Chapter 4: The Healer's Touch
The silence from the arena broke against the noise of the bathhouse. It was a wall of sound and scent—the gentle slap of water against marble, the low hum of braziers heating stones, the cloying perfume of roses and lotus oil hanging thick in the warm, wet air. Torches and countless candles reflected in the dark water of the central pool, making the vaulted ceiling swim with gold.
My body moved in stiff, separate parts. Every step sent a fresh ache through my thighs, my back, the tender place on my arm. I focused on the sway of Angela’s hips ahead of me, the fire of her hair against the steam, a beacon.
She didn’t speak until we reached the pool’s edge. The water was dark, opaque with oils and herbs. “Since Marisa fought so well,” Angela said, her voice echoing softly in the humid space, “her reward should be thorough. She deserves to be washed. To be taken care of.”
I followed her gaze.
Marisa was already in the water, submerged to her shoulders. She leaned back against the carved ledge, her arms stretched out along the rim, her head tilted back. Her eyes were closed, a picture of luxuriant triumph. The steam curled off her slick shoulders. She had beaten me here, likely by a more direct route. She had known what was coming.
A low, hot stone settled in my gut, right beside the cold one from the arena.
“Of course, my sun,” I said, my voice flat. I let the linen wrap fall from my hips, stepped out of the sandals. The marble was warm and slick under my bare feet. I took the folded cloth and jar of cleansing paste an attendant handed me without looking at them.
The water was a shock of heat as I descended the steps. It enveloped my aches, a tender, mocking embrace. I waded toward Marisa. She didn’t open her eyes.
Angela settled on a wide lounger of cedar and cushions a few feet away, a silhouette against the flickering light. A spectator again. Always a spectator.
I stopped behind Marisa. “Move forward,” I said. My words barely disturbed the quiet hum of the place.
A slow smile spread across her face. She opened her eyes, glancing toward Angela, then leaned forward, exposing her back. The knobs of her spine were visible beneath the skin, a ladder of bone and lean muscle. My own back felt broad and bruised in comparison.
I dipped the cloth, worked the paste into a lather. The scent of crushed almonds and cinnamon filled the space between us. I began at the top of her shoulders.
Her skin was smooth, hot from the water. I used the heels of my hands, pressing down in slow circles, the way I did for Angela after a long day of audiences. A servant’s touch.
“Harder,” Marisa murmured, her voice a contented sigh. “I have knots. From the fight.”
I pressed harder, my own sore muscles protesting. I found a tension in the trapezius muscle and worked it, feeling it soften under my fingers.
“There,” she said. “Just like that. You have useful hands, Benna. For some things.”
The old nickname, from before the rivalry turned sharp. It sounded like a curse now. I didn’t respond. I moved the cloth down her spine, the suds sliding down the channels beside it.
“You can go lower,” she instructed, her head still down. “The sand got everywhere.”
My jaw tightened. I rinsed the cloth, reapplied the paste, and continued down to the small of her back. The water lapped at her hips, at my waist. The steam made it hard to breathe.
“You know,” she said, conversational, though her voice carried, “I almost felt bad for you out there. You looked so… confused. Like a calf separated from the herd.” She shifted slightly, giving me better access. “But then you gave up so sweetly. It was the right choice. The only choice you had.”
My fingers stilled for a second. I saw Angela, a dark shape on the lounger, watching us like a coiled asp.
“Yes,” I said, quietly. “It was.”
My agreement seemed to disarm her for a moment. Silence followed, filled only by the drip of water and the distant sound of servants.
“My hair next,” Marisa commanded, leaning back to wet it. “The sand is in my scalp too. Be thorough.”
I moved around to her side, the water resisting each step. She tilted her head back, exposing the long line of her throat. I cupped water in my hands, poured it over her dark hair. I worked the paste into her scalp, my fingers massaging in firm circles.
Her eyes were closed again, that smile still playing on her lips. This was her victory lap. My humiliation was her bath oil.
“She’s watching us, you know,” Marisa whispered, so low only I could hear. “She likes seeing this. She likes knowing I won, and you’re here, doing this.”
I didn’t look.I knew. I could feel Angela’s gaze like a physical weight on my wet skin.
“I know,” I whispered back, rinsing the suds from her hair. The dark strands slithered through my fingers like eels. “That’s why I’m doing it.”
That finally made her open her eyes. She looked up at me, searchingly, her clever eyes narrowed. She was looking for sarcasm, for defiance. She found none. Only a weary, painful acceptance.
She didn’t understand. She saw hierarchy as a ladder to climb, with me as a rung she’d stepped on. I saw it as an ecosystem, a balance. By accepting this role—the attentive loser, the nurturing hand even in defeat—I wasn’t falling. I was rooting myself deeper into the foundation of what Angela wanted us to be. Marisa won the fight, but I was proving I could survive the aftermath. That I could be used in any way my empress saw fit.
“Turn around,” I said, my tone neutral, servant-like. “I’ll do your front.”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. This wasn’t in her script. The victor shouldn’t be taking orders, however mild, from the conquered. But to refuse would be to reject the care Angela had orchestrated. She turned, her back now to Angela, her face to me.
The water was chest-deep. I soaped the cloth again. I washed her collarbones, the hollow of her throat, the slopes of her shoulders. I was meticulous, impersonal. I was a sculptor cleaning a statue.
Her eyes stayed on mine, trying to decipher, to dominate. I let her look. My expression was a placid pool, reflecting nothing but the candlelight.
When I finished, my hands empty, hovering in the water between us, she finally spoke again, her voice lacking its earlier surety. “You’re dismissed.”
I gave a small, shallow nod. Not to her. To the order itself. I turned and waded back toward the steps.
As I climbed out, water streaming from me, chilling instantly in the air, Angela’s voice stopped me.
“Benedetta.”
I turned, dripping on the marble. She hadn’t moved from her lounger.
“You wash defeat off as gracefully as you wear it,” she said. Her green eyes glinted. “It becomes you.”
A shiver that had nothing to do with the air ran through me. It was the barest thread of praise, twisted and sharp, but it was mine.
“Thank you, my sun,” I said, my voice steady.
I walked toward the pile of fresh linens, leaving wet footprints that evaporated quickly on the warm stone. Behind me, I heard the soft sound of Angela finally rising, the gentle disturbance of water as she joined Marisa in the pool. Their murmured voices began, a low, intimate blend.
I did not look back. I wrapped myself in clean cloth, the fine linen soft against my abraded skin. My body still screamed from the fight, my pride was a smoldering ash in my chest. But the plan, the terrible, quiet plan, was working. I had been broken, and then I had been useful in the breaking.
In this palace, that was a kind of currency. And for now, it was all I had.