Chapter 12
It was nearingthe end of the year when Zo finally decided he would have to let Timon into his bed. The man had said something very unsubtle about wanting to "sample the goods" before making a commitment. He knew very well what was going on.
He had also developed an irritating conviction that Zo was an innocent, or at least shy. That was perhaps only natural when Timon had been making his interest plain for weeks without receiving an enthusiastic response, but it was still annoying. The man had lived most of his life on Tykanos; he knew how companions operated. Yet he was so convinced that he must be an exception to the rule that the only explanation for Zo keeping him at arm's length was that Zo was a shy flower?
Zo couldn't really complain to anyone about it. Chrestos might have been sympathetic, but Zo had probably burned his bridges with Chrestos by failing to confide in him earlier. The women were all struggling to find someone as interested in them as Timon was in Zo, and the stakes were higher for them—letting a man into their beds meant risking pregnancy. Zo couldn't ask them to listen to his complaints.
Hylas would have listened and offered sympathy. He might even have had something helpful to say, if Zo had asked for advice. But Zo couldn't bring himself to talk to Hylas about Timon. When he was with Hylas, he tried to pretend Timon didn't exist. And Hylas had had something to do with bringing Timon to the Red Balconies in the first place; Zo didn't want to seem ungrateful.
So on the 31st of Tenth Month, the last day of the Pseuchaian year, Zo let Timon linger while his other guests took their leave, until it was just the two of them alone in his room.
Timon raised his wine cup and drained it. He looked at Zo, his eyes dark in the lamplight.
"Is tonight the night that my skittish beauty finally relents?" he murmured.
Zo raised his eyebrows and blinked at him as though he might not have heard or understood what that meant. He was not going to encourage this kind of thing. But he moved closer to Timon on the divan—it was a nice, firmly cushioned one that Hylas had brought home for him from the governor's mansion, where it was being discarded in a redecoration—and plucked the empty wine cup from Timon's hand to set it on the table.
He should let the man make the first move; clearly he was the sort who would want to. Would he lean in for a kiss, or slide his hand onto Zo's thigh as he had tried to do more than once before?
He toyed with a strand of Zo's hair. So far, so good.
"You know I am a weapons merchant," he said.
"Mm."
"I have one very special spear I have been … burning to show you."
Zo laughed. He couldn't help it. He knew he wasn't supposed to; that hadn't been uttered in a tone that invited laughter. He tried to turn the laugh into a nervous giggle, didn't think he was particularly successful.
"You may have heard that I'm a ladies' man." Timon frowned slightly. "I have that reputation, I know. But not to worry. I know my way around the rear of a pretty youth."
"Just that part?" He would not laugh again. Angels of the Almighty, let him not laugh again.
Timon himself was still entirely serious. "I mean I've bedded a few boys in my time. Though they have to be quite special to pique my interest."
"I'm choosy myself."
Timon's frown deepened, and he shifted on the divan. "Erm … on the whole, I think it will be better if you don't talk back."
"Oh?"
"You're quite good at it, but I don't feel it will help my prowess."
"Oh."
"Are we clear, then?"
"Yes, sir, absolutely."
And indeed it was clear. Timon wanted playacting; or rather, he really wanted a squirming, reluctant boy, but he'd realized, having at least half a brain, that Zo wasn't that, and instead wanted him to pretend to be. And Zo, who'd never been squirming or reluctant even when he had been a boy, wanted to throw up.
He ducked his head so that his hair fell like a curtain, half-hiding his face. He could do playacting, of course. He did it all the time, had acted one part or another most of his life, often under much more challenging circumstances. He could do it, but he didn't want to. He wanted a night of enjoyable sex, and he should have known before now that he wasn't going to get it.
Timon moved toward him on the divan. He had soft hands, white and well-manicured. One of them slid under Zo's hair and cupped his face, and he pulled Zo toward himself to kiss him. Zo came pliantly and allowed himself to be kissed. Some people liked it like this, he reminded himself: letting the other person take charge, feigning passivity. Maybe it would turn out that he liked it too.
"That's a good boy," Timon murmured when he had taken his tongue out of Zo's mouth finally. He was a terrible kisser. "Is it strange, kissing a man with a beard?"
"Oh, no, sir." Did Timon think he was the only bearded man on the island? And where did he imagine Zo was from, that he would find beards a novelty?
Timon was giving him an exasperated look.
"Well, perhaps a little," Zo simpered.
Timon's thumb toyed with Zo's lower lip. "You will grow used to it. Now, then. It is past time I delved under these trappings"—He plucked at the front of Zo's robe—"and plundered the treasure within."
Zo liked stripping bare for his lovers. He liked feeling their gaze on him in the lamplight and the slide of skin against skin in gratuitous cuddling when he convinced them to get naked too. It was a cold night, but the room was warmed by a brazier, and there were blankets piled generously on the bed.
Timon didn't even take off all of Zo's clothes. He undid a couple of buttons on Zo's robe and stuck his hand in, fumbling with Zo's undershirt—it was cold, he was wearing layers—to tweak a nipple perfunctorily, acting as if he were committing the ravishment of the century. He delivered some more unpleasant kisses. Zo was getting a crick in his neck from the way Timon bent his head back.
After that, Timon hitched up his own mantle and tunic, twitched aside his loincloth, and persisted in describing his cock as a spear. Zo was desperate for him to shut up. He'd never felt less aroused when actually in the lead-up to making love.
"You see how it strains to plunge into your dainty hole?" Timon was saying. "Down, boy!" He gave his cock an open-handed slap that made it bounce. "This beauty is no bitch to be mounted without preliminaries."
Maybe the earth would open up and swallow him, Zo thought wistfully. Maybe there would be an earthquake, and the island would subside under the sea. Maybe Hylas would come home tipsy and open the wrong door by accident. God, that would be nice. And wasn't all that far-fetched.
Timon's idea of preliminaries consisted of pulling Zo's trousers down—not all the way off, just down—positioning him on his knees on the cold floor, bent over the table, and poking a licked finger in his ass. He really did only know his way around a man's rear, apparently; he didn't touch Zo's cock, and only commented disapprovingly on his pubic hair. "I prefer my boys bare in that region," he said, to which Zo made no reply.
Zo had never found Planting the Rose, as it was called in the Zashian love manuals, did anything for him, but he was used to exaggerating signs of pleasure for the sake of lovers who really craved it. That in itself could be enjoyable, so in the end he usually had fun, even if he didn't climax. He didn't think Timon wanted him to pretend to enjoy himself. He clenched his muscles to give Timon the satisfaction of purring about how tight he was, and made breathy gasps that corresponded to nothing in particular.
"There's oil on my dressing table," he said, when he felt Timon change position behind him and begin to withdraw his finger.
"Shh-shh, my lovely. Your capacious hole will be able to accommodate even such girth as mine, have no fear."
Timon did, in fact, have a large cock, and Zo was absolutely not taking it without oil. He pushed himself up on his hands and looked over his shoulder.
"Sorry, but we do need the oil. I'll get it, shall I?"
Timon, who had his clothing bunched up in one hand and his cock in the other, glared at him for a moment as if not quite comprehending.
"No," he said finally, tugging down his mantle and struggling to his feet. "You stay where you are. Demanding little whore."
He stormed over to Zo's dressing table, now half-hidden by the screen Hylas had put up, knocked several things over, and returned, glowering, with the flask of oil. He made a mess with it, grunting and muttering about being put off his stride and how much he hated having greasy hands.
The actual fuck would have been an anticlimax if Zo had had any hopes for it. Timon had stamina but no technique. If Zo had been less uncomfortable, he thought he would probably have fallen asleep. Instead he put on a show with moans and protests—"too much," "too big," and so on. It wasn't any of those things; it was just boring and taking too long. Timon panted and growled and slapped Zo's flank and muttered disjointed nonsense—mercifully he wasn't able to keep talking coherently while he fucked.
Once Timon had come, he was restored to a good humour, the debacle with the oil largely forgotten. He hauled Zo up from the table and draped him prone on the divan, with his trousers still around his ankles, saying with obvious satisfaction that he looked "well used." As Zo had expected, he didn't stay. If he'd noticed that at no point during his lovemaking had Zo been aroused, he didn't comment on it. Probably that was how he liked it.
When he was gone, Zo sat up on the divan, rubbing his stiff neck, and kicked off his trousers. He retrieved his new crutch from the hiding place he and Hylas had found for it—close at hand but not obvious to his guests—and took down his lamp from its stand. It was late, but he very much wanted a bath.
"It's the last night of the year, Hylas," Loukianos announced, slapping Hylas on the shoulder. "We'll mark the funeral of the old year in the Sasian style, by drinking until the wee hours. Mind you, the Sasian calendar doesn't end the year here, but what odds?"
"When do the Sasians celebrate the new year?" Hylas asked. And do they give gifts? was going to be his next question. He was still regretting his lost opportunity at Dendreia.
"Spring some time?" said Loukianos vaguely. "We're going to the Peacock tonight."
An evening at the Peacock, in Hylas's opinion, was a better evening than one spent at the Bower or the Amber Lily. There would be good food and drink, some form of entertainment, and he might get the opportunity to say hello to Mutari. He always tried to pass on greetings to her from Theano and the others at the Red Balconies when he could.
Unfortunately, going to the Peacock did mean that Pantaleon, the most annoying of the governor's set, would be with them. He never came to the Bower of Suos and had apparently been banned from the Amber Lily.
No one else seemed to like Pantaleon any better than Hylas, and they were more successful in avoiding him, so that it ended up being Hylas whom he followed, talking loudly, into Mutari's sitting room. She was holding court there, as she did, arranged like a temple idol on her divan at one end of the room, with her guests seated around her and her patron, the quartermaster from the fort, in pride of place beside her. She waved Hylas in with a smile, and he picked his way through the crowd to a vacant cushion. Pantaleon blundered in behind him.
"How are my friends at the Red Balconies?" Mutari inquired.
"Very well," said Hylas, because this was a public inquiry, Mutari doing her part to help rebuild the reputation of her friends' house.
Later, if they had an opportunity to talk privately, he could tell her how everyone was really doing, the latest in the battle between Mistress Aula and Taris over the headscarf, how Elpis had invented a new kind of cake without any flour, after a barrel that Aula had bought at a discount had turned out to be full of weevils.
"You have friends at the Red Balconies?" said one of Mutari's guests, as if playing along. Perhaps Mutari had put him up to it. "I didn't know that old house was still open."
"Oh, indeed it is," said the quartermaster. "I have many fond memories of the Red Balconies."
"We ought to go back some time," said someone else.
"It's a dump," said Pantaleon, loudly.
Everyone looked at him, though not with expressions which suggested they wanted to hear what he had to say next. That never seemed to bother him.
"They've only got a handful of girls," he went on, "and they're the worst shrews you can imagine. Bossy, standoffish, hardly even pretty—I don't know what any of them are doing as companions, they'd be better off as fishwives, I tell you."
"Now that you mention it," someone else muttered, "I did hear …"
And then it clicked in Hylas's mind. The name Pantaleon. That was where he'd heard it before.
"You used to live there, didn't you?" he cried, louder than necessary.
"What?" said Mutari, leaning forward with a look of interest, instantly drawing all eyes in the room back to Pantaleon and Hylas.
"You were their tenant," Hylas pursued. "You rented a room from them. They still talk about you."
Pantaleon huffed. "I doubt that. They were glad enough to get rid of me. Absolute harpies."
"No, they do talk about you—they do talk about him," Hylas addressed Mutari and by extension the rest of the room, "because he made off with their furniture when he left."
"He didn't!" Mutari exclaimed. "You didn't, did you?"
Pantaleon opened and shut his mouth like a fish. "Well, they were charging me too much rent. And they failed to give proper notice. My uncle is a jurist. I know my rights."
"I'm a jurist myself," said another guest. "Your rights as a tenant don't entitle you to take your landlord's furnishings, unless both parties have appeared in court and a judgement …"
"What else did he do?" the quartermaster asked. "Something tells me that's not the extent of the gossip."
"I don't want to repeat slander," Hylas said demurely, looking at Pantaleon.
Pantaleon stuck his chin out. "Too right! What else do they claim I did?"
"Kept trying to use their bath? But I don't—I mean, I can't really believe you'd do that."
"They're a bunch of frigid prudes! It was one time. Well, two times if you count—but it's a brazen lie to say I kept trying."
Mutari's guests that evening were mostly older men, friends of the quartermaster, and very gentlemanly. There was a lot of harrumphing, several people talked sententiously about the respect due to companions, and someone referred to the Red Balconies as a "venerable institution." All in all, Hylas felt it was a good evening's work.
Pantaleon slunk away after that, which made Hylas feel he should stay, although he had been thinking of making it an early night. So he lounged in Mutari's comfortable sitting room, drinking her wine and listening to her guests discuss politics and trade and the weather in Pheme, which everyone agreed was not as good as the weather on Tykanos. Before he knew it, the night was well worn, and even some of the regular guests were beginning to get up and head home.
Hylas made his own farewells, to Mutari and the quartermaster and a couple of guests she had introduced him to, and went looking for the governor. It was slightly strange that he hadn't seen Loukianos since their arrival. Usually, if they ended up in different parts of the house, Loukianos would come to check on Hylas at some point in the evening. But perhaps he didn't feel he needed to do that anymore, now that Hylas was more comfortable in the tea houses. Hylas smiled at the thought. Still, he didn't think the governor would have gone home without telling him.
And indeed he hadn't. Hylas found him, after wandering through the house, sitting in a corner of one half-deserted room, next to a very young female companion.
"Loukianos, I'm about to head out," Hylas called from halfway across the room.
The governor looked up. His eyes looked unfocussed, his features slack. He was dead drunk. Hylas had never seen him like this.
"Oh, sir, are you his friend?" asked the young companion, starting up from the cushion beside Loukianos. "Hylas?"
Hylas came across the room to Loukianos's corner. "Yes, I'm Hylas. Does he—is he all right? Loukianos? Are you all right?"
"He wouldn't let me hire him a chair until you returned," the girl said miserably. "But now perhaps …"
"It's been two years," Loukianos mumbled. "Two years to the day." He looked up at Hylas. "Two years since Hippolytos died."
"Do you know who that was?" the young companion asked. "He's mentioned him several times."
"He was your lover, wasn't he?" said Hylas.
"He went to sea and never came back," said Loukianos. "So many of them do, it's commonplace. And yet, when it happens to you …" He made a hopeless gesture. "Now here I am, two years later. And here you are, Hylas, and you, Lara."
"Lada," the companion whispered.
"Pleased to meet you," Hylas murmured back, automatically.
He wasn't sure what to do about Loukianos. Drag him home, as he would have done with a labourer whom he found drunk outside a wine shop? Or let him talk, because he was after all the governor?
"There are so many things that I regret," Loukianos went on.
Let him talk, Hylas decided. If he'd needed to get this drunk in order to say what he wanted to say, best not to let that effort go to waste. Hylas sat on the cushion beside Loukianos. Lada dropped down on the other side, biting her lip. Loukianos gazed slowly at each of them in turn.
"Here I am," he said again. "And here you are. Just as … Isn't she beautiful, Hylas? Lara—isn't she beautiful?"
"Ab-absolutely." Hylas shot Lada an apologetic look.
"I can't do anything with a beautiful woman. Never have been able to. Pitiful, isn't it?"
Lada and Hylas made soothing noises.
"I was married once. Lovely young girl. Friend of the family. Thought I could hack it." He hung his head. "I divorced her, in the end, for her own sake. She's better off without me. It might have ruined my career—thought it would—but I couldn't keep her trapped like that."
"That was caring of you, sir," said Lada.
"Then I came here and met Hippolytos, and it was all different. He wasn't like me. Girls, men—" Loukianos threw back his head suddenly and laughed aloud. Lada and Hylas both started. "He could take pleasure with anyone. By the gods, how I loved him."
Hylas put a hand on the governor's shoulder. "I think it's good to remember that, sir. Even if it is painful—even though of course it is painful." He was starting to tear up himself.
Loukianos looked down at Hylas's hand, then up into Hylas's face. Some thought was clearly forming, slowly, in his mind, but Hylas could not guess what it was.
Loukianos reached suddenly for Lada's hand, and removing Hylas's hand from his shoulder, brought the two of them clumsily together.
"Take Lara to bed, Hylas."
"What?" Hylas yelped.
Lada had frozen, eyes wide like a deer facing a hunter.
"She's a beautiful girl. Take her to bed. I'll just watch. You won't even know I'm there."
"Governor Loukianos, sir …" Lada began wretchedly. "I …"
"Let go of us, please," said Hylas, trying to withdraw his hand without violence. But Loukianos was squeezing his wrist fervently.
"I always wanted to ask Hippolytos for this, but I never had the courage. I know, I know it's perversion, I should be ashamed …"
"Oh, no, sir," Lada began, "it's just …"
"Don't be ashamed," said Hylas, finding firm ground now, to his relief. "You want what you want. And you can have it here—it's Tykanos. Makes—makes Boukos look like a jurist's funeral, I—I've heard. But Loukianos, Lada is a companion, and the companions of Tykanos are accomplished entertainers who deserve our respect." He was quoting one of Mutari's guests, word for word. "You cannot tell her to go to bed with a man she doesn't even know."
"But you're wonderful!" Loukianos cried indignantly.
"I—that's very kind of you, sir, but?—"
"He saved a town from a volcano, you know," Loukianos informed Lada.
"No, I—it wasn't a?—"
"And you can see for yourself how considerate he is. He's not as handsome as Hippolytos, but nobody is, and if you like Ariatan looks, you can't deny he has a fine physique."
"Loukianos!" Hylas withdrew his hand, forcefully, and got to his feet. "I'm going to send for a chair to take you home."
"Oh, I can do that," said Lada, jumping up too. "Please, let me do that."
"Absolutely. Go ahead. And sorry about—all this. You seem lovely?—"
"So do you, sir. Good—good luck with everything."
"Let's get up now, Loukianos," said Hylas, crouching to look the governor in the eye.
"I don't feel altogether well," said Loukianos thoughtfully.
Then he leaned forward and vomited directly onto Hylas's chest.
Hylas cleaned himself up and was able to borrow a fresh tunic to wear home, but he still arrived back at the Red Balconies feeling like he needed a bath. When he came into the deserted courtyard, he was greeted by the sound of water splashing in the newly restored fountain. He filled a bucket and headed for the men's bath.
There was a lamp lit in the outer room of the bath, and the inner door was closed. Yawning, Hylas set down his bucket and stripped off his borrowed tunic. He opened the door.
The inner room of the bath was lit only by a taper burning in a socket on the wall, but the air was warm and steamy. Zo was sitting on a low stool in the shadows. He looked up at Hylas, dark eyes wide.
He was an elegant shape in the warm semi-darkness, long limbs bare and wet, black hair falling softly over his shoulder. He was sitting with his forearms on his knees, holding a dripping sponge that he had been using to wash himself from the basin of warm water in front of him. He must have built a fire in the masonry stove in the corner to warm the water and put another basin on the stove to produce steam.
He smiled. "Hello, Hylas. I didn't expect to see you."
"I … didn't expect to see you."
Of course he should have realized, from the lit lamp and closed door, that there was someone in the bath, but he hadn't. He never would have opened the door if he had thought Zo was inside. Zo was from one of those places where people didn't bathe communally. He deserved his privacy.
And yet Hylas went on standing there, not retreating and shutting the door, because Zo was looking at him with … appreciation?
It was not right. He was middle-aged. Zo was young and beautiful—so, so beautiful, with that flawless skin and supple, gently curvaceous frame—and it was not right for Hylas to stand there, nearly naked, under Zo's scrutiny, and feel suddenly, absurdly desirable.
"I shouldn't let the steam out," Hylas said, reaching for the door handle.
"Yes, but—stay on this side of it?"
"I will."
He shut the door and came to sit on the built-in bench opposite Zo, mimicking Zo's posture with his arms on his knees. Zo dipped his sponge in the water and squeezed it out.
"You won't believe the night I had, Hylas."
"No? Was it good?"
"So bad."
"Did you get thrown up on, though?"
Zo grinned. "Oh, your evening was good too, was it?"
"Well, parts of it were all right."
"But did you have to pretend to be a ravished innocent for a man who refers to his cock as a ‘lustful spear'?"
"Oh, no!" He hadn't thought about why Zo would be bathing in the middle of the night, but presumably—well, it would be messy, and if you hadn't enjoyed it … "Are you all right?" He didn't know if it was the right question, but it was the one that came to mind.
Zo's smile softened. "I'm fine. Timon's not patron material, though. He doesn't really like men. I think he likes the idea of fucking a boy every so often for variety, or to show his range or something. I don't see him really becoming attached. Which is a relief, because Angels of the Almighty, is he rubbish in bed. And has a bit of a mean streak, actually, which I wouldn't like to explore further."
"I'm sorry," said Hylas with feeling.
"You mean because you sent him here? Don't worry, you weren't to know."
"I … I didn't send him here. He—wouldn't have been my choice for you. I've never liked him."
"Oh! I thought … because you said you'd look for a rich man for me, and then he showed up, and he knew you—and was obviously trying to make you jealous, which was …" Zo made a face. "Pretty tacky, really."
"I guess I must have given him the idea, because I suggested the Red Balconies one night. But I didn't mean for him to come by himself. I was hoping the whole group would come. I wanted you to meet the governor."
"The governor? Hylas! I'm not that ambitious."
"I know, but the two of you could talk about gardening. And if you could be happy together—you're both my friends. I'd like to see that."
Zo was silent for a long moment. "Well," he said finally. "Is it too late?"
"It might be. He's the one who threw up on me tonight. He was very drunk. If he remembers any of what he said, he may not want to look me in the eye ever again." Hylas smiled. "But I'll see."
Hylas stood up and scooped water from his own bucket to splash over his chest. The chill was bracing in the warm room.
"You didn't warm that up!" Zo yelped.
"I'm Ariatan. ‘Warm baths are for weaklings.'"
He struck a virile pose, and Zo threw his wet sponge at him. It missed. Hylas picked it up, wrung it out, and tossed it gently back.
Then he turned away so Zo could finish his bath, so he wouldn't see the unfolding of those graceful limbs as Zo stood, his beautiful body fully displayed. If Zo wanted to look at him while he stripped off his loincloth and scrubbed himself … If Zo wanted to look at him? It was ridiculous.
And yet he could almost feel Zo's gaze travelling over his skin. Did Zo like his height and his square shoulders? His freckles? He had met a girl once who'd liked the freckles, and an old woman had once told him in the street that he had a nice ass—though she had probably not been quite sane.
"I'll wait outside the door until you're done," he said without turning around, "and help you put out the fire and close up the bath."