The Pillar (7 page)

Boro leapt from his stool so hard that it toppled. He took a few steps back and stood with his hands fisted at his sides. “I had the world, Faris. Maybe just a tiny corner of it, but it was
mine
. And then a war came. I don’t even know why. Why were you killing us, Faris? Why were we killing you?”

Faris had remained seated. He shook his head mutely. He didn’t understand war either.

“I got called to become a soldier, and I went. I’d never been more than a day’s walk from my home village, and now here I was all over the countryside. I was young and strong, but I didn’t make a good soldier. I’m not good at following orders.”

For two weeks, Faris had wondered about Boro’s story. Now he was hearing it and all he wanted to do was block his ears. The bread sat heavy in his belly, as if he’d swallowed stones. But he listened.

“While I was off fighting in one place, the war came to my village. By the time the battle moved on, there was nobody left except a few people who’d managed to hide in the fields. They buried the dead. I came back and even my house was destroyed, my vineyard, my wheel. All that was left were rows of fresh crosses in the graveyard.”

He staggered to the bed and sat heavily on the mattress. He looked down at his lap. “I thought I had nothing left to lose, but I was wrong. A few months later, we lost a battle. A lot of men were killed. The lucky ones, I thought later. The rest of us were captured.” His voice dropped so low that Faris had to strain to hear him. “They marched us for weeks in chains, then sold us like cattle. Worked us like mules. Sometimes I almost forgot I was human.”

He looked up at Faris. Boro was dry-eyed, but Faris had never seen such despair on someone’s face—not even on dying men. “What good is free to me now, Faris? Free to starve. Free to wander aimlessly until I get caught stealing something, and then free to be whipped again and left at the pillar to die. This time with no hero to save me.”

“Stay here.”

Faris didn’t mean to say anything and was startled when he realized the words had come from his mouth. Still, he repeated them. “Stay here with me. Until spring.”

Boro’s expression was unreadable. “Only until spring?”

“Then there will surely be a farmer who could use another pair of hands. Or you could go to sea. I’ve heard sailors are always in demand.”

“But not stay here.”

Faris felt stupid, sitting there with his bowl in front of him and soup puddling at his feet. But his head felt weird and swirly, and he didn’t trust his legs to hold him. Maybe he was coming down with a fever. He’d make himself some tea. “Stay until spring,” he said, not moving from the stool.

“Why not longer? I can work, Faris. I can do all your chores so you’ve more time to study. I can… I can make rakija from your walnuts. I can borrow a wheel and a kiln and replace all your ugly, wobbly dishes.” He pointed at the remains of the bowl on the floor.

“I have no doubt you can more than earn your keep.”

“Then is it my company? Do you find me coarse? Does my accent grate on your ears?”

“No,” whispered Faris, who’d grown to love the particular way Boro shaped his vowels.

“It’s because I was a soldier, then. Or a slave. I disgust you.”

Without consciously deciding to, Faris stood. Moving slowly, like an old man, he checked to make sure there was water in the kettle and then placed the kettle over the flames. He considered what to take to ease his symptoms: dizziness, clenched stomach, racing heart. But all his knowledge of plants escaped him, and he stood with his back to the bed, his eyes focused on the fire. “You don’t disgust me,” he said. He wasn’t sure Boro could hear him.

But Boro must have, because he replied. “Then why?”

Faris had lost consciousness when he was tied to the pillar and whipped, all those years ago, but he’d never fainted. Fainting was a real possibility at the moment, however. Instead, he sank to his knees on the rug and clutched at the warm stone in front of the fireplace. He remembered how thankful he’d been after Enis took him in, on the long nights when the wind shrieked and the rain pounded the roof, when Faris had lain cozily on a soft rug in front of glowing coals, with his belly comfortably full.

“I want….” Faris swallowed past his thick throat. “You’re very handsome.”

There was a long pause followed by a low chuckle. Furious at being mocked, Faris leapt to his feet and whirled around. But the angry words died on his lips when he saw Boro’s expression, which was warm and bright as the sun.

“Am I supposed to be afraid you’ll overpower me and molest me?” Boro asked. “Or… I guess you could drug me and have your way with me.”

“I… I….”

“You wouldn’t have to, Faris. Just smile at me and you can do whatever you want with me.”

Now in addition to his other symptoms, Faris was having trouble breathing. “You had a wife.”

“I did. Our parents arranged the match. Josipa was pretty and sweet and we got along well enough. Marrying was expected of me and I was happy to have a child.” Pain flashed across his face, but then he smiled again. “I never wanted her the way I want you.”

“You’re humoring me. Just so I’ll let you stay.”

Boro probably should have been offended, since Faris had essentially just called him a liar and a whore. But his smile didn’t waver. “You don’t believe me?”

Faris crossed his arms over his chest. “No.”

Shaking his head slowly, Boro stood. “Look at me, Faris. Please.”

Well, Faris
was
looking at him. But as Boro simply stood there staring at him, Faris stopped glaring. He saw the shine in Boro’s eyes, the slight flush of his broad cheeks, the clean line of his freshly shaved jaw. He saw generous lips curled upward. Boro let the blanket fall a little, and Faris saw his wide shoulders, the light-colored hairs on his chest—hairs Faris knew were soft and slightly tickly because he’d touched them when treating bruises and wrapping bandages. Pinkish nipples were contracted into little peaks.

The blanket dropped a little more. Boro’s torso gleamed in the firelight. His ribs were still too visible and his belly too lean, but he’d gained some weight over the past weeks.

Boro dropped the blanket to the floor. He stood with his hands at his sides, his long legs slightly spread. And good God, his cock was fully erect.

“Ohhh,” Faris said. It sounded suspiciously like a moan.

“For ten years, nobody has touched me except to hurt me. Nobody except you. Please, Faris.”

“We can’t,” Faris said. But his hand was already removing the kettle from the flames and placing it on the hearth, and then his feet were taking him forward, toward the bed.

“I know, I’m still healing. We’ll be careful.” Boro glanced down at his crotch and grinned. “Most of me is working quite well.”

Faris was a rational man. He truly was. And he didn’t want to get physically involved with Boro and— That was a lie. The worst lie ever. In fact, at this moment there was nothing in the entire world he wanted more than to get physically involved with Boro. To touch him as a lover instead of a healer. To help Boro remember what it was like to be held and caressed and made to feel good. But he stopped just out of Boro’s reach. “It’s not right.”

“Two men together? One man can do many things to another. Some are terrible—abominations before any God. This isn’t one of those things.” He cocked his head a little. “Have you done this before, Faris?”

“Yes. There’s a kafana in Tuchenik….”

“Good. Then you know. There’s nothing wrong with giving someone pleasure.”

“That’s not it,” Faris replied. But he couldn’t find the words to explain his objection. The problem wasn’t that they were both men but rather that one of those men was him. Now Boro, he was strong. He’d once had a family and a home of his own, and although he’d been a slave, that was certainly through no fault of his own. He was good. But Faris had nobody. He’d been unwanted by anyone—even Enis had taken him in only out of necessity and kindheartedness. Faris was a thief. He was a man who locked himself away with his leaves and twigs and could barely manage a normal conversation.

Boro must have grown impatient, because he took a step closer, and then another, so that he was standing very close and looking down at Faris. Boro settled a heavy hand on Faris’s shoulder. “We don’t have to…. Just come to bed with me. It’s your bed anyway.”

Perhaps Faris would still have managed a refusal. But when he looked down at Boro’s wrist, he saw the still-healing marks the rope had made, and a blade twisted inside Faris’s heart.

Faris closed the space between them and gathered Boro in an embrace.

Boro’s body went very stiff—he evidently hadn’t expected this. But then he made a low sound deep in his throat and wrapped his arms so tightly around Faris that he could barely breathe. Boro tucked his face into the crook of Faris’s neck—his hair was very soft and still slightly damp from his earlier washing. Faris could feel the scabs and furrows on Boro’s back, but between them was smooth skin, and Boro’s heart thudded so very hard against Faris’s chest.

They remained that way for a long time. Although Boro was still hard, as was Faris, their embrace wasn’t especially sexual. It was two men drinking in the comfort of human contact—as strong a medicine as any of Faris’s herbs.

All right, Faris decided. Boro could stay for a while. And when he was entirely well, when his pressing needs for sex and companionship were somewhat sated, he would see reason and move on. A starving man would eat anything he could get his hands on, but a man who was only a bit peckish would pause to find the choicer morsels. Yes, Boro would move on, and Faris would be pleased to have helped him and grateful for a temporary feast of his own. All would be well.

Another lie, but one that Faris brushed aside.

“I have to….” Faris moved back slightly but remained close enough for Boro’s hands to stay on his back. The healer’s practiced eye noted signs of fatigue. “I have to do a few things. Lie down and rest.”

“But then you’ll come to bed. With me.”

“I will.”

Boro had a smile that could illuminate the darkest cavern. He gave Faris another hug—very quick this time—and let him go, then collapsed back onto the mattress and pulled up the discarded blanket. The exhaustion of the day must have caught up with him, and he dropped into sleep.

Faris cleaned up the pieces of broken bowl and wiped the spilled soup. His own soup had grown cold and he couldn’t possibly eat now anyway, so he dumped it back into the big pot. He banked the fire, then found Boro’s clothing piled in a corner and realized he hadn’t taken it to the laundress. He’d do it first thing in the morning. He did a little more tidying up and completed his nighttime ablutions. He doused the lantern, leaving the room lit by only the ash-covered coals of the fire.

Even in the darkness, he easily made his way to the bedside. Like a blushing virgin on her wedding night, he stood there for a while and trembled.

Boro, newly awake, pressed a palm against the outside of Faris’s thigh. “It’s warm here under the blankets,” he teased. “Hurry before you catch a draft.”

It was easier to undress while laughing, Faris discovered. Usually he hung and folded his clothes when he took them off, but tonight he let them fall into a careless heap. Then he took a deep breath and climbed into bed. Boro scooted over to give him room.

It
was
warm, and the bedding smelled strongly of Boro—a scent that made Faris instantly and achingly erect. Boro made a deep sort of purring sound and pulled Faris close. He leaned their foreheads together so that even their breaths were shared. “Do you really just want to sleep?” he asked.

“I don’t think I could.” Not remotely a lie.

“Nor I.”

“It’s still quite early. Maybe I should—”

“You should do nothing but stay right here.” Boro held him more tightly so he couldn’t escape. “But we can just lie here and—”

Faris kissed him. Boro’s cheeks were smooth and he tasted slightly of garlic. His lips were a little chapped—in the morning Faris would find him some ointment. He seemed startled at first over the kiss but soon relaxed into it, parting his mouth for Faris’s tongue.

But when Boro settled his hands against Faris’s bare back, Faris broke off the kiss and tried to move away.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” asked Boro.

“It’s… my skin.”

“Did I hurt you?”

“No. I just… I have scars.” When Faris went to Tuchenik, he never took his tunic off in front of another man.

“I’ve seen your scars. They’re like mine, only older.”

“Yes, but….” Faris sighed.

Boro didn’t force him to explain. He gently rolled Faris onto his stomach and then crouched over him. Faris squeezed his eyes closed even though the room was dark. He felt the heat of Boro’s palms hovering just over him. But Boro didn’t touch him—at least not with his hands. Instead, he brushed a feathery kiss against the center of Faris’s back, right on top of one of the larger ridges.

Faris shivered, but not from cold. He shivered again when Boro kissed his right shoulder, then his left. It became clear that Boro was trying to systematically press his lips to every mark on Faris’s body, even the small ones that must have been invisible in the dark room. And it was a strange thing. It was as if the pain from those lash marks had lingered all these years, wearing into Faris, body and soul. Yet each kiss eased a little more of the pain away, like a soothing poultice on battered skin.

By the time Boro reached Faris’s ass, the pain was gone completely, replaced by a fire deep in Faris’s core. Boro administered lovingly to each rounded cheek. When he licked instead of kissing—a long, searing stroke—Faris had to clamp his mouth shut against a whimper.

Boro kissed the backs of Faris’s thighs too, and continued all the way down to his knees even though the scars didn’t stretch that far. Faris had never before realized that the tender skin behind his knees could feel so good, or that it was somehow connected directly to his cock, which was now throbbing urgently against the mattress.