by Lisa Cach
I had dressed with care this evening, trying to appear neither dowdy nor sex-hungry. Since my most modest gowns were unsuited to the warm weather, I’d chosen an emerald-green silk, fastened at each shoulder with garnet clasps, but leaving my arms bare. I’d topped the gown with a long, wide scarf of deep red, draped over my shoulders, across my chest, and once over my head. My heavy, straight hair was pinned up in a precarious arrangement of loops and buns, held there with gold pins I’d constantly pushed back into place throughout the meal. The whole mass felt ready to come tumbling down.
On my feet I wore my new golden slippers. They’d been purchased out of guilt, but I liked to see them sparkling from under the hem of the green silk gown. I felt as if I wore stars upon my feet.
The cithara is not a small, dainty instrument, and as I arranged myself to play it, my long scarf slid off my head. It bunched up on my arm and made a tangled nuisance of itself, so I said goodbye to modesty and removed it, folding it into a neat mound at my feet: music took precedence. I didn’t dare look at Alaric to see if he’d noticed; I was getting the idea that he was more likely to look at me if I didn’t look at him. Visual confrontation would scare him away, not draw him closer.
I began to play softly. Nothing boisterous; at least not yet. And certainly I would not sing, for the songs I knew all involved nymphs, mentulas, or marriage beds. Sometimes all three together, with a satyr thrown in to keep it lively.
The rattle of dice and the low sounds of triumph or distress from Alaric and Sid faded from my awareness as I plucked the strings. I imagined the notes as my fingertips, reaching across to stroke Alaric’s cheek; down his neck; across his chest. With music, I ran my hands through his hair; along his arms; into the sensitive nooks between the bases of his fingers. I created a melody built on my curiosity and my desire, and with it I explored his body, reaching where I knew I could not in reality.
The deeper I fell into my imagining, the more vivid it became to me. I heard my golden swarm, and from the corners of my inner eye I saw my visionary bees surrounding Alaric and me as I undressed him with sound. With a strum of my fingers on the cithara I stripped his tunic from him; another strum and his breeches were untied. With an arpeggio I slid my hands under the waistband to cup his buttocks, and then down the breeches went. I plucked a rich chord, and felt the thick heat of his rod in my hand.
Harmonizing notes now: Alaric responding, as I could dream he would. His mouth coming down to mine. His hand sliding along my waist, then up to stroke my breast, his thumb flicking over my nipple. His lips at the base of my neck, tongue pressing hard, while one hand unfastened the clasp at my shoulder until the fabric came free, baring my breast.
My imagining was so vivid, I could feel it in my cunny. I swelled and moistened, and felt the pulsing of my gates, eager to give him entrance. With my music I commanded him, having him turn me round and pull me to him so that I could feel the ridge of his desire against the small of my back. He lifted me in his strong arms until he could wedge himself between my buttocks, and with his free hand he raised the hem of my gown. His callused palm skimmed up the inside of my thigh to my folds.
He stroked me. Once. Twice.
I moaned, my hips rocking in rhythm to his touch.
A third time. A fourth.
And then his finger slid deep inside me and he pressed his palm to my mound. He rocked me against his hand, his mentula sliding against my buttocks, his fingertip inside me rubbing against a buried treasure of sensation.
His finger withdrew, and I whimpered, bereft; but an instant later four fingers slowly pressed their way in in its place. I felt myself stretching, accepting, canting my hips toward his hand even as I wanted to back away in alarm.
He sank his hand up past his knuckles, and then spread his fingers.
My cunny clenched, and then I was falling into waves of release. My fingers raced on the cithara, plucking chords that forced him to find his own satisfaction against my backside. Together we pulsed and flowed, my body cradled to his, until the waves subsided and we calmed.
With a few quiet strums, I released us both, and my golden swarm faded away.
I sat with my eyes closed, the cithara heavy in my arm. It took me a few moments to realize that the room was surprisingly quiet, though I could hear breathing.
I opened my eyes and found Alaric staring at me, his face flushed, his lips parted. He looked bewildered and wildly aroused, and a flick of his gaze had me looking down at my chest, half exposed as one of my shoulder clasps had fallen out. Several locks of my hair had fallen free, too.
Gods. I must look as if I’d been tumbled in truth. I snuck a glance at Sid, and then the other nobles: they were wide-eyed and pale, looking at Alaric in worried confusion and at me in horror.
Holy dangling duck dongs, what have I done now?
Embarrassed, I bent forward to set down the cithara and retrieve the fallen clasp, and as I did there was a flurry of movement to one side; a woman’s chiding voice; a small child’s laugh. A sturdy little ox of a toddler ran into my leg, and then reached for my hair, pulling down what remained of my elaborate arrangement.
“Mama,” the boy said.
It was a dagger to my heart. Theo. My son. I scooped the child up onto my lap and nuzzled him. He giggled and yanked at my hair, then threw his arms around my neck. I murmured nonsense in Phannic to him, holding him close. He wasn’t my Theo, and was much older, but he was as close as I could get here in Tolosa. I was glad to steal a moment’s comfort from another person’s child. He was heavy and damp in my arms, and as wriggly as a puppy.
“Let me take him,” Alaric said.
I looked up to find him reaching for the child, his eyes on mine. The bewilderment was gone from his gaze, replaced by gentle wonder, as if he’d had a revelation. I felt as if my holding of the child—his child, obviously—had finally allowed him to see me, whereas before all he had seen was the sex he wanted but was not allowed. There was no fear or shyness in his gaze as he lifted the boy from my lap; instead, I sensed the first cautious sparks of a new warmth.
“His name is Gesalic,” Alaric said, and untangled a lock of my hair from Gesalic’s grip. Alaric rubbed the strand between his own fingertips for an instant—as if he couldn’t help doing so—before releasing it.
“He’s beautiful. I hope my infant son grows to be as bold and energetic.”
“You have a child?” he said in surprise. “Is he here with you?”
I tried to smile, but felt the sting of tears in my eyes, and shook my head. “Theodoric awaits me in Soissons; the journey was too dangerous for one so small.”
“It pains you to be away from him.”
The warm sympathy in his gaze almost undid me. My lips trembled. I nodded.
“Theodoric . . . a good choice of name. It was my grandfather’s.”
I blinked in surprise. “Was it?”
He shifted Gesalic to his side, the baby happily thumping his fists on Alaric’s chest. “Your son, he is with his father?”
I thought carefully before answering, weighing how versions of the truth would make me appear to this man, whose opinion mattered so much. “There is no one who claims him in Soissons.” I waited for Alaric’s questioning look, and when it came I went on: “It’s believed that his father is living here, under your protection. The man I fear meeting in every corridor, every room, and every courtyard: Sygarius.”
Alaric kissed Gesalic on the temple and handed him to his nurse. “Then let me reassure you, my lady Nimia. You need not fear any longer.”
I sat up straight. Had I succeeded, so quickly? “I don’t?”
Alaric shook his head. “Sygarius is not here.”
There are rumors spreading that you’re a sorceress,” Terix said, plopping down on a chair and grabbing a handful of grapes from a platter on the table beside me. It was midday, the heat was enervating, the cicadas
were loud enough to make my head ache, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t know where Sid was, and didn’t know if I should go mill among the courtiers while Alaric attended to his duties, or stay here in our small suite of rooms and wait for I didn’t know what. The cool of the evening, perhaps, and clearer thoughts.
Terix had been out scavenging for information, about both Sygarius and how people were perceiving me after last night’s . . . impassioned musical performance.
“You found Visigoths who speak Latin?” I asked.
He nodded. “Did you notice how many Romans are part of Alaric’s government? I found several who were happy to gossip about their king . . . and found Visigoth women who enjoy a bit of flirtation.” He grinned. “They act pious and proper, but it just makes them want to misbehave.”
“Oh Terix, you didn’t.”
He tugged on the long end of his new belt. “Didn’t I?”
I put my hand to my forehead and shook my head. “What must they think of us?”
“Do you really care?”
“I care only as much as it matters to getting Sygarius handed over to us.”
“Are you sure?”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged, and ate a grape. “Alaric is handsome, and a king. That seems to be the type of man you like. Rumor is that you set out to enthrall him, and you aim to be queen of the Visigoths.”
I laughed. “That’s unlikely to happen.”
“Unlikely or not, would you welcome it?”
“I have to go home to Theo.”
“And Clovis. Right?”
“And Clovis.”
“You were once half mad with lust for him. You wouldn’t listen to sense then. Is the same happening again, Nimia? Are you lusting for Alaric?”
I thought of the warmth in Alaric’s gaze as he’d looked at me last evening, and tried to figure out what I was feeling. Terix deserved the best truth I could give. “Alaric seems made of different stuff than Clovis and the Franks; or Sygarius and the Romans. I sense a kindness in him unlike anything I’ve ever encountered; a soft peace opposite to the cold, hard edges of ambition that I’m used to. Don’t you feel that you must be constantly on guard, living among the Franks?”
“The Franks, the Romans, the Visigoths—it doesn’t matter who. The only time I don’t feel it is with you. Or if I’m drunk or fucking. I’d do all three together, if I could.”
He was teasing, but not for the first time I thought I caught a flicker in his eyes that said he wasn’t entirely joking. Of course, he was not a fellow to pass up a willing cunny. But I knew his heart belonged to Audofleda. “That doesn’t sound like much fun for me. Drunk men are a terrible lay.”
“I’m sure that won’t stop you if it’s the only way to get Alaric to unbelt.”
“Fine. I’ll admit it: I want him. Not just for bedding, though.” I went to the window to look out at the garden. “I want to know what it’s like to live in Alaric’s world. Maybe it is softer. More caring.”
He came to stand beside me, the bunch of grapes in his hand. He picked one and squeezed it slightly, then held it to my lips until I sucked out the sweet center. He brushed his thumb over my lips, catching a drop of juice. “I’m sure he seems different on the surface, Nimia, but he won’t be. He’s a king. He’s never going to put you first, above all else.”
Just like Clovis.
“I only need him to put me above Sygarius.”
“Just don’t . . .”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t lose yourself. Don’t pretend to be something you’re not. Don’t care what people think of you. Of us.”
“I’m not ashamed of you, Terix. I never would be.”
“I hope not. More than that, though, I don’t want you to ever be ashamed of yourself.”
There was no answer for that. As usual, Terix knew me better than I knew myself, and had sensed the judgments I was imposing on myself over my dress, my behavior, my lusts. Only two days among the Visigoths, and I was already beginning to feel that there was something wrong with me. The glorious freedom I felt in the pleasures of my body had become tainted by their prudery.
And that wasn’t right. I was Phanne, not Christian. Not Visigoth.
A small spark of rebellion lit within me. “What did you say, Terix, about the pious and proper wanting to misbehave?”
He grinned. “They’re yearning for it. Scared to death to do it, of course.”
“So you didn’t . . . ?”
He shook his head. “Leaning close and brushing my arm against one of theirs was about all the excitement they could take. I swear on Priapus’s swollen rod that one girl nearly fainted when I touched her earlobe with my tongue. She’ll be stroking herself beneath the sheets tonight, dreaming about what more I could have done to her.”
“A little fright adds spice.”
“A little sin adds spice. Nothing makes sex so attractive to these people as believing it’s a sin to have it. They act like they don’t have mentulas or cunnies under their clothes, but they desperately want someone to prove them wrong.”
Did Alaric?
Yes, I thought. Seeing me as a mother, with Gesalic in my arms, had allowed him to see me as a type of woman he understood and could admire within the confines of his faith.
It was the Nimia who had stroked his body with her music, however, whom he desired.
I could give him both.
Terix held another grape to my lips, and I smiled at him before I sucked it in.
Sid came in just then, greeting us briefly as he reached for the flagon of wine and poured himself a glass. “Alaric would like you to join him when his business is done for the day,” he said to me, melting onto a narrow couch and throwing one arm across his brow. “Was it this hot yesterday? I’m too old for this. Old bones like heat, but there are limits.”
“I’m to join Alaric? Where? For what? To dine?”
“I hope not to play music, Kitharede. His priests are probably burning every lyre, pipe, and drum in the palace as we speak. Even I couldn’t persuade anyone that it was God you were praising with that performance.”
“Sidonius, you must understand: I don’t know what sometimes comes over me when I play; I have no control over myself.”
“Clearly not. And the effect it had on Alaric . . . No wonder music is so limited at his court, if that is how he responds to it. That was not an ecstasy of faith we witnessed.”
“My music didn’t affect anyone else the same way, did it?”
“I wouldn’t dare to ask.” He must have seen the worry on my face, for he softened. “No, I don’t think anyone else responded quite the same way. And it was beautiful music; more expressive than any I have heard from you before. It was just, perhaps, a little too . . . earthly for your audience. Try for more angelic next time.”
“I’m not sure what that would sound like.”
“Angels are neither male nor female. That should give you an idea.”
“They’re hermaphrodites?” That gave me all the wrong ideas, actually. Both mentula and cunny on one person—the possibilities were intriguing.
“No, no. They have no sex. They do not join with others, or reproduce.”
“That seems a cruel fate. Are they being punished for a crime?”
Sid slid his arm down over his eyes, and sighed. “No. But I begin to wonder if I am.” He lowered his arm to his side and looked at me. “I couldn’t discover where Sygarius is.”
“I couldn’t, either,” Terix said.
“If it’s not common knowledge, then Alaric must have taken care to hide him,” I said. “But why? Did he think Clovis would send someone to kidnap him? Or maybe it’s worse than that. Maybe Sygarius is gathering an army.”
“War. Always war,” Sid muttered. “Some men never tire of it.”
I thought of Theo, in Soissons. If war came while I was here in Tolosa, chasing shadows . . . “I have to find Sygarius. I have to stop him, whatever he’s planning.”
“How?” Sid asked.
I looked at Terix.
Terix grinned. “I hear Alaric has an appetite for spice.”
“Pardon?” Sid said.
Neither of us explained. There were some things a bishop would be happier not knowing.
A servant left me at the partly opened gate to a courtyard. I could hear the splash of a fountain under the rattling song of the cicadas, and as I pushed the gate wider a cool breath of damp air touched my skin. The small courtyard was dominated by a central fountain and shaded by tall, branching trees that blocked out all but a tracery of blue sky. I came to the edge of the fountain and closed my eyes, standing motionless as the delicious chill of moisture painted itself over my bare arms and face.
“I thought you might enjoy some relief from the heat, being from the north as you are,” Alaric said in Gothic.
I opened my eyes to find him coming around the fountain toward me. “Thank you. You could give me no finer gift.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
“More mine, I think.” I sat on the edge of the fountain and plunged my hands into the deep basin of cool water. My eyelids fluttered, and I moaned softly. “I’m tempted to throw myself in.”
He chuckled. “Your gown would get soaked.”
I slanted him a suggestive look. “Not if I took it off. There’s nothing quite so lovely as cool water running over bare skin on a hot day.”
His eyes widened, and he seemed to have a hard time swallowing. “I—I shall leave you in privacy if you wish to do so.”
I flicked water at him, and grinned. “I was teasing. It would be an awkward swim in a basin this small, anyway.”
“Ah.”
“Besides, this gown in cotton; there’s no need to take it off. A little water won’t harm it.” I scooped up a double handful of the cool water and poured it down my front. It soaked through the thin white cotton, turning it transparent and revealing the swirling designs of the tattoos over my breasts.
