But the phile was patient, and it knew it must succeed. No cages or force barriers contained it on this world, and once the game was over, the reward for victory would be an entire world.
Chapter Nineteen
Despite his dislike of being carried on other men’s shoulders, Lycon was asleep by the time Vonones’ litter had been lifted clear of the pavement. From his youth the hunter had learned to catch sleep when and wherever possible, but his total exhaustion from the night before would have demanded rest even had he been astride a horse. The bearers shook him awake once they had reached the Baths of Naevius, but Lycon stumbled into the baths as if it were all still a dream.
The gardens were subdued by the chill of autumn, but they might have been at the peak of bloom for all that Lycon noticed. The doorkeeper goggled at the spectre of Lycon emerging from the sumptuous litter—then shrewdly decided that it was better to be needlessly obsequious than the reverse. Walking through the door of the changing room, Lycon handed his cloak to an attendant and clumsily began to unlace his boots. His deeply bruised back did not want to bend, but the hunter grunted with the pain and forced his muscles to work as he stripped off his torn and filthy tunic.
“Would you like these cleaned while you bathe, master?” inquired the attendant.
“Yes. Just be quick about it.” Lycon shrugged indifferently. He knew they would look even worse before long.
“Is Dolon still here?” Lycon asked. The Baths of Naevius were not his customary baths, although he visited here on occasion. “I’ll be in the laconicum for as long as I can stand the heat,” he said when the attendant replied to his question in the affirmative. “Tell Dolon I’ll need him there as soon as I’ve had a dip in the calidarium.”
The beastcatcher stepped into the steamy warmth of the calidarium, let his aching body slip gingerly into the heated water. From his days in the arena Lycon knew that this was better than a full day’s sleep: a warm bath, then a massage and scrape-down in the scalding heat of the laconicum, followed by a plunge into the cold waters of the frigidarium. It might not undo all the damage from last night, but it was the best preparation he knew of for today’s ordeal.
Dolon was waiting for him when Lycon entered the laconicum. The muscular Greek gleamed with oil and sweat, his shaven scalp for an instant reminding Lycon unpleasantly of N’Sumu. Lycon wondered how the masseur was able to maintain such sleekness, when working in this heat must melt away pounds of flesh every day. Dolon motioned him to a bench. Through the steam Lycon could see another man stretched out under the ministrations of a masseur—perhaps a personal slave—and he heard the rhythmic slap of hands on flesh, a sound made falsely distant through the steam.
Lycon steadied himself with a hand on the door jamb to keep from slipping on the slick tile. Condensation from the steam covered the walls, making a dreamland vista of the grey tiles and the horizontal bands of mosaic. A craftsman of Naisso who had never been to the coast had inset octopuses and dolphins sporting upon a bright green sea. Lycon stepped carefully to where Dolon awaited. Even so his foot brushed one of the perforated tiles through which boilers in the basement forced steam into the room. Beneath the floor, slaves stoked a fierce fire. Lycon swore and stumbled for the bench. The only light, once the door closed behind him, seeped through the skylight, a tracery of mica plaquets now opaqued by layers of steam and soot. Even the red glaze of the heating ducts blurred to grey in the damp darkness.
Lycon stretched his battered body along the bench. “Why don’t they light this place?” he growled.
“There’s a lamp on the wall, but it’s always out of oil,” Dolon explained. “Just lie down and relax; your eyes will adjust. I have an exquisite new perfume I can apply with the oils. I know that’s really the job for a perfumer, but enough patrons have asked, and I got this really good price that I can pass along to my . . .”