The Bones of the Earth (The Dark Age) (25 page)

“
According to the Christians, there in no Perun, there never was. Nor any Zeus or Apollo or Jupiter, either. Those were all false gods.”

Javor thought about that for a while, finishing the last of his wine. He looked out the window and saw the sky clearing as the sun moved westward.

“
Are you a Christian?” he asked after a time.

Photius did not reply immediately. “Yes, I am, among other things,” he said finally. “But that answer is far, far deeper than it sounds. For the nature of God is far more complex than—”

There was a knock, then, and the servant came to collect their dishes. He was carrying three towels, three clean tunics and three pairs of slippers. “The Centurion told me to invite you to the bathhouse. The girl first—we don’t have separate baths for women.”

The bedroom door sprang open and Danisa almost bolted out the door. Javor was astounded.

“
Ah, that will be fine!” Photius exclaimed. “Oh, that is what we need after all those months in the country! Enjoy yourself, my dear!” he called after Danisa, but Javor doubted she could hear him. “Oh, Janus, you will really enjoy a Roman bath!”

Javor was mystified. It seemed awfully cool for bathing, but he waited patiently, dozing occasionally. After about an hour, Danisa returned in a fresh tunic that actually seemed to fit her, with a white cloth wrapped around her head. She seemed renewed—Javor thought her skin actually glowed in the afternoon sunlight.

“
What’s on your head?” he asked her.

“
It’s a towel, you idiot!” she snapped. She went back to the bedroom and slammed the door shut again.

Why is she so mad at me?
Javor wondered yet again as he followed Photius and the servant across the courtyard to a small building, one surrounded by narrow stone pillars.

Inside was the most opulent luxury that Javor had ever seen: a tiled Roman bathhouse. First was a room with tiles on the floor and hooks on the walls. Photius stripped, completely un-self-conscious, hanging his trousers, tunic, shirt and cloak on the hooks, then took a towel and wrapped it about himself. Javor followed suit, a little embarrassed because the servant, Ulf, was still standing there holding the clean tunics. He carefully hid his dagger under the tunic, but kept the amulet around his neck.

Ulf led them to the centre of the bathhouse. Javor had never seen anything like it. The interior was covered in shining white tiles. Sunk into the floor was a huge, wide tub, big enough for several men, filled with steaming water. Jugs of water, wine and oil stood on the side of the tub, and on a table were more towels.

Photius poured wine for himself and Javor into two cups and handed his towel to Ulf, then stepped into the bath, sighing with pleasure. Javor dipped his foot into the water and was shocked to find it warm. “Come on, Janus, settle in and relax—you haven’t lived until you’ve had a Roman bath!” Photius said. He began splashing water onto his face and scrubbing his skin with his hands.

Javor was amazed at how easily Photius had started calling him by that false name.
I guess I better get used to it. Better respond to it like it really is my name.
Slowly, he lowered himself into the water until he was sitting on tile. He copied Photius by washing his face, then drinking wine. The steam rising from the bath, combined with the wine, made him even more light-headed.

Photius stretched out, wriggled in the water to get more dust off his skin, dunked his head under and washed his hair. Then he climbed out, taking a towel from Ulf and wrapping it around himself.

Javor copied as best he could. He felt completely lost. Naked but for a towel, he was weaponless, among strangers, wet and uncomfortable. But Photius, whom he had been following like a dog for months, was exultant.

They went into another room, where two men in tunics waited for them. “Ah, the massage!” exclaimed Photius, and immediately lay face-down on a kind of narrow, padded table. The masseur poured oil on Photius’ back and began rubbing vigorously.

Javor didn’t like the looks of that. But the other masseur was pointing at the table, so he lay down like Photius. He didn’t like the feel of the oil on his skin, and recoiled at the feel of the man’s hands on his shoulders, but gradually relaxed. Soon, he realized just how
good
the massage felt. All too soon, the massage was over. Javor stood, flexed his shoulders and felt somehow less tired.

Next was a tiled room that Photius called the
caldarium
. Javor jumped as Photius opened the door and clouds billowed out. But Photius stepped through the steam and sat on a bench, motioning Javor to sit beside him. The older man leaned back and closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

“
It’s awfully hot in here, Photius,” Javor said.

Photius chuckled. “That’s the point, my boy. The heat makes you sweat and cleans out your skin. It takes away all the deep ground-in dirt and filth. And it takes out the minor spirits, too, from deep inside your being and exorcises them gently.”

Javor noticed a number of braziers placed in the room. On each one was a wide pan filled with water and several good-sized round stones. Beside each was a bucket with a long-handled wooden ladle. After a few minutes, Photius poured a ladle of water over the stones, which hissed as steam filled the room even more thickly, and Javor felt the higher temperature like hundreds of needles prickling his skin. His head felt tense, like his scalp was too tight. The air got hotter. Photius breathed in deeply, a content smile crossing his face, and leaned back again.

Javor breathed in and felt his nasal passages open. Gradually, he got used to the heat.
It
is
relaxing
, he thought. Water trickled down his back and he couldn’t tell whether it was sweat or collected steam.

After a while, Photius picked up a small curved metal tool and, to Javor’s amazement, scraped it along his skin. A wave of steam and sweat preceded its leading edge, splattering onto the floor. Photius scraped his neck all around, then his shoulders, his chest, torso, arms and legs, then wiped the tool on a towel and handed it to Javor.

“
Do my back.”

Javor hesitated, but Photius turned his back to the younger man. Javor shrugged and scraped the tool down one side of his back. “Ouch! Not so hard!” Photius protested. Javor relaxed the pressure and more gently swept the tool down, pulling a wave off the old man’s back.

“
Now, you do it,” Photius said after Javor had finished scraping his back. Javor looked at the iron tool. “It’s called a
strigil
,” Photius explained. Javor copied the older man’s actions, scraping sweat, water and dirt off his skin. After, he felt renewed, smoother, cleaner.

Javor followed Photius to the side of the room, where a deep bath was sunk into the floor. Photius dropped his towel and without hesitating plunged in and climbed out immediately. Javor copied him. “Ahh! It’s hot!”

“
Of course,” Photius chuckled. “It’s in the
caldarium
, the hot room.” He didn’t stay, but wrapped the towel around himself again and went out to the cooler room where they had been massaged, where Javor now felt chilled in comparison. Servants handed them more wine. Photius waited a few minutes until he felt he had cooled enough, then said, “Back to the
frigidarium
.” The baths had been refilled, and again without hesitating, he plunged in. Javor hesitated this time, and then lowered himself gingerly. The cool water felt icy on his goose-pimpled skin. Photius was splashing the water over his body, and Javor copied him again.

“
The heat in the
caldarium
opens the pores of the skin, allowing sweat to flush out the dirt that has been ground in over these weeks over travel and travail,” said Photius in his expansive way. “You scraped much of it off with the
strigil
in there, and then the hot bath washed the rest away. Now, the cold bath closes the pores again to help prevent more dirt from getting in. The whole process very much promotes good health.”

Back in the changing room, they found fresh Roman-style tunics laid out for them. “Where are our clothes?” Javor asked.

“
We have taken them to be laundered, sir,” Ulf replied, bowing his head. Javor was amazed. “The legate invites you to the officers’ mess for evening meal, in about an hour.”

“
An hour! How long were we in the bath, Photius?”

The older man just laughed and pulled on the fresh tunic. He combed his hair and showed Javor how to do it, and then Ulf held up a bronze mirror. “Ah, that’s much better!” Photius exclaimed. “I look like a civilized man again!”

Ulf held up the mirror for Javor. He had seen his reflection before, in streams and pools of water, but had never seen a mirror. He was surprised by what he saw: his face was longer than he remembered, and his blonde hair hung in long wet waves almost down to his shoulders. A wispy beard straggled across his jaw and his lip hinted at a moustache.

“
Looks like you’ll be needing a shave!” said Photius.

“
Oh, no, I want a beard like my father!” Javor protested, alarmed. But Photius just laughed. “Thank you, Ulf. We will stroll about the fort until it’s time.” Ulf bowed again and left them. “Come, Janus. Let’s look around.”

“
What about Danisa?”

“
To tell you the truth, I could use a little break from Danisa. Let’s you and I keep each other more manly company for a short time.”

The sun was getting well to the west, and the shadows were getting longer. Photius strolled casually around, but Javor could tell he was evaluating the fort’s strengths. “Ah, it’s good to be in civilization again, Janus.” They walked to the little church and peeked inside. The westering light streamed in the open door, falling on a picture made of an arrangement of many small, coloured tiles that Photius called a
mosaic
. It depicted a woman with a long face wearing a hood, holding a strange-looking baby— who appeared to Javor more to be a miniature adult wearing flowing robes. “That is the Virgin Mary, holding the infant Christ,” said Photius. Above it was a sort of wooden table, covered with a pure white cloth, and behind it another table with a kind of box. Javor wondered at it all, but Photius led him away, preferring to inspect the fortifications.

The people in the fortress studied them furtively, and Javor knew they were wondering who they were and why they were given such freedom in the fortress. But no one spoke to them. Legionnaires standing guard at various points drew themselves to attention as they approached, but no one asked any questions.

Finally, a gong sounded. People put down their tools and headed into various buildings. Photius followed a group of officers into the main hall. Javor saw someone leading Danisa in ahead of them.

Long rows of high torches on poles, plus more on sconces all around the walls, made it brighter and warmer than outside. Down the middle of the hall, a long table was covered with platters of food: roasted chickens, a haunch of beef, plates of grapes and others with cheeses, bread, fruit, a platter of olives. Servants or slaves poured wine into cups and goblets. The air was filled with appetizing odours and cheerful chatter of officers.

And at the head of the table, on a chair set at the foot of his dais, sat the Legate, Valgus, in a loose, pure-white toga. He smiled and chatted cheerfully with men on either side, dressed in military uniforms but no armour.

“
Ah, Photius, Danisa and Janus, my guests, welcome to our dinner!” he exclaimed. “Forgive me if I don’t get up, but your orders were to relax. Still, I must thank you!” He raised a golden goblet and some red wine sloshed over the rim. Valgus ignored the wine dripping over his fingers. “A salute to the miraculous healer from the north! For the first time in a year, the pain has diminished!” and he drained the goblet.

Servants pressed goblets into Photius’, Danisa’s and Javor’s hands, and officers moved away from couches at Valgus’ side. “Come, sit down with me, my friends! Eat, enjoy all the poor repast we can offer in this remote fortress!”