Like Fire Through Bone (12 page)

He turned and walked over to his bag and dug out the soap he’d brought with him. When he got to the water, he hesitated before sighing and stripping off his clothes. The water was not as cold as he’d feared, the stream being shallow enough that the sun had warmed most of the rocks at the bottom. He stood in the stream and used his hands to pour water across his body. Trying to ignore the fact he wasn’t alone, he poured some of the soap into his hand and rubbed it through his close-cropped hair.

Still, he was hyperaware of his physical appearance with Markos so close, knowing as he now did that Markos was attracted to him. He didn’t understand that. Eunuchs were attractive to men when they were cut early enough to have soft feminine features, as jewels did. Castratos like himself were attractive to some, and only when they were still young. He was neither young nor a jewel, and besides, Markos had made it quite clear he didn’t want Vasilios the way men usually wanted eunuchs. It was confusing. If Markos wanted a lover equal to himself, wouldn’t he want one who still fully functioned as a man?

Vasilios’s own fingers slid down between his legs where there was nothing left but a tiny puckered nub of scar tissue and another long, raised scar below it. That was another thing: jewels were castrated in such a way so the scarring would be minimal and they would be pleasing to the eye. Castratos, particularly prisoners of war, were not. Vasilios had no illusions about what he looked like naked, if for no other reason than that Panagiotis had always ordered him to lie on his stomach while he’d been taken, so he would not have to see Vasilios’s scarred flesh. Vasilios didn’t understand how Markos could want him, and it was painful to think about the possibility of having something he should, by all rights, not have. There was a high likelihood that he would still never have Markos, Vasilios reminded himself sharply, and he rinsed off with a few splashes of cold water. He got out of the water and dressed before walking over to where Markos and Patros were sitting together eating dried fruit, meat, and some flat dry bread.

“Sit.” Markos pointed to the ground beside them. “Have some food.” He rummaged in his pack and pulled out some of the food supplies.

“No meat for me, please,” Vasilios said, but he took the bread and dried fruit.

They ate and packed the food away, then Patros and Markos took turns bathing in the stream as well, and Vasilios kept busy with anything he could find that would keep him from turning around and staring at Markos’s naked body. Unfortunately the thoughts he found were not good ones.

“We should get going if we’re going to do this journey all in one night,” Markos said when he was once again dressed, his hair still damp.

They saddled up the horses, restrapped the packs to the back of the saddles, and started off. Through unspoken consent, Vasilios rode with Markos again. He tried not to think about the way his legs and back ached, and stared at the way small, damp curls stuck to the back of Markos’s neck.

Their pace was a little faster than it had been that afternoon, and Vasilios was relieved to see as the sky grew darker that they would have a bright, full moon to travel by.

T
HEY
didn’t talk much this time as they rode. Half an hour later, as the foothills gave way to sandy plains of the desert proper, Vasilios’s head began to droop with exhaustion. His fortitude needed to be better than this. Still, as they made their way across the much flatter landscape, he began to have an increasingly hard time keeping his eyes open. Hours passed, and Vasilios would nod off for a few moments before jerking awake.

Finally they stopped, and Markos slid off the horse’s back while Vasilios looked around groggily. “We need to walk for a while,” Markos told him, helping Vasilios climb down as well. “The horse’s footing isn’t sure enough to carry us.” As he spoke, he pulled a long scarf from out of one of the packs, pulled it over his head, and wrapped it around his face. “Here.” He reached forward, and Vasilios was too sleepy and confused to be fully prepared for when Markos unwound Vasilios’s own scarf from around his shoulders and rewrapped it so it covered his face as well as his head.

Looking over in the semidarkness, Vasilios saw Patros had also dismounted and wrapped his own scarf around his head and lower face.

“Come on.” Markos took his hand, and Vasilios didn’t have the will to protest. Markos gripped the horse’s reins in the other hand, and they started off again.

V
ASILIOS
was not sure for how long they walked. If he had thought riding was bad, walking was far worse. The muscles of his legs and back had already been sore, and each step was a new level of pain. He concentrated on the ground, on taking one step after another, on the feel of Markos’s hand—about the size of his own but rougher and calloused, with longer, slimmer fingers.

The horizon was starting to turn light gray and blue around the edge when Patros pointed. “There,” he said. “Is that what we are looking for?”

Vasilios shook himself out of his exhaustion and pain-induced stupor to squint at the hut Patros pointed at. There was also a tree, and he blinked several times to make sure it was really there. It was big, one of the ones with gray bark and thorns he’d seen the day before. Its leaves were green and its branches spread over the house. The house itself was made of clay brick, flat roofed and square, and had a small window with wooden bars across it and a wooden door.

As they drew closer to the house, the door opened and a figure stepped out to meet them. Vasilios blinked several times as they drew to a halt in front of the house.

He’d expected the holy woman, Aritê of the Desert, to be old, but she appeared to be his own age. Her dark, thick hair fell in a long braid down her back, and her skin, Vasilios guessed, was probably originally the light-copper shade of his own but had been darkened by exposure to the desert sun. The features of her face were as small as the rest of her and rather delicate, and her eyes were dark. She had high sharp cheekbones that tapered down to a pointed chin, giving her face an almond shape. She wore a simple ankle-length dalmatic of undyed cotton, an undyed cotton scarf around her shoulders, and sandals. She also did not look happy to see them.

“Are you the one they call Aritê of the Desert?” Markos asked politely, bowing a little as he spoke. “If so, we must beg a chance to speak with you. It is urgent.”

“I know who you are and why you have come,” she said, sounding unhappy. “The angel told me. You’d better come in.”

With that, she turned and went back into the house, while Vasilios, Markos, and Patros all stood for several seconds in silence, staring at each other.

Finally Markos shrugged and turned to Patros. “Mind the horses, would you?” he asked and then turned to Vasilios. “You’d best come with me.”

Markos pushed open the door with Vasilios behind him. The house was small—just one room with a dirt floor, with a bed in one corner, a fire pit in the middle of the house, several large clay pots, and a kettle over the fire.

Aritê knelt by the fire pit. “I am sorry I can’t offer you anything to drink save for water,” she said, flicking back the sleeves of her dalmatic with a practiced move of her arms.

Vasilios tried not to stare in surprise, but failed. Where Aritê’s wrists should have naturally curved into hands, there was nothing but stumps where each hand had been neatly severed midwrist. She lifted a large earthen jar using her forearms, and put it down in front of them.

“There is a cup in the jar to drink with,” she said.

“So.” Markos went to his knees and knelt in front of her. “You said you already knew who we were and why we were here?”

“Yes.” Aritê looked tired. “You are Markos Özdemir, a general in the Emperor’s army, I believe, and your companion is Vasilios Eleni the Patient. The young man outside, tending to your horses, is a soldier in your garrison,” she said, expression troubled. “You have come to me because a demon of extraordinary power has been preying upon the young children of the capital, and the Bishop has become weak by his privileged position and no longer has the strength of will to drive it out. Please correct me if I am mistaken.”

“No.” Markos sounded a little stunned. “No, you are absolutely right. That is why we are here.”

Aritê’s mouth flattened into an unhappy line. “When I was first led here many years ago, I swore that I would not move from this spot as long as the Lord allowed me to live and serve him. Some have come to me, but I have kept true to that promise. Now you come and ask me to break it.”

“Please,” Vasilios said, not sure what argument he was going to make or how he was going to sway her. “Please, we have no one else to turn to.”

“And are you going to offer me money?” Aritê seemed almost angry now. “Or power? Will the Emperor thank me personally?”

“No.” Vasilios’s voice was soft. “I have nothing to offer you, Aritê of the Desert. I own nothing, I do not even own my very person, but I have come here to beg your help anyway.”

Aritê stared at him for a long minute. Markos remained still and silent by Vasilios’s side. “I had sworn to myself that if you came”—she looked over at Markos—“General of the Emperor, bearing gifts and pretty promises, his crest on your shoulder, I would turn you away. I want nothing to do with the Emperor or the Empire and the false promises it represents.” She shook her head and smiled. “But you come with nothing, you especially, Vasilios, who has nothing to offer, nothing of your own, no place and no purpose for yourself in man’s false Empire.”

Vasilios stared at her, not sure what to say, then he nodded slowly.

“But you have a strong soul that burns bright and true inside you. I can see that much. God has willed that I leave this place and go with you anyway.” Aritê stood then. “Rest your horses, and when they are ready, we will go. Now the sun is rising, and you must excuse me. I need to go and pray.” She pushed open the door and walked out, and Markos turned to Vasilios.

“I’m not sure what you did, but I’m glad.” There was something akin to awe in his voice.

“No.” Vasilios shook his head. “I didn’t do anything. Whatever it was, was already done before we got here.”

“Still.” Markos stood and brushed off his trousers. “If you hadn’t come with me, she might have turned me away.”

Markos pushed open the door and walked over to where Patros stood, looking slightly bewildered beside the horses. Vasilios followed him. There was the sound of someone speaking behind the house, and Vasilios turned and circled the small structure, as Markos and Patros spoke together.

Aritê knelt under the large gray-barked tree. She was chanting, eyes closed, her voice strong and rich. He stayed quiet, leaning against the back of the house as she sang her prayers. The sun rose along the horizon, shimmering and golden against the sky that turned from pale gray to brilliant blue.

Finally Aritê’s voice died away to silence, and she opened her eyes.

“That was beautiful,” Vasilios said, and she turned to him with a faint smile.

“I always loved the Psalms,” Aritê said. “I memorized them all, long before I came here.”

She stood in one long and graceful motion and brushed sand from her dalmatic with her sleeve.

“Why did you call me ‘Vasilios Eleni the Patient’?” he asked, his curiosity outweighing his training to stay silent. “I am not known as such.”

“No.” Aritê tilted her head to the side. When she came close to stand beside him, he saw she was quite a bit shorter than he. There was still a faint smile on her face. “But one day you will be.”

She headed toward the front of the house, and he followed her. “You seem so sure.”

Aritê laughed. “You think that, because you did not see me this time yesterday. I was anything but assured then. Arguing with God, like the fool I am.” She shook her head, a full smile blooming across her lips. “Hopeless fool.”

When they came around the side, Patros was sitting on the ground with his back against the front outside wall of the house, while Markos rummaged through their packs.

Patros stood as soon as he saw them and bowed to Aritê. “Amma.”

She waved at him, her sleeve making a small arc in the air. “Nonsense, I am not anyone’s Amma. Just a foolish servant of the Lord.”

“We should be able to start back soon,” Markos said, and Vasilios sat on the ground as Patros had done. The moment he sat, exhaustion crashed down over him like a wave, and he swallowed hard, fighting against it, and leaned his head against the cool clay wall.

Patros said something, and Vasilios was dimly aware of Markos’s deep, rich voice and Aritê’s higher but equally melodic tone as she replied. Vasilios must have drifted off, because he jerked awake when someone touched his shoulder.

“Vasilios?” Markos’s voice sounded concerned. “You must wake up. We need to begin back now.”

He looked blearily up at Markos, whose face smoothed out into a smile as he reached forward and cupped the side of Vasilios’s face with one hand.

“I know you’re tired,” Markos said, voice gentle and full of enough affection to make Vasilios’s chest ache. “I would let you sleep if I could, but we must go now. The sooner we get back to the capital, the better.”