Vestal Venom - Part 10

Baptist studied the back of the servant’s head as he walked beside his master, down corridor after corridor. He knew the servant’s name was Dina, but it was unlikely Prince Heiko remembered, as he was only half extracted from his tome when she introduced herself.

The bath gave Baptist a sense of rebirth – washing the events off last night from his skin – and the nap refreshed him and the prince alike. That was generally the case – silence and time often doused the heat of his anger.

His master gave no heed to the constant trickle of palace servants passing them by, but it was hard for Baptist to do the same. They all wore some shade of green – whether dull or bright, light or dark, monotone or variegating. The cut and length of their chiton was not uniform, nor were their footwear. Most had gold embellishments.

It was an odd sight for Baptist, since the only slaves in Simo that wore precious metals and gems were the bed slaves that were gifted them. In fact, that practice was only reserved for such occurrences, since their internal hierarchy relied upon the jewelry and the favor of the courtiers. Baptist very much doubted that such was the case in Ilyos.

“This is absurd.”

The Simonese words drew Baptist’s gaze to his master. His lips were pressed, his brow fractionally knit. To those who knew not the disposition of the prince, it would’ve gone unnoticed. But the slaves had a sharp eyes for his master.

“There are many hallways in the palace of Simo,” said Baptist, seizing the opportunity he saw. “But at least they are direct.”

The payout was insurmountable, the slave’s victory marked by the barest whisper of a smile from his master.

“I see the lack of sleep hasn’t hindered your wit.”

His tone offered no indication of his amusement, but it didn’t stifle the slave’s complacency, even as his bare feet padded down the stone floor like a child. He didn’t know why he wasn’t spared sandals, but even though he knew he would have to scrub his feet clean before bed, it wasn’t a battle he wanted to choose.

Whether the walk was cut short or Baptist had drifted deep into his thoughts, it didn’t matter. The abrupt stop before a door - oddly placed in a large alcove carved in the wall of the corridor – had him reeling back so not to run headfirst into Dina, and he would have had Prince Heiko not hooked a finger on his belt, anchoring him close.

“This is the private arena of the palace,” Dina informed, reaching for the large brass ring knob. “King Vincente and General Adesso are awaiting your presence.”

She offered a bow as she pulled the white beech door open, releasing not only a barrage of casual white noise, but the strong scent of sweat, sand, and metal. And the sea.

Before them was a casual account of what Baptist would assume King Vincente's king box would look like during the world-renown Ilysian circo. Beneath them was a wooden and well-worn platformed, pedestalled a few meters above a pit filled with pale sand. Before them was a cluster of furniture, some elegantly carved credence tables topped with linen and silver dishes of food. Some ottomans cushioned with finely woven designs. Seven tub chairs - seemingly of the same set, but certainly not of equal design. All but two were occupied.

"But we aren't late."

He didn't know his words would bounce back from the lacquered floor so articulately.

"This is their game, Baptist."

How was it, the slave thought as they drew closer, that prince's whisper was like mist, dispersing the moment it hit the warm air? And how was it that those who were seated only two and a half meters before them did not notice this specter of the gods enter their presence? But perhaps that was the game his master spoke of - a game to falter his sense of importance, authority.

But this was the same prince who was once ignored by the entire Simonese court for a duration of three months on order of the king. Lack of formal or proper introduction in a foreign country by a king who had not yet earned his respect would mean less to him than a flood meant to a mountain dweller.

It was curious to Baptist, however, that the king knew of the dark sorcery rumor and still tested the prince. Perhaps he was not a man of belief.

"Prince Heiko."

No less than five steps away and finally they were greeted with a devious grin from the king of Ilyos, looking impossibly refreshed despite how late into the night Baptist knew he remained awake.

"The Ilysian style suits you."

His prince received the comment as if he was expecting it, though he did spare a glance down at himself for show.

"I find," The prince sighed, settling into an empty chair without addressing the others in the cluster. "That it doesn't quite matter what I wear, King Vincente."

Baptist wasn’t sure what kind of etiquette was expected from a slave who’s master had taken a seat without greeting the others – Princess Alessandra and General Adesso, both of whom had their own company. Adele, from the welcome banquet, naturally took a lower seat beside the princess. A woman he had never seen before sat beside the general, holding his hand that looked rough compared to hers, body shifted towards him affectionately. But she was dressed in green.

“Chui,”

It was almost nonexistent – nothing but, perhaps, a sigh. Baptist heeded the command and took a seat, wondering if the others could discern the hidden Burkean word. His master needed only to part his lips to release the sound from his closed jaw. But still, why bother mask it when he could’ve easily flicked the back of the slaves arm – that would’ve sent just as clear of a message.

“I hope you had a restful sleep,” King Vincente began, leaning an elbow onto the cushioned armchair.

Baptist forced his expression to remain neutral. He was expecting either the king or the general to use that as a goad at some point that day, but frankly, he thought it would be the general. He seemed like a more direct man.

“I’m not used to Ilysian heat.”

Prince Heiko shifted into a graceful, albeit bored, slouch as his eyes scoured over the arena.

“More so at night. There is little reprieve.”

“You have met Adele and my sister.”

King Vincente grinned at the impassive parry. It was clear he was a man who enjoyed games. No, Baptist reconsidered, not games – challenges.

“And of course, General Adesso. With him is Carmen.”

He allowed the last bit to linger, sounding incomplete – almost prevocational – but even a slave like Baptist knew not to bite at a trap set so insultingly clear.

“General,” Prince Heiko lulled, an easy smile pulling the corners of his full lips. “You must put heavy importance on temperament.”

Baptist could feel his belly push up the laugh faster than he could quell it. In hopes of both not outing the prince’s delicate insult and not insulting Carmen, and thus, General Adesso, the slave decided to make a fool of himself instead, doubling over and coughing like he had just choked on his spit. He wasn’t even sure why he found it so funny to begin with, but now his face was beet red with exertion and caused a ridiculous scene.

His stomach twisted at the thought that he might’ve embarrassed his master, but the only words he could muster when he had recovered was ‘excuse me’. He relished the few moments that he kept his head bowed in humiliation. And then he looked to his master.

Beneath the covering of a pale hand, Prince Heiko’s expression was contorted, the curves of his cheeks blossoming with a subtle tone of rose.

With tight, entertained words, he asked, “Are you alright?”

Baptist nodded immediately, indebted that his face was already heavily rubicund.

“I thought you had been stabbed, Baptist,” His master continued, the control in his tone submitting to a chortle at his slave’s name.

“If I make that sound when I get stabbed, please revise the record.”

He wasn’t sure where his spurred moment of audaciousness stemmed from, but he would’ve elected to say it over and over again to hear his master’s rich laugh, the muttering of Simonese amusement that he shot at Baptist, the smile.

But it was over far too soon, ushered in by those around them, their curious considerations, not quite taken aback, not quite delighted by the affair. Their ignorance did them a disservice, since Baptist knew that it was unlikely they would ever witness something like that again.

“You both seem quite young.”

Baptist paused along with a single heartbeat. He looked up to Carmen, at her charming eyes, her full body, her vicious grin.

Perhaps youth was a virtue Ilyos - it was the only saving grace he could’ve thought of for the woman. Otherwise, her insult was ill-hidden. Had a Simonese courtier said such a thing, Prince Heiko would have already struck at her own aging face, or his well-fed abdomen. But here, the master’s speed was hindered, like a snake in the heat. Baptist knew it had nothing to do with the heat, though.

“You must be a kind master, General Adesso.”

The warmth in his tone chilled the boy, made him think of King Ingo. As if he had uttered it outloud, Baptist’s heart hammered. He had never met a person who compared the two brothers, but he assumed the repercussions of vocalizing such an insult would result in a lashing - perhaps worse.

Before allowing the handsome general a chance to respond, the prince turned to King Vincente.

“The queen is absent. Does she dislike the sport?”

There was a lift in the question that Baptist recognized - suspicion, skepticism.

“She is visiting her childhood home,” informed the king. “She regrets missing you.”

“I’m sure.”

Baptist wasn’t sure what possessed him. Maybe it was seeing how affectionate Carmen was, rubbing herself against the general like a cat in heat. Maybe it was the smile he was able to tease from his master’s lips. Maybe it was stupidity and his urgent desire to comfort his master whether or not he knew the cause of his displeasure. But regardless of the driving force, he found his body pulling closer to the fair prince, shifting his body in such a way that there could’ve been no other purpose for the action.

And the prince’s reaction to others proximity was a nick quicker than the slave’s self-preserving correction.

“What is it?” He asked Baptist, studying the whole of his face before settling on his eyes.

The appraisal incited vicious color in his cheeks.

“I just…do you want food?” He stumbled, the words the only thing he could manage to try and fend off the tide of his stupidity. He would’ve pulled back if it wouldn’t have looked dubious to the prince, who was scrutinizing his relentlessly.

“Yes.”

The word released Baptist like a sorcerer dispelling a hex, but it was clear his master was not convinced of his inane recovery. In fact, it was so clear that the boy was baffled that he was let off that easily.

Regardless, he stood before he could fumble like an oaf any further and crossed for a refreshment table. It was all finger food, spread out on fine metal platters, arranged in an aesthetically pleasing fashion. Apricots, figs, olives, cheeses, bread - he scanned his eyes over all of the options, knowing his prince disliked eating in the morning, and tended to prefer a small snack midmorning instead, before lunch, which meant the seasoned oils for dipping the bread was certainly not an option.

Out of curiosity, Baptist grabbed a thin slice of brown bread and dipped it into the porringer, holding there as he watched the oil absorb further and further up the bread.

Popping the entire slice into his mouth at once to minimize the mess, he cringed initially, the texture of oil overpowering, but the savory taste of the herbs soon followed, making him hum his delight. Still, he was right - it would’ve been much too heavy for his prince.

Instead, he stole the smallest platter he could - the one holding olives - and began to pick the sweetest of the options. He tossed one white grape and then one red grape into his mouth to determine which one had the better taste, and chose the red, piling a handful onto the plate, alongside four slices of apricot, a whole fig, quartered, and a decent accompaniment of soft cheeses.

When he returned to his master’s side, it surprised him little that the grape was chosen first. It wasn’t a product of Simo, as the vined fruit perished at the slightest provocation of frost, but when they ventured south, closer to the border - for hunting parties or border surveying - sour versions of the succulent plant were readily available in summer.

In the arena below, two wrestlers were preparing on either side of the ring.

“Such is a habit of your gladiators too, no?”

Vincente looked over to Heiko, prompting him to elaborate, and he did, with a tone of inquisitive repellency.

“Shaving and oiling themselves.”

“Mm.” The Ilysian king flourished his hand, settling a finger in the direction of one of the two wrestlers. “For them, it adds challenge to grappling. For gladiators who participate in tournaments that last for a week, it’s for hygiene. Sweat and blood clings to hair.”

He turned to the prince.

“Is that another spectacle you’d wish to attend? Gladiatorial fights take place year round, but the cream of the crop are biannual. Once for the new year and once in midsummer.”

Prince Heiko hummed as if considering, before asking, “Are they religious?”

Baptist caught General Adesso turning his head at the question.

“The games? Naturally. The midsummer games are dedicated to Aurelos.”

“God of Mount Helen,” said the prince.

The general’s brow cocked. “Mm. King of the gods.”

“And the new year games?” Heiko pressed on, curious, contemplative eyes on the general. “To the crop goddess?”

“Horatia.”

Between them, Baptist could feel the sort of tension that would inevitably break before any sort of action occurred. He only wondered what Prince Heiko was trying to discern of the general. The general who felled his father.

“Are you a pious man,” spoke the prince suddenly, turning to the king as if he had found what he was looking for. The barest crease in his brow told Baptist otherwise. “King Vincente?”

Baptist wasn’t born pious, wasn’t raised pious. Things like lighting candles or murmuring quiet prayers seemed insignificant, or inconsequential, or both. But when one had the opportunity to watch the prince pervade them with poise and ascendancy, bestowing upon them virtue where there was none before, dissent was futile. Some people were simply in tune with the gods. Prince Heiko of Simo was such.

“Pious?” King Vincente arched his brows, as though truly pensive. “Well, perhaps not as much as I should be.”

The prince studied him for a moment.

“If nothing more, at least you are honest.”

After that, the time passed quickly. There were six wrestlers who participated in the show, the losers chiseled away until a tall, dark man, by a name Baptist wasn’t paying attention enough to recall, won, and received a laurel wreath on his head as his prize. He wondered what about this sport was amusing, since it seemed anticlimactic and almost forgettable the moment one looked away from the ring.

But he supposed that it was the refreshments that followed, along with casual conversations around food and drink, that Prince Heiko was truly after.