“Just the usual,” Lycon interrupted. “Where I’m headed from here, no one would notice if you dumped a bucket of perfume over me.”
“Dis, you’ve done enough to yourself already!” Dolon exclaimed, his fingers almost flinching from the bruised and abraded flesh. “Say, are you back in the arena? Is that it? You know, I was just a boy, but I still remember when you . . .”
“I’m not back in the arena,” Lycon cut in. “Not yet, anyway. Just do your work and let me try to rest. If I fall asleep, drown me in the cold pool before I start to roast.”
Lycon was too fatigued to waste the energy to wince as Dolon practiced his art. The curved metal strigils scraped away at his scorched and discolored skin, removing the soot and oily filth that in an age without soap were otherwise locked into his flesh. The big Greek tried to be gentle, but the bodily damage was appalling. Once the skin was scraped clean, he began to work soothing oils into the taut muscles.
The gentle slap and pull of Dolon’s hands merged with the sounds of a handball game in progress on the other side of the laconicum’s back wall. Words came through the masonry as little more than high-pitched squeals, but the unfaltering slap-slap-slap of the ball wove a fabric for contemplation. Either one man was practicing alone or two perfectly matched experts were having a bout as precise as a dance of Oreads.
Lycon dozed, barely awakening when Dolon needed him to turn over. He dreamed that he was at the restaurant again with Vonones and N’Sumu, but that he was trapped inside the thermospodium in which they were mulling Vonones’ wine. It was unbearably hot, and they couldn’t seem to hear him slapping on the sides of the thermospodium to be let out. At last N’Sumu raised the lid and peered inside at him. He grinned horribly and reclosed the lid. “I’ll have a cup of this,” Lycon heard him say.
“Master Lycon?” It was Dolon’s voice he heard now. “You said to awaken you when I was finished. So you could move to the frigidarium for a cold bath. Master Lycon?”
“Yes, thanks,” Lycon muttered, shaking his head to clear the nightmare. “How long have I been in here, anyway?”
“About an hour, Master Lycon,” said Dolon. “Will you want me after your cold bath? A brisk rubdown after a cold plunge. . .”
“I’ll see if I have the time.” Lycon counted out coins from the purse he had carried with him. “I’ll pay you for now, but look in on me shortly. It must be close to midday, is it not?”
“I believe so, Master Lycon. Thank you very much, Master Lycon,” said the Greek, delighted with his gratuity.
Lycon smiled without humor. Normally a parsimonious man, he found himself indifferent to money. He knew he’d never care about it again. He said: “I’ll be expecting a messenger from Gaius Claudius Vonones. Direct him to the frigidarium. If I have time for a rubdown, I’ll be in one of the massage cubicles. I’ll probably be asleep.”
The artfully cooled air of the frigidarium was a welcome change from the oven-like interior of the laconicum, the plunge into the cold water there astonishingly pleasant to his heated flesh. The hunter made his limbs slash through the water in brisk strokes. He was an excellent swimmer—of necessity, else he would have drowned a hundred times over. At this hour the frigidarium had not yet become overly crowded, and he was able to exercise without blundering into the usual hordes of bathers.
His legs were shaky when he pulled himself out of the pool, but Lycon felt refreshed and hungry. Though he cared no more about food than money, he would have some wine and dates, perhaps a little honey, when he rejoined Vonones—a light meal that had often provided energy for a day’s exertions in the field. In his line a man had to eat to survive, and survival was important, until his task was done.
Much of his earlier depression had lifted now, even as the gnawing ache of fatigue slipped from his body. Lycon’s mood was strangely fey, and his flesh tingled as he rubbed himself. He flexed the fingers of his right hand; although the hand was still somewhat swollen and horribly discolored, everything seemed to work. There might be some chipped knuckles, but the hatchling’s bite had not festered.