the hoop. In the games this afternoon it would be very different – he could be gashed and gouged, even his bones might be broken. Soran relished the challenge.
His body shone with sweat before he was done. In the gathering heat of late morning he padded barefoot, naked, into the courtyard below the south vestibule and dove into the pool. Even the water reminded him of Faunos, who had smelt like the ocean.
The wanting to have him, possess him – not merely his body, but his passion, his soul – was an ache Soran could not set aside. If Faunos had not stolen away like a thief, it might have been him working up a sweat, practicing in the ball court. And then love would have been made in the rushes at the water’s edge.
“One day,” Soran swore as he broke surface and sculled on his back, the length of the pool. He was already waiting to hear from Baobo. How far could the Zehefti youth get in the few hours before dawn? Soldiers would have been on every wharf for hours by now, asking for him by name, describing him, looking out for any beautiful young man with a cape of bright Keltoi red hair. “And you’ll be mine,” Soran murmured drowsily, pillowing his head on his folded arms to rest.
He opened his eyes wide to the morning sun, and Helios flooded them with tears inspired by the brilliance and glory of the god. The games would be a pleasure – he needed the release of movement, effort, honest sweat. He would win, and not because his opponents would hand victory to him.
Every man on the court knew he would bear a merciless flogging if he tried to curry favor, and Soran would be given no quarter. He would win because he was the best. He was the best in the games. The best witchfinder in the New Kingdom. The best lover in the city of Vayal.
Complacent, content, he dove out into the water once more and began to swim strongly for the joy of working his body hard.
Two posts today:
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