‘Beauty is a luxury, Rhodian. It needs walls, and… yes, better weapons and tactics. What you do depends on what I do.’ Leontes paused. ‘Or on what you just did here with this man who would have killed you. What mosaics would you achieve if dead on a steam room floor? What works here would last if Robazes, commander of the Bassamd armies, conquered us for his King of Kings? Or if the northerners did, made fierce by that bear blood? Or some other force, other faith, some enemy we don’t even know of yet?’ Leontes wiped sweat from his eyes again. ‘What we build-even the Emperor’s Sanctuary-we hold precariously and must defend.’
Crispin looked at him. He didn’t really want to hear this. ‘And the soldiers have been waiting too long for their pay? Because of the Sanctuary? However will the whores of the Empire make a living?’ he said bitterly.
Leontes frowned. He returned Crispin’s gaze through the mist for a moment. ‘I should go. My guards will deal with this fellow. I am sorry,’ he added, ‘if the plague took people from you. A man moves on from his losses, eventually.’
He opened the door and went out before Crispin could offer a reply- to any of what he’d said.
Crispin emerged from the baths some time later. The attendants in the cold room had winced and clucked over his swollen hand and insisted he immerse it while a doctor was summoned. The physician murmured reassuringly, sucked at his teeth as he manipulated the hand, ascertained that nothing was broken inside. He prescribed some bloodletting from the right thigh to prevent the accumulation of bad blood around the injury, which Crispin declined. The doctor, shaking his head at the ignorance of some patients, left an herbal concoction to be mixed with wine for the pain. Crispin paid him for that.
He decided not to take the concoction, either, but found a seat in the bathhouse’s wine room, working his way through a flask of pale wine. He’d more or less decided he had not even a faint hope of sorting through what had just happened. The pain was dull and steady, but manageable. The man he’d pounded so ferociously had been removed, as promised, by the Strategos’s personal guard. Carullus’s two soldiers had gone ashen-faced when they learned what had occurred, but there was little they could have done unless they’d followed him from pool to pool and into the steam.
In fact, Crispin had to concede, he didn’t feel badly, on the whole. There was undeniable relief in having survived another attack, and in the likelihood that the perpetrator would reveal the source of the murderous assaults. It was even true-though this he didn’t like admitting-that having dealt with this himself brought a measure of satisfaction.
He rubbed at his chin absently and then did so again, coming to a morose realization. He asked an attendant for directions and, carrying his cup of wine, stoically betook himself to a nearby room. He waited on a bench while two other men were dealt with, then subsided glumly onto the barber’s stool for a shave.
The scented sheet tied around his throat felt much like an assassin’s cord. He was going to have to do this every day. It was highly probable, Crispin decided, that some barber somewhere in the City was going to slit his throat by accident while regaling the waiting patrons with a choice anecdote. Whoever was paying assassins was simply wasting his money; the deed would be done for him. He did wish this man wouldn’t accentuate his flow of wit with a waving blade. Crispin closed his eyes.
He emerged only mildly scathed, however, and having been just quick enough to decline the offered perfume. He felt surprisingly energized, alert, ready to begin addressing the matter of his dome in the Sanctuary. It was already his dome in his own thoughts, he realized with some wryness. Styliane Daleina had voiced a warning about that, he remembered, but what artisan worth anything at all could heed such a caution?
He needed to see the Sanctuary again. He decided to head that way before returning to the inn. He wondered if Artibasos would be there, suspected he would. The man practically lived in his building, the Emperor had said. Crispin suspected he might end up doing the same. He wanted to speak with the architect about the setting beds for his mosaics. He’d need to find the Sarantine glassworks, as well, and then see about assessing-and probably reshaping-whatever team of craftsmen and apprentices Siroes had assembled. There would be guild protocols to learn-and work around. And he’d have to start sketching. There was no point having ideas in his head if no one else could see them. Approvals would be needed. Some things he had already decided to leave out of the drawings. No one needed to know every idea he had.