Chapter 8
Ian woke feeling light headed and aching in every joint. He massaged his neck as well as he could under the iron collar, trying to rub some of the kinks out. The woven mat that Anthea had brought him had stopped the stone from draining all his warmth, but it did nothing to soften the hard stone. He groaned softly as his neck cracked, and more loudly as he raised his arm too far and pulled the wounds on his back. The slow healing welts felt like rotten cloth, ready to tear with the slightest pressure.
With no notion of the time, Ian could only guess that it was morning. His only clock was his stomach and his own biological rhythms, established over the weeks he had spent in the villa in Assysium. God, that felt like a life time ago.
He felt around for the bucket Anthea had left and used it for its purpose, wishing that he could have a proper wash. He was still sticky from a mixture of sweat, salt, sand and blood and felt completely wretched. What didn't help was the headache which had settled behind his eyes.
He shivered and returned to his blanket. He felt cold and shaky, his back hurt, his head ached and spun, the chains felt like leaden weights pinning him to the ground and every bone in his body screamed for a nice comfortable bed with clean sheets in a nice clean room. He sighed. There wasn't any point in dwelling on what he couldn't have, and settle down to wait for Anthea, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
When he woke again, feeling no better, he found a lamp made of a simple rag wick in a dish of tallow, burning beside a wooden plate containing what had become a usual meal of bread, soft cheese and olives. A jug stood beside the plate and, on investigation, Ian found that he contained a herbal mixture sweetened with honey. He drank it quickly. It wasn't a cup of tea, but it was still good. He was still thirsty and weighed up the chances of the guards being sympathetic enough to fetch him more water. He hadn't actually interacted with the soldiers at all, in fact the only person he had seen since he had been introduced to his prison was Anthea.
"Guard!" he shouted. "Guard!"
There was a faint rattle and a light, far brighter than he was used to, shone between the bales.
"What do you want?" the soldier asked as he rounded the stack.
Ian shielded his eyes as the bright flame of the torch the soldier carried stabbed painfully. After a moment he managed to squint at the man. "How long ago was Anthea here?" he asked.
"About an hour," the soldier said, "She said you were asleep and that she didn't want to wake you."
"What time of day is it?"
"About noon. Is there something you want, or do you just want to talk?" the man asked with a certain amount of impatience.
I would love someone to talk to, Ian thought, preferably someone from my own century. "I wanted to ask if I could have some more water. Please," he said instead, adding the 'please' late. He really didn't feel like being courteous to his captors, but ill manners wouldn't get him anywhere.
"I'll see," the soldiers said, and left.
Ian felt a wave of dizziness wash over him and staggered, using the wall to guide himself down the floor before his legs gave way. He rubbed his temples and leaned his head back against the wall, his mind whirling.
He stirred briefly when the guard brought more water in a ceramic amphora and murmured a woozy thanks as the guard left again. The amphora, propped against the wall, was heavy and Ian had trouble lifting it. He also had trouble controlling it and when he tried to take a drink from the lip he ended up half soaking himself in the cool, delicious water.
When he had drunk his fill and washed his face in the plentiful liquid, he set the awkward container aside and lay down again, pulling the blanket around him as he shivered with a sudden chill.
