Hasim raised Francis’s hand to his lips, smiling before he kissed the back of it. “This is my plan,” he replied.
Francis was both relieved and elated to hear that. He smiled, and blushed. Thankfully the steam from the bath helped disguise his blush.
As they disrobed and sank into the bath together, Francis sighed with content. The water was a perfect temperature.
He gazed down into the clear water, seeing his pink feet at the bottom. The bath was deep enough to stand in, the water coming up to his collarbone. The tiles felt warm under his feet.
“Hasim?” he asked. “Where does the heat come from?”
“Fires below,” Hasim said, pointing a finger down. “This house is Byzantine.”
“Oh? Marvellous.” Francis gazed at the room anew with the knowledge it was hundreds of years old, maybe closer to a thousand. Probably the tiles were more recent, but the design itself was steeped in history. “There’s some Roman bath house ruins where I’m from, but nothing like this. Nothing still in use. I should love to see the underneath, if that’s possible?”
Hasim chuckled. “Yes, very well. Later.”
Three attendants joined them in the room, bringing an assortment of oils, wash cloths, and refreshments. They were all young women. Francis wasn’t used to bathing in front of this many people. He’d had a nanny as a child, and household staff would still prepare his bath as an adult, but they didn’t remain in the room while Francis bathed. He’d been swimming with male friends once or twice in the summer, but never with women.
Still, this was a far cry from Stormburg. These women were completely different with their carefree smiles, their darker complexions, and voluptuous curves visible through their clothes as the steam from the bath made the fabric sheer. Francis had never seen so many bosoms at once.
Hasim was relaxed, and so were the women. Francisfound himself relaxing into it, enjoying his bath with Hasim as the ladies lounged by the water’s edge offering them peeled grapes, cold drinks, and fresh cloths.
When one of the women produced a small stringed guitar-like instrument and began to pluck slow, sensual notes from it as she sang, her companion took a bowl of fresh rose petals and tossed them into air to cascade down to the water. Francis watched the petals fall, lost in the beauty of it all for a moment, then he glanced at Hasim and caught the other man watching him with a grin on his face.
Francis smiled back. “May we see how the bath works now?”
Hasim chuckled. “You want to see the part nobody else sees?”
“I do,” Francis replied. “I’m also afraid if I remain in here much longer, I shall become frightfully pink, and I don’t wish to startle you.”
Another hearty chuckle, and Hasim waved his hand to the attendants. “All right, all right. We get out.”
Fresh linens were brought for when they exited the bath, using the tiled steps. Their wet hair was wrapped expertly for them in coarse cloth. Francis didn’t have to reach for anything; there was an attendant always there anticipating his every move. They were guided to another room, smelling of fresh flowers and basil, where they shed their wet linens and replaced them with dry robes, and their hair unwrapped and combed through with a sweet-smelling oil.
Francis watched Hasim have his long hair combed back and secured up underneath a pale blue, simple turban. His robes were a matching pastel blue and white.
Francis too was given a white turban to match his robes, though his hair was short and became unruly when damp. There was a veil attached to the turban, should he need it against thesun.
Delicate, gold slippers with the classic turned-up toes were presented for them to slip on, and then they were off on an adventure to investigate the inner workings of the bath house.
An older man, wearing simple robes and a round red hat, met them in the hallway, talking hurriedly with Hasim in Turkish, and bowing his head deeply in respect. Hasim spoke urgently, waving his hand like he was saying he didn’t need the formalities.
The older man smiled and beckoned them to follow him, and he showed them down a private set of stairs to the level below, talking excitedly with Hasim all the way.
Francis felt the heat waft up to greet them before they even reached the furnace. It was most fascinating. At the mouth of a large stone furnace, flanked by strong young men wielding bellows, wearing nothing but linen trousers, Francis was afforded a close-up look at the mechanics of the bath house.
Hasim explained, in his broken German, that the fires heated empty chambers on this level, directly under the baths. All they had to do was to keep the fires going.
Francis couldn’t help eyeing the young men again, and their bulging biceps. He noted their bare chests were shiny with perspiration. One of them caught him looking, and grinned knowingly.
Francis cleared his throat. “Yes, it’s marvellous. Thank you for indulging me.”
It was too warm to stay for long, and they exited the same way they came in.
“Hasim?” Francis said quietly. He wanted a private word, but it probably didn’t matter because nobody else they’d encountered appeared to understand German. “May I ask…?” Francis glanced at the older man watching them. “How long do those young fellows stay down there in the heat?”
Hasim turned to the man and translated the question. They had a quick exchange, with Hasim nodding. He turned back to Francis. “Fifteen minutes, then they change.”
The other man added something else in Turkish, performing a motion of holding something over his head. He chuckled while doing so.
