One With the Darkness by Susan Squires Page A

companion would be boring. What she wanted from him was an acknowledgment of his slavery, not cowering submission. In other slaves, achieving that balance was easy, becausethey were already broken to their slavery. She had only to allow them certain freedoms and they were grateful. But this one—in this one, that balance might be elusive.
    “Our spring is cold. The pool is heated with pipes and fires, the same as the house.”
    He looked at her as though she were mad.
    “I should think you would appreciate it in January. Now duck yourself.”
    He waded into the center where the steaming water was almost up to his nipples and submerged, then came up streaming water. She motioned him to duck himself twice more before she waved him out. “Into the next room.”
    She followed him into the frigidarium. A mosaic of Neptune rising curled around the dark circle of water. He turned and looked his question at her. Even in the dim light she could see his nipples had tightened with the cool air. “It is the cold plunge.” She motioned to the pool. He clenched his jaw. Was that resistance? “Just jump in. It’s deep enough to take even a big brute like you.”
    He stalked forward into the pool and sank immediately over his head. He came up sputtering. “Belatucadros’s horn,” he swore. “That’s like to freeze a man’s bollocks.”
    “Out.” As he climbed out, she saw that the cold water had indeed tightened his genitals and brought gooseflesh out across his body. Her own body still burned.
    She pointed to a bench. He sat, dripping. She knelt in front of him with her basket and chose several vials. She dribbled liquid from the first over his right ankle. He sucked in air. “I know,” she apologized. “It stings. But this, too, will prevent festering.” She repeated the action on the other ankle. This time the pain did not surprise him and he made no sound. She cupped her hands and took the same astringent and rubbed it over his feet.When she was done, she busied herself with opening the unguent.
    She could feel his eyes on her and glanced up. “You have a question?”
    “Why do you abase yourself before me? I am your slave.”
    She chuffed a laugh. “With ownership comes responsibility. I am responsible for the health of your body.”
    “You could send others to do this.”
    “I could. But I want you to know you belong to me. It is I who feed you and see to your wounds. I clothe you as protection against the elements, and give you boots that your feet may not be bruised by stones in the streets.” She rubbed his feet and ankles with the healing unguent as she talked. “Because I forbid you to engage in sexual activity, you will achieve release by your own hand weekly under my eye. It is unhealthy for a male to be pent up.”
    She looked up again as he blinked in surprise, then glowered at her. That would make it clear just what belonging to another really meant. He was not his own person anymore, not a single part of him, and he must realize and submit to that idea.
    “Now rise. I wish to apply these medicines to your welts.” She climbed up on the bench to do it. She pulled his wet hair off his back and laid it over his shoulder. The feel of his damp skin under her fingers was probably as much torture for her as it was for him. She worked down his back toward his buttocks.
    “You have a gentle touch.” This was said in almost a puzzled tone.
    “Thank you, slave.” This couldn’t go on. “What is your name?”
    “Roman slaves have no names of their own.” His voicewas harsh. “My name is whatever you call me.” He glanced back in suspicion, as though he thought she was trying to trap him into saying the wrong thing.
    “It is too much effort to think of a name for you. What is the name you bear now?”
    There was a long pause. He knew that by saying his name he was giving up something of himself. “Jergan. My name is Jergan.”
    “Jergan?” Surprising. “That is not the name of one from a Celtic