Location: The Bathhouse, Kiyosu Castle.
Current Date/Time: Mid-Day. Late Summer, 1559.
The damp wind of the courtyard cut off completely.
The bathhouse air hit Soma’s throat like a wet fist. A solid wall of steam, wet cedar, and the sharp stink of wood-ash soap took the breath right out of his lungs.
Boiling water bubbled in deep, square wooden tubs along the far wall. Thick, gray condensation gathered on the low timber rafters, holding for a few seconds before dropping in heavy splashes onto the wet floor slats.
His wet jeans dragged at his hips, heavy with pounds of river sand and freezing water.
Two men gripped his upper arms, their hands, calloused into thick pads from years of hard work, digging deep into the muscles of his arms. They hauled him across the slippery cedar slats, their bare feet slapping a wet, heavy rhythm against the wood.
Soma locked his jaw, keeping his legs moving just enough to keep his knees from dragging across the rough floorboards.
"The clothes," one of the attendants grunted.
Calloused fingers fumbled at the brass button on Soma's waistband. The attendant grabbed a fistful of wet denim and yanked outward, the thick seams groaning under the raw force. The metal button held firm.
The attendant gritted his teeth and pulled harder, his knuckles turning white.
"Wait." Soma coughed, spitting out a mouthful of thick, damp steam. He shoved the man's hands away, his own fingers shaking from the river chill.
He hooked his thumb under the brass button and popped it through the wet denim slit. He grabbed the small metal tab of the zipper and pulled downward.
Zzzzzzip.
The high-pitch grind of the metal teeth cut cleanly through the hiss of the steam.
The attendants jumped back, their bare heels sliding on the wet wood. They stared at the open fly of the trousers, one of them raising a thick hand in front of his chest as if guarding against a spell.
Soma hooked his thumbs into the waistband and pushed the heavy denim down his hips. The wet fabric clung to his thighs, resisting every inch of the way.
He crouched, his bare feet slipping on the slick cedar, and dragged the jeans over his calves before kicking them off.
They hit the floor with a heavy, wet slap, spilling dark blue dye and gray river mud into a puddle around his ankles. He grabbed the hem of his wet shirt, crossed his arms, and hauled it over his head, peeling it off his chest with a sharp suction sound.
He stood naked in the center of the room.
The thick steam hit his bare skin. He forced his spine straight and clamped his teeth together to stop his jaw from trembling. Flat white light filtered through the high wooden slats near the ceiling, casting heavy shadows across his collarbones.
Around him, the attendants kept their distance. They had dark, weathered skin, marked with deep lines from the sun and speckled with tiny white scars from old blade nicks and flying wood chips.
To the men staring at him, he looked entirely wrong. He lacked the hood of skin common to every man in the province. They stared at his bare, unhooded flesh, then at his unblemished chest.
He had the even, hard muscles of a man who worked out in a modern gym, completely lacking the lopsided bulk of a laborer who spent his life swinging a sickle or drawing a heavy bow.
"Skin of a river spirit," the first attendant whispered, keeping his eyes fixed on Soma's chest. "Too soft. It has never seen the sun of a rice field."
"He has no hood on his flesh," the second muttered, a tremor in his throat. "The Warlord brought a ghost into the house."
The first attendant pointed a shaking finger at a low wooden washing stool near the sloped floor.
Soma walked the four steps to the stool and sat down on the wet cedar seat, his knees knocking together from the cold.
The men grabbed massive, coarse hemp cloths from a pile in the corner. They threw the cloths into wooden buckets filled with near-boiling water and ash-soap, wrung them out with a sharp twist of their wrists, and stepped toward him.
The wet hemp dragged heavily down Soma’s left shoulder. The rough fibers caught the dried river mud, the fine silt, and the top layer of his skin, scraping them away in a single, rough motion. The harsh soap immediately flooded the fresh scrapes.
Soma gasped, his lungs seizing. He gripped the edges of the wooden stool, his knuckles turning stark white against the wet wood.
The attendant scrubbed upward on Soma's back. The cloth raked over his spine, peeling away the dirt and leaving a trail of burning pink skin.
The second man knelt beside him, dragging the hot cloth down Soma's thigh, digging his thumbs into the muscles to scour the dirt from his skin.
"Scrub harder," the first attendant said, dunking his cloth into the bucket. The water turned a muddy brown. "The river dirt is deep in his skin."
"Stop," Soma choked out. He tried to pull his leg away, but the kneeling attendant locked a tight grip around his calf. "You're taking the skin right off."
"The Lord of Owari commands," the standing attendant replied, pressing down harder.
The hemp rasped against the point of Soma's shoulder, the friction burning hot beneath the boiling water.
The heavy cedar door at the far end of the bathhouse slid back on its wooden tracks.
The thick curtain of steam instantly swirled toward the opening, sucked out into the cooler hallway.
The attendants dropped their rags, the wet hemp hitting the bucket water with a dull splash. The men collapsed onto their knees, drove their hands flat against the wet floor slats, and slammed their foreheads down against the wood.
A new scent took over the room, wiping out the smell of the soap and wet wood. Heavy agarwood incense, raw horse sweat, and cold iron flooded the space.
"Leave us," Oda Nobunaga commanded.
The low voice vibrated through the wet timber, traveling straight up through the soles of Soma's bare feet.
The servants scrambled backward on their hands and knees, keeping their faces pressed to the floor. They vanished through the side exit, pulling the sliding door shut with a sharp click.
Water dripped from the rafters into the soaking pools. Soma kept his hands locked onto the edges of the stool, drawing slow, deep breaths through his nose to stop his heart from hammering against his ribs.
Nobunaga walked around the washing area, his bare feet gripping the wet wood with every heavy step. He wore a dark blue silk robe, the short sleeves hanging loose over his scarred, heavily muscled arms. The silk clung to his broad chest.
He stopped directly in front of Soma, his massive frame blocking out the light from the vents.
Nobunaga’s gold-flecked eyes tracked downward over Soma’s wet, flushed skin. He looked at the smooth palms gripping the stool, mapped the even chest muscles, and lingered on the bare, unhooded flesh of Soma's groin.
Nobunaga tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied the bare tip of Soma's shaft.
Nobunaga crouched, balancing easily on the balls of his feet. He brought his sharp face level with Soma’s, the heat radiating off the Warlord's body cutting right through the cold draft on Soma's wet skin.
"Unfinished," Nobunaga murmured. "No leather on the soles of your feet. No iron in your palms. Soft skin, yet the frame of a soldier."
"It takes different skills where I come from," Soma said, keeping his eyes locked on Nobunaga's. "I survived the river because I know how water moves, not because I swing a blade."
Nobunaga’s right hand shot out.
He grabbed Soma’s left hand and jerked it forward, pulling him slightly off balance on the stool. The Warlord’s thumb ground into the center of Soma’s palm, squeezing until the bones in his hand ground together.
Soma grunted, locking his wrist and pushing back against the crushing grip, refusing to break eye contact.
Nobunaga held the pressure for three seconds, his eyes searching the tension in Soma's jaw. He let go of the hand with a sharp flick of his wrist.
Nobunaga stood up, the blue silk of his robe swirling around his legs. He pointed to the largest wooden tub against the wall, where thick plumes of steam curled off the water.
"Get in. If you die of a fever before I inspect my inventory, I will be annoyed."
Soma stood up, his thighs shaking from the cold. He walked the five steps to the tub, the heat hitting his shins before he even reached the edge.
He swung his right leg over the high wooden rim and stepped down into the water.
A violent sting flared up his calf. He swung his left leg over and dropped into the tub.
A choked gasp ripped from his throat. The scalding water swallowed his hips and stomach, the hot shock driving the deep chill out of his bones and making his heart hammer as the blood rushed to the surface of his skin. He sank deeper, letting the water rise to his collarbones.
Nobunaga stepped up to the edge of the tub, looking down through the steam as the hot water turned Soma’s pale skin a deep, burning red.
The extreme heat forced a heavy rush of blood straight to Soma's groin. His flesh thickened under the water, the veins swelling tight against the skin, fully visible through the clear bath.
Nobunaga rested his hand on the hilt of the short dagger tucked into his sash. "Stay there until the red reaches your cheeks."
Nobunaga turned toward a nearby wooden bucket, reached inside, and pulled out a long, folded strip of rough, unbleached cotton loincloth.
"When you come out, I'll secure my new asset myself. My property isn't going to trip over his own feet."
"I can dress myself," Soma said, letting his head rest against the hot wood edge. The heat was making his head spin, his vision blurring slightly at the edges.
"I didn't ask."
Soma gripped the rim of the tub and pushed himself up. Hot water spilled off his chest, splashing heavily against the floor slats.
The bathhouse air hit his overheated skin, immediately raising goosebumps across his arms. He stepped out of the tub and stood dripping in front of the Warlord.
Nobunaga stepped forward, closing the distance instantly. He braced his right knee firmly against the edge of the wooden tub, pinning Soma between his own heavy frame and the steaming water. The sharp smell of horse sweat, and incense took over the small space between them.
Nobunaga unrolled the stiff cotton. He passed the long tail of the fabric firmly between Soma’s thighs, the dry, unbleached cotton sawing right against the raw, bare tip of his hard flesh.
Soma flinched, pulling his hips back a fraction of an inch from the rough touch.
Nobunaga arm wrapped around Soma's front, his large hand sliding down to press flat over the wet, stiff fabric. He flattened Soma’s anatomy entirely against his lower abdomen with unyielding upward force.
The rough handling, combined with the hot bath and the Warlord's proximity, forced a secondary rush of blood to Soma's groin. He thickened further against the tight wrap, the primitive cotton binding digging deeper into his flesh, locking everything in place under heavy tension.
Soma ground his teeth together, curling his hands into tight fists against his wet thighs.
Nobunaga looped the remaining fabric around Soma's waist. He pulled the sash tight, cinching it hard against Soma's hip bones, and knotted it at the back.
"This is too tight," Soma said through his teeth, staring directly at Nobunaga's collar. "It's cutting off the blood flow. The squeeze is too much."
Nobunaga’s large hand pressed flat over the stiff cotton of his lap, his calloused fingers tracking the restless, hot throb of the trapped groin.
"It works exactly how I want it to," Nobunaga’s voice dropped to a low hum. "It reminds you that you don't even breathe without my permission. You are bound to my ground."
"I need to be able to move if I'm going to be of any use to you."
"Your use is what I decide."
Nobunaga stepped back, letting the cold air rush over Soma's wet chest. He turned toward the sliding cedar door, staring at the dark gap leading out into the hallway.
"Dress him," Nobunaga commanded.
The two attendants emerged instantly from the shadows.
"Wrap him in the rust-brown kosode (short-sleeved kimono) of my lower retainers. If he complains of the friction, tie the obi (sash) tighter."
Nobunaga paused at the door, looking over his shoulder at Soma. Water dripped from Soma's wet hair onto his red, scraped shoulders. The harsh white loincloth cut starkly across his hips.
"When you are dry, my men will take you to the guest quarters," Nobunaga said. "I have your black box sitting in my room. I intend to see if it holds its secrets as stubbornly as you do."
Nobunaga stepped through the doorway.
The heavy wooden door slid shut, slamming into the frame, and the wooden latch dropped into place on the outside.
The attendants stepped back into the room, carrying rough hemp robes in their hands. They stood on either side of Soma.
The first attendant raised the fabric, dragging the stiff, dry hemp over Soma’s scraped shoulders. The coarse fibers caught instantly on his raw, pink skin.