Chapter 12
Francis was roused very early by the call to prayer echoing in from the streets outside; not close by, from far away, but the voice carried as sure as the wind itself. Francis was pulled from a sleep so deep it took him a long moment to remember where he was and how he got there.
His eyes darted around the sumptuous room, and it all came back to him.
Hasim.
They were still in bed together. All was well.
At some point in the night, a small, latticed window high above them had been opened, perhaps from its outside shutters. The natural light that entered their cosy, warm room shone down in geometric beams of gold, illuminating the dust motes in the air.
Their bed of silk cushions, in shades of pink, red, and blue, glistened in the light beams. Beside him, Hasim laid facing toward him, half covered with a white cotton sheet.
His turban was now gone, and for the first time, Francis saw his long black hair, streaked with silver, loose and fanned out behind him in curls against the pink pillows.
Without a doubt, this was one of the prettiest sights Francis had woken up to in his life.
Hasim was still fast asleep, breathing evenly. Francis didn’t want to go anywhere, and even if he did, he wasn’t exactly sure where they were or how he’d return to the palace.
Best to stay in bed with Hasim.
He settled onto the cushions, facing Hasim, and gently pulled the cotton sheet over them both.
Hasim probably didn’t need it, his body was kicking out a lot of heat.
Francis snuggled in closer to his warmth, just shy of touching.
He didn’t want to disturb his companion, not yet.
Despite the tenderness Hasim had displayed last night, Francis was all too aware that men could behave very differently in the mornings.
Himself included. Sharing a bed didn’t necessarily mean anything, sweet nothings and promises whispered or not.
This was why he didn’t want to shatter the moment. He’d enjoy it for a while longer. Francis closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.
When he next woke, it was to the pleasant sensations of Hasim’s lips on his, initiating a kiss. Francis responded in kind, and their kiss drove their mutual desire, with urgent hands finding each other’s hardness and relieving morning ache, gasping as they came together before falling back asleep.
When he woke a third time, Hasim was already up, his long hair tied back, and he wore a white linen robe. He had one ready for Francis and wanted him to put it on.
“Are we leaving?” Francis asked groggily. He let Hasim help him with the robe.
“For bath,” Hasim replied, his voice huskier than usual.
Must’ve been what they smoked last night.
Francis let himself be led, following Hasim out of their little sanctuary, to places unknown.
A few of the female attendants joined them, flanking them each side and draping gauzy veils over their heads. Francis was bewildered by this part, but as they stepped outside into a narrow little backstreet, he thought that perhaps it was a means to keep their customer’s identity a secret.
This made him think that his original theory, that Hasim was a part of the royal family or royal court, had been correct.
A woman’s laughter filtered through from a nearby street, along with noises that suggested chatter or haggling. Maybe a small market. It was nowhere in sight; the backstreet Francis was taken down was completely shielded from the main streets.
A pleasant waft of air was funnelled through the street, carrying with it a fresh scent of basil leaves and cooking smells. They passed two young women on the way, headed toward the hookah den. Both sets of women uttered a brief greeting of “Selam” to each other. No other words exchanged.
Francis wondered if they would gossip later, away from the customers. He wondered what they might say about him. The sunburnt pink foreigner.
In no time at all, they had arrived at the private, back entrance to another establishment.
They had to ascend a set of worn stone steps to enter through the open doorway, and then their veils were whisked away, and Francis was shown the most delightful building he’d ever seen inside a city: a bath house.
The air inside was warm, humid and wet with a pleasant fragrance of oils. Walking into it and inhaling the scents felt instantly calming.
“I say, Hasim, this is splendid,” Francis said in awe.
He looked around, taking it all in from the decorative blue and white tiles on the floor and walls, to the potted plants with tall green leaves, and the gold pots of perfumed oils.
Then there was the bath itself; a large square pool of clear, steaming hot water, with tiered seats both inside and out.
A trio of men were already in the bath, naked bodies with different shades of brown skin on display amid the steam.
Francis thought that they’d join them, but Hasim took him by the hand and led him away. The attendants escorted them down a hallway lined with potted ferns, to a private room with a smaller bath just for them, its surface scattered with fragrant rose petals.
“Hasim, you are spoiling me,” Francis said. “I may never wish to leave.”
He’d said it in jest, but also to feel out Hasim on the topic. Francis was keen the know if Hasim’s feelings had changed at all since last night.
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. Francis found 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 the sun.
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.
Hasim nodded and explained to Francis, “He say, when the men return from the furnace, they pour cold water over their heads.”
“Ah, I see.” Francis smiled. “Thank you so much for showing us the furnace.”
Hasim translated for him. The older man responded with a nonstop stream of thank you’s and a polite bow. Hasim talked with him a few more moments, then guided Francis away.
Francis was certain that Hasim was important and well known here, as more than just a repeat customer.
“Where to now?” he asked, as they hovered by the open back door. A bevy of smiling female attendants waited, poised, with smiles on their faces.
Hasim smiled only at him. “What should you like to go?”
“Well, uh, are you free? You don’t need to return to the cats?”
“No, no.” Hasim chuckled. “They will be fed. I go where you go.”
“Oh, well in that case,” Francis said, thrilled. “I should very much like to see more of your city. Maybe not too much sun, if that’s possible?”
Hasim nodded. “I know the very place. Come with me.”