Valanus chuckled. ‘You are a fighter, Ostaran. As am I. Be honest. He unsettled you, did he not?’
‘Any man who would tackle a bear with a knife unsettles me,’ admitted Ostaran. Lifting his hands from the water he stared at his fingers. ‘My skin is wrinkling,’ he said, obviously disconcerted. ‘I shall leave now.’
‘Not before a massage, surely? We have highly trained slave boys who will rub warm oil into your muscles. Trust me, it is not to be missed.’
‘You have no trained women for this task?’
‘Young men are better,’ said Valanus. ‘It avoids the complication of arousal. Or not, depending upon your appetites. Come, try it. Then you can tell me all you have learned about Carac’s army.’
The two men stepped out of the bath. Immediately servants ran forward, with warm towels. Once they were dry Valanus led Ostaran through into a long room with seven flat couches. Two young men were waiting there. Valanus stretched himself out, belly down, on a couch. Ostaran sat down on the couch beside him, then rolled onto his stomach. The two servants began their work. Valanus relaxed as the youth’s nimble fingers stroked the muscles, easing out the last of his tension. He sighed and closed his eyes, wishing that he was back in Stone, where he could have dressed and taken a carriage to the amphitheatre and watched the latest play, before dining at the River Room.
The servant worked on the muscles of his lower back and hips, then along his hamstrings and down over his calves. Valanus rolled onto his back, allowing the youth to complete his work on his quadriceps and finally his chest and neck. When the massage was over the servant, using a rounded ivory knife, scraped the excess oil from Valanus’s lean body and offered him a white robe. As he donned it Valanus saw that Ostaran had fallen asleep on the couch. The servant tending him glanced at Valanus for guidance. The Stone officer waved him away, then gently nudged the Keltoi. Ostaran opened his eyes and yawned.
‘Good?’asked Valanus.
‘Most excellent.’ Ostaran sat up and stretched his shoulders. Valanus saw an old scar extending from his collarbone and up over his shoulder blade.
‘Looks like a spear thrust,’ he said. Ostaran nodded.
‘A raiding party from the Perdii. It was months before it finally healed, and it still pains me in cold weather.’ He rolled his shoulder. ‘Your boy has loosened it wonderfully. I thank you, Valanus, for talking me into this.’
‘Think nothing of it, my friend. Now, tell me what you have learned.’
‘You were right about Garshon. He is supplying iron ore for swords, spearheads and armour to the Perdii, in return for Carac’s silver. However, he has, on our behalf, reached agreement with the Ostro and they will supply Jasaray for the campaign.’
‘How many men can you guarantee from the Gath?’
‘Two thousand cavalry, as you asked for. Each with his own mount. When do we ride?’
‘Only Jasaray can say. We will see him this evening.’ :
‘I am looking forward to it,’ said Ostaran.
‘He does not speak your tongue, but I will translate for you. How is your instruction coming? When last we spoke you could say “Hello” in Stone. You will need to do better than that, as a wing leader.’
‘I can say “goodbye”, “how are you” and “watch where you’re going, you shit-eating barbarian pig.” Will that do for now?’
‘It is no joking matter, my friend. When the battle starts, and the orders are issued, you will need to understand them. If you cannot, then Jasaray will not allow you to be leader.’
‘I will learn,’ said Ostaran.
‘I am sure you will. Tell me, do you think Connavar will escape Perdii land?’
‘I do not see how he can. Carac has riders scouring the hills.’
‘I think you may be wrong. Shall we have a wager on it? I’ll bet my horse against that gold necklet you wear.’
Ostaran laughed aloud. ‘My torque is worth fifty of your mounts. We barbarians are not as stupid as you think, Valanus.’
The skills of Parax the hunter were known far beyond the lands of the Perdii. His talent was almost mystical. There was no animal track he could not read, no trail he could not follow. He had grown rich on the bounty offered for catching criminals and outlaws, and, even at fifty-one, had an eye that could spot a broken blade of grass from the back of his piebald pony. Parax was whip lean, with dark, deep-set eyes, and silver-shot dark hair that receded from his temples giving him a sharp widow’s peak. He had a hard face, leathered by wind and sun, and there were few laughter lines around his eyes.