The Skystone

by Jack Whyte

  “You should try it from where I sit. I still wake up at night in a cold sweat, dreaming about it.”

  He shuddered, but he couldn’t leave it alone. “You didn’t lose anything?”

  I smiled at the worry on his face. “I told you, no. Apart from the ability to walk straight. Everything’s still there, and it all works. I pump myself dry regularly in my sleep, so I know. But otherwise…” I sighed, resigned to telling him, but looking around first to be sure nobody else was listening. “I don’t know, Plautus. It just doesn’t seem to work while I’m awake. I can’t get it up. I don’t even have the urge anymore. I haven’t had a woman since it happened, and that’s been over a year now.”

  “Have you tried?”

  I laughed, a short, bitter laugh. “No, I can’t really say I have. As I said, I’ve lost the urge.”

  “Maybe if you bought a whore you’d be all right? I mean, if it works for you in dreams it should work when you’re awake, too, shouldn’t it? I mean, if you get the urge when you’re sleeping, you must be able to get it at other times.”

  I nodded my head slightly. “You’d think so, but it doesn’t seem to work that way.”

  “A’ssamazing,” he slurred. He was definitely getting drunk. “That’s… amazing. A shame, too. I think we’d better get you fixed up, Publius.”

  “Perhaps. But not tonight, Plautus.”

  “No. Not tonight. Too late. What’s the time?”

  “Almost curfew.”

  “Time I was getting back. Wonder what happened to Equus?”

  “Oh, he’ll get here, sooner or later. You’d better go. I see your friends over there getting ready to leave. I’ll sit here and have another beer and wait for him.”

  “Isn’t this ridiculous? A man my age having to be back in bed by midnight?”

  “That’s the army, Plautus. If I hadn’t shown up back here in town, you’d stay in the barracks every night.”

  “That’s true. It’s a good life. Well, I’d better get going.” He stood up, swaying slightly, and grinned down at me. “Tell Equus he’s a pissy-arsed civilian with a pissy-arsed civilian’s bad manners, breaking an appointment with a primus pilus. Good night, my friend. Don’t worry about your cock. We’ll get it fixed up. Just you leave it to old Plautus.”

  I bowed, still sitting. “I’ll be glad to. When I die, it’s yours.”

  He blinked again, missing the comment completely, and threw me a salute. I sat there smiling, watching him leave with three other centurions, who waved to me as they went out.

  I had another beer, wondering what was keeping Equus. He should have been there an hour before at least. Two beers later there was still no sign of him, and I was surrounded by an evil-smelling crowd of late-arriving revellers. My gorge rose at the stench of them. Being a Roman has its disadvantages at times, and the constant expectation of cleanliness is one of them. I left my drink unfinished on the table and made my way unsteadily to the door, where the cool night air revived me enough to let me get my bearings, and I set out to walk home.

  I was drunker than I had thought, and it proved to be a long, weary walk, on a night that was unseasonably cold for the time of year. My route took me past the smithy, and I told myself, on a drink-inspired impulse, that Equus was probably in there, working late. In fact, it was long past midnight, and it was no more than maudlin, drunken sentimentality that took me in to the smithy’s womb-like warmth instead of to my bed. I found the key under its stone, easily enough, but it took a lot of fumbling in the dark before I could insert it in the padlock.

  As soon as I entered the smithy, however, locking the door conscientiously behind me, I knew someone was there. A lamp burned on one of the benches, and there was a feeling of presence in the place.

  “Equus? Are you here?”

  There was no response, and yet I knew f was not alone. I am not a superstitious man, but the smithy was obviously empty, and when I realized that I had had to unlock the door to let myself in, I felt the tiny hairs stirring on the back of my neck. I crossed to the lamp, peering around me into the shadows as I went, but saw nothing to alarm me. And then, as I picked up the lamp, I saw a disembodied face staring at me with enormous eyes from the floor in the corner by the forge. I leaped with fright and almost dropped the lamp, but even as I reacted I recognized Phoebe. She was lying on the floor, wrapped in a dark blanket that blended with the heavy shadows in the corner.

  “Phoebe,” I said, trying to disguise the fright she had caused me, “what in the name of all the gods are you doing here? And at this time of night?”

  To my horror, she started to weep, placing me immediately at a disadvantage. I stood there mute, gazing at her in consternation as her sobs grew and expanded to fill the whole room. I can handle most situations, but the tears of women have always left me helpless. I could do no more than wait until she settled down, which she eventually did, and then, amid a succession of sighs and choking sobs, her story came out.

  Cuno had been drinking again. A four-day bacchanalia had ended in a rampage of violence during which he had tried to kill her. She had escaped from him and run here to Equus for protection, and Equus had calmed her, given her some blankets, locked her inside the smithy for safety and gone looking for Cuno. She had cried herself to sleep and had not been aware of my entrance until I spoke, startling and frightening her.

  Somehow, during the telling of her story, I found myself seated on the floor beside her, comforting her with an arm around her shoulders as she whispered her tale, with bent head, into the region of my armpit. Had I been sober, I would have been upset by her story. As it was, I listened with no great feeling of shock until she had finished, when I said “Hmmm,” or something equally intelligent.

  Her sobs were growing less frequent now, and it seemed natural to remain where I was until she grew completely calm. I was staring like an owl at the crown of her head, seeing the white scalp beneath her hair, when I became aware that she was no longer sobbing, no longer moving. I felt my eyelids starting to droop and blinked them rapidly, holding them wide open by an effort of will. I was feeling extremely comfortable there, with the hard wall at my back and the hard floor beneath my buttocks and the soft warmth of Phoebe’s body against my chest. She straightened slightly beneath my arm, raising her head to look into my face, and her voice was a gentle breath in my ear.

  “Can I stay, then?”

  Could she stay? Of course she could stay. I had not raised my head with hers, and I now found myself looking down the bodice of her smock, imagining the warmth emanating from the full, heavy white breasts that nestled there, soft and vulnerable, exposed to my eyes. Suddenly, with no warning, the hand that had rested so casually across her neck, cupping her shoulder, let my mind know that it was full of female flesh. Shoulder flesh, certainly, but that was just a start, for I knew, equally suddenly, that I could have her, there and then. She was spurned and beaten, vulnerable and available, and she would even be grateful. The knowledge frightened me back to awareness of who and where I was. I withdrew my arm guiltily and sat up straight.

  “Stay here? Of course you can stay here.” I heard the bluster in my own voice. “Equus will be back soon, or he may have finished with Cuno already and be waiting until morning to let you get some rest. You just settle down there, and get back to sleep. You’ll see, everything will be fine, come morning.” I was struggling to get back up to my feet, but my traitorous, crippled leg was betraying me. I had no feeling in it at all. I threw both arms out against the wall behind me for support and levered uselessly with my sound leg.

  “What’s the matter? Can’t you get up?”

  “My leg. The bad one. It seems to be asleep. No feeling in it.”

  “Here, let me help you.” In a second she was up, out of her blankets and pulling me upright. She was a big girl, and I was grateful for her strength. Erect, I let go of her hands and reached behind me again for the wall’s support, feeling myself sway slightly.

  “Thank you, Phoebe. It’ll
be all right now. Get back into your blanket. It’s cold.”

  “No it’s not. It’s warm in here. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes, fine. My leg just goes strange from time to time, if I sit the wrong way. It sort of stiffens up.”

  “Does it hurt much?”

  “Not usually.”

  “Now?”

  “No, not now. It’s just numb.”

  “Can you walk on it?”

  “I will in a minute, when the feeling comes back into it.”

  “That’s happened to me a couple of times. It’s a strange feeling. Like being pricked all over with needles.”

  She was standing close, watching my face with a peculiar expression, her arms folded beneath her breasts so that they swelled up visibly in the scoop of her neckline.

  I looked away. “There,” I said. “That’s better.” I bent my knee and flexed it and then stepped away from the wall and fell sideways. She caught me in her strong arms, my face against her breasts, and hauled me upright again, leaning me back against the wall, where I remained, feeling weak and foolish and remarkably sober all at once.

  “It’s not better at all, is it?”

  “No.” I shook my head, smiling foolishly. “Not yet.” But then it started to get “better,” and the sudden, brutal, unexpected ferocity of it made me suck in my breath with a hiss as the torn muscles in my thigh knotted and cramped and I felt myself falling again. She took my whole weight in her arms and half carried, half dragged me to the only chair in the room, into which she dumped me unceremoniously. I was beside myself with pain far worse than any I had felt before. My entire leg, from the buttock down, was a howling, twisted knot of agony. Through the fog of it I heard, her voice, urgent and demanding, hissing in my ear. “Stop writhing, or I can’t help you! Lift up! Up! Stay still, damn you!” And then, eventually and gradually, over the space of what seemed like uncountable aeons of time, the awful, dementing pain began to recede, displaced by a firm, rhythmic, soothing motion and the kneading of strong fingers that worked on the muscles of my leg, relaxing them, easing the tightness out of them and gentling their spastic tremors until they disappeared altogether. I opened my eyes, conscious of sweat drying on my skin.

  I was lying on the floor of the smithy, beside the overturned chair Phoebe had thrown me into. I had no remembrance of falling. Phoebe knelt above me, straddling my bad leg, her hair hanging down over her face as she concentrated on the action of her hands on my thigh muscles. I could feel a sensation that was unusual, pleasant, somehow familiar, yet unplaceable. And then I recognized it. It was the cushioned warmth of naked thighs around my bare foot. I froze with shock. She felt me stiffen and knelt back on her haunches to look at me, pulling the hair back out of her eyes with one hand. The movement brought the astounding heat of her centre down on my toes, but she seemed unaware of it.

  “Bad,” she said. “That was bad. Does that happen often?”

  I shook my head, mute, my thoughts fastened on what my foot was feeling, wondering how this had happened. She kept her eyes on mine, her face full of concern.

  “Does it feel better now? Still hurt?”

  I shook my head again and swallowed, clearing my throat. “No,” I whispered. “Thank you.”

  “I’m glad I could help. I had to do something. I thought for a while there you were going to die.”

  “Was I that bad? I don’t remember.”

  “Be grateful, then. You were out of your head with pain. Look, where you gripped me.” She showed me her right arm, ringed with the inflamed marks of my fingers. “You’re a strong man, even for a smith.”

  “Did I do that? Really?” My throat was parched and sore. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”

  “I know. I told you, you were out of your head for a while. I had to hit you over the head. Does it hurt?”

  “No. Where?”

  “There.” She touched the side of my head and suddenly, where she touched, there was pain. It hurt, but nowhere near as badly as the cramps in my leg had hurt.

  This pain was no more than a mild annoyance. I touched the spot, cautiously, and felt a huge lump.

  “What did you hit me with?”

  “A piece of wood.”

  She dropped her head and I felt her fingers begin to knead again. She leaned forward to get more purchase, tightening her knee grip on my leg and lifting her body clear of my foot, so that I felt relatively cold air on my toes. Her thumbs dug deep and I flinched.

  “Ow! Where did you learn to do that?”

  She looked up at me again, her fingers and thumbs still busy. “I’m a masseuse, or used to be before I got married. I worked in the women’s bath house, by the main barracks. Officers’ wives, mainly.”

  “You speak very well.” I realized what I had said, the arrogance of it. “I mean…”

  “I know what you mean, but thank you. Yes, I speak well. I had a tutor. Paid for him myself, out of my earnings at the bath house. I decided there was no use remaining illiterate.”

  “Illiterate?”

  “Yes. I can read and write, too. Why not? It hasn’t done me any harm. Any good either, for that matter.”

  “I see.” I was longing to bend my leg, to bring my foot against the heat of her again. She dropped her head back to her work, and I realized that her face, which I had always thought plain and uninteresting, was anything but. I searched for a question to make her look up again.

  “Does Cuno read and write, too?”

  That did the trick. “My husband? Cunobelin? The descendant of kings? Hah! He can hardly even talk. Prefers to drink, and beat me.”

  “Then why do you stay with him? Leave him.”

  “Leave him?” Her voice had scorn in it. “That’s easy to say.” She dropped her head again, her fingers working swiftly, with agitation, moving up my thigh, so that she had to move forward on her knees, gripping my thigh tightly between her own knees to hold it steady. “Run from the brute. Where would I run? And to do what? Where?”

  I gasped again as she found a knot. “Do what you’re trained to do. Anywhere. There are other towns. Go to Londinium. You’re a masseuse. You’ll find a use for your skills there. He wouldn’t follow you. You have no children, have you?”

  Her fingers stopped kneading. “No. I have no children.” She settled back again, bringing the fire of her centre onto my leg once more, but differently this time, so that my bent knee fitted wholly into the softness she had there. I saw the startled widening of her eyes as she realized the immodesty of the physical contact. Her withdrawal was instinctive and would have been total had I not stopped her with an involuntary “Don’t!” She froze.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t stop. Not yet. There’s still some soreness there.”

  “Where?”

  “There, in my thigh. A tightness. Lower down, just above the knee.”

  Even in the dimness of the single lamp’s light, I saw a flush steal up over her neck. She had been in the act of jumping up, and one of her legs was no longer touching mine. Slowly, kneeling still, she moved backwards, the sides of her knees sliding down my leg, and I felt her skirts tugging at my toes and then the gathering of her front hem as she pulled it down along my leg. Her fingertips clasped me lightly, probing above my knee.

  “Where is this tightness?”

  There was a different quality to her voice, now. A huskiness — almost a whisper. I raised myself up on my elbows and saw that my legs were bare, my tunic pulled down decently to cover my sex. Her skirts were rucked, baring her white, round knees on either side of mine.

  “There,” I said. “Where your thumbs are.” She dug deep, and I gasped.

  “Lie back. Here.” She reached for my discarded breeches and wadded them into a ball. “Put this below your head.”

  I did as she told me, my thoughts in confusion. I wanted this to go on, far more than I wanted it to stop, and yet I was afraid. I should have been aroused, rampant, with what was going through my head and t
he tension in my guts, but my manhood lay still and flaccid. Her fingers probed again, deep into the muscles above my knee. There was no tightness there, but the sensation was pleasurable and I was, after all the pain, still a little drunk.

  She spoke again in that same husky whisper. “Relax your leg. Let it relax completely.” I tried. “Can you straighten it at all?”

  I shook my head. “No. The hamstring was damaged. It shrank. I can’t extend it fully.”

  “Can you flex it? Bend it? Try.”

  I bent it slowly, further than I had intended to, until I felt the back of her skirts fall from my toes, leaving my foot free within the tent of her clothing. I could feel a pulse beating in my neck.

  “That’s good. Now straighten it again.”

  I did, feeling the sole of my foot against the rough material of the inside of her skirts. Was she aware? If she was, she gave no sign. She was breathing deeply, causing her breasts to show against her bodice.

  “Now,” she said, and went to work in earnest, gouging and digging, kneading and squeezing, at one point moving slightly backwards again so that again I felt the heat of her, but not direct contact, and the sensitive skin of my foot felt a hint of tickling, wiry hair.

  I lay and luxuriated in the sensations she produced in me until she stopped suddenly.

  “That’s enough! I’m getting tired. I have to get up.”

  “No. Please don’t.”

  She sighed. “What do you want of me, Master Varrus? It isn’t lust. You show me no desire.”

  “I’d like to, Phoebe, but I can’t. Yet I enjoy your warmth. Your touch.”

  “Can’t?” She paused for what seemed to me a long time, then, “Is it your wound? These scars? Did they unman you?” There was only tenderness in her voice.

  “Aye. It seems they did, in some ways at least.”

  She sighed again. “Poor man.” Her hands resumed their movement on my thigh, but now it was her palms that caressed me, and after a few minutes she sank down again onto her haunches, this time open and quite deliberate in laying her vulva, scalding hot and bare, against my foot.