The Pillar (5 page)

He began by wetting his hair and scrubbing it with a bit of soaproot before rinsing and combing. He needed a haircut before his curls became completely unmanageable. And he hadn’t had a shave in days—not since he’d brought Boro home. He didn’t like the scratchy feel of the whiskers.

Perhaps the next day he would visit Safet, the barber. Faris and Safet had an uneasy truce. The barber believed most ills were best cured through bleeding, whereas Faris was convinced the practice sped more deaths than it prevented. They’d argued over it. But Faris still needed haircuts and shaves, and the barber needed Faris’s special treatments for aching hands, so now they generally maintained a firm but cordial silence.

It was stupid, Faris thought as he untied his belt and then slipped off his tunic. Yes, sometimes medicines were not enough and surgery was required. And for that task, the barber was well suited, with racks full of sharp blades. But most illnesses did better without cutting. Faris unfastened his breeches and stepped out of them, then bent to peel off his hose. Why didn’t the barber listen to reason, to the pages and pages of careful observations recorded by Faris and Enis before him? If only he would—

“Ah.” It wasn’t exactly a word—more a soft gasp.

Faris spun around to find Boro propped up slightly on one arm, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

He would have rushed to cover himself but was caught between hiding his nakedness in front or the scars on his back, and in the end he simply stood there, enduring the other man’s stare, rag clutched in one hand.

“Were you a slave too?” Boro asked at last. His voice was low and rough.

“No. I was a thief.”

“How long—”

“A long time ago. I was a boy.”

He would pretend it didn’t matter. He dipped the rag into the warm water and scrubbed his face. He took longer at it than he had to, as if hiding his face kept Boro from seeing him. But eventually he had to tend to his arms and chest instead.

“What happened?” Boro asked softly.

The answer to that was written on Faris’s skin. “I was lashed.”

“And left tied to the pillar?”

“Yes.”

Usually he enjoyed the creamy feel of the soapsuds on his skin, but today he rinsed them quickly away. He propped one foot on a stool so he could wash his leg. He concentrated on that task but could still feel Boro looking at him.

“Who took you from the pillar?” Boro asked. “Your family?”

“I have no family.”

“What happened to them?”

Was the man made of nothing but questions? No wonder his owner had punished him! Faris scrubbed so furiously at his shin that the skin turned red. “They died.” He glanced up and saw Boro’s mouth open for another question. Before the words could come out, Faris sighed. “Nobody approved of my parents’ marriage. He was Muslim and she was Catholic. Her family had some money and his did not. He went off to war when she was pregnant with me and never came back. She died of a fever when I was still a baby. I ended up with some distant relative who was too old to complain about it, and then
she
died when I was small.” If he rubbed any harder, he might start bleeding. So he glared at Boro instead, then switched to his other leg.

“That’s why you were a thief—because you were on your own.”

“I was a thief because I was a fool!” Faris snapped. “I knew the consequences. I could have begged or scavenged. I could have let myself starve. I stole instead.”

There was an odd expression on Boro’s face, one Faris couldn’t decode. “Who took you from the pillar, Faris?”

“Enis. He was the herbalist. It’s a tradition, you see? The herbalist of Zidar tries to save the wretches who are left to die.” He finished the second leg and simply stood.

“And after he saved you, he… took you in. Let you stay.”

“He taught me.” Faris waved his hands vaguely, indicating the containers of herbs that surrounded them.

Boro narrowed his eyes. “Did he fuck you?”

Faris wanted to be angry. But the truth was, the accusation had been made many times before. Sly looks and knowing laughter, pointed comments about how
pretty
the herbalist’s apprentice was. More than once, Enis had to lay a calming hand on Faris’s shoulder, a reminder not to strike out with words or fists. And later, back in their home, Enis would admonish Faris again. “It doesn’t matter what they say, boy. It’s nothing but idle men looking to raise a disturbance. You’ll prove who you are by your deeds—by your studies and the cures you achieve.”

“I’ll never be anything to them but a thief,” Faris would protest. “A thief and maybe a whore.”

“You’re neither of those things, boy. But you’ll have to convince yourself of that first.”

Now, Faris shook his head. “Never. He was… he was a father to me.” And that was close enough to truth.

Boro nodded, but apparently his curiosity still wasn’t satisfied. “Why don’t you have a family now? A wife? Children?”

“My back tells you the answer. I am a thief.”

“Once you were. Once I was… someone else entirely. But I became a slave and you became a learned man, a man who saves lives. A beautiful man.” He said the last with a sigh, as if the admission pained him.

The air was a little chill upon bare skin, yet suddenly Faris felt very warm. He turned his back to the bed and scrubbed harshly at the only part that still needed washing—his groin. But Boro’s gaze was heavy. No. It was
firm
, like a caress, like the steady stroking of calloused skin against his own.

Horrified to find himself growing hard, Faris abruptly stopped rubbing. He dropped the rag on the floor and quickly pulled on his breeches. His hose proved recalcitrant, and he snarled as he yanked them on. Then came his tunic and belt, and if his vest and cloak hadn’t been across the room, he’d have put those on too. But good God, his cock was still hard
.
How twisted was that—aroused by nothing more than an injured man’s gaze?

“Faris? Why aren’t you married?”

Faris said nothing. He didn’t tell how Enis had guessed his secret early on—maybe he’d caught his apprentice looking longingly at Mirsada’s husband—and he’d sat him down for the most uncomfortable conversation of young Faris’s life. While Faris blushed, squirmed, and stammered, Enis told him of a kafana in Tuchenik where certain sailors and like-minded locals congregated, and to which the tolerant citizens of Tuchenik were willing to turn a blind eye. Enis had given Faris a small purseful of coins and ordered him to make the two-day walk to the sea. “A young man needs healthy release,” Enis intoned. “Go. Here’s a list of spices you can fetch while you’re at it.” Faris went. He went again several months later, and then again. And even now that he was no longer a young man, he made the trip a few times a year, whenever he ran low on certain exotic supplies and had enough time and coins. Faris never had to speak much when he arrived at the kafana. He just sat, and soon enough someone sat beside him, and then they’d pool their money and pay the proprietor for a room. The liaison wasn’t enough, but it was something.

Faris said none of this to Boro, but his silence spoke for itself.

F
ARIS
BUSIED
himself with his chores and avoided looking in the direction of the bed. When he snuck a few glances out of the corner of his eye, Boro appeared to have fallen asleep again. Good. Faris didn’t think he could bear the man’s scrutiny any longer.

When someone pounded on the door, both men startled. Faris set down the basket of dried herbs he’d been separating from their stems and went to answer. He was relieved to find Ibro standing there with his usual grin and a stack of fabric tied with string. “I brought you stuff,” the boy announced.

“I see that.”

Ibro tried to peer inside, but Faris and the door blocked his view. “How come you need these?” asked Ibro.

Was everyone bent on interrogating Faris today? “Ask your mother.”

“It’s for that man, right? The one in the square.” Ibro’s face turned solemn, and he looked much older than his years. “I heard him screaming. Nobody should hurt someone else like that.”

“He’ll be all right.”

“When I’m a man, I’ll be big like my father was. I’ll make sure nobody ever gets beaten or killed in wars. I’ll be like you. I’ll save people.”

“I… I….” Faris found himself at a complete loss for words. He cleared his throat. “Your mother will be wondering what happened to you.”

With an impish smile, Ibro transformed back into a mischievous boy. He thrust the bundle of clothing into Faris’s hands. “She wants me to mop the floor next. I’m taking the
long
way home!” He turned and ran away.

Faris was still smiling when he shut the door, but his smile faded when he saw the intense expression on Boro’s face. “What?” Faris demanded.

Boro gave a small shrug. “Nothing.”

“I found you something to wear.” Faris crossed the room and dropped the clothes on the mattress. “They should fit you well enough.”

Boro reached over to finger the cloth. “It’s… it’s nicely made.”

“The man they belonged to was the son of a tailor.”

“Ah. Was?”

“He died.” Faris thought for a moment. “Ten years ago. But I’m sure Mirsada stored them carefully. She was his wife.”

“How did this man die?”

Faris hadn’t been there when Mirsada received the news, of course. And by the time he saw her, several days later, she was cradling infant Ibro in one arm as she waited on customers at her father’s kafana. She was dry-eyed, stone-faced.

“He was a soldier,” Faris told Boro.

“Oh.” Boro continued to touch the clothing, gently stroking it with two fingers, but he looked lost in thought.

“Do you need help dressing?”

Boro’s eyes refocused and he nodded. “I think so. Please.”

So Faris helped him slip on the cotton tunic, embroidered with black thread at the collar and sleeves. That part wasn’t so difficult. The black wool breeches were much harder—for Boro because he had to briefly stand, for Faris because his hands passed so close to Boro’s thighs, to his hips. The wide multicolored belt helped cinch the breeches, which were far too large around Boro’s concave stomach. The hose and vest were both rich blue, the vest with embroidery to match the tunic, and there was a blue cap as well, which they set aside.

Boro looked down at himself. “I don’t think I’ve ever worn such fine clothing. Are you sure it’s all right?”

“I have nothing else to fit you.”

“I feel like a prince.” Boro smiled.

Good God! Faris wished the vest wasn’t exactly the right shade to bring out the color of Boro’s eyes. Faris quickly moved away from the bed. He stood near the fire, trying to decide on his next chore, when again someone knocked.

“Igor!” he exclaimed when he opened the door.

The shoemaker had his usual smile. “Why so surprised, friend? Did you forget our arrangements?”

“I… no. Please, come in.”

Igor entered the house and looked around curiously, as much intrigued by the many jars and bags and vials as he was by the man in the bed. Very few people ever entered the herbalist’s house. Most waited politely at his door, and if lengthy application of medicines was necessary, Faris usually attended to them in their homes.

“Igor, this is— Oh.” Faris stopped abruptly when he saw the look of fear on Boro’s face. Boro had pressed himself back against the wall, and he held his hands protectively in front of himself.

Faris rushed to his side. “I’m sorry, Boro. I should have warned you.”

“Warned?”

“This is… it’s Igor the shoemaker. He’s come to measure your feet. For shoes,” he added, probably unnecessarily.

“Shoes?”

“It’s cold out. You’ll be more comfortable….”

Igor had remained near the door, watching the little drama. He put on his easiest smile and held up the scrap of slate that had been tucked under one arm. “I’m going to make you some really nice shoes. You can choose the color. But I need to know how big your feet are.”

It was hard to remain alarmed in Igor’s presence. Even nervous animals calmed when he came near them, which was probably why half the stray cats in Zidar congregated near his shop. Three separate times, Faris had witnessed the shoemaker step in when men were exchanging angry words and were on the verge of coming to blows. All three times, tempers had cooled as soon as he intervened, and soon the former combatants were sharing pots of coffee and chatting like old friends.

Igor’s magic worked on Boro too. Boro let his hands fall and took a deep breath. “You’re not going to… to take me away?”

Shaking his head, Igor smiled warmly. “And what would I do with you? Besides, I doubt very much Faris would let me drag you away. And if there’s one man in town I don’t want to anger, it’s Faris. He’d find some clever way to poison me without getting caught!” Igor chuckled, either at his own joke or at the way Faris was blushing and looking indignant.

Boro managed an amused twitch of his lips.

“So!” said Igor, coming closer. “Your foot, please.” He waited until Boro stuck a stockinged foot out from under the blankets. Then Igor began making measurements. He talked as he worked, asking Boro whether he preferred brown or black, teasing lightly about wanting to add a red fur strip to the top, and pretending to groan over how much leather Boro’s big feet were going to take.

The thing was, although Faris hadn’t told the shoemaker who Boro was or how Boro came to be in his bed, Faris was positive Igor knew. Zidar was a small town. But when Enis had rescued men from the pillar, nobody ever mentioned it, whether those men later walked away to begin new lives or whether they ended up in fresh graves on the hillside. The same was true when Faris took over. And now, although Igor must have been aware Boro was recently a slave who’d been lashed nearly to death, the shoemaker was treating him like a favorite customer.

If it wouldn’t have been unseemly and entirely inappropriate, Faris would have kissed Igor in gratitude.

Soon enough, Igor stood and tucked away his measuring string. “Three days and you’ll have the most comfortable boots you’ve ever worn,” he said. “Just make sure to break them in slowly, since your feet aren’t used to shoes.” He said the last bit lightly, as if it were normal that Boro had been forced to spend years barefoot.