The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [133]
The boy said, in Greek, “We are desirous of pleasing.”
Before he could answer, Nicholas felt a wet hand touch his shoulder. Doria stood close beside him. He moved, and the hand slid off. Doria said to the child, “We are not all born of boors. What do they call you?”
His name was Anthimos. It was a Greek name, but not a Comneni one. A younger son, perhaps, of good but impoverished birth. The boy had soft lips and blue eyes and pale, smooth limbs like a bird. He looked up gravely, and placed delicate fingers at Doria’s waist, where Doria caught and flattened them.
What use to interfere? The boy and the short, handsome man faded into the steam until only one taut shape could be seen, and then none. Remotely, there came a sudden squeal of wet feet, and Doria’s voice laughed on a rising pitch. An attendant, hitherto unobserved, spoke sharply into the fog, “If you please, my lord. There are cubicles.” Still, no one had looked round.
Nicholas stood where he had been left, feeling ill. If there was anything explicit about his condition, it must be the deadly absence of all desire to be where he was. Yet the other boy now came before him.
The bow-carrier. Once, an emperor had given the post to a baker’s son. This was a different matter: a youth of perhaps fourteen years, who knew, as the other child had barely known, exactly what he was about. He had last seen him emerging from the Chrysokephalos, dressed in white silk, with the consecration prayer of the Eucharist still echoing in the purified air. His hair still smelt of incense, although he was bare except for the paint. He lifted arched brows over long, dripping lashes and said, “I have lost my partner. I am Alexios. Will you play with me, my lord?” His fingers, stealing out, proposed a playground. Nicholas trapped them carefully, as Doria had done, and tucking the boy’s hand under his arm, bent and scooped up the board and the pieces.
“My friend,” he said, “you have challenged a man who lays wagers with soothsayers. Show me the cubicles.”
The boy’s body was oiled. His pores, steamed open like those of a woman in childbirth, exuded sweet scents. Whatever he looked at, his eyes trod the same intimate paths as his fingers. Leaving with him, Nicholas glanced through blurred eyes back at the room. The reclining men had not stirred. Only, on the plinth with the two painted boys, Zeus the Cloud-gatherer moved, and coaxed himself free and, turning his great, golden mask, looked thoughtfully after him. And through the steam the smell of incense, again, made itself known.
Outside the cubicles, there was a eunuch. Well, that was no surprise. What was surprising was the boy’s sudden halt. The boy said, “It isn’t time.”
“My lord,” said the servant. He was addressing the boy, Nicholas saw. “My lord, I have orders.”
The youth walked forward. He leaned over and, taking the man’s fleshy upper arm between finger and thumb, pinched it viciously. The man drew in his breath with a hiss, but stayed where he was. Nicholas said, “Alexios? Who are you?”
The boy turned, the expression of discontent vanishing. The eunuch said, “My lord Alexios is the nephew of the great lord the Emperor. I have the Emperor’s orders to take you to other chambers. My young lord will excuse us.”
“Like this?” Nicholas said.
Wordlessly, the eunuch had turned. From the curtained stall at his side, he withdrew and shook out a loose folded garment and held it for Nicholas to assume. It was of cotton, he thought, and clung to his damp body, making him shiver. The eunuch, kneeling, closed the loops that fastened it from the ground up to his throat. “I should have done that,” said the boy; and gave a glorious smile.
Nicholas said, “You haven’t earned it yet. It’s the prize for winning three boardgames.”
“There are other games,” said the boy.
“No doubt,” said Nicholas mildly, “but I don’t play them.” The last he saw of Alexios, as he followed the eunuch out of the steam, was a lissom figure hugging itself and looking after him in part annoyance, part puzzlement.