Page 23 of Something Human

Emerging on the bare ridge, he stood holding the jar against his chest, looking out over miles of green, sunlit valley, with the shadows of clouds moving across the rough carpet of treetops. And far in the distance, in a deep trough between the slopes of two forested hills, the flicker of yellow banners in the air, and a dark shape of massed men beneath them.

They were not marching, but were making camp between the hills; Adares could see tents bulking here and there among the troops. And the yellow banners told him who their owners were. It was the Daine, allies of Tios since the previous summer.

He walked back to the complex, deep in thought. On the way, he encountered a kind of rough track, apparently beaten down by someone or something ploughing violently through the undergrowth. It led in the general direction of the temple walls, so he followed it, and emerged at the back of the complex.

Afterwards, he was never quite sure what caused him to go warily as he rounded the corner at the front of the complex and entered the temple gate. Perhaps he had heard some noise, or caught some new whiff in the air, without fully comprehending it. Certainly, when he looked round the gate which he had cautiously pushed open and saw the horses, he was not aware of having expected them.

There were twenty or more of them, some shaggy, broad-backed Luth horses, others sleek, thin-legged Phemian animals. They were clustered around several bales of hay, eating placidly.

From where he stood frozen, pressed back against the front of the gate, Adares could see that the stable door to the right of the entrance had been left open. But there had been no horses inside; he had been in there already and found it empty. Whoever had brought these horses had evidently dragged out the hay to feed them, rather than putting the horses themselves into the stable. It didn’t surprise him. He could imagine what Rus would have to say about stables. Putting animals in a building? It was something only a Phemian would think of.

If the men who brought the horses had left already, Adares thought, Rus was probably gone with them. If they were still here, they might come out at any moment, headed for the gate. That they would take Rus back to the Luth camp seemed a certainty. By his own account he was an elite member of the invading force, and his superiors would be pleased to find him alive after all. They would want to see to his injury properly, give him food and drink, and make sure he recovered. But what would the men think who found him here, hiding in a Phemian temple, dressed in Phemian clothes? Would they think him a deserter? Was he a deserter, by this time, according to their standards?

Adares slipped inside the courtyard and shut the gate carefully behind him. Skirting the walls and treading quietly, he crept around behind the priests’ house, which brought him to the courtyard onto which the back door of the temple of Soukos opened.

The men who had brought the horses had not left; he could hear several voices, talking over one another in the language of the Luth. He crouched in the shelter of the priests’ colonnaded porch, leaving his jar of gathered food behind, and crawled in the shadows until he could see across the courtyard, past the fountain to the storeroom door.

There were three of them, all about his own age, with chequered kilts, coils of blue around their calves and forearms, and gold around their throats. They wore their fair hair long, like Rus, but they had pulled it all up onto the tops of their heads and tied it with leather thongs so that it streamed down behind like horses’ tails. It was evidently a fashion, because all three of them had affected it, and from the look of them, they were all young men of fashion.

In other circumstances, Adares would have found it funny how easy it was to get the measure of them. They all had the same stance, legs wide apart, hands either planted boldly on their hips or toying negligently with some flashy piece of equipment. They wore linen shirts with long sleeves, but all three had rolled the sleeves up to show off the tattoos on their arms. They carried spears like fashion accessories. If they had been Phemians, one of them would have had his arm around one of the others; but they were Luth, so of course they didn’t.

Rus stood in the doorway of the storeroom, arms folded, listening detachedly to the three newcomers argue. He stood up very straight, which must have cost him a great effort. He had found something to fasten his kilt with, and he had put on his boots and tied back his hair.

Looking at him now, Adares finally understood what was so self-evident to Rus that he kept forgetting Adares didn’t know it. He was obviously set apart from the other young Luth men, though their clothes and hair and colouring were all similar. His tattoos were completely different, unmistakably marking him out as something other than them, and his demeanour as he stood listening to them said the rest. He was a priest. It was a strange, barbarian priesthood involving wild bulls, but as Rus had said himself, the gods were the same; their servants partook of the same holiness. He was younger than the three warriors, injured and ill and in an awkward situation, but there was a serene superiority about him, a poise that was probably not even a conscious thing. It was part of his being. He was what he was.

Eventually Rus spoke, interrupting the discussion. He gestured to the temple courtyard, then back into the room behind him. Adares found it strange to hear him speak and have no idea what he was saying. The young men of fashion argued with each other for a few minutes more, then tossed some final remarks in Rus’s direction, shouldered their spears, and strode briskly out of the courtyard, heading for the temple gate. Rus remained where he was.

The sounds of the Luth voices receded, until the faint thump of the gate being shut testified that at least one of them had left the temple complex. Rus put out a hand to steady himself against the doorpost and let himself down carefully onto the stones. Sitting there, he sagged against the doorpost and covered his face in his hands.

Adares retrieved his jar from the porch and came cautiously across the courtyard to the doorway. His shadow fell over Rus, who started and looked up.

“You’re back,” he said. He looked relieved—almost to the point of tears. It was startling. “You’re all right.”

“Sure,” said Adares. He knelt and set down the jar. “I didn’t touch any of those white mushrooms. But you’re not all right—you’ve been out of bed and walking around, you’re not well enough for that.”

Rus shook his head dismissively. “There were some idiots from my tribe here.”

“Yes, I saw them talking to you. I was hiding behind the colonnade over there—I saw the horses when I came in.”

“Ah, you are clever.” Rus smiled. “I heard them come in—they were getting something for their horses to eat. I had to get up, to hide your clothes and your armour. I knew they would come poking around. And then I thought I had better not let them know I was hurt—they might want to know who had been looking after me, and they would certainly want to take me back to the camp.”

“I expected that they would. I didn’t expect you to stop them. They could look after you a lot better there than I can here—they would have drugs, they would have food. Divine Anaxe! I’ve got good intentions, but that’s about it.” He stopped, because Rus had seized his hand abruptly. He gripped it tightly, and his own hand was shaking. “I’m sorry. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t happy you’re still here, Rus. It just doesn’t seem like the best thing, for your own sake.”

“Adares. There is a mad bull in the forest, very near here. It got away from the camp—the men who just left told me. It should have been slaughtered after the battle, but Gunthanaruth ordered the remaining bulls kept, and one of them got away. Don’t talk nonsense about what is the best thing for me. If I didn’t stay here to tell you, you might have gone out into the forest again by yourself. I did not even know if you would come back this time.”

Adares held out his other hand, and Rus took it. Neither of them said anything for a minute. Adares was thinking about the trampled path that he had followed back through the forest, and deciding not to mention it to Rus. He felt rather weak himself at the thought.

By and by Rus said, “They think it was mine—the bull I rode—because it was the fiercest and maddest of the ones we had. They are just beasts, but when the spirit of Genhath has hold of them … Truly, I think that bull would have tried to kill you if it had met you, just to spite me.” It sounded to Adares as if he was trying to joke, but couldn’t manage it.

“Well, he didn’t. I’m here. And so are you, and I’m glad.”

Rus looked up at Adares for a moment, a flicker of blue eyes. Then he shifted his hold on Adares’s hand, cupping it in his, and drew it up to press his lips to Adares’s palm. It was slow and deliberate, as if he had given every aspect of the action careful thought, almost as if it were part of a ritual. It took Adares completely by surprise. He felt the kiss lance along his nerves like a lightning strike.

Without thinking, he was reaching for Rus, caressing his face, fingers brushing over the lines of blue. He was kneeling over Rus, holding him, one hand in Rus’s hair, the other pressed against Rus’s bare back.

Rus was rigid in his arms, hands fisted in Adares’s tunic. The kiss Adares offered was gentle, tender in a way that surprised even him. It was received like rain falling on parched earth. Whatever else Rus was, he was not reluctant. His mouth opened with a gasp that was not surprise but was more than eagerness, almost desperation.

The kiss turned awkward, unsteady, like a chariot with a loose wheel, but neither of them broke it. And then, as he had done in the night when Adares stroked his back to comfort him, slowly, with an obvious effort, Rus let himself relax. His arms twined around Adares, his long fingers pressing into the small of Adares’s back. His mouth softened, responding. The tension in his body no longer felt like resistance—it felt like strength.