He pulled himself up on his elbows and, as he contemplated her soft little bottom, he felt desire stirring within him again. But, suddenly, even before Orkhan could raise his hand to deliver the first slap, she uttered a brief cry. Then she looked over her shoulder at Orkhan. Her face was grim and her teeth were chattering so much that she was impossible to understand at first. Finally Orkhan heard her say,
‘There is a face in the ice! We have been making love upon someone’s tomb! Look at it! You have to look!’
Peering over Anadil’s shoulder, Orkhan could now with difficulty just make out the body through the still thick layers of ice. He saw Barak grinning fiercely up at him.
CHAPTER THREE
THE FAT BUTTERFLY
Outside in the corridor, a pair of mutes barred their way. A third, seeing them emerge from the ice-cell, disappeared back down the corridor. In a little while, he returned with the Vizier. The Vizier started talking before Orkhan could open his mouth.
‘Now, you have beheld your brother face to face, just as was promised. In this place promises are always kept. Alas, that they are almost never kept in the way one is expecting. Yet the showing of your brother was meant kindly.’
‘Kindly!’
‘Yes it was meant to be a clear and vivid warning for you. I think that it is like the rearing of lion cubs. As everyone knows, the cubs are always born dead, but the loving lioness tends them and licks them into shape and after a few days they are made alive. Even so, it sometimes happens that there is a cub which cannot be licked into shape.’
‘You mean that it was the Valide Sultan who had my brother killed?’
‘A mother kill her own son! And she is your mother too! How could you think such a thing of your own mother?’ The Vizier did indeed seem genuinely shocked. However he continued, ‘Even so, it is always rewarding to contemplate the ways of the animal kingdom. The beasts of the desert and jungle have much to teach the politic man.’
‘But what have you to teach me? Who did kill Barak?’
‘Wild surmise will infallibly miss its mark. Barak was like a man making his way along a precipitous mountain ledge in a snow storm. Then he looked down and, having looked down, he lost his nerve and, having lost his nerve, he lost his footing and with it his life. It is best to think of your brother as an unlucky mountain man. Alternatively, you may think of your brother as a man seated at his ease and feasting at a party. Then Death the Butler comes round with a bitter cup. Your brother seizes the cup and drinks deeply from it. Yes, perhaps that is better – to think of your brother as a man leaving a party.’
Suddenly Orkhan thought of Anadil. He did not want her reporting on what had taken place in the ice-cell, or, for that matter on the conversation he was now having with the Vizier. He turned towards her, intending to have her placed under immediate arrest, but she was no longer anywhere to be seen. He turned back to the Vizier,
‘That girl, Anadil, who was with me, I want her placed under close confinement under the guard of deaf mutes.’
‘I shall lose no time in carrying out your command, O Sultan,’ said the Vizier, looking thoughtful. ‘So, she did not please you? I did think that you would have been better off with an ugly woman. The thing about ugly women is that it takes longer to achieve … ’
‘Tell me some other time! Your next task is to summon the ministers to an immediate meeting.’
‘I will lose no time in dealing with this also. The ministers long to bask in the radiance of your newly risen sun. But they are dispersed throughout the city and it will take time to have them fetched and, besides, you must be hungry. Yes, surely it is time to eat, for you have not eaten since you came out of the Cage. I will arrange for food to be brought to you.’
‘See to it then, and the summoning of the ministers and the arrest of the girl. I must be busy. I am impatient.’
‘Yes, you are like your brother.’
Then the Vizier led him to another small room. Most of the floor was covered in cushions in the midst of which there was a low table. Having ushered him in, the Vizier was about to hurry away, but an afterthought struck him,
‘One last thing, you did not, by any chance, let the viper drink at the Tavern of the Perfume-Makers?’
‘Certainly not,’ lied Orkhan impatiently. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’
‘All may still be well then,’ said the Vizier.
A few moments later, mutes appeared, bearing vast silver trays covered with snacks. Orkhan ate and dozed. Then he was being shaken awake. The Vizier was bending anxiously over him.
‘The Valide Sultan wants to see you. I will come with you and wait for you, so that I can conduct you from her august majesty’s presence to the audience chamber where the council of ministers will meet’.
Once again they made their way across the garden to the porcelain pavilion. This time Orkhan found it impossible to advance more than a couple of steps beyond its door. A great carpet – the Carpet of Mirth – now covered most of the porcelain floor of the pavilion and a writhing mound of shrieking and giggling young women tumbled across it, displaying, as they did so, parts of their bodies which should not be seen in public. At every moment more women, having taken their turn at casting the dice, threw themselves upon the heap. The fall of the dice determined where, on which squares, they should place their hands and feet. From the bottom of the heap of writhing bodies, voices could be heard vainly pleading to be let out to throw the dice again and improve on their position.
At the far end of the room the Valide Sultan looked on with indulgence. Seeing Orkhan, she pointed to the heap of women in between them and said,
‘Would you like to join them, Orkhan?’
He shook his head vigorously.
‘But there is a playmate of yours somewhere in there, I think.’
In answer to these words, Anadil’s triumphant head emerged from the shifting mass of robes and limbs. Though she smiled brightly up at him, he looked on Anadil and her companions who sported on the Carpet of Mirth with revulsion. He was thinking of Barak suspended in the ice.
The Valide Sultan seemed perfectly oblivious to Orkhan’s hostility. She lolled back comfortably on the cushions and smiled lazily. She had to raise her voice above the squeaks and giggles of the young women,
‘Poor Anadil has not had much luck on the Carpet this afternoon. But I hear she had better fortune in her games with you this morning. I hear you two had a little wrestle – and she trapped your head in a leg-lock. That counts the same as a fall in wrestling, does it not? So what shall be her prize?’
Orkhan wanted to say that Anadil deserved nothing less than arrest and impalement, but in the situation he now found himself in, faced by the Valide Sultan and this horde of laughing women, such a thing seemed all but impossible to say. He hesitated. Then, he reflected that he was, after all, the Sultan. So he took a deep breath and said it,
‘She deserves nothing less than death. Anadil will be arrested and these follies are now at an end.’
There were cries of dismay from the floor.
‘So no one may laugh and Anadil must die, in order that you can keep your miserable self-pride!’ the Valide Sultan cried out. She was not smiling now. ‘A beautiful woman in her youth is to be slain to protect my prince’s sulks!’
Orkhan did not trouble to reply. He hurried out of the door and angrily confronted the Vizier who was waiting anxiously.
‘Wretched slave, I thought I had told you to arrest Anadil.’
‘Alas, my Sultan, I am indeed a wretched slave, for I have had the eunuchs search high and low for her, but they have not been able to find her.’
‘She has been in the pavilion playing silly games with the other concubines. Arrest her now – and I want the Valide Sultan escorted to her chambers and placed under close confinement. She is to communicate with no one.’
‘I will lose no time in carrying out your commands. I go like an arrow shot from your bowstring. I become the words of your commands
floating on the breath of your will, for the fulfilment of your will is the height of all our desires. Would you like to proceed to the council chamber now?’
The Vizier tugged at Orkhan’s sleeve. As they walked away from the porcelain pavilion, the Vizier continued to speak in a low mutter – as if he were speaking to himself,
‘There are gates which should never be entered. There are certain keys for which there are no locks. There are hidden places within the women’s quarters which are not safe for a man. There are certain passageways into which a man should not stick his nose. This palace has doors which can take a man out of this world … But you tell me that the viper has not entered the Tavern. That at least is good.’
‘Speak plainly or keep silent,’ Orkhan commanded.
The Vizier looked hard at Orkhan.
‘Well, I see that I will have to be plain with you. You must understand that the festering idleness of the Harem girls engenders wicked thoughts, so that they do all sorts of things that they should not. Flowers of evil grow in a bed of boredom. One of the concubines’ wickedest tricks is that they smear an addictive paste between their thighs, so that a man having put his face where he should not and having tasted the drugged potion which is on offer at the Tavern of the Perfume-Makers, soon becomes addicted. That man will end up begging for more, kneeling before them with his tongue hanging out. Nothing will seem more important to him than to be allowed to have another taste. So the girls of the Harem can turn their master into their slave. It is all part of this abominable Prayer-Cushion business.’
‘What Prayer-Cushion business?’
‘Ah, here we are at the council chamber! The ministers will surely be coming along shortly. As your Vizier, I advise you to ask not about what concerns you not, lest you hear what pleases you not.’
The council chamber turned out to be a spacious wooden kiosk on a low hill in the Palace’s garden. Its interior was painted with scenes of hunting, picnicking and flirtation. Though pleasant, the place hardly seemed suitable for the transaction of government business. The Vizier, possibly anxious not to be interrogated further about any prayer-cushions, having made a hasty obeisance, hurried away. Orkhan seated himself on one of the low, cushioned benches in the kiosk and waited.
He had not waited long before someone entered. It was not a minister, but a woman, who came wriggling on her belly across the floor, making her way towards him. This time it was not Anadil, for the waggling rump, sheathed in a tight black robe belonged to an older and bulkier woman. She did not raise her head or say anything, but once she had reached the bench on which he was sitting, she set to work, licking his feet and sucking at his toes. Occasionally she moaned, whether from pleasure or disgust was not clear.
Orkhan was so surprised that for a while he allowed her to have her way with his feet before he recollected himself and pulled them away.
‘Go away, you foolish woman!’ he told her. ‘I am not in the mood for your Harem games. This is a place for business, not pleasure. Get out before the ministers arrive.’
‘But, oh my master, I am here on business. I am the first of the Sultan’s petitioners. I prostrate myself utterly before you, for I have come to beg for mercy for my mistress, Anadil. My name is Perizade, which means the Fairy-Born.’
And only now did she raise her head. Orkhan found himself gazing on a tear-stained, pudgy face. Perizade’s nose was slightly hooked and her lips were thick. Her heavy breasts pressed tight against the black sheath. As Orkhan gazed on them, she too looked down on them and smiled.
‘I abase myself utterly. I am yours to do with as you please. I am the Sultan’s prayer-cushion. Do with me as you will. Please forgive Anadil. Unless you forgive my mistress, she will be angry with me.’
‘You are mistaken. She will be dead rather than angry.’
Perizade thought about this. But she looked unconvinced,
‘But you must give mercy to Anadil.’
‘“Must” is not a word to be used to sultans. Anadil is my slave and I shall deal with her as I choose.’
‘It is true that Anadil is your slave, but she is a slave of her body first. It is the same with all of us. From the moment of our birth we, all of us, find ourselves swimming in a great ocean of desire, whose sexual tides carry us to unfamiliar shores, whether we will or no.’
Orkhan snorted at her words, but Perizade continued,
‘It is certain that none of us are free. We are all driven by Destiny. Destiny is a mad scribe, who writes our stories on our bodies. It writes upon our skins, covering them with a script of lines, spots, veins, freckles, and swellings.’
‘So, Perizade, you are a philosopher?’ Orkhan was amused in spite of himself.
‘I am a washerwoman, Oh Sultan. I wash the clothes of Anadil and the other concubines. She is young and you are young. If she was foolish last night, it was only a child’s game and that was perhaps the only fun she will ever have. You are a sultan and we are your slaves, but we are all humans as well. Anadil is not a toy to be torn apart and discarded when she does not please you. Think again. Spare my mistress and I will grant you anything you desire.’
‘How can you, a washerwoman to slaves, give the Sultan anything he does not already have?’
‘I can give you good fortune.’
‘What? You are a lucky slave or something?’
‘Or something. I tell fortunes. I am a phallomancer.’ She licked her lips in a suggestive fashion and continued,
‘Show me your cock and I will tell you your fortune,’ and, rising from her kneeling posture, she stood over Orkhan, so that her breasts hung over his face and she tugged urgently at his robe. Orkhan, who was curious about his fortune, did not resist. Having uncovered his cock, which stiffened instantly, she set to licking it.
‘This helps to bring the veins out,’ she explained, before reapplying her mouth to its divinatory work.
Her mouth worked its way from base to tip. She gave the tip a special tongue-lashing. Then, holding the swollen cock between thumb and forefinger, she drew back to contemplate her work.
‘Sultan or shop-keeper, they are all pretty much alike at first sight. There are just tiny differences in the veins for the fortune-teller to work with.’ She ran a tracking finger down his cock. ‘This line, for example, is your heart line, and over here your line of procreation … Taste is also part of it,’ she confided. ‘I should say that you are a kind man, only you have not had enough tenderness. Ah, that is unusual! Your line of Destiny crosses both the line of Mars and the girdle of Venus. How interesting!’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I am getting wet thinking about it. It means that you will fall in love and marry and, if I have read these lines correctly, our fates and our sexual juices will mingle, for I am the lucky woman you will marry and make your queen!’
Orkhan emitted a barking laugh.
‘No it is true,’ she insisted. ‘Your fortune follows the mouth of the fortune-teller. But, if you do not believe me, you can see for yourself. Just as Destiny has written upon your cock, so will my fate be written on my cunt. The science of vulvascopy is very ancient. Is it not said that round the cunt of every woman is written the names of the men who are destined to enter it? Come on, come and have a good look!’ she urged, as she wriggled about.
With some difficulty she pulled the dress up over her hips. Then she lay back upon the cushions and spread her legs. Intrigued despite himself, he lowered his face between her plump thighs.
‘My fortune will be written on the folds closest to the clitoris. Hurry up and tell me, am I not going to be your queen?’ Her voice, no longer that of wheedling petitioner, had turned imperious.
Unlike Anadil, Perizade was not clean shaven between the legs. Orkhan gazed at the folds of the vulva, uncertain what it was that he was looking for. The fancy entered his head that he was gazing on an oracular mouth. It seemed to him to be whispering indistinctly, summoning him to approach closer. Almost swooning, he did find himself moving in
closer. He thought that it was as if the strange mouth did indeed have the power to command him. Then, at the very last moment, he remembered the Vizier’s warning about not letting the viper sup at the Tavern of the Perfume-Makers and he pulled away.
‘What did you do that for, you silly man?’ Perizade’s voice was shrill. ‘I want to know my fortune. But I know I’m destined to be your queen.’
Orkhan made no reply, but knelt and gazed at Perizade’s breasts and hips. His memory of Anadil was of a girl whose flesh was young and healthy, yet in a sense devoid of life. But Perizade’s soft heavy body was different. It seemed to speak to him of lived experience – of so many meals eaten, carpets sat upon, men embraced – and, because of this, it was infinitely desirable. He had to have her now, no matter how much he might regret it later. (He was quite certain that he would regret it.) Once again he moved towards her and placed a hand on one of her thighs.
‘What are you doing?’ She tried ineffectively to pull the dress back down over her hips.
‘I want you, Perizade.’
‘This is not what was meant to happen!’
‘This is your destiny,’ replied Orkhan.
It was after all the one-eyed man and not the viper who forced his way through the door of the Tavern of the Perfume-Makers. He pressed down hard upon the washerwoman, not caring how he hurt her. She was stony-faced and sweaty. She made no moves to help him, but her body quivered under his thrusts like a mattress filled with water. Perizade was silently weeping. She did not want to submit, but in the end she did and, at the last moment, she put her arms around him and hugged him tightly.
Orkhan lay for a long time on top of her, kissing and licking the tears from her cheeks. When, finally he did withdraw and rolled over to lie beside her, he fell instantly into a heavy post-coital doze. He awoke to a kind of nightmare, in which some immovable weight, some monstrous creature perhaps, was squatting on his face, so that he was unable to breathe. Then he realised that this was no dream, but that Perizade was indeed sitting on his face. He could dimly hear her crooning with pleasure. In a thrice, he threw her off and pushed her onto the floor. But, though he had swiftly dealt with the incubus, it was not before the viper, possessed of a will of its own, had once again drunk in the Tavern of the Perfume-Makers.
Prayer-Cushions of the Flesh Page 3
