Page 15 of What Fury Brings
“Brother Sanos, why dost thou look dour?”
His other brothers laughed at the rhymes. Ikanos chugged another ale as the pub cheered for more verses. Sanos wasn’t drunk enough for this, yet he wanted to be sober enough to properly enjoy the last stop of the evening.
“Tonight I hope my cock shall tower.”
Ikanos grew fouler the longer this went on.
“Where’s the nearest pretty maid? Might I plow her?”
For gods’ sakes.
“I’m leaving,” Sanos declared.
“Ooooooone lassssssst taaaaaaaaavern,” Andrastus begged.
They ushered him along to yet another establishment, and it was here that Canus approached him with the rope.
Shit, he’d forgotten.
“No,” Sanos said firmly. He was feared by many with his deep voice and authoritative stance, but his brothers didn’t bat an eye.
“Sanos, it’s tradition. You must!”
He tried to make a run for it. Four-on-one hardly made for a fair fight, even when one of them could barely stand. One-on-one he could take any of them, but he didn’t stand a chance when they ganged up on him.
Ikanos swung near his face and missed, but Canus got him in the gut, and he went down like a bird with an arrow through its eye. They stripped off his shirt and tied him to a load-bearing post in the establishment. His bonds were tight, too tight to wriggle free. So he gave each of the men a stare that promised death once he was free.
“How many years is it now?” Trantos asked.
“Twenty-six, I think,” said Canus.
“Tweeeeeeeeenty-seveeeeeeeen, I thought,” said Andrastus.
“Twenty-five,” Sanos said. “None of you are funny.”
The higher the number, the more painful this would be. Sanos didn’t know how the tradition started, but for some reason, it was customary to pluck the hairs off a man’s chest to match the number of years he’d aged. Fucking Brutes and their fucking traditions.
His brothers took turns, ripping patches of hair off his chest, counting aloud so the whole tavern could join in the fun. Sanos bore it with a straight face and hardened eyes, not crying out once and flinching only minimally.
“Sixteeeeeeeeeen!” called out Andrastus on his turn.
Sanos closed his eyes as a fresh sting erupted on his chest. Birthdays were something he always looked forward to. He was so eager to be home that he managed to forget this part of the night. He should take more care to remember in the future. Drinks. Pain. Women. That was the way of the Brute.
Did they all have to look like they were enjoying this so much?
“Twenty-five!” Canus proclaimed, and then finally released him.
Sanos reached out to strangle the first one he could get his hands on.
“Time for the brothel,” Ikanos wisely said.
It was the only thing that could have halted his revenge.
Sanos hid his eagerness well, but the truth was that he was touch-starved. Even miles and miles away, Sanos couldn’t risk his father learning of him getting attached to any woman. All he needed was one more person for his father to hold over him, or worse, take away from him. And it didn’t feel right to go to the brothels of the cities they conquered.
So Sanos waited for his birthday every year.
Blanchette’s was a special brothel that catered to noble clientele. It was also entirely fashioned in the style of the Amarrans, Brutus’s rivals to the south. The whores wore pants or short skirts instead of tight dresses, and their tunics were made of sheer silk. The women all wore their hair in a variety of braids, as the Amarrans did. They wore bows over their shoulders or an empty quiver. Some wore sheaths around their waists or thighs and nothing else.
