by A. J. Demas
And of course Dami got it on the first try, though he was never able to make it look particularly graceful. He was too economical in his movements, too inclined to brandish the sword instead of toying with it. Still, his big hands were more nimble than you might think. Varazda had known that, of course. He remembered watching Dami play the lute at the Hapikon bonfire. He remembered other things, too.
Then Dami turned the warm-up into the actual bout by spinning around, sword up, and catching Varazda’s blade mid-twist. Varazda sprang back a step, then bounced forward again, swinging with both hands on the hilt and all his weight behind the motion. His sword clanged against Dami’s, and Dami pushed it relentlessly back, a distinct gleam in his eye that told Varazda he hadn’t found it too easy.
Varazda darted around him, ducking and spinning, more of a dance move than a sword-fighting one, and Dami’s blade hissed delicately against the sleeve of his shirt, like a caress.
It was like being batted by a lion’s paw with its claws drawn in. Except that with a beast you would never know how long you were safe, and with Dami you were always safe. Varazda would never have said he craved this kind of excitement, but there was something about it—the closeness of danger combined with the absolute absence of it—that stirred his blood in a way he had never known he wanted.
It was like sex, actually.
They fought with a mixture of laughter and serious concentration. Dami had been right that the room would present challenges, though they were mostly, as it turned out, challenges for Varazda. He found himself backed against walls, manoeuvred so that the sun from the window was in his eyes, and ducking around the chair. He got in a few blows, and he was pleased to find he remembered parries and attacks Dami had taught him a month ago.
Mostly he just revelled in watching—participating in—the glory that was Damiskos with a sword in his hand. He was neither flashy nor rough. He was strong and wickedly fast—except when his bad leg came into play—but most of all he was precise. Unerring, almost, in a way that Varazda knew took thought and long practice.
They sparred until they were both exhausted. Or, at any rate, until Varazda was exhausted, and Dami doing a good job of pretending the same state. Varazda liked to think he had at least tired him out a bit. Dami sank onto the one chair in the room, and Varazda lay flat on his back on the floor.
He looked up at Dami. “How is that so much fun?”
Dami chuckled slightly. “It is, isn’t it?”
“For you too?”
“You know it.”
He did, but it was still nice to hear.
“Can I ask you something?” said Dami.
“Of course.”
“Are you … ” He was leaning with his forearms on his knees, and his voice went low and a little rough. “Are you nervous about going to bed with me again?”
Varazda pushed his hands into his hair, feeling his face go still, his defenses come up. It was quite a Damiskos type of question, really. And when Varazda did not immediately answer, it got some even more Damiskos additions:
“I’d understand if you were. I don’t mean—not that anybody should be nervous about going to bed with me, and you absolutely don’t have to be, but if you are, maybe there’s something I can say that will help? The thing is, I get the impression there’s going to have to be some, uh, strategizing involved if we’re ever to be alone together in a room with a bed, and so if there’s anything … I just want you to know that I’m up for that. I don’t mind talking about it.”
“I’m not nervous, Dami.” Varazda rolled up off the floor to his feet and held out a hand. “Let’s go.”
They were both sweaty, and it would probably be nicer if they weren’t. But afterward, after … whatever they were going to do … they would be messy in a different way, and so they’d need to wash then, and there was only so much water in the cistern in the yard, and some of it needed to be saved for Yazata, who didn’t go to the public baths, and none of this was ideal stuff to be thinking about while on the way to your lover’s bed. Varazda knew that.
It was better than thinking about what he was going to do in his lover’s bed and worrying that it was not going to be good enough.
Dami followed him into the bedroom, and Varazda latched the door behind them.
“Is this all right?” he found himself saying, at the same moment that Dami said, “What do you want to—”
“Oh,” they both said.
“It’s fine,” said Dami. “Maybe a little abrupt, but … if you’re in the mood. We’re not being watched by philosophy students, so I’m good to go.”
Varazda did his best to laugh, but the remark just brought him back to that night on the beach at Laothalia, himself nearly out of his mind with tension, throwing himself into what he imagined was a necessary public tryst with Damiskos with all the fatalism of a soldier throwing himself on a wall of enemy spears. And Dami being so gentle, so perfectly considerate. Barely touching Varazda, totally unconcerned with making good his boast to the students that he didn’t mind being watched.
He shouldn’t have to be so considerate every time they went to bed together. Anyone would tire of that.
Varazda swept one braid over his shoulder, untied the ribbon that held it in place, and shook it out with a careless gesture. He did the same to the others, combing his fingers through the mass of his hair. Dami liked his hair, he knew. Most people did.
He unbuttoned his shirt at the throat, pulled it off over his head from the hem up, the best way to get it off elegantly without getting tangled up in the fabric. Shirts that unbuttoned all the way down the front were better for that, but more buttons made them more expensive.
He stood in front of Damiskos no more undressed than he had been last night, feeling beautiful but ill-at-ease. He reached for one of Dami’s hands, brought it to the ties that held his trousers closed at one hip.
Dami’s expression was unreadable. He fumbled with the fabric for a moment, as if reluctant to touch Varazda too much, and when the second tie came undone, he caught the waistband of the trousers to keep them from sliding down too quickly. The fabric whispered over Varazda’s skin, and he felt cold. He was not remotely aroused.
“Come.” He reached for Dami’s hand again and drew him toward the bed. Dami followed almost meekly.
They got Dami’s clothes off—not complicated, really—and got on the bed together. Some dispassionate observer in Varazda’s skin told him that it was not badly done, slithery and seductive without being overwhelming, and Dami could have nothing to complain of.
But Dami was still watching him intently, almost warily. This was the hard part. You couldn’t fake it with Dami.
They ended up with Dami on his back and Varazda settled astride his thighs. Dami caught Varazda’s hands and brought them down to his chest.
“Touch me?” he suggested with a little hopeful smile.
Varazda managed an answering smile and drew his hands down Dami’s chest, lightly tickling the roughness of wiry hair with his nails, exploring the planes of muscle lower down. Dami threw one arm half over his face as if embarrassed, but he was still smiling. Varazda felt filled with affection for him.
He went on touching, mapping his lover’s skin with his fingertips. The stubble along his jaw, the shape of his throat, the ridges of collarbone and shoulder, and the bulky muscles of his upper arms. He nudged one of Dami’s thighs to the side so that he could move to kneel between Dami’s absurdly gorgeous thighs.
He rubbed his thumbs over Dami’s nipples, and Dami flinched and tensed with a low, appreciative sound. Varazda moved down again, thumbing the soft skin at the inside of Dami’s hips, stroking his inner thighs, tangling his fingertips delicately in the dark curls of his private hair. He had not yet touched Dami’s genitals. They were almost intimidatingly magnificent: big and beautifully formed, his member flushed with arousal, long and thick and straight.
“All right, love?” said Dami, reaching down to stroke Varazda’s hair.
Varazda laughed.
He knew what he should do. He knew how to do it, too. He leaned gracefully down and swirled his tongue around the tip of Dami’s manhood. His mouth filled with the familiar salty taste, and he felt Dami draw in a sharp breath, muscles stiffening under him. He pushed down onto Dami, tongue sliding over his length, relaxing his throat to take it all in. He knew how to do this.
He gagged. He couldn’t get Dami out of his mouth fast enough—might even have scraped him with his teeth on the way up. He twisted away, coughing, tears stinging his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely when he could get his voice working. “I had intended … But I don’t seem to be able … ” He coughed again. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” Dami’s own voice was rough. “Uh—close, but no.”
Dami’s erection had wilted almost completely. Varazda’s hadn’t quite come to fruition in the first place. He kept his face turned away from Dami, clamping his teeth shut on all the things his pride wouldn’t let him say.
Not even a competent whore. You couldn’t even go through with it.
Dami sat up, and Varazda waited for the solicitous question, for the consideration that he shouldn’t need yet again. It didn’t come, at least not in the form Varazda had been expecting. Dami said nothing, just sat there, his posture a little vulnerable, with Varazda still kneeling between his legs.
“Are you all right?” Dami said finally.
“Fine. I—”
There was a rush of air from the bedroom door opening. They both started and looked up to see Yazata in the doorway.
“What,” Yazata cried breathlessly, “is going on?”
“Yazata!” Varazda growled, propelling himself off the bed and making for the door. “Get out.”
Yazata flinched, averting his gaze but not moving from the doorway. “What were you—”
Varazda grabbed the edge of the door and held on, his arm shaking with the effort of not shoving it closed in Yazata’s face.
“Yazata.” He tried to keep his voice calm. “Please leave. Please don’t ever do this again.”
“But I thought … ” Yazata murmured, wincing.
“Everything is fine. Please let me close the door.”
“I heard sounds of violence!” Yazata blurted out finally. “What was he doing to you?”
As gently as possible, Varazda pushed the door closed, forcing Yazata back out into the sitting room. He clicked the latch into place and turned back toward Dami, who was sitting on the edge of the bed with a look of dismay on his face.
“I think … ” Dami started.
“What?” Varazda snapped.
Dami’s eyebrows twitched. “I think you’re sexy when you’re angry—but, uh, what I was going to say is I think that killed the mood pretty effectively.”
“Which?” Varazda could hear but not control the savagery in his voice. “Yazata breaking down the door, or me nearly biting off your manhood?”
“I could do without either,” Dami said mildly. He reached for his tunic, which lay across the head of the bed, and shrugged into it. “I’m starting to feel nostalgic for the drunk philosophers.”
Varazda didn’t know whether that was intended as a joke or a criticism, or which would be worse. He gathered up his own clothes and dressed at lightning speed.
“You know,” he said, “in the king’s household, ‘dancer’ is a euphemism. Like everything in Zash. You knew that, didn’t you?”
“I … what? No?”
“I was a pleasure slave, really. I danced, but that wasn’t really what I was for.”
“I didn’t know that.” Dami’s voice was suddenly hard.
“Now you do.”
Now he did. And he was angry about it, clearly. Not angry because of what Varazda had been, surely, but angry that Varazda had kept it a secret.
There was another tap at the door.
“What. Now,” Varazda snarled.
“Sorry,” said Ariston loudly. “I—uh. There’s a boy at the door with a message. He said you’re needed at the embassy, like right now. I don’t know, they’ve got a dancing emergency or something? Sorry.”
“That’s fine,” said Varazda tightly. “Thank you.”
“Uh. It’s just that, you know, I should give the boy a tip, but I don’t have any money.”
“Did you look in the jar in the kitchen?”
“Ohhhh, you mean the jar in the kitchen where there’s always money? No, I didn’t. Thanks.”
Ariston’s footsteps receded into the kitchen. Varazda pinched the bridge of his nose. “Right. I have to go out. It’s not a ‘dancing emergency.’ It’s the Basileon.”
“I see,” said Dami. “‘You’re needed at the embassy’ is a code.”
“In a rudimentary sense.” He looked back toward the bed. Dami was dressed by this time, his belt fastened, sitting on the edge of the mattress. “I’m sorry, Dami. This isn’t going as well as I had hoped.”
“It’s just how these things go,” said Dami. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. I have a book to read. You attend to your dancing emergency.”
Chapter 8
It was early evening when Varazda came back to the house. His mood was not greatly lightened by the meeting he’d had, but he had visited the embassy library and borrowed several books, which he carried under his arm. He heard voices in the kitchen: Remi monologuing in her three-year-old way, and Ariston trying to talk over her.
And then: “These look done. What do you think?” Damiskos, in his kitchen, talking to his family. Varazda smiled.
Dami was cooking, in fact, Varazda saw when he came through to the back of the house. Dami and Ariston had between the two of them cobbled together a quite reasonable dinner. Remi was sitting at the table messily peeling a hard-boiled egg, while Dami was at the stove making griddle-cakes, and Ariston was tossing a salad of chickpeas and cucumbers. They all looked up at Varazda as he entered. Dami smiled.
“Sorry I was so long,” Varazda said. He put down his bundle of scrolls.
“Yazata’s sulking in his room and won’t come down,” Ariston informed him. “What did you guys do to do to make him so mad?”
“Nothing,” said Varazda. “Never mind.”
“I think,” said Dami tentatively, “that it was a misunderstanding. He heard us sparring—”
“Sparring?” Ariston repeated, looking mystified. “You mean fighting? With—with swords?”
Dami nodded.
“Varazda doesn’t know how to fight with a sword.” He looked at Varazda. “Do you?”
“You’d be surprised,” said Damiskos, before Varazda had a chance to reply.
“Yeah,” said Ariston. “Wow. So Yazata heard this, and what? He thought it was some really rough sex, or what?”
“I don’t know what he thought,” said Varazda quickly. “He overreacted.”
Ariston gave Dami a sympathetic look. “Want me to talk to him for you?”
“No!” said Varazda. “That wouldn’t help. I will talk to him.”
“Just trying to be helpful,” Ariston said sullenly.
“It’s good of you,” said Dami. “These are all finished,” he added, sliding the last of the griddle-cakes onto a plate. “Let’s eat.”
“So this sculpting master of yours,” said Dami to Ariston, after they were all seated at the table and had filled their plates, “the one you didn’t kill. Who is he? What’s he like?”
“Themistokles Glyptikos. You haven’t heard of him?”
“Sculpture is not really my field.” Dami shrugged apologetically. “He’s well-regarded?”
“Famous,” Ariston corrected him. “He studied in Kos, under Tellephoros. He works in marble—life-sized, naturalistic, he has a way of rendering draperies that’s beyond anything anyone is doing today. Demostikos from the Marble Porches called his Soukos and the Dolphin ‘miraculous.’”
“He’s young,” Varazda added, looking up from cutting Remi’s griddle-cake for her. “Well, young
-ish. Our age.”
Ariston made a face. “He’s not young-young, but he’s not some grizzled old-timer either. He’s in the prime of his life. He’s brilliant. I’m his only apprentice.”
“Good for you,” said Dami with sincerity.
“Papa,” said Remi, “can I give Selene some cheese?”
“No, my sweet, Selene doesn’t eat cheese.”
“Hello, Selene,” said Damiskos, moving warily down the bench away from her.
“He’s going into politics, too.”
“But if I give Selene some cheese, then she will eat it. Please?”
“Who’s going into politics? See, sweetheart, Selene doesn’t want it. You eat it yourself.”
“Themistokles.”
“Is going into politics?”
Ariston groaned. “Yes!”
“That’s new.”
“Yeah … maybe I wasn’t supposed to talk about it yet. He’s going to run in the next election. He’s got … ” Ariston flapped his hands. “Opinions about stuff.”
“Can you be more specific?” Dami suggested.
Ariston gave a snort of laughter, which Dami’s tone of friendly exasperation had invited. “No? I’m really just in it for the sculpture.” He straightened up. “No, look. I’m not that stupid. But Themistokles is a brilliant artist, really brilliant, and a great teacher too, and I’m learning so much from him. And I like him, I do, but he can also be kind of an asshole? I don’t know what his political opinions are because I don’t want to know. Just in case, you know? He could be—I don’t know—anti-Zashian or pro-slavery or something—I don’t think he is, but he’s the kind of guy that you just never know. But so long as he’s willing to teach me, I just want to learn as much as I can. Does that make sense?”
Dami nodded. Varazda nodded too, and so did Remi, who went on nodding longer than was necessary and nearly fell off the bench.
“That doesn’t make me an asshole, does it?” Ariston asked anxiously.
Everyone shook their heads. Remi shook her head so hard that her pigtails flicked her nose, and she nearly fell off the bench again.