"Because he could hold a pose and he never complained, never put on airs. I let him work for that, not his face,” said Khemwy. “Once I asked him why it was so important to him, since I'd be taking the frieze away with me and he'd never see it again. He told me it was something that people would see, that it would last hundreds of years after he was gone, maybe forever, and nobody would ever know the face on the work was ugly."
Jahzel paused over this explanation. Saret said no such thing when questioned, but then he had not said very much at all. And I never asked him. “So you gave him what he wanted?"
"There was no harm in it,” said Khemwy, “and after a while I didn't see him as ugly anymore. If you wanted the truth the first time, great prince, you ought to have asked me more questions. How was I to know my work stirred your loins so much that you'd try to find the model? When I said he was beautiful, of course you thought I meant his face, but a young man's heart doesn't need a pretty face to go with it, and I gave Saret his heart's desire. He wanted to be part of something beautiful. I gave him that.” Khemwy's eyes narrowed and once again he smiled. “Now you tell me, great prince, what did you give him when you saw him?"
Jahzel stiffened against the back of his chair. “Your question is impertinent, old man."
"Is it, now?"
"Go back to your work,” Jahzel said sharply. “We will not speak of this again."
Chuckling, the stone carver left, but Jahzel knew no peace. Chewing his lower lip, wanting to forget the old man's words and what had happened in Osharan, he paced his apartments, cursing his inability to lay the matter aside.
What did I give him, indeed? As if I have an obligation to give anything to a simple farm boy! he thought.
His anger, far from satisfying, felt misdirected. It shamed him, both as a man and a prince. Nothing, I gave him nothing, not a kind word, not even my hospitality. He glared at the door through which Khemwy had left. A prince should be more gracious, and yet I was a boor. Does that satisfy you, you insufferable old fool?
In the evening, his nerves still taut, Jahzel sent for Theppu and instructed him to play upon the kithara while he closed his eyes and tried to forget his troubles.
After a time, he sat up. “Tell me, pretty one,” he said. “What would you do if you were ugly?"
Still playing, Theppu smiled coyly. “My lord, I am not ugly, unless you find me so."
"But if you were,” urged Jahzel, “what would you do?"
In the young man's silence, Jahzel saw that he was not merely being vapid; the question simply did not register. Theppu was right. He was not ugly and could not conceive of an existence without his beauty. But one day, thought Jahzel, it will be as the priests tell us. All that is young and beautiful withers and returns to the gods. Even you, pretty one. One day your charms will fade and you will be as old and leathery as Khemwy.
"Come, lie beside me."
As Jahzel kissed and caressed Theppu, no passion stirred his loins. He did his duty, however, stroking his lover to a breathless climax so he would not realize his master was not aroused. Theppu would mention such a thing to the vizier of the akeshi quarters, and within a day the physicians would descend on the royal household with embarrassing questions and repulsive aphrodisiacs.
Once it was seemly, Jahzel sent the youth back to his quarters and sat quietly in the lamplight, contemplating what it was he truly desired.
What should it matter if an akesh does not fire my blood? I have done my duty by my wives. If I find Theppu a vacant-eyed novelty, why should it be a matter of state?
Jahzel could only wonder what his viziers and physicians would have said about his interest in the stone carver's model. Their imagined diagnoses, their scorn, echoed in his mind until he shut them out. This was his secret, his private torment where all his other ailments were the talk of the court.
A restless winter culminated in the rains that brought life to the dusty hills of Tajhaan. For a fortnight, the desert bloomed, and Jahzel made preparations to leave for Akkil six weeks before he was expected. Naturally, his wife protested at having to quit the harem so early.
Jahzel wasted no time informing her that she need not accompany him. “If it displeases you so,” he said, “you may remain here with the children and my other wives."
Cherike's mouth tightened, her delicate nostrils flaring as they always did when she perceived some insult, real or imaginary. “Husband, I have not forgotten your promise to let me go to Akkil each year,” she said, “but I do not see why you must undertake another progress so soon after the last."
"Because as a High Prince I wish to view my realm,” answered Jahzel. “I require neither your approval nor your presence."
"It would be unthinkable for a king to appear without his consort.” Cherike tilted her head in a condescending gesture Jahzel knew all too well. In a moment, she would do as she always did and compare Tajhaan's customs unfavorably with those of her homeland. “Unless she is with child or her husband leaves on a military campaign, a queen does not—"
"Let me remind you that you are no longer in Khalgar,” Jahzel sharply pointed out, “and you are not a Khalgari queen to display yourself in public. You are a princess of Tajhaan, and as such you need not be concerned with matters outside the harem. Indeed, you should rejoice, as my absence means your bed shall remain empty.
"As for going to Akkil, you will have your due, but I will hear no complaints about my official business."
Among the guards and other servants, two akeshi accompanied Jahzel for his pleasure, though he had little interest in sex. And yet, on a night so cold not even the braziers could keep his tent warm, he summoned them both to join him under his blankets. Exertion drove away the chill, but the practiced charms of the two youths left Jahzel numb. Even as he rode them, his thoughts wandered to an oasis many days to the southeast, and to the ugly peasant boy who dwelt there.
His partner, writhing under him, moaned and slid a hand down his back to cup his buttocks. In response, Jahzel thrust harder, until climax took away everything but the heat between their bodies. The other youth lay beside them, kissing his companion and stroking his own cock until he received permission to come.
Once the sexual euphoria began to fade, Jahzel wanted to be alone, yet outside his blankets the tent was still cold, and he felt his breath become smoke as he exhaled. His partners he kept with him, gently admonishing them to go to sleep when they inquired if he desired anything further, and at last drifted off to the thought that perhaps in the dark beauty and ugliness were nothing more than abstract concepts.
I could make love to him, and it might still be good. Jahzel's half-conscious mind drifted among fantasies of taking Saret in his arms and, through his passion alone, making him beautiful. But no, his voice is rough, and he would not know how to please me. Loving him would be more effort than it is worth.
Despite his words to Cherike, Jahzel did not go straightaway to Akkil, but first held court in Atrija, renowned for the ancient fortress standing sentinel over the desert from a crag that cast its shadow over the city like a ship's prow. Fine horses were bred here, and it was from this place that Jahzel's great-grandfather had gathered an army to ride across the desert and seize Tajhaan from the prince whose weak dynasty had brought the kingdom to the brink of ruin.
Even here, the gods conspired against him, for in his chambers the sandstone walls were alive with the sculptor's art. Beautiful youths and maidens, desert warriors on horseback, and the gods themselves appeared to move in the flickering shadows and lamplight. This was ancient work, of a type common in Atrija, but Jahzel paused before it, his lips parted, noticing it for the first time.
"My lord,” said the youth behind him, “does it please you to come to bed?"
Without turning his head, Jahzel held out his hand. “No, Amril, it pleases me to have you here."
His dream-lover returned to his thoughts as he ran his fingers through the akesh's long, dark hair and pulled him forward for a deep kiss. Jahzel
rarely tried to embellish his lovemaking, but in his arms Amril became a breathing shadow, stone given life, stepping down from the relief to give him pleasure.
Lost in ecstasy, the name that formed on Jahzel's lips did not belong to his partner. All his being longed to hold this lover close, to join with him in flesh and spirit, until he realized what he was doing.
He did not think Amril noticed, but afterward, deep shame replaced his rapture. The Saret who graced Khemwy's frieze was only a reflection of the boy who dwelt in Osharan, the translation of one man's perception into art, an object of desire. You are lusting after shadows, thought Jahzel. The gods did not make Saret to satisfy your base cravings.
Jahzel ordered the decorations covered for the duration of his stay. He paid homage at his ancestor's monuments, dined with several high-ranking officials, and toured the city's granaries and stables before riding south.
In Osharan, the town elders were amazed to receive him again so soon. Royal couriers had borne the message weeks in advance, so lodgings were ready, even if the people themselves did not know quite what to make of the visit. Jahzel assured his hosts that he was simply passing through on his way elsewhere, and once more took up residence in the chief elder's house.
That first night he was obliged to spend dining with the elders, while on the second he managed to plead exhaustion and escape with a private meal prepared by his own cooks. The servants were ordered to set the table for two, although Jahzel did not inform them who his guest would be.
Just before sunset, he sent for Saruken. “Go into the town and bring back the boy you brought last time."
Through the sheer silk partition, he sensed the akeshi warily observing the exchange. They had assisted with his toilette, and he dismissed them with a reassuring smile. “No, my pets, it is not as you think. This boy has not your charms and is not trained for the purpose. It is merely a matter of business."
Once alone, Jahzel began to fret. For weeks, he labored over what he would say and do. It was not like the first time when he did not know what beauty would walk through the door. Now he knew what Saruken was bringing him, and knew his own failings enough to be ashamed.
Looking at the table with its fine settings, Jahzel took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. It is not a fantasy or a game of seduction. It is just a meal, nothing more.
Footfalls on the stairs outside told him that Saruken had returned. Jahzel heard muffled words at the door moments before it opened, and the eunuch on duty entered to announce the lieutenant's return.
"I brought him, my lord.” Saruken came in, hustling before him a young man who clearly wanted to be elsewhere.
"Very well, you may leave us,” said Jahzel. “You may also leave, Eshemi.” He nodded to the eunuch, who withdrew and closed the door with marked reluctance.
That left the young man standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. Twisting his large hands behind his back, Saret stared at the floor. His threadbare linen tunic, trimmed with faded embroidery, looked like his festival best, while the red patches on his neck, face and arms revealed a hasty attempt to bathe before entering the presence of the High Prince.
Because he would not speak, Jahzel took the initiative. “Do you wish to sit, Saret?” With a graceful gesture, he indicated the carpets, cushions and low table set with gold plate. “Do you desire some wine?” Servants waited behind the silken partition, ready to serve the meal as summoned.
Saret did not move. “You wanted to see me, great prince?” he croaked.
"Yes, you will be my guest for supper."
"Your guest?” Saret's gaze dropped to the plain garments he wore, to his rough hands and worn shoes. “Sir, I'm not—"
"Be seated and I will explain.” Jahzel made certain to keep his voice low and gentle, especially when Saret did not comply. “I realize your last visit was somewhat brief. You have nothing to fear from me."
At his silent command, a servant entered bearing a carafe and two goblets upon a tray. Saret stared at the cup the woman offered him until Jahzel ordered him to take it, but even then he did not drink. “It is Besarian white,” said Jahzel. Seeing the young man did not understand, he patiently explained, “It is wine from Khalgar. Have you ever had wine before?"
Saret quickly shook his head. “We have beer in my father's house,” he murmured.
"If you would prefer beer, then I will have some brought."
"I don't want to make any trouble, sir.” Saret hesitantly tasted the wine, heeding Jahzel's admonishment to sip slowly, and nodded when asked how he liked it.
Sitting down to supper proved more complicated. Saret was plainly uncomfortable among the brocade and velvet cushions, and did not know what the courses were or what utensils to use. Jahzel watched, inwardly berating his own shortsightedness at thinking a private supper would accomplish his aim. Saret was a peasant unaccustomed to such niceties. Several times he started to reach for a morsel with his fingers, only to snatch his hand away when he saw the High Prince watching him.
Jahzel patiently told him what each dish was and which utensil to use, demonstrating with his own place setting, but under such scrutiny Saret ate very little and drank even less, seeming to choke down what he did consume. Finally, the High Prince motioned to the servant and murmured that she was to bring beer, cheese, olives and flat bread.
"Perhaps I was wrong in thinking you would enjoy these dishes,” he said.
"I'm sorry, sir.” Saret's eyes and the hunch of his shoulders showed genuine apprehension. “It's so much food and too fine for me."
"Seven dishes is a small meal,” explained Jahzel. “A royal banquet in Tajhaan may consist of up to four hundred."
Saret twisted his fingers in his lap. Chewing his bottom lip, he sighed heavily and asked, “Sir, why do you want to eat with me? Last time—"
"Last time I was weary from my progress, so I was not as polite as I should have been. Such a lack of manners is inexcusable in a prince.” Through the partition, the servant reappeared with a large tray and folding table. Jahzel signaled that she was to offer the food and beer to Saret and then leave. “Did Khemwy ever show you his work?"
"What, sir?” Saret stared into the clay cup, studying the beer before taking a sip. “Oh no, he said he would finish it in Tajhaan."
"The frieze is now in the temple of Shalat,” said Jahzel, “where it is seen and admired by many worshippers."
Saret nodded, but a slight smile appeared on his lips. “Yes, sir,” he said softly. “Khemwy is a very great artist."
"When I saw the frieze, my eye was caught by a certain figure,” explained Jahzel. “I know that Khemwy works from life, so I had him tell me which model he used. He gave me your name and told me you were beautiful."
Shame darkened Saret's face, and he looked away. When he finally answered, his voice was small, almost inaudible. “But he lied to you, sir."
"Khemwy told me he did not. It was my error that I did not question him further at the time.” Jahzel reached for the carafe and refilled his wine cup. “I realize now that an artist does not see with the same eyes as a prince. Perhaps it would comfort you to know that I do not look like my statues either?"
"I didn't notice, sir."
"I imagine it is difficult to notice anything when one is staring into one's lap.” Jahzel drank and set the cup down. “If you had been raised at court, you would have known that an invitation to dine at my table means you may look at and speak to me."
Permission had been given, yet Saret did not raise his eyes. Sighing, Jahzel tried a different tactic, one he sometimes used to reassure virgin brides or akeshi who came trembling to his bed for the first time. He smiled, letting his voice become gentle, chiding. “You do not wish to look at your prince?"
Saret lifted his eyes just enough for a quick glimpse before lowering them again. “If I looked at you, sir, then you'd have to look at me also."
"Your appearance is not as offensive as you believe. Look at me, or I shall think you wish to avoid m
e.” Once his initial distaste passed, Jahzel found Saret's ugliness bearable. “You have the look of one who has had the pox."
"I had it as a baby, sir,” replied Saret. “Then I broke my nose when I was six and it didn't set right. My brothers are all very handsome."
In the firm lines of Saret's jaw and cheekbones, and in the fullness of his eyes, Jahzel saw the ruined beauty he might have shared with his brothers. Those nobles and princes who could afford it were inoculated against the pox, yet clearly no such protection had been available for Saret. “How old are you?"
"I'm twenty, sir."
"Do you have a bride?"
Saret sputtered before abruptly choking off his laughter. “Oh no, sir, I don't have a wife,” he said, then added, “You're not going to give me one, are you?"
"You seem to find the idea amusing,” said Jahzel.
"It wouldn't be any good, you see, whether I wanted to get married or not. Not even the ugly girls will look at me."
"Then I will respect your wishes and not give you a bride."
Saret took another drink. As accustomed to it as he must be, somehow beer emboldened him where wine did not. “I didn't want to go with your soldiers, sir. They teased me after the last time."
"My guards teased you?” If this was so, Jahzel must remember to speak sternly with Saruken.
"No, not the guards, but the neighbors,” said Saret. “They saw me going with the guards and said things afterward. It isn't fit for royal ears, what they said."
Jahzel suspected what tone those jibes had taken. “I would not take a farmer's son or daughter to my bed, no matter how beautiful. But if I did, it would be a great honor for you."
Saret twisted his hands in his lap. “They know you didn't, that you wouldn't. I mean to say is—"
"Because you are so ugly I would not make the effort, is that it?” finished Jahzel. When Saret nodded, he added, “Does it trouble you that I am here?"
"Sir, I know you wanted to see the beautiful boy who posed for Khemwy,” answered Saret, “but that was the first time and you didn't like what you saw. Now you're here again, knowing how ugly I am, and you give me supper and want to talk to me. The neighbors won't know what to think. I don't know what to think."
Phaze Fantasies, Vol. 5 Page 8
