The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [132]
The tepidarium was not empty. Under its dome, all sound reduced itself to hollow whispers and low, musical resonances, and all light to the scented vapours of steam. Here, the only draped figure was one of a group displayed on a dais between pillars. On a sculptured couch, a golden-faced Zeus lay entwined with two painted boys of exquisite beauty. The position they had been given was unambiguous.
Round the rest of the room were real couches, on which lay supine figures, sometimes alone, sometimes under the kneading hands or glove of a masseur, also naked. One man was in the care of his barber. The bowls and hones and razors stood on a folding table: he was having his nails pared, lying relaxed with one wrist extended, the other hand behind his dyed yellow head. On the adjoining couch, a friend was being carefully oiled by his servant from stoppered bottles of aloes and musk.
The men were courtiers: Nicholas recognised some of them. Their bodies wore last season’s sunburn, worn to a pale and uniform sienna from brow to heel, without interruption. A few had light scars, and several bore the pink marks of weals, but not, he thought, from fighting. When he came in, only one or two glanced up, and then only briefly. The rest paid no attention.
Then he saw the boys. They were all young, between ten and fourteen, and well bred, or else well tutored. They didn’t appear to be slaves. There was nothing untoward, either, in their behaviour. Sometimes one shared a couch with an older man, either in silence or in gentle discourse, the treble voice muted. Man and boy did not touch save on greeting; and then with the most discreet of caresses. Sometimes the children were occupied with each other. He noticed two such, sprawled on the smooth marble intaglio which reflected the brightness of their bodies. They had a stone board between them, and were moving pieces across it. Like the pieces, one was dark and one was fair. The younger, an exquisite child with raven hair to his shoulders, was unfamiliar. The other was the beautiful boy who had carried the Imperial bow. Neither looked at him or at Pagano Doria who, he now saw, was standing observing him.
That was nothing. The men of the Ciaretti were glad to slough off their lice-ridden shirts and stiff doublets and tunics and lounge at ease, bare in the warmth of the cabin. Swimming, exercising, in sleep, they made nothing of it. There was no secret about how men were made. But Doria stood like a stag, his shoulders wide, his palms on his buttocks, and studied him at leisure. Nicholas returned the gaze, for he admired a well-made man, and Doria was that. In the lustrous, thickly lashed eyes was a mockery of adulation, with behind it something possibly genuine. Dislike, for example.
Doria spoke. His voice, in Italian, was lazy. “The boys are never unkind and, indeed, enjoy successes not easily managed. If nothing will serve, then ask them to show you the mosaics. The man who set these on the walls could rouse a corpse to its knees.” He spoke, without changing his attitude, between measured breaths. His gaze, gently derisive, transmitted other impressions: of effrontery and assurance and abundant virility. Unblushingly, he had let himself quicken.
“I see it suits you,” said Nicholas. His voice shook and steadied. Not the moment for stricken laughter. He could not even feel confident of turning his back. And as if it were not enough, the black-haired boy was coming towards him. Nicholas waited, and said in a calm voice. “My young lord, excuse me.” The sweat ran down his body and his skin itched and shivered. He