‘He was honourable, and when he drew first blood, he gave Damianos time to recover. He wouldn’t let anyone else intervene. He thought—’
‘—he thought it was right. He stepped back and let me pick up my sword. I didn’t know what to do. It had been two years since anyone had disarmed me. When we fought again, he drove me back. I don’t know why he cut too far to the left. It was the only mistake he made. I took the chance it wasn’t a feint, and when he couldn’t draw himself back into position, I killed him. I killed him.’
‘Why?’ said Laurent, quietly. It came out like a throb, a child’s question, that couldn’t be answered.
The sun above them felt too exposing. Damen found that couldn’t look away from Laurent. He thought of his father and mother, of Auguste, of Kastor. It was Laurent who spoke.
‘The night you told me about this place, it was the first time that I ever thought about the future. I thought about coming here. I thought about... being with you. It meant something to me that you suggested it. What we had on the ride to Ios, it was already more than I... At the trial, I thought it was enough. I thought I was ready. And then you came.’
‘In case you wanted me,’ said Damen.
‘I thought, I have lost everything and gained you, and I would almost make the trade, if I didn’t know it had happened that way for you, too.’
It was so close to his own thoughts—that everything he knew was gone, but that this was here, in its place, this one bright thing.
He had not understood that it was like this for Laurent until it was like this for him too. He wanted to talk about his own brother in some small way, because as children they had come here together—or rather, Damen had been a child and Kastor had been a young man. Kastor had carried him on his shoulders, had swum with him, wrestled with him. Kastor had brought him a conch shell, once, from the sea.
He said, ‘He would have killed us both.’
‘He was your brother,’ said Laurent.
He felt the words touch that place inside him. He had not spoken about Kastor, except on the night after he had recovered enough to leave his bed and attend the viewing. He had sat with his head in his hands for a long while, his mind a tangle of conflicting thoughts. Laurent had said, quietly, Put him in the family crypt. Honour him as I know you want to.
Laurent had known, when he hadn’t known himself. Damen felt the same bewildered acknowledgement now, even as he wondered what other parts of himself Laurent might touch and open, what other closed doors waited. His mother, his brother.
Laurent said, ‘Let me attend you.’
Bright and open, the baths of Lentos were in sunny atriums, and the water was of different temperatures, warm in some, cool in others. Each bath was a sunken rectangle, with steps carved into the marble leading down into the water. A few of the more private baths were under shaded colonnades, others were open to the sky, and parts of the bowered gardens.
It was a pretty summer spot, different to the maze-like descent into marble of the slave baths in Ios, or the over-steamed tile of the royal baths in Vere. Attendants had already opened and readied the baths in case royal whim desired to use them, elegant pitchers, soft cloths and towels, soaps and oils, and the baths filled with exquisitely clear water.
He was glad that these baths were not underground.
He remembered the sole occasion that he had been called to attend Laurent in the baths in Vere, Laurent’s cool voice baiting him as his hands moved over Laurent’s skin. Laurent had hated him then. Laurent had been inhabiting a private reality in which he had been allowing his brother’s killer to put hands on his naked body.
Knowing that did nothing to lessen his own memories of that time, the claustrophobic overripe palace, the debaucheries, and his own fixed hatred of the Prince, his captor. Damen remembered the baths, and what had happened after, and he understood that there was one more closed door that he didn’t want to open.
‘You served me,’ said Laurent. ‘Let me serve you.’
In Akielos as in Vere it was customary to be washed by bath attendants before entering the soaking bath. He thought—surely they were not going to do that together? If they were, it would be in the traditional fashion: as King and Prince they would be undressed and washed by dedicated bath attendants, then descend to soak and talk. That was common enough among nobles in Akielos, where nudity was not taboo and bathing could be a social pastime.
There were no attendants waiting for them. They were alone.
Laurent stood in sandals and simple cotton, a white-petalled flower in his hair. If you ignored his manner, he looked like a slave of the old style, the face too beautiful to be anything but handpicked, the white chiton like a garment chosen for him by a follower of the classical ways, who preferred their household to embody simplicity and natural beauty.
If you did not ignore it, he looked like what he was: Veretian aristocracy, royalty in his every movement, in the tilt of his chin, in the sweep of his gaze. He might have been extending a signet ring to be kissed, or tapping his boot with a riding crop. His blue eyes gave little away, his full lips that Damen had recently kissed were most often seen in a hard line, or curled in cruelty. He had strolled into the baths as though they belonged to him. They did.
‘How does a bath slave usually attend you?’ said Laurent.
‘They undress,’ said Damen.
Laurent lifted his hand to his shoulder and pulled out the pin. The white cotton fell to his waist. Then Laurent turned slightly to the side, and undid the single tie there.
It was a shock, to have him stand naked with the chiton pooled at his feet. He still wore the knee-high sandals. He had not taken the flower from his hair.
‘And then?’
‘And then they test the heat of the water.’
Laurent took up a pitcher and let the stream of water fill it, then lifted it and deliberately poured it over himself, so that water splashed down over him, and over his still-sandalled feet.
‘Laurent—’ said Damen.
‘And then?’ said Laurent.
He was wet, from his chest to his toes, though the slight steam from the closest of the pools was a sheen that seemed to wet his lashes and the petals of the flower behind his ear. The heat from the baths infused the air.
‘They undress me.’
Laurent came forward. ‘Like this?’
They stood under one of the colonnades, in light shade, close to the open, sunny place where steps led down to the largest of the outdoor baths.
Damen nodded once. Laurent was very close. His fingers at Damen’s shoulder were unpinning the golden lion, unfastening the catch and sliding the pin out through the fabric. He was bare, but for the sandals. Damen was fully clothed. More often between them, it had been the reverse.
He remembered—the steam of those other baths, the moment he had caught Laurent’s wrist in his hand. This close, he could see the wet tops of Laurent’s shoulders. Above that, the tips of Laurent’s hair were wet too, from steam or from the splash from the pitcher.
He felt the release of weight as Laurent unwound the heavy fabric that had lain underneath his armour.
‘They’ve faded.’ Damen heard himself say it.
‘Have they?’
‘Your brother and my brother.’
Laurent said, ‘And me.’
He met Damen’s eyes. These were not the hot, oversteamed indoor baths in Ios, or the close, overpatterned baths of Vere, but the air felt heavy.
He remembered, and he saw that Laurent did too, the past thick between them.
‘I knelt for you,’ said Damen.
Kiss it. The remembered words when Laurent had forced Damen to his knees, and extended the toe of his boot. Kneel then. Kiss my boot. He thought, Laurent would never do that. Laurent had too much pride.
Deliberately, Laurent went to his knees.
All the breath
left Damen. Laurent’s internal struggle was plain. The rise and fall of Laurent’s chest was shallow. His lips were parted, but he didn’t speak. His body was tense. He did not like to be on his knees.
Laurent had knelt for Damen once before, on the wooden floor of the inn at Mellos. Laurent had believed it was their last night together. It had been partly an offering; partly Laurent’s desire to prove something to himself.
The only other time Damen had seen Laurent kneel, it was for the Regent.
Words would have been easier. This opened a channel to the past between them, one that made Damen just as vulnerable. He had not faced this part of their history. He had barely acknowledged what Laurent had done to him, even as it had happened.
Damen extended his foot.
His heart was pounding. Laurent unwound the straps of Damen’s sandal and drew it off—first one, then the other. Beside him was the pitcher, oils, and a sponge that divers would have plucked from the sea.
Slowly, he began to wash Damen’s foot. It was the action of a body slave, something one prince would never do for another.
Damen could see the faint flush that heat and steam gave to Laurent’s cheeks. He could see the camber of his lashes. He could see each delicate petal of the white flower in his hair.
The water was hot. It streamed from the sponge as Laurent dipped it, then lifted it, and ran it down Damen’s legs, leaving them clean and wet. Heel, sole and ankle were lathered. Then back up his calf, his shin. Laurent knelt up to soap behind Damen’s knee, then the long muscles of his left thigh. He rubbed each surface to a lather, then rinsed it.
Another tilt of the pitcher: water splashed the marble, and splashed Laurent’s thighs where he knelt, legs slightly apart. It wasn’t finished. Laurent was rising.
Washing Damen’s hands first, Laurent used only fingers, no sponge, massaging thumbs across Damen’s knuckles, his thumb and fingers working a lather between Damen’s. Damen’s arms were lifted, soaped, the curve of his bicep, the crook of his elbow.
Laurent didn’t look up into Damen’s eyes as he soaped Damen’s upper thighs and then between his legs, where his cock hung part-roused, feeling thick and heavy as it was pushed around by the sponge. Then Laurent raised the pitcher and poured water all the way down Damen’s body.
A stream of heat. He knew what was coming. His whole body felt like it was changing, even before Laurent moved to his back.
Silence; he was too aware of his own breathing. Laurent was behind him. He couldn’t see him but knew he was there. He felt exposed, vulnerable as if blindfolded: to be seen while unseeing. It was an effort, not to turn his head. Neither of them spoke.
He wondered what Laurent was seeing. He wondered what Laurent was remembering, if it had happened in Laurent’s mind the same way it had happened in his own. Water hit the marble as Laurent squeezed the sponge. He experienced it physically, the sound loud, a crack.
He shuddered when it touched him, because it was so warm, and gentle, against the scars. He felt the heat of the water and the soft touch of the sponge, softer than he had imagined, so that a second shudder, a tremor, passed through him.
Nothing could wash away the past, but this took them both there, touching a painful truth, acknowledging it.
It was gentler between his shoulders than it had been against his chest. Flesh and self were linked. The cleansing was slow, attentive, drizzling water, then soaping his skin. It was healing something he hadn’t known needed to be healed. Like breathing, it was necessary, even as the tenderness of it was too much, gentleness where he had never expected Laurent to be gentle.
He had been braced against the lash for so long. Where he had been flayed, he was now open.
‘Laurent, I—’
‘Bow your head.’
He closed his eyes. Water streamed over him. His hair and face were wet. This was usually done seated, on the long bench by the sluice with the slave standing behind—he didn’t say it, as Laurent reached up to push soap into his hair, standing in front. Long fingers kneaded a lather from his temples to the back of his head, and the massaging of his scalp felt like comfort.
Laurent was like the edge of a blade, but sometimes he was like this. A fresh scoop of the pitcher: rinsed, the warm water engulfing him, he looked up at Laurent through wet eyelashes, and knew that everything was in his eyes.
It was in Laurent’s too. Laurent, who looked as he had never looked, his body wet, where he’d been splashed, the blond tendrils of his hair wet too. He knew now why Laurent had not tried to use words to relieve the past. Words were easier than this.
Laurent said, ‘What happens next?’
‘Isander served you in the baths at Marlas, didn’t he? You know what’s next.’ That wasn’t what Laurent was asking.
‘I soaked in the baths. He knelt on the marble.’
‘I want to make love to you.’
‘You can soak,’ said Laurent, ‘while I wash.’
The water in the soaking bath was hot, made for unknotting muscles, and relaxation. It was unexpectedly hot, considering that the day was hot, and that this bath was open-air, with sunlight glinting across its surface. Damen descended the six steps, and waded, at waist height, to the opposite edge where he turned and sat on the submerged ledge, his shoulders out of the water, the edge of the bath at his back.
He had wanted to consummate this closeness, to bring their bodies together while they were both wide open. But the water felt good too. And Laurent was an education in the pleasure of delay, of suspension and recommencement. Damen watched him.
After a moment, Laurent picked up the pitcher and used the last of the water to wash himself. He didn’t wash demurely like a slave, or seductively like a pet. He just cleaned himself, each motion useful; then rinsed, water sluicing briefly over his body. How little he looked like a slave, and how much he looked like himself, carrying out his ordinary routine, was its own form of enjoyment, an easy access to Laurent’s private self.
Then Laurent came forward. The flower was still in his hair. He was still wearing the sandals. Damen had a brief vision that Laurent was going to descend into the soaking bath wearing them, but Laurent stopped at the shaded edge.
He didn’t get in. He folded himself on the side, in a relaxed, elegant posture that Damen had come to learn over the last months habitual, one knee drawn up, his weight resting on one hand. He trailed the fingertips of the other in the water.
‘It’s hot,’ he said.
He didn’t clarify whether he meant the water, the sun, or the marble. He was slightly flushed even from the steam. If he came into the pool he’d be cooked. In all other ways, he looked cool, his long white thighs, his elegant recline, his male torso with its pink nipples, his cock, part-visible in that posture.
Damen wanted to push off the side; if this were a forest pool, he thought, he would swim three strong strokes to push himself out of the water alongside Laurent. He’d run a proprietary hand over Laurent’s body, over his thighs, his flank and chest. He imagined himself coming up dripping out of the baths to take Laurent there on the marble.
‘I thought the idea was to kneel.’
‘That does sound pleasing.’
Laurent’s voice wound lazily. He made absolutely no effort to get up. The words were at odds with the utter arrogance of his aristocratic pose, draped all over the marble.
Damen wondered if this was the way that pets behaved, or if it was just how Laurent behaved, fingers trailing in the water. He closed his eyes and let himself sink a little deeper into the water.
And because of where they were, and what had just passed between them, he found himself saying it.
‘They took me to the baths, after I was captured. It was the first place they took me.’
‘The slave baths,’ said Laurent.
‘Kastor sent a lot of men, enough that I couldn’t beat them. They tied m
y arms and legs and put me in one of the cells under the palace... Don’t get any ideas.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘I thought there was some mistake. At first. I hoped there was some mistake for a long time after. The nights they held me outside the palace were the hardest. I knew what was happening, and I couldn’t protect my people.’
‘You always believed you’d get back to them.’
‘You didn’t?’
He remembered long evenings together, sharing a tent, with the sounds of a Veretian camp outside. Laurent had never seemed to feel self doubt, just as he had never complained about his circumstances.
‘Believe you’d make it back to Akielos? Yes. I did. You were a force of nature. It was infuriating to fight you. Frightening to have you on my side.’
‘Frightening?’
‘You didn’t know how afraid I was of you?’
‘Of me? Or of yourself?’
‘Of what was happening between us.’
The sunlight was brighter than he expected when he opened his eyes, sparkling across the water. Laurent was still sitting behind the shade line.
‘Sometimes I’m still afraid of it.’ Laurent’s voice was honest. ‘It makes me feel—’
‘I know,’ said Damen. ‘I feel it too.’
‘Come out,’ said Laurent.
He emerged hotter than steam, overheated like one boiled, his olive skin turned ruddy by the water. Laurent filled the pitcher from the secondary sluice, approached, and shifted his grip. Damen threw up his arms instinctively.
‘No, Laurent, that’s cold, it’s—’ Gasping.
Shock of the frozen water. Ice cold on superheated skin, like plunging into a river, a too-sudden revitalisation. Instinct propelled him to grab Laurent in revenge, to drag him forward, their bodies colliding.
Cool body plastering against hot. Laurent was unexpectedly laughing, his skin warm as sunlight. The struggle took them both to the slippery marble.
It was unthinking to get on top, to pin Laurent with a wrestler’s move. Damen progressed through three simple positions in his enjoyment of that sport before he realised that Laurent was responding to his wrestling holds with counters.