Sailing to Sarantium (56 page)

'And those who honour or worship such images?' Crispin asked. He knew
the answer. He had been through this before, though not perspiring in
steam and not with a man such as this.

Leontes said, 'That is idolatry, of course. A reversion to paganism.
What are your thoughts?'

'Men need a pathway to their god,' Crispin said quietly. 'But I
confess, I prefer to keep my views to myself on such matters.' He
forced a smile of his own. 'Uncharacteristic as reticence about faith
might be in Sarantium. My lord, I am here at the Emperor's behest and
will endeavour to please him with my work.'

'And the Patriarchs? Pleasing them?'

'One always hopes for the approval of one's betters,' Crispin
murmured. He passed a corner of his sheet across his streaming face.
Through the steam, he thought he saw blue eyes flicker and the mouth
quirk a little. Leontes was not without a sense of humour. It came as
a relief of sorts. It was very much in his mind that there was no one
here with them, and that this man's wife had been in Crispin's
bedchamber this morning and had said . . . what she had said. This
did not, he decided, represent the most predictable of encounters.

He managed another smile. 'If you find me an inappropriate
conversationalist on military matters-and I can see why you might-why
would you imagine we ought to discuss my work in the Sanctuary?
Tesserae and their designs? How much do you know or care to know
about tinting glass? Or cutting it? What have you decided about the
merits and methods of angling tesserae in the setting bed? Or the
composition and layers of the setting bed itself? Have you any firm
views on the use of smooth stones for the flesh of human figures?'

The other man was eyeing him gravely, expressionless. Crispin paused,
modulated his tone. 'We each have our areas of endeavour, my lord.
Yours matters rather more, I would say, but mine might . . . last
longer. We'd likely do best conversing-should you honour me-about
other matters entirely. Were you at the Hippodrome yesterday?'

Leontes shifted a little on his bench; his white sheet settled around
his hips. There was a vivid diagonal scar running from his collarbone
to his waist in a reddened line like a seam. He leaned over and
poured another ewer of water on the stones. Steam cloaked the room
for a moment.

'Siroes had no difficulty telling us about his designs and
intentions,' the Strategos said.

Us, Crispin thought. 'Your lady wife was his sponsor, I understand,'
he murmured. 'He also did some private work for you, I believe.'

'Trees and flowers in mosaic, yes. For our nuptial chambers. Deer at
a stream, boars and hounds, that sort of thing. I have no difficulty
at all with such images, of course.' His tone was very earnest.

'Of course. Fine work, I'm sure,' Crispin said mildly.

There was a little silence.

'I wouldn't know,' said Leontes. 'I imagine it is competent.' His
teeth flashed briefly again. 'As you say, I could no more judge it
than you could appraise a general's tactics.'

'You sleep in the room,' Crispin replied, perversely abandoning his
own argument. 'You look at it every night.'

'Some nights,' said Leontes briefly. 'I don't pay much attention to
the flowers on the wall.'

'But you worry enough about the god in a sanctuary to arrange this
encounter?'

The other man nodded. 'That is different. Do you intend to render an
image of Jad on the ceiling?'

'The dome. I rather suspect that is what is expected of me, my lord.
In the absence of instruction otherwise from the Emperor, or the
Patriarchs, as you say, I should think I have to.'

'You don't fear the taint of heresy?'

'I have been rendering the god since I was an apprentice, my lord. If
this has formally become heresy instead of a matter of current
debate, no one has informed me of the change. Has the army taken to
shaping clerical doctrine? Shall we now discuss how to breach enemy
walls with chanted Invocations of Jad? Or launch Holy Fools in
catapults?'

He'd gone too far, it seemed. Leontes's expression darkened. 'You are
impertinent, Rhodian.'

'I hope not, my lord. I am indicating that I find your chosen subject
intrusive. I am not a Sarantine, my lord. I am a Rhodian citizen of
Batiara, invited here as a guest of the Empire.'

Unexpectedly, Leontes smiled again. 'True enough. Forgive me. You
made a ... dramatic entry among us last night, and I have to confess
I felt easier about the decorations being planned, knowing Siroes was
doing them and my wife was privy to his concepts. He was intending a
design that did not . . . incorporate the rendered image of Jad.'

'I see,' said Crispin quietly.

This was unexpected, and solved another part of the puzzle. 'I had
been told his dismissal might distress your lady wife. I see it is
also a matter of concern to you, for different reasons.'

Leontes hesitated. 'I approach matters of faith with seriousness.'

Crispin's anger was gone. He said, 'A prudent thing to do, my lord.
We are all children of the god and must do him honour ... in our own
way.'

He felt a certain weariness now. All he'd come east to do was put
pain a little way behind him, seek solace in important work. The
tangled complexities of the world here in Sarantium seemed extremely
... enveloping.

On the facing bench, Leontes leaned back, not replying. After a
moment he reached over and tapped on the door. At that signal it was
pulled open by someone, letting in another rush of air, and then it
closed. Only one man seemed to have been waiting to enter. He
shuffled, favouring one foot, past the Strategos to take a seat
opposite Crispin.

'No attendant?' he growled.

'He's allowed a few moments to cool down, 'Leontes said politely.
'Ought to be back shortly, or a different one will come. Shall I pour
for you?'

'Go ahead,' the other man said, indifferently.

He was, Crispin realized, evidently unaware who had just volunteered
to serve as a bathhouse servant for him. Leontes picked up the ewer,
dipped it in the trough, and poured water over the hot stones, once
and then again. The steam sizzled and crackled. A wave of moist heat
washed over Crispin like something tangible, thick in the chest,
blurring sight.

He looked wryly at the Strategos. 'A second employment?'

Leontes laughed. 'Less dangerous. Less rewarding, mind you. I ought
to leave you to your peace. You will come to dine one night, I hope?
My wife would enjoy speaking with you. She . . . collects clever
people.'

'I've never been part of a collection before,' Crispin murmured.

The third man sat mute, ignoring them, close-wrapped in his sheet.
Leontes glanced over at him briefly then stood. In this small chamber
he seemed even taller than he had in the palace the night before.
Other scars showed along his back, and corded ridges of muscle. At
the doorway, he turned.

'Weapons are forbidden here,' he said gravely. 'If you surrender the
blade under your foot you will have committed only a minor offence to
this point. If you do not, you will lose a hand to the courts, or
worse, when tried on my evidence.'

Crispin blinked. Then he moved extremely fast.

He had to. The man on the bench opposite had reached down with a
snarl and ripped a paper-thin blade free from under the sole of his
left foot. He held it deftly, the back of his hand up, and slashed
straight at Crispin, without challenge or warning.

Leontes stood motionless by the door, watching with what seemed to be
a detached interest.

Crispin lurched to one side, sweeping his sheet from his shoulders,
to catch the thrusting blade. The man across from him swore
viciously. He ripped the knife upwards through the fabric, trying to
wrench it free, but Crispin sprang from his bench, wrapping the great
sheet in a sweeping movement like a death shroud about the other
man's arms and torso. Without thought-or space for thought-but with
an enormous, choking fury in his chest, he hammered an elbow
viciously into the side of the man's head. He heard a dull grunt. The
trammelled blade fell to the floor with a thin sound. Crispin pivoted
for leverage, then swung his left arm in a backhanded arc that
smashed the side of his fist full into the man's face. He felt teeth
shatter like small stones, heard the breaking of bone, and gasped at
a surge of pain in his hand.

The other man fell to his knees with a weak, coughing sound. Before
he could grapple for the dropped knife, Crispin kicked him twice, in
the ribs and then, as his assailant slid sideways on the wet floor,
in the head. The man lay there and he did not move.

Crispin, breathing raggedly, slumped back naked onto the stone bench.
He was dripping wet, slick with perspiration. He closed his eyes then
opened them again. His heart was pounding wildly. He looked over at
Leontes, who had made no movement at all from his position by the
door.

'So kind ... of you ... to assist,' Crispin gasped. His left hand was
already swelling up. He glared at the other man through the eddying
mist and the wet heat.

The golden-haired soldier smiled. A light sheen of perspiration
glistened all along his perfect body. 'It is important for a man to
be able to defend himself. And pleasing to know one can. Don't you
feel better, having dealt with him yourself?'

Crispin tried to control his breathing. He shook his head angrily.
Sweat dripped in his eyes. There was a pool of blood trickling across
the stone floor, seeping into the white sheet in which the fallen man
lay tangled.

'You should,' Leontes said gravely. 'It is no small thing to be able
to protect your own person and your loved ones.'

'Fuck you. Say that to plague sores,' Crispin snarled. He felt
nauseated, struggling for control.

'Oh dear. You can't talk to me like that,' the Strategos said with
surprising gentleness. 'You know who I am. Besides, I have invited
you to my house . . . you shouldn't talk to me like that.' He made it
sound like a social failing, a lapse of civilized protocol. It might
have been comical, Crispin thought, had he not been so near to
vomiting in the now-stifling wet heat, with a stranger's dark blood
continuing to soak into the white sheet at his feet.

'What are you going to do to me?' Crispin rasped through clenched
teeth. 'Kill me with a hidden blade? Send your wife to poison me?'

Leontes chuckled benignly. 'I have no reason to kill you. And
Styliane's reputation is far worse than her nature. You'll see, when
you join us for dinner. In the meantime, you'd best come out of the
heat, and take some pride in knowing that this man will quite
certainly reveal who it was who hired him. My men will take him to
the Urban Prefect's offices. They are extremely good at interrogation
there. You have solved last night's mystery yourself, artisan. At the
small price of a bruised hand. You ought to be a satisfied man.'

Fuck you, Crispin almost said again, but didn't. Last night's
mystery. It seemed everyone knew about the attack by now. He looked
over at the tall commander of all the Sarantine armies. Leontes's
blue gaze met his through the eddying of the steam.

'This,' said Crispin bitterly, 'is the ambit of satisfaction for you?
Clubbing someone senseless, killing him? This is what a man does to
justify his place in Jad's creation?'

Leontes was silent a moment. 'You haven't killed him. Jad's creation
is a dangerous, tenuous place for mortal men, artisan. Tell me, how
lasting have the glories of Rhodias been, since they could not be
defended against the Antae?'

They were rubble, of course. Crispin knew it. He had seen the
fire-charred ruin of mosaics the world had once journeyed to honour
and exalt.

Leontes added, still gently, 'I would be a poor creature were I to
see value only in bloodshed and war. It is my chosen world, yes, and
I would like to leave a proud name behind me, but I would say a man
finds honour in serving his city and Emperor and his god, in raising
his children and guiding his lady wife towards those same duties.'

Crispin thought of Styliane Daleina. I lie where pleasure leads me,
not need. He pushed the thought away. He said, 'And the things of
beauty? The things that mark us off from the Inicii with their
sacrifices, or the Karchites drinking bear blood and scarring their
faces? Or is it just better weapons and tactics that mark us off?' He
was too limp, in fact, to summon real anger any more. It occurred to
him that mosaicists-all artisans, really-seemed never to leave behind
their names, proud or otherwise. That was for those who swung swords,
or axes that could send a man's head flying from his body. He wanted
to say that, but didn't.

'Beauty is a luxury, Rhodian. It needs walls, and... yes, better
weapons and tactics. What you do depends on what I do.' Leontes
paused. 'Or on what you just did here with this man who would have
killed you. What mosaics would you achieve if dead on a steam room
floor? What works here would last if Robazes, commander of the
Bassanid armies, conquered us for his King of Kings? Or if the
northerners did, made fierce by that bear blood? Or some other force,
other faith, some enemy we don't even know of yet?' Leontes wiped
sweat from his eyes again. 'What we build-even the Emperor's
Sanctuary-we hold precariously and must defend.'

Crispin looked at him. He didn't really want to hear this. 'And the
soldiers have been waiting too long for their pay? Because of the
Sanctuary? However will the whores of the Empire make a living?' he
said bitterly.

Leontes frowned. He returned Crispin's gaze through the mist for a
moment. 'I should go. My guards will deal with this fellow. I am
sorry,' he added, 'if the plague took people from you. A man moves on
from his losses, eventually.'

He opened the door and went out before Crispin could offer a reply-to
any of what he'd said.