It was mid-morning the next day when Radel entered, here once again to see to Damen’s transport to the baths.
‘You were successful in the ring, and even paid the Prince a respectful obeisance. That is excellent. And I see you haven’t struck anyone all morning, well done,’ Radel said.
Damen digested this compliment. He said, ‘What was the drug you doused me with before the fight?’
‘There was no drug,’ said Radel, sounding a bit appalled.
‘There was something,’ said Damen. ‘You put it in the braziers.’
‘That was chalis, a refined divertissement. There is nothing sinister about it. The Prince suggested that it might help you relax in the baths.’
‘And did the Prince also suggest the amount?’ said Damen.
‘Yes,’ said Radel. ‘More than the usual. Since you’re quite large. I wouldn’t have thought of that. He has a mind for details.’
‘Yes, I’m learning that,’ said Damen.
He thought that it would be the same as the previous day: that he was being taken to the baths to be prepared for some new grotesquery. But all that happened was that the handlers bathed him, returned him to his room, and brought him lunch on a platter. The bathing was more pleasant than it had been the day before. No chalis, no handling of intrusive intimacy, and he was given a luxurious body massage, his shoulder checked for any sign of strain or injury, his lingering bruises treated very gently.
As the day waned and nothing whatsoever occurred, Damen realised he felt a sense of anticlimax, almost disappointment, which was absurd. Better to spend the day bored on silk cushions than spend it in the ring. Maybe he just wanted another chance to fight something. Preferably an insufferable yellow-haired princeling.
Nothing happened on the second day, or the third, or the fourth, or the fifth.
The passing of time inside this exquisite prison became its own ordeal; the only thing that interrupted his days was the routine of his meals, and the morning bath.
He used the time to learn what he could. The change of guard at his door happened at times that were intentionally irregular. The guards no longer behaved towards him as though he were a piece of furniture, and he learned several of their names; the ring-fight had changed something. No one else broke orders to enter his room without instruction, but once or twice one of the men handling him would speak words to him, though the exchanges were brief. A few words, here and there. It was something he worked on.
He was attended by servants who provided his meals, emptied the copper pot, lit torches, extinguished torches, plumped the cushions, changed them, scrubbed the floor, aired the room, but it was—so far—impossible to build a relationship with any of them. They were more obedient to the order not to speak to him than the guards. Or they were more afraid of Damen. Once, he had gotten as much as startled eye contact and a blush. That had happened when Damen, sitting with a knee drawn up and his head resting against the wall, had taken pity on the servant boy attempting to do his work while cleaving to the door, and said, ‘It’s all right. The chain’s very strong.’
The abortive attempts he made to get information from Radel met with resistance, and a series of patronising lectures.
Govart, said Radel, was not a royally sanctioned thug. Where had Damen gotten that idea? The Regent kept Govart in employ out of some kind of obligation, possibly to Govart’s family. Why was Damen asking about Govart? Did he not recall that he was here only to do as he was told? There was no need to ask questions. There was no need to concern himself with the goings on in the palace. He should put everything out of his mind but the thought that he must please the Prince, who, in ten months, would be King.
By now, Damen had the speech memorised.
By the sixth day, the trip to the baths had become routine, and he expected nothing from it. Except that today, the routine varied. His blindfold was removed outside the baths, not in it. Radel’s critical gaze was on him, as one surveying merchandise: Was it in fit condition? It was.
Damen felt himself being released from his restraints. Here, outside.
Radel said, briefly:
‘Today, in the baths, you will serve.’
‘Serve?’ said Damen. That word conjured up the curved alcoves, and their purpose, and the etched figures, intertwined.
There was no time to absorb the idea, or to ask questions. Much as he had been propelled into the ring, he was pushed forward into the baths. The guards closed the doors with themselves on the outside, and became half-seen shadows behind the latticed metal.
He wasn’t sure what he expected. Perhaps a debauched tableau such as had greeted him in the ring. Perhaps pets sprawled out on every surface, naked and steam-drenched. Perhaps a scene in motion, bodies already moving, soft sounds, or splashes in the water.
; In fact the baths were empty, except for one person.
As yet untouched by the steam, clothed from toe-tip to neck, and standing in the place where slaves were washed before they entered the soaking bath. When Damen saw who it was, he instinctively lifted a hand to his gold collar, unable to quite believe that he was unrestrained, and that they were alone together.
Laurent reclined against the tiled wall, settling his shoulders flat against it. He regarded Damen with a familiar expression of golden-lashed dislike.
‘So my slave is bashful in the arena. Don’t you fuck boys in Akielos?’