It was still daylight when Tom stepped out with Faros and Catos. Catos bounced around them, frustrated by the slower pace dictated by the shortness of Tom’s legs. Tom glanced up at Faros. The grave expression was firmly back in place, and Tom could not tell if Faros was taking them simply to please Catos. The drum was slung against his back, leaving his hands free to point out the ways of the city. Catos didn’t care where they went, and Tom wanted to see the prison, so Faros led them across the market square. The place was as busy and noisy as before, but Tom found it easier to take in what he was seeing. A three-story building that stretched along the north side was shrouded in scaffolding, and Tom remembered the talk about the old palace being repaired. In many places the brickwork beneath the plaster was exposed, as red as the mountains that Tom could just see above the roofline. Workmen wearing little more than loincloths called to each other as they raised loads of bricks in buckets, using ropes and pulleys. They wore their hair shoulder length, like slaves, but the absence of any collar declared them to be freemen.
‘Where does the king live? If that is old palace?’ Tom asked.
‘In the citadel,’ said Faros. ‘I’ll show you, but we can’t go in. All the king’s advisers and followers live there, when they aren’t in their summer palaces by the river. It’s like a city within a city, with its own guards. You won’t often see them: they have their own inns and brothels, inside. Just as well, there’s no love lost between them and the guards of the city.’ He led them up a broad paved road from which many lesser ways and alleys branched. It was steep, but less so than in Minas Tirith, and Tom was surprised at how quickly he tired; he could only assume it was as a result of his enforced inactivity. How closely confined was Barard? Had he even seen the sky in the last five months? At that thought he came to a halt, winded by the pain of his fear and longing for Barard. He bowed his head as he gasped for breath.
Faros stopped, to let Tom rest. ‘The citadel is the old city of Hafar,’ he explained. ‘But Hafar outgrew it, to spread down the hill and out onto the plain, and so the outer wall was built.’
Tom nodded, not trusting his voice, and turned to gaze out to the distant city wall and beyond it, into the west. Gradually, his heart slowed and his breathing came more easily. Given the heat, he was surprised he wasn’t drenched in sweat. ‘I ready... I am ready to go on,’ he said.
Faros indicated a lane to their left. ‘We can take a short cut this way to the prison.’
Tom followed his companions into a narrow alley between tall buildings. The blue sky was no more than a narrow strip above them, and the flags beneath his feet were cool in the deep shadow. The houses here were not plastered, and had a shabby look to them. It seemed they were in a poorer part of the city. Several other lanes intersected their path, but Faros kept straight on, climbing worn steps to arrive in the open again. Tom lifted his hand to shade his eyes. He was almost dazzled by the light of the westering sun, thrown back from a large white building. Beyond it, reared the citadel wall in the now familiar red stone.
‘The courthouse. The prison is behind it - on the edge of the hill.’
They turned left again, and Tom had a clear view of the mountains receding into the distance, the highest peaks white-tipped with snow. He didn’t know what he had expected. Maybe Barard is here, emblazoned across the sky as the sun sank towards a low bank of dove-grey cloud, and tinted it to gold. He turned his back on the sun’s passing that marked one more day without Barard, and walked slowly up to the prison. It was a large square building, with high barred windows that showed the thickness of the walls. At the front were heavy wooden doors through which there was a certain amount of coming and going.
‘They is guards, yes?’ said Tom, as two men left together wearing light armour that protected chest and back. At their sides, they carried curved swords.
Faros nodded and corrected Tom. ‘They are guards.’ He indicated a poorly dressed freeman who had stood aside to allow the guards to leave. ‘He is probably visiting, or maybe going to pay a fine.’
‘Visiting? You mean, he go in and he see a prisner?’
‘Prisoner. Yes. Hey! Tolm! Wait! Slaves don’t have that right!’ Tom paid no heed to the urgency of Faros’s voice; he ran to the door and tugged it open. He paused as he entered; the interior seemed very dark after the brightness outside.
A guard blocked his way. ‘What do you want?’ he asked, frowning down at Tom.
‘I want...’ Tom’s Southron deserted him in the face of what he wanted, and he looked helplessly up at the guard for a moment before taking a deep breath. ‘My friend prisoner. I see him?’
‘What have you got there?’ another voice called. ‘A spying rat, maybe?’
‘Just a slave that doesn’t know his place. Go on, get out. You’re not seeing anyone.’ The guard drew his sword, and Tom backed away.
A quiet voice spoke behind him. ‘Will you at least tell us if his friend is here?’ A hand squeezed his shoulder; Faros had followed him in.
‘He’s with you, is he.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry. He doesn’t know any better. His friend is small, just like him.’
The guard advanced on them, and both Tom and Faros flinched as he set his blade against the side of Faros’s neck. ‘Get out!’
Faros grabbed the back of Tom’s tunic and almost dragged him out. Tom didn’t resist. Shit! He hadn’t meant to put his friend in danger. ‘I sorry, I very sorry,’ he gabbled. ‘Where Catos?’ His heart was pounding with the rush of fear that he was only now aware of, and all his verbs had deserted him.
‘Where is Catos,’ Faros corrected him. He looked down at Tom, and suddenly they were both laughing with an edge of hysteria. Faros felt his neck, and his hand came away with a smear of blood. That sobered them. ‘He’s waiting in the alley. I told him to go home and tell the mistress, if we didn’t come out.’ He sighed. ‘This is not a good day.’
‘I am sorry.’
‘It’s all right. We’re in one piece, but we might have been arrested. Our mistress would have paid to have us released, I think, but we’d have been confined to the house, and the master would almost certainly have sold you on as trouble.’
Catos joined them at that moment. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ he said, his normally happy-go-lucky air lost in one of relief at their reappearance. ‘Imps are trouble.’ His eyes widened as he saw the trickle of blood. ‘F-Faros, you’re bleeding!’
‘Just a scratch.’ Faros ruffled the boy’s short black hair, making it spike up. ‘Well done, for doing as you were told, and you’ll just have to help me keep Tolm out of trouble, won’t you?’ He turned to Tom, and his expression became even graver than usual. ‘Now listen, Tolm. We’re going to walk back round the citadel to the main gate, but we mustn’t loiter. They don’t like anyone hanging around. Don’t even try to go through the gate. Have you got that? They won’t waste time asking questions. If you’re lucky, they’ll arrest you.’
‘Lucky, because they’ll put him with Bar-ard?’ asked Catos.
‘No,’ said Faros grimly. ‘Lucky, because he won’t be dead.’
It was twilight as they came back to the square, but there were lamps burning everywhere, and the bustle of activity showed no sign of abating; if anything, it had increased in the relative cool of the evening. They bathed, and when Faros collected his drum from the attendant in the lobby, a group of slaves crowded round, clapping their hands high. They disappeared into the night chanting, ‘Faros! Faros! Faros!’
Faros sighed. ‘I’ve not played for months,’ he said as he hoisted the carrying strap over his shoulder, and Tom thought, No, not since your Patros died.
In the square, the atmosphere was tainted with the smoke from lamp oil, but as they made their way around the south side of the hill, there were fewer lamps and their way was lit by moonlight. Other slaves passed them in chattering groups, and Tom was aware of Catos becoming more and more excited.
‘What dancing like?’ he asked, thinking of fiddles and bodrhan in the Shire, with the caller keeping them all in order. ‘In squares?’
‘Yes, it’s in a square,’ said Faros rather absent-mindedly, as though his thoughts were elsewhere. Tom’s mind was following his own memories, and he didn’t ask more. Barard loved dancing, but Tom always disliked the fact that they were expected to dance with a lass as partner; he often sat out so that he could enjoy watching Barard flirt shamelessly with one sister-in-law or another. They all knew where Barard’s heart was given, knew that he would never really want to bed them, and so they flirted back in safety and felt special for his attentions. He usually returned to Tom, flushed and laughing, with a light of lust in his eye, and they would slip into the darkness to make their own dance of love, their cries of release lost in the whirl of the music.
Tom halted, head bowed, as waves of misery engulfed him. He felt utterly bereft and utterly useless. He turned, just wanting to return to the prison and curl up against its wall, but Catos caught him by the shoulder. ‘Tolm! Where are you going? Faros!’
Faros turned back to them. ‘Tolm, you must come with us, or I must take you home.’
‘You not my... my...’ In his anger, Tom didn’t know the word he wanted.
‘Keeper? I’m afraid I am at the moment. The mistress has only allowed you out if you are with me, and I think she is wise in this. You will get into trouble if you go off on your own, and don’t for a moment think that getting yourself arrested would mean you’d be locked up with Barard.’
Tom glared up at Faros. ‘You not my keeper!’
‘I am your friend. Is that better?’
Catos hugged him. ‘I’m your friend, too.’
The anger drained from Tom, but it had been the only thing keeping the tears back. He was tired of trying to express himself in Southron. ‘It’s hopeless, it’s hopeless,’ he cried. ‘How can I find him? I might as well be dead if I can’t find him.’
‘Tolm, I don’t know what you’re saying.’ Faros knelt on one knee to put an arm around Tom’s shoulders, and tucked his other arm around Catos’s waist. Tom burrowed into the sanctuary their bodies made, his voice muffled.
‘It is hopeless.’
‘Listen, Tolm. You’re tired; you’re not sleeping, and that’s not surprising when you’ve been cooped up in the house. It is not hopeless. There’s qismat. Somehow, somewhere, you’ll find news of him, probably when you least expect it. You can’t force qismat, it just has to happen. Do you understand me?’
Tom nodded. Qismat sounded as though it were something like fate. One foot in front of the other.
Faros loosened his hold. ‘Would you like me to take you home, Tolm?’
Tom expected a protest from Catos, but none came. ‘No, we go on. I come with you to drum thing.’
‘Good. I think that is better than your sitting at home.’ Faros started laughing as he stood, shaking his head when Tom raised an eyebrow in query. He stopped by a stall selling drinks and sorted through the coins in his pocket. He had barely enough, but waved Tom’s offer of help away and handed out mugs of a dark red liquid. It was thicker than wine, but not syrupy like a liqueur; it reminded Tom of mulled wine, except it wasn’t warm.
‘It is deelish-us.’
‘Delicious. Yes, it is. Very comforting. I’m sorry I laughed. I was laughing at myself. The mother has been saying that to me for the last eight months.’ He shrugged. ‘I am better at giving advice than taking it. Yes?’
They entered a square crowded with slaves and a few freeman of the poorer sort. While not small, it was smaller than the market square, and all the buildings around it were reached by a series of steps that were being used as tiers of seats. A few of those seated held drums between their knees, and the beat passed back and forth between them. Tom could see no other instruments, but those in the centre of the square were tapping their feet or jigging around; he presumed they were impatient for the dance music to begin.
Faros touched Tom’s shoulder as he stood, looking around in the light from the moon riding high above them. ‘Dance or not as you like,’ he said. ‘But if you want to leave, come and tell me. Yes? There’s good drinking water in the fountain over there, and if you have a little money, you will find food sellers around the square.’
He slipped away to climb the steps, and the crowd surged around him, clapping and chanting. The other drums slowed and took up the beat of ‘Far-os! Far-os!’ As far as Tom was concerned, a drummer was a drummer: after all, how hard could it be? The drummer just kept everyone else in time. It was not long before he discovered how wrong he had been. If the drums had been talking before, now they sang, led by Faros in a wild rhythm that slowly built layer upon layer. Tom found his toes tapping and his head nodding to the underlying beat.
‘Come on!’ cried Catos and dragged Tom to the edge of the seething mass of people. Tom shook his head, pulling back. ‘This not dancing. I not know how to dance like this.’
‘Of course it’s dancing, and of course you know how - you just do whatever you feel like.’ He jigged around, stamping his feet and throwing his arms about, and Tom had to agree that everyone did just seem to be doing whatever they felt like. Once he got the hang of just letting his body follow where the drums took him, he started to enjoy himself. It wasn’t quite mindless, but he didn’t have to think. The throbbing beat quickened, rising in intensity, louder, faster, whirling them altogether, and then slowly died away. Tom stood blinking and panting as the cheering started, and he felt suddenly sick at his own enjoyment. He turned and stumbled to the nearest steps, and climbed to find refuge in the deep shadow around pillars and doorway. All he found were couples oblivious of his presence. He gave up and just sat where he was, resting his forehead against his knees.
Barard! Barard would love this!
The drums had started a slower tempo, mourning with him.
‘Have some water, Tolm.’
Tom turned his head to stare up at the earthenware mug Catos proffered. ‘I forget,’ he said dully.
‘Forget what?’ Catos flopped down beside him and pressed the water on him. ‘You need to drink.’
Tom sipped the cool water, but his throat was tight. He poured a little into his hand and rubbed it over his face, both cooling his hot skin and wiping away tears.
‘I forget to think of Barard - while I dance.’
‘That’s good.’
‘No! Not good! It is not good!’ He bowed his head again, his fingers clenched tightly around the handle of the mug.
Catos gave him a quick hug. ‘I’m going to get Faros.’
Tom didn’t answer. He felt rather than saw Catos leave, and felt rather than saw a man seat himself on the step next to him. It was not Faros, though; the sandals were different, and Faros had strange feet: the second toe was longer than the first. He looked up warily. The man nodded a greeting.
‘You’re Tolmos, yes? Faros has spoken of you.’
‘Yes, my name is Tolmos.’
‘I’m Rufos. Faros asked me to come and talk to you. My master is allowed in the citadel.’
‘You work in citadel?’
‘No, I wouldn’t be here now if I did. Slaves of the citadel are not permitted beyond the citadel wall.’
‘Oh.’
‘I have been inside, to wait on my master.’
‘So you talk to slaves there?’
‘No, again. My master says Daros believes there are a hundred plots against him. I must not be seen to speak to any but my master, except in the great hall in the presence of the king, and then only such talk as is necessary for my master’s comfort. If slaves are suspected, the master is not long left free.’
‘Oh,’ said Tom again. He couldn’t quite see why the man was telling him this, although there were snippets of information here to be stored away.
‘Faros has told me whom you seek. If I can help, I will be happy to. I can listen to what is spoken, as they take their ease over the wine.’
‘Thank you.’ There was no harm in being polite.
‘I cannot promise anything useful. I’ve never heard the Disappeared spoken of there, but you never know.’ Rufos jumped up as Faros appeared with Catos at his heels, and held out his hands palms up. Faros brought his own hands down, palms meeting offered palms with a smack, and turned his hands over for Rufos to reciprocate. Tom tensed, not sure what it was all about, but the next moment he relaxed as the two men embraced in obvious friendship.
‘It’s good to see you here again, Faros. It’s about time you stopped moping. I found your little bird, and this must be Catos. Calia’s here, so I won’t stop and chat now, but I’ll see you tomorrow, my family allowing, yes?’ He turned to Tom. ’And I’ll let you know if I hear anything.’
Faros watched him as he sauntered away into the crowd, and then sat by Tom. ‘Would you like to go home now, Tolm?’
‘Please, yes,’ said Tom, ignoring the fact that “home” was hundreds of leagues away.
‘Good. Yes, we’ll go. I’ll take you round some of the inns and taverns tomorrow, our family allowing. Don’t feel bad about enjoying yourself tonight.’
Tom hung his head and didn’t answer. He fought back his tears, and tried to stop his mouth from trembling.
‘All right, don’t talk about it, but I enjoyed it,’ said Faros. ‘And I never thought I would again.’ He hitched his drum higher. ‘Stop bobbing, Catos; you’re making me feel sick.’
‘But that was wonderful, you were wonderful, can you teach me, can I come with you to the inns tomorrow?’
Faros nodded. ‘Yes, you can come, but you must pay your own way.’
Tom did not have high hopes, since he trusted Faros’s assurances that he had asked widely about Barard, and that was as well; the quest for information in the inns and taverns proved unrewarding. He saved his kurus whenever possible to buy drinks for anyone who might prove useful, always hoping that the next day would bring some news. Guards, artisans and fellow slaves were all happy to drink with him, but nothing came of it.
After a few weeks, he was trusted out on his own, and he gradually explored all the city, with or without his friends. He talked to anyone who was prepared to make conversation with a slave, but no one had seen another Halfling. Tom began to wonder if Barard had even reached Hafar. Everywhere there was talk of the Disappeared, but no one knew their fate.
‘That’s the point,’ said Faros when Tom said this to him. ‘They just disappear.’
‘But are they dead?’
‘I don’t know. No one knows. There are those who are arrested, and they go to court, and occasionally there is an execution, but with the Disappeared, no one sees them taken, no one knows where they are, they are never seen again.’
‘In the citadel, maybe?’ suggested Tom.
‘I’ve asked Rufos. He doesn’t know. When he goes into the citadel, he’s only been into the great hall. He can’t look around, and we can’t ask him to. It would be a dangerous thing to be caught doing.’
‘They could be - ’ Tom had difficulty saying it. ‘Dead.’
‘Yes,’ admitted Faros reluctantly. ‘But there is this: the Disappeared are never acknowledged by the king. Yet you tell me that he sent an ambassador to Minas Tirith with news of the arrest. That’s a big difference, Tolm.’
It was small comfort. If Barard had been alive then, who knew if he were still alive now? ‘But why has no one even seen him. I mean, there must been a time before he was arrested...’
‘Must have been. But if he came at the king’s invitation, he would be taken straight to the citadel. It’s possible no one outside the citadel would have seen him. The king’s ambassador travels in state. Ask if any have ever seen him, except at public ceremonies, and I will take a wager they will say no.’
In his frustration, Tom explored around the citadel, taking care not to draw the guards’ attention to himself, but there was no way that he could find to get inside. The walls were high and sheer: huge blocks of the red stone fitting together with barely room for a knife to be slipped between. To the south of the citadel, there was a precipitous drop to the valley below, a natural defence. When Tom left the paved way and scrambled amongst the rocky hillside to find this out, the view down to the wide fertile flood plain gave him vertigo. It was easier to look out over well-ordered farmland stretching into a distance bordered by forested hills. When he could bear to look down again, he could see the river drawn like a wide blue line on a map, meandering in vast loops, but he could only presume it was not navigable to the coast, or the Haradrim would not be so dependent on Umbar. There was plenty of traffic upon the water, but it was all small local craft. His vertigo returned, and he looked up instead. The vertical rock face continued high above him, almost as high as the golden domed hall. Movement on the wall made him duck behind one of the many rocks strewn across the rough ground, and he cautiously slipped back to the habitable regions of the hill, using all his hobbit skills to avoid being seen.
To the north, behind the prison, he found that the northern citadel wall seemed to grow from the rock. Although the hillside was less steep here, it was easy to see why the original city of Hafar had been built on this site. Beyond was a dry rocky valley, and beyond that, the first of the mountains rose in towering majesty.
Watching the comings and goings at the citadel gate from a hiding place in deep shadow, Tom found that those allowed entry appeared to fall into two categories: those who were known to the guards - who were saluted as they entered, on foot, or more often in covered litters - and those who had to present written authority to gain admission. There was no way an unaccompanied slave could slip past the guards.
Difficulty sleeping drove Tom to roam the city in the early hours of the morning, when the quietness before first light was broken by delivery carts entering the city through the south gate. By the time the market was coming to life, they would all be gone, back to a countryside he knew nothing about. The carts made him think back to one of his favourite tales of old Bilbo Baggins, smuggling the dwarves out of bondage, but any cart arriving at the citadel gate was either thoroughly searched or unloaded there. Besides, the carts did not loiter on their way for the benefit of a hobbit wishing to smuggle himself aboard.
At the end of his early morning forays, Tom often sat tucked in against the prison wall on a narrow ledge that abutted the citadel, gazing out at the mountains, and holding imaginary conversations with Barard. The rising sun gave the southern slopes a deep red glow, and picked out corries and coombes in long shadows, hours before she was high enough to be visible over the hill of Hafar. Tom took care not to get too close to the edge of his eyrie, since there was some sort of signalling station on the hill below him, with large mirrors to reflect the sunlight and send messages as quick as thought. It was far more sophisticated than the beacons of Gondor, but he did not try to learn its secret. It had nothing to do with Barard, and therefore its only relevance for Tom was in keeping out of sight of the guards always stationed there.
If he was still sitting there when the sun finally appeared around the side of the citadel, he knew he was in danger of being late to his work. On one such morning, just as he turned to run down the hill, he caught a glimpse of lights winking across the desert from distant peaks. He paused to watch until he realised time was slipping away.
Faros was angry when Tom returned at a run. ‘Where have you been?’ he hissed. ‘There are customers waiting.’ He brushed red dust from Tom’s tunic and sighed. ‘You’ve been up by the prison, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, I am sorry. Have I made trouble for you?’
‘A little, but more for yourself.’
This turned out to be the case. Tom not only earned a blow to the head from his master once the customers had left, but was also confined to the house for two weeks, and threatened with being chained like a dog if he disobeyed. His misery and frustration increased as his ability to roam the city was curtailed. He became short-tempered and snapped at Catos - for no better reason than the boy’s cheerful nature - and could find no excuse for himself, even though he overheard Faros making excuses for him.
‘He didn’t mean it, Catos. He cares for you, as I do, but he is like a frayed rope that may give way at any moment. The two of you have been here nearly three months, and there has been nothing to give him any hope. I have begged the master to let him out again, his being kept in is doing him great harm, but...’ Tom could imagine the expressive shrug of the shoulders. He struggled up from his place in the shadows, meaning to humbly ask Catos for his forgiveness, but the boy’s next words halted him where he stood, and the answer made him collapse down again fighting for a breath.
‘Do you think his Barard is dead?’
‘I fear it is so - oh, bollocks! Tolm! I didn’t know you were there.’
‘Faros! What’s wrong with him? Tolm, I’m sorry!’
‘It’s a panic attack, I think.’ Fingers cupped Tom’s jaw. ‘Tolm! Look at me! Breathe in slowly, yes? Listen to me. We will find news of him.’
Tom stopped fighting to breathe, because after all, what was the point? If Barard were dead, what was the point in breathing? Immediately it became easier to do so.
Faros gave a relieved sigh. ‘Good, that’s better.’
Tom gave a sob at the irony of it - that when he gave in, he could breathe again - and then he was weeping in earnest, feeling as though the frayed rope had finally snapped. Faros lifted him up and carried him from the long room.
‘Faros, what is all this noise? What is wrong with our little bird?’
‘I am sorry, mistress. He is unhappy.’
‘Is he not well cared for?’
‘He fears his friend may be dead. He has Disappeared.’
‘I am sorry to hear it, but I need you, Faros; I have important visitors arriving soon.’ She touched the back of her hand to Tom’s cheek. ‘I will tell the master you are sick, Tolmos. You may have the rest of the day off, but please grieve quietly. It is a terrible thing, the way people disappear.’
Tom curled in against Faros, soaking the man’s tunic with his tears, unable to make any sensible reply or to take in any more of the conversation. It was, in any case, quite short. He was aware of being set down on his bed, and he released his tight hold on Faros.
‘I have work to do, Tolm, but Catos can stay with you for a while, and I will ask the mother to bring you something. Did you hear what the mistress said? She will tell the master you are sick, and you may rest for today.’
After Faros left, Catos sat beside Tom, curling his gangly legs beneath him. The boy had been in trouble lately for clumsiness, and the mother had grumbled under her breath, ‘Don’t they realise he’s growing! Of course he’s clumsy. Bless the lad, he’ll need new clothes soon at the rate he’s going.’Now, tucked in against him, Tom realised that Catos had indeed grown: before, he had rested his head against the boy’s shoulder, now he listened to the beat of his heart. He took a deep breath and wiped his face with his sleeve.
‘I’m sorry, Tolm,’ said Catos, his voice rumbling against Tom’s ear, making it sound deeper than it was. It would not be long before it was deepening for real. ‘I didn’t mean to make you cross, earlier, I just meant -’
Tom cut him short. ‘Stop making me feel lot worse. I am the one who need to apologise. I get cranky. I not know how to say it in Southron. Barard make me stop. He tease me, and... I not know how he do it. Now, I worry about him, and worry about him, and that make mebehave badly. Just ignore me. That is best.’ He was aware that he was not being as fluent as usual, but he was finding it hard to think straight. Not dead!
‘Oh. Like I used to ignore Minos when he had a tantrum?’
‘Yes, it is just me getting cranky. Tell me more stories of your brother.’
Tom settled in to listen as well as he could in the circumstances. It was a way to avoid having to make conversation himself, and it was good to hear of Catos’s happy childhood, marred but not spoiled by the loss of his parents at different times. Catos, he suspected, made happiness wherever he was, and he fervently hoped the master would do nothing to alter the lad’s trusting nature.
The mother brought Tom an infusion, made sure he drank it, and took Catos away to help her in the kitchen. Left alone, Tom closed his eyes and thought of Barard, thought of other losses, and Barard’s comfort.
He lay drained of tears, so many tears, and Barard lay quietly beside him. Not talking: he’d only said one word since he’d found Tom in his old room in Bag End.
‘Love.’ Just that, with so much sympathy and understanding, and his recent loss of his own mother clear to hear. Just “love”, and his body laid alongside Tom’s, and his fingers stroking the tears from his face.
Tom rolled into his arms to weep on his shoulder until the fit passed, and then they just lay quietly together as the afternoon wore away. Barard’s hand made slow sweeps over Tom’s back, and occasionally he pressed a kiss to the top of Tom’s head. It was Tom who said, ‘We’d best go home.’ He wasn’t actually sure which of Frodo’s brood slept here now, but he and Barard would be in the way. Not only that; only Frodo and Robin knew that they were together, lovers, for all that the youngest nephews and nieces - the ones born since Tom and Barard had moved to Minas Tirith - talked of Uncle Tom’n’Barard as though they were one entity.
They stood, and Barard took him into his arms again, and kissed him with great gentleness, no hint of passion, although the room carried so many memories of their early love. ‘I love you,’ Barard whispered as they parted, and that love surrounded Tom as they made their way down the Hill, back to number 3, New Row. He walked with his head down, not touching Barard because they might be observed, and the pain in his heart was worse because he had never - could never now - tell his ma.
Once inside their small home, they came together again. The scent of roses was strong around them. The flowers filled bowls and vases in honour of Tom’s birthday, and were a poignant reminder of Tom’s best beloved Rose, his mother. Hanging by the door were the beautifully tooled bridle and reins that Tom had gifted to Barard for his Shire pony, Clover, just that morning. Appreciative lovemaking had followed... and then the news that Ma was not likely to last out the day. Now, Tom bowed his head against Barard’s shoulder.
‘She seemed so much better yesterday.’
‘I know, my Tom.’ No trite words, just simple agreement.
‘I want to tell Da, about us.’
Tom felt Barard’s nod of agreement. ‘But maybe we should wait until after your mother’s remembrance feast?’
They had waited. And then news of another loss had fallen on Tom with no warning, as Da had suddenly announced that he was leaving for the Grey Havens.
Tom’s comfort had been Barard, but now it was Barard who was lost. Not dead! Not dead!
He closed his eyes. Barard was not dead. Barard could not be dead. Barard was too full of life. Tom rolled onto his side and pushed a hand between the mattress and bed to pull out a rag he had taken from the workshop: one of the scraps of cloth used for polishing. It would not be missed. He wormed his hand into his trousers, no longer fearful that he would be caught in the embarrassing position of not being able to rewrap his loincloth. While not as fast as Catos at dressing, Tom no longer felt helpless inaptitude when he wound the cloth about himself - and usually it even stayed in place.
It was rare for Barard to fuck him, and Tom could remember each and every time, remembered, now, that night with Da asleep in the next room, remembered being fucked into forgetfulness. His body did not welcome entry as easily as Barard’s, although he was not sure why. He teased his cock, needing that comfort, and Barard’s teasing echoed in his mind.
‘It’s because you like to be in charge.’
‘I do not!’
Barard eased his fingers free and leaned over Tom, naked and aroused, his breath warm against Tom’s ear. ‘Hush, love. It’s all right, you know I like it. I like you in charge, but tonight I’m going to fuck you and make you forget, so you’d best just relax.’ He soothed Tom, and teased his weeping cockhead against Tom’s arse, until Tom was pleading with him, swearing at him, wanting for once to be taken, wanting to be fucked senseless, wanting so much to forget.
‘Hush, love. I’m...Aaaaah.’
Tom bit down on his lip as Barard thrust into him, and then cried out at the relief of it as the tight burning sensation gave way to something else entirely. Something that arced through his body in incandescent heat, like lightning striking up to the clouds. Barard thrust again, and Tom let go, opening to him, allowing his body to be filled, and with that opening came release that took him and shook him, and left him limp and gasping in Barard’s arms.
Tom curled in on himself as he jerked and came. ‘Barard!’ he sobbed, and the emptiness closed around his heart. Wanking off was some relief, but it was like scratching an itch: the relief was quickly loss, and the pain flared back in greater intensity. ‘I miss you. I miss you.’
Being allowed out again helped a little - the time spent talking to anyone and everyone was time he wasn’t actually sitting moping - but as the weeks continued to pass with no news, his frustration grew. He became well known to the stallholders, innkeepers and artisans of the city, and their initial wariness towards him as an imp gradually disappeared. He was their little bird.
‘You have a reputation, did you know?’ asked Faros, early one morning, as he and Catos kept Tom company. They sat with their backs against the prison, gazing out over the desert, but kept their voices low to avoid the attention of the guards stationed below them. The mountains cast long shadows that stretched towards the west.
‘For trouble, I know.’
‘No, as a good luck charm.’
Tom snorted. ‘So where’s my share?’ he asked morosely, fingering the feathers and beads that hung at his neck.
Catos patted his arm. ‘It’s true. There’s lots of stories about your bringing luck. You’ll have your share, as well, you’ll see.’
Tom sighed. Sometimes he welcomed Catos’s boundless optimism, but today was not one of them. ‘It’s been months. There’s nothing. Nothing!’ He glared at Faros. ‘And don’t talk to me about qismat. I don’t want to hear it.’ He stood up, and stalked off down the hill. It was time they returned, anyway. He gave a huff of annoyance as Faros and Catos caught him up. With his short legs, he couldn’t outpace them, and the thoughts that beset him were not ones to share.
How long? How long before he accepted Barard was one of the Disappeared, and would never be seen again? There was no way to answer that question. If he could find proof that Barard was dead, his course would be laid clear before him - but to decide “Today... today I will give up” was impossible. He had told neither Faros nor Catos of his intentions should Barard be proved dead; if they knew, they would not let him out of their sight. Faros was like a mother hen around Catos as it was; Tom could just imagine them both, watching over him in fear of what he would do. No, he wanted none of that, and so he kept silent.
Later in the day, Tom managed to find some time alone with Faros. He glanced at the black line that the man’s eyebrows made. He was pleased to see the slight thinning of the hair where the two brows met. That was good: the master was out gambling, Catos was with the ladies, and his friend had relaxed.
‘Can I ask you something - ’ He halted as he considered the word he sought, raising his hand as though he would grasp it from the air. ‘Something private to you.’
‘“Personal” is the word you want, I think.’
‘Personal, then.’
‘Something not for Catos’s ears, I take it? No, I don’t mind, although I don’t promise an answer.’
Tom nodded, saying, That’s all right. You don’t have to give me one. He cleared his throat. ‘Do you think about, you know, bedding Patros a lot?’
Faros gave a shrug. ‘We didn’t often have the luxury of a bed. Only when we saved enough money between us for a room at an inn for a couple of hours, but I suppose, yes, those are very good memories.’
‘But I mean, do you find yourself thinking about that, erm, every day?’
‘You mean that you do.’ It was no answer, but neither was it a question.
Again Tom nodded and sighed. ‘And it’s not as though that’s what I really miss.’
‘Our bodies play tricks on us, my friend. Sometimes I think we have another mind -’ He gave a huff of laughter. ‘- with a mind of its own. So, tell me, what do you miss the most?’
Tom closed his eyes. What don’t I miss? Laughing at me with his eyes alight with green fire, mocking me when I’m too serious, calming me when I’m angry, fretting over the pomposity of burghers’ meetings. The way he can’t tidy up after himself to save his own life, his irritating habit of humming when engrossed in a book, and his even more irritating habit of denying that he’s been doing so. His quick Took mind, his generosity, his sarcasm. His love.
‘Everything. I miss everything about him. When we had arguments, it used to tear us apart until we...’
‘Made it up?’ It was a direct translation from the Westron.
‘Yes. That’s how we say it, as well. I wasn’t sure.’ He knew his eyes were most likely bright with tears, but Faros would understand that.
‘There are things I remember about Patros that used to make me weep with the pain, but sometimes now I find myself smiling to think that such times were real. The memories are very precious to me.’
Before Tom could stop himself, he had spoken. ‘I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want to reach a place where I look back at Barard with fondness.’ Luckily, Faros didn’t understand the message his words carried.
‘What I feel for Patros is not fondness, Tolm.’
‘I’m sorry. That wasn’t what I meant. I didn’t mean now, but what will you feel if you live to be an old man sitting in the sun in the market square?’
‘I see. That’s inevitable, I think. I find the idea quite attractive, not that the majority of slaves live to be old.’
‘Do you think you will ever love again?’ To Tom, the idea was unthinkable.
‘At the present time? No, I can’t imagine such a thing, but I know others who have said that, and yet been wrong. What about you?’
“Oh, Tom! I’ll love you always. Don’t let death part us.”
‘Barard has been my mate for nearly thirty years. They’ll be no other.’ They were skirting dangerous ground here.
Faros took Tom’s hands. His brown eyes were full of compassion. ‘This is the first time you’ve really spoken to me of Barard in the five months you’ve been here.’
‘It’s his birthday, today.’ Tom could hardly get the words out. ‘A few more days, and it will be a year since I... since I last saw him.’ How could I have been so stupid as to leave him, but how could I not have gone?
He hadn’t broken down like this for several weeks, and he felt the familiar comfort of Faros’s arms around him. The grief was as intense as ever, but Faros offered a safe haven. Tom was well into the sniffling, hiccupping stage before Faros spoke.
‘What have you got under your tunic, Tolm?’
‘Wh...what?’ He was stalling; he knew exactly what Faros was referring to.
Faros pulled up Tom’s tunic, and then hastily let it fall again. ‘Knives! Tolm! Where did you get them? Slaves are not allowed to be armed! You could be in serious trouble!’
Tom rubbed his face on his sleeve, giving himself time to recover. ‘I could be in trouble without them,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve been exploring the poorest quarters.’ He wanted to know every shortcut and bolt-hole the city had to offer, mapping them in his mind. There were areas where poverty was rife, where families with the privilege of freedom lived lives worse than slaves. It seemed sensible to have a means of defence, and he’d used some of the money he’d been given to buy two small knives in leather sheaths. Faros opened his mouth to make further protest, but Tom turned the conversation again, well aware that Faros was unlikely to let himself be diverted from the knives for long.
‘I was walking near the tannery the other day, and I saw three men.’
Tom stepped carefully down a narrow alley, avoiding the refuse and effluent that made him think of rats and disease. The smell that filled the air was atrocious, although the prevailing wind kept it away from the rest of the city most of the time, and that was something to be thankful for.
‘Three men? You don’t say?’ Faros’s dry humour changed to anxiety. ‘You mean they threatened you with violence? You shouldn’t go into places like that on your own.’
‘No, there was no danger, but they didn’t belong there.’
The men were not dressed in traditional garb, but their well-fitting trousers and tunics were a world away from a slave’s - fine materials, fine workmanship, rich dyes. Unusually, in the heat of Hafar, they wore boots. They were openly armed with straight swords, not the more common curved scimitar, and they walked like men used to command. Tom kept his head down as they approached closer, and squeezed back against a wall to let them pass. He turned to stare, when he thought it was safe to do so, only to find that the men had turned to stare at him. Hastily he lowered his eyes, and went his way.
Tom freed himself from Faros’s embrace and perched himself on the chair arm. ‘You know how we occasionally see a noble in a litter or accompanied by a guard of soldiers? They looked nothing like them, and they were as tall as you, I would judge. One had a very hooked nose, but the others...’ He reached up and touched the point where Faros’s eyebrows met, and then ran his finger downwards. It had taken a while for him to get used to the lack of any dip in the line of the nose in both his friends, and he had never before realised how he had taken the shape of a nose for granted. ‘They reminded me of you.’
Faros sat up straighter, and Tom could see he was interested, knives forgotten. ‘Really? Do you know who they were?’
‘Great lords, I think. Have you any idea who they might be?’
Faros was evasive, but a few days later, when Tom told Rufos about the men during a chance meeting in the market, he was invited to an inn down by the south gate. Rufos ordered coffee for them both, and steered Tom into a quiet corner. When they were settled with their drinks, he glanced around before slipping a leather thong over his head. On it was hung an old, worn coin. He handed it to Tom.
‘Take a look at this.’
Tom turned the coin in his hands. There was a face stamped on the reverse in profile; it was only just visible, but there was no mistaking the outline. ‘Yes. Yes! They looked like that. Who is it?’
Rufos pointed to the script running round the edge, but it was meaningless to Tom. He couldn’t read Southron, barely even knew the Southron alphabet. He shook his head.
‘It’s King Julos, of the House of the Sun. There are few images of him to be found. All statues and paintings were destroyed by the House of the Eye. I found this in the garden of my master’s house.’
‘There were rumours when I first arrived in Hafar that there is a lord in the city who is of the House of the Sun.’
‘Lord Sûlos. Yes, I’ve seen him,’ said Rufos. ‘I suspect you have, as well. I’m surprised he hasn’t Disappeared, given the strong family resemblance. I’ve no doubt he would have done if he was really of that House.’ He gave a snort of laughter. ‘It would be funny if they didn’t realise how like the last king he looks because all images have been destroyed. Daros treats him with a lot of respect, but the Jackal is less courteous.’
‘The Jackal?’
‘You don’t know about the Jackal? Most people think he is responsible for the Disappeared. My master doesn’t like to be anywhere near him. He fears him, I think, more so than Daros.’
‘But who is he?’
‘Karios, of the House of the Eye.’
‘So he’s related to the king?’
‘His cousin.’
‘Oh.’ Tom left the bitter dregs in his cup and stood up. ‘I’d better be getting back. Thank you for showing me that, Rufos.’
‘My pleasure. Always happy to help. But keep quiet about this. I’ve never asked Faros about his ancestry; sometimes it’s best not to know. Remember, slaves Disappear, as well.’
Another month passed, and they celebrated Faros’s twenty-eighth birthday. The mother cooked a small feast for the slaves, and Catos drank too much and was sick. It seemed to Tom that every time he blinked Catos had grown again, and now the youngster’s voice was beginning to waver from high-pitched to low and back to high-pitched again. Even pissed, and propped up by Faros, he didn’t stop talking.
‘It’sh my birfday shoon.’
‘Catos, it’s more than three months until your birthday.’ Faros’s voice was amused.
‘I’ll... I’ll be a man.’
Tom laughed. ‘Oh, come off it.’
‘I will, sho.’
‘You’ll be sixteen, Catos.’ Tom caught Faros’s eye to share the joke, but the man nodded.
‘If he was sixteen between the winter and summer solstice, he’d have to wait until his seventeenth birthday, but as it is, yes, he will come of age after the Festival of the Rains. Not that it means much for a slave.’
Tom gaped. ‘I had to wait until I was thirty-three, and in Gondor it’s twenty-one.’ Still, his own perception of entering adult hood coincided with taking Barard as his lover, and that had been a long time before he came of age. He kept quiet about his own birthday falling on the summer solstice, only a few weeks away now. It wasn’t a day he felt like celebrating. It would mark a year of captivity for Barard, if he were still alive.
Tom became lethargic and depressed as his birthday approached. He stopped accompanying Faros and Catos out to gatherings like the Drum Circle, and spent a lot of his free time just lying on his bed, wrapped in a world of his own. The same old question went round and round in his head. How long? How long could he continue with no news? And yet to go on, year after year, until he became reconciled to his loss, used to his life of slavery? That was unthinkable. Maybe he should just go and stand in the marketplace and shout, ‘I am a spy for the barbarian king!’ He could at least hope to share Barard’s fate, but his friends would come under suspicion, and might even be tortured to find out what they knew. Tom fingered the knives beneath his tunic. He had the means to end his life; there just had to be some way to decide, ‘This day is the day.’
He wished Faros and Catos would stop trying to cheer him up. ‘I thought you said the grief got better?’ he said to Faros as they came into the month of his birthday.
‘I have found it has, but it is different for me, I think. I sometimes found it hard to accept that Patros was dead, but I knew he was, really. You live always on the edge of hope, so how can you put the grief behind you?’
‘I don’t have any hope. Not any more.’ Tom rolled from his bed. He wanted some privacy. ‘I’m going out.’
‘I’ll come with you. I’m free for a couple of hours.’
‘No. I want to be alone.’
He wandered the city, not really noticing where he was, only half aware of the many greetings called to him, and when he became tired, he trailed slowly back. He sat wearily down at the table in the long room, and Lyria nodded a welcome over a sewing basket.
‘Will you tell us some more of the dragon story tonight, Tolm?’ she asked.
‘Maybe,’ said Tom, but not really paying much attention. He looked around. ‘It’s very quiet; where is everyone?’
‘The mistress has gone to visit her brother, and the master has sent Faros on some errand.’
‘Where’s Catos? Gone with him?’
‘Nah, the master asked for him not ten minutes ago. I sent him along to the workshop.’
Tom was jerked from his lethargy in an instant. ‘What!’ He jumped up, not waiting for any reply, and raced out into the sunshine to take a forbidden shortcut across the garden. He slowed as he neared the door to the workroom, and turned the handle quietly. If Catos were simply sweeping the room or dusting the displays, Tom could just pretend he had come back for something he had forgotten, but even before he had opened the door, he could hear Catos begging to be allowed to go. He entered the room in blazing white anger, to find Catos cowering in the far corner, one hand pressed to his cheek as though he’d been struck. Tears stained his face. The master stood over him, unaware of Tom’s presence.
‘Come, boy, you will find there is pleasure in it, and if you refuse I will have that imp you like so well thrashed.’
Beneath the conflagration of Tom’s rage was a small voice of calm. No, you cannot end your own life, but others can do it for you. He reached for his knives. ‘Let him go, orc!’
The man spun round. Catos tried to scramble free, but was grabbed by the scruff of his tunic and hauled in front of the master as a shield.
‘You filth!’ Tom shouted. ‘Let him go!’
The master sneered. ‘You will not risk injuring the boy.’
In answer, Tom let fly with a knife, hitting the wall to one side of the man’s head. It clattered to the floor. ‘If you do not let him go, the next will be in your throat.’ There was some satisfaction in seeing the master’s eyes widen in fear.
‘Help! Help!’
‘There are none to hear you. Let him go.’
‘You will face the executioner for this!’
‘Let him go!’ Tom hefted the knife into the throwing position, and the master pushed Catos away so violently that the boy fell to his knees. Tom stepped forward and helped him up with his free hand. ‘Go and find Faros,’ he said. He waited until Catos had run sobbing from the room, and lowered his knife. He could run, but he preferred to let fate take its course. Qismat.
‘What is going on?’ The mistress had returned and stood in the doorway. ‘What is all the shouting about?’
‘Be careful! He is dangerous!’
‘Tolmos? You’re talking about Tolmos? Don’t be silly, dear.’
‘He tried to kill me. He has a knife! Go and call for the guards! Quick! He is a rabid beast.’
The mistress didn’t move except to hold out her hand. ‘Tolmos! Give me the knife.’
Tom reached up and placed it carefully in her outstretched palm without a word. He made no resistance as the master seized him roughly, twisted his arms behind his back, and bound him tightly. He felt very calm, glad that there were no decisions left to make, glad that it was over.
The master leant down, his breath hot against Tom’s cheek. ‘You will die for this, you little rat.’