‘I do tend to notice things.’
‘Well keep doing it. And do it more. Now come, and let us have no more of this seriousness.’
He led Brann down into the centre of the house and turned down the same corridor that had taken them to the bathing pools. Before they reached the pools, however, Salus knocked on another door. A slave, clad in a simple white tunic and with a silver chain of slender links around his neck, opened the door, his head shaven and his arms and legs as smooth as his scalp. The sailors on the voyage to Sagia had filled the nights with tales, and some had spoken of such men who had, as boys, been robbed of their manhood for any number of reasons –through religion, for practicality, as punishment or to break their spirit – and in many cases all body hair followed of its own accord. Whatever the reason for the cutting, Brann thought it abhorrent and he found himself stopping and gripping the man’s arm in sympathy as he passed. The slave looked at him quizzically.
‘Don’t have any designs on my staff.’ The tall, striking woman Brann had seen with Cassian just the day before stood to one side and looked up from a potion she was pouring into a cup. Her voice was low, soothing, measured. ‘I know of at least one culture that believes sex to be the cure for a hangover, but I find this to be more effective.’
He took the cup from her. ‘Staff? Designs?’ He frowned, trying to move his brain at normal speed. ‘Cure?’ His eyes widened. ‘Sex?’ Realisation flooded his face with colour. ‘Oh, no. I was just so sorry for him.’
‘You think he suffers working with me?’
He was stammering now. ‘No. I mean… no, no. I just think it’s awful, what has been done to him.’
‘You think I mistreat him?’
He was starting to wish he had entered the room head down and silent. ‘I mean what happened to him as a boy.’ He glanced at the man, who seemed unperturbed and was arranging pots and vials on a shelf above a cabinet.
She leant on a padded table, facing him. ‘I have known him since he was a boy.’
‘Then you know what they did to him.’
‘Did what to him?’
He walked closer and lowered his voice. ‘You know… when they, er… when he had his…’ Of all the experiences he had been through since arriving in this land, this was becoming the most excruciating. He decided he just had to go for it. ‘When they cut off his balls,’ he blurted.
The slave dropped a pot. Salus spluttered. The woman looked at him. ‘Nobody has cut off his balls.’
Brann looked at the man. He still had his back to the room but his hands were braced on the top of the cabinet and his shoulders were convulsing. Convulsing, Brann realised, with mirth.
‘But his lack of hair. I thought…’
‘We all know what you thought. Hair loss is not always a symptom of castration. You should know that Mylas chooses to shave all his hair. All who work specifically with me must adhere to the highest standards of cleanliness, and some of the men find that removing their hair helps them to facilitate this. In my case,’ she shook her long tendrils of hair, ‘I wash myself, but beyond that I choose to bind up my hair and cover it, while all Mylas has to do is wipe his head. I do shave my chest and back, though.’
Brann’s eyes widened. ‘You shave your…? You…?’ His brain caught up. ‘That last bit wasn’t serious.’
She nodded at his hands. ‘Drink your drink.’
He took a sip. And spat it back into the cup. ‘By the gods, that’s foul!’
‘It will work.’
‘It would need to work very quickly because it will be coming straight back up.’
‘It will not. Drain the cup. That way you will not experience the taste for so long.’
He stared at the cup, the pale-orange liquid sitting there and doing its best to look like poison. He looked at the eyes boring into him. He had no option. Taking a deep breath, he downed the drink.
Surprisingly, when it hit his stomach a soothing warmth rose through him rather than the contents of his guts. He felt better. Still not great, but better. ‘Is that an old soldier’s recipe?’
‘It is my recipe. Are you calling me an old soldier?’
‘No!’ Oh gods, not this again. ‘But haven’t you been a warrior at some point? Women don’t go to war among my people, but I have heard that in several countries they do.’
It was difficult to tell if she was more bemused or amused. ‘Quite the opposite, young man.’
‘But you taught Cassian how to fight.’
She laughed then. ‘I have taught my husband many things, but it is good to hear he has admitted it for once, even if it was to a boy widely expected to take that knowledge to his grave the same day. I cannot lay claim to teaching him to fight – he became accomplished at that all by himself.’
He shook his head in confusion. ‘He told me, when he said about tendons and muscles and shallow wounds. He said he learnt that from you.’
‘My expertise does lie in that area, but in putting them back together, not in taking them apart. However, when you know how to fix something, you also know how to break it. And talking of fixing things, let us fix you.’
He had forgotten about his self-inflicted malaise. Forgetting was a good sign in itself, but now that he thought about it, he realised he could move his head without wincing and could even contemplate breakfast.
‘Actually, I feel much better, thank you. That disgusting drink has really worked. I’m not perfect, but I could actually do with some food. Thank you very much.’
He spun on his heel to head for the door. Salus put a hand on his chest. ‘Are you serious?’
Brann turned back slowly, trying to think what he may have missed. ‘My apologies. Should I have bowed, or something?’ He bent awkwardly at the waist.
Her elbows were on the table. Her head was in her hands. ‘By your gods and mine, I am close to doing what that oaf failed to achieve with you in the Arena.’
Salus’s hand closed on the neck of his tunic and propelled him from the room. ‘It may be best if we start again.’
He closed the door then immediately knocked on it. Without waiting for a reply, he walked in, dragging the stumbling Brann with him. Mylas was walking across in front of them, carrying a tray of shining instruments. Salus guided the boy around the slave. ‘Not a word to him,’ he growled.
He jerked Brann to a halt in front of the table, where she still stood, leaning again with both hands on the surface, her head bowed.
Salus’s voice was quiet. ‘Lady Tyrala, may I present Brann the miller’s son, recently emerged from the Arena.’ He slapped the back of his head. Brann winced. The potion had not yet fully cured him. ‘Though the gods only know how he found the wit to achieve that.’
She looked up. ‘On the table.’
Without a word, he lifted himself onto it.
‘For your information, Brann Millerson, my function here extends slightly beyond helping the excess-induced sore heads of idiots; that was a bonus for you. I choose to spend more of my time helping keep the bodies of our residents here in a condition where they work.’
‘I… er… I’m sorry, I…’ He was stammering again.
She ignored him. ‘The day of a contest we look to any wounds. To everyone’s surprise, you escaped without a scratch or anything more than a slight bump on your head that you managed to inflict with your own shield, far less the fatal result that, incidentally, was universally expected.’
‘It’s nice that everyone has felt the need to remind me I was expected to die.’