I hate the waiting, he thought. I’m like a man who has trained all his life to run a race, and now has to wait for hours in the stadium. This place makes my skin creep. I’m not afraid to fight. I’m not afraid to lead men into danger. I’m not afraid to face death. I’ve done these things before. But Mulhanabin gets into my bones and makes me distrust myself.
From deep within the buildings a muffled gong chimed the passing of some sacked hour.
I should not be thinking these thoughts, he told himself. I should not be acting this way. I should not be brooding over some poor broken chit of a girl. An Irolian warrior should be impervious to these things.
He smiled contemptuously to himself, and as he did so a door opened in the courtyard and Rasa Belit emerged at the head of half a dozen priests, all bearing staves. Veraine watched them draw level with the water tank.
‘I need to speak with you, General Veraine,’ the priest said, slowing his pace.
Veraine nodded.
Rasa Belit turned to his acolytes and said something to them. He spoke in a low voice and an archaic dialect so Veraine could not make out the sentence, but he did hear one word and he understood that very well. When the priest turned back he found Veraine’s iron short-sword levelled at his throat.
‘One more move, high priest, and it will not need the Horse-eaters to reduce Mulhanabin to ashes,’ said the soldier coldly.
The priests with the staves twitched and surged forward and hesitated. Rasa Belit threw up his hand to hold them back.
At that moment the Malia Shai stepped out of the door to the Inner Temple. She took in the tableau before her: the frozen gang of priests, the weapon threatening her chief votary, the looks of black fury on both his and Veraine’s faces. ‘What is happening?’ she asked.
Rasa Belit bared his teeth down the length of the blade, took a deliberate step back and sideways out of range, and bowed to the ground in her direction.
‘Mother of pestilence,’ he said as he climbed to his feet again, ‘I was about to ask the General to go with me out of the Temple. Information has been brought to me. It seems he shouldn’t be here.’
‘What information?’ she asked, coming up and looking at both of them with mild wonder. Veraine lowered his sword to a side guard position, keeping an eye on the priests.
‘His presence is in contravention of the sacred laws.’
‘What laws?’ Veraine said derisively, though he could have taken a guess.
Rasa Belit swung round and glared at him like a vulture. ‘There are laws of cleanliness for every Yamani temple,’ he said down his nose, ‘to keep out the tainted. Those who are not permitted into any sacred precinct except the shrine of Hu, the lord of outcasts. Those who have slipped down the ladder of incarnation even lower than the heathen Irolians.’
‘How kind of you to say so,’ Veraine murmured.
‘I’m talking about lepers, and the children of slaves, and those born deformed. And this man,’ he concluded triumphantly, turning back to the Malia Shai, ‘was born a slave.’
She blinked. ‘Is this true?’ she asked Veraine.
‘It’s true.’ He felt no need to justify himself. Deal with it, he thought.
‘He admits his shame,’ Rasa Belit said, smiling through tight lips.
‘Screw your shame, and your laws, priest. I have my orders and I will fulfil them, with or without your approval. If you cannot be grateful, at any rate you will not obstruct me.’
Rasa Belit would not even turn to look at him now. ‘He’s an abomination in this place,’ he told his goddess.
She blinked again. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she told the eunuch. ‘He’s here to save Mulhanabin. I give him dispensation to enter the Temple.’
‘Merciless Mother,’ he reproached her, ‘you cannot put aside the scriptures. This man’s presence desecrates this temple. He pollutes the stones he walks upon.’
She frowned slightly. ‘How can he, when I am here?’ she asked. ‘He’s only a man, but I am the living goddess. I bless Mulhanabin with every step.’
Rasa Belit grimaced. ‘Nevertheless, it’s the law,’ he said softly. ‘The law was written at the dawn of history. I do not need to remind you of the sacred duty we bear, Malia Shai.’
‘But I am older than the law. I’m older than the stones of the Temple. The walls of Mulhanabin were raised to furnish me a dwelling place on the Earth, Rasa, and the scriptures were written to instruct my worshippers how to behave. Not to instruct me.’ She spread her hands. ‘If my house is to be saved from the barbarians, then I will invite its defender within the walls.’
Rasa Belit’s face was a picture of frustration, little muscles tightening and twitching all over it. Veraine wondered if the Malia Shai had ever before defied her high priest. Very slowly, he inclined his head.
‘If it’s your will, Malia Shai,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps an exception could be made.’
‘In this situation, it is only reasonable.’
‘Reason and wise action are great,’ he said, bowing, ‘but sunyata is greater.’
‘Sunyata is my only desire,’ she replied.
Rasa Belit did not contradict this. Silently, the priests withdrew from the courtyard. Veraine let out a long, relieved breath, then sat down slowly on the broad rim of the pool. Under the satisfaction of seeing his opponent back down – and the surprise of being defended by the Malia Shai herself – he felt a familiar queasiness. He told himself it had only been a matter of time before the high priest found out. It was common knowledge among the Eighth Host, after all.
‘I thought you were the son of a great general,’ the Malia Shai said. She had not moved. She did not, it seemed, use posture or gesture much in conversation.
‘I am. My father was a hero of the Irolian people. But my mother was a slave.’
‘What had she done wrong?’
Veraine looked up at her from under his brows and for a long moment was silent. ‘Nothing,’ he said at last. ‘We make more use of slaves than you do. It’s not a form of punishment.’
‘She belonged to your father?’
Again, he hesitated. ‘She was of the class of – there is no word for it in Yamani. Listen; your men can take several wives, can’t they?’
‘Yes. If they can afford it.’
‘Well, an Irolian may take only one. But rich men are expected to keep a stable of female slaves for their entertainment. Like . . . pets.’
The Malia Shai’s gaze revealed neither disgust nor pity. ‘If you were born a slave,’ she said slowly, ‘then how did you rise to be a general?’
Veraine swallowed, though his throat felt dry. He had never discussed the subject with anyone, not in his whole life. In fact, when younger he had terminated a number of attempted conversations on the subject with violence. Why should he tell this girl now? He kept meeting her dark, level stare and wondering what lurked behind it.
‘When I was fourteen,’ he said, his voice a little hoarse, ‘my father’s attention was drawn to my existence. It then amused him to have me adopted.’
‘You . . . you don’t sound proud. Aren’t you pleased not to be a slave now?’
Veraine stared over at a trumpet-flower bush, his eyes tracking the tiny dances of the blue butterflies that haunted it. He exhaled slowly. ‘I was born on my father’s estate. It was a big one, right in the middle of the countryside.’ The words rose slowly to his lips, and he heard his own voice as if from far away. ‘The Glorious General Morin raised horses and cattle as every nobleman should, and needed a lot of land and many slaves. He didn’t farm himself, of course. In Irolian families the right thing is to present the eldest son to the Eternal Empire as a warrior. He inherits the land, but it’s the younger brothers who manage the herds and run the business for him. My father very rarely visited us. Our estate was run by Morin’s third brother, Darphan. He was a bullying, miserly man. The Lady Morin lived there too. She was never particularly cruel to me, though she gave my mother a great deal of pain, I think. It’s co
nsidered correct for a man’s wife to have his slave women whipped when he is away. Not hard enough to damage them, just enough to express a proper jealousy of her husband’s affections. Lady Morin ordered beatings that left my mother unable to walk for days.’
He paused. The Malia Shai waited silently. ‘I grew up as a herd boy and stable lad. I ran a little wild, I suppose. I didn’t have any real friends of my own age. The other slaves didn’t like me because I was the lord’s get, and his legitimate children wouldn’t look at a slave. And I think Lady Morin did her best to ensure there were not too many of my sort born.’ He shrugged. ‘So I was kicked and beaten a lot until I was old enough to run off, then later to hit back. And I would spend the time I could in the women’s court, where my mother lived with the other slaves.’ Warm memories flickered among the ashes in his mind; music and perfume and giggling laughter. ‘They liked me. Especially as I grew up. They treated me as a pet, and they got me to run errands and do jobs for them. They couldn’t leave the court without permission.’
They had enjoyed teasing him, too, getting him to comb out their hair or rub perfume into their backs after they had bathed. They had enjoyed the boyish pleasure and confusion they had been able to wring from him. And some of them, by the end, had not been teasing. Not entirely.
‘But when I was fourteen, the Lady Morin bought herself a new maid, a little older than me. Her name was Zura. She was very shy; I hardly even got to speak to her. But I fell in love. She had huge brown eyes. I used to sneak around the house, trying to get a glimpse of her.’ Veraine smiled painfully. ‘She was . . . unusually pretty. Unfortunately this brought her to Darphan’s attention. I saw what was happening, that he was trying to get her on her own. I started to shadow him, to make sure he never got the chance. Then one day he grabbed hold of her, and I attacked him. I know it was a stupid thing to do. But I was young, and it was the first time I had fallen in love.’
‘I don’t think it was stupid,’ the Malia Shai said levelly.
He bit his lip, looking at her.
‘What happened?’
‘Oh, Darphan called for help, and servants came running. I was grabbed and held down. Darphan would normally have had me whipped. To death. That’s the punishment for a slave attacking a free Irolian. But it so happened that General Morin was in residence at the time, so instead of doing it himself he brought me up in front of my father for punishment.’
‘He pardoned you?’
‘Mm.’ Veraine looked at the floor. ‘You see, at fourteen my hair had just started to go grey. Like it had for Morin when he was a boy. He saw this for the first time. And none of his legitimate children had ever shown the trait. He was moved by . . . sentiment, to lay claim to me. He let me off the whipping, and he had me officially adopted as his son, and he sent me off to the barracks at Antoth to train as a warrior of the Empire. And if I had thought being a slave was harsh, I had a whole world of pain to learn there.’
The Malia Shai tilted her head. He assumed it was meant to be interrogative.
‘I had grown up among women,’ he explained. ‘But these boys, most of them had been in barracks since they were seven or eight. They had forgotten the world outside. I wasn’t one of them. And I was a bastard, they knew that. I was not good enough for those firstborns, so they went for me like a pack of dogs. Day after day, until the time I smashed one of the older lad’s skulls. I didn’t kill him, but . . . he lost one eye and all of his wits for ever. After that they let me alone.’
‘What about Zura?’
Veraine felt his mouth go dry again. Despite all the years, the pain had not entirely eased. He at last said hoarsely, ‘My father made me watch while Darphan had her. To teach me my place, he said. To render me callous, as a soldier should be. And after I left the estate, I never got to go back. My mother died two years later. So did Morin, before I was twenty.’
The buzzing of bees sounded loud in the courtyard. ‘So,’ he concluded, ‘I have a hero for a father, and I have a regular income from my half-brother’s lands, and now I’m a general of the Empire. But,’ he said, looking her in the eye, ‘I’m not ashamed of being born a slave. And I am not . . .’ He hesitated and shook his head, ‘I’m not proud, I think, of what I am now.’
And he wondered why he had admitted that, after all these years. Why to her?
I lie naked beneath the gaze of my golden lover, the Sun. The warmth of his body on my skin is like a caress even before he touches me. His smile lights up my heart. I feel my flesh respond even as he reaches out to lay one hand upon the smooth plain of my belly, his golden palm upon my rich brown skin. I see his lips part softly. My pulse beats through his flat palm up into his veins. His heat suffuses my limbs, loosening them in the strangest ways so that my thighs part without my conscious direction, as if they were drifting asunder. I feel so light that I might float in the air, yet so heavy that I cannot stir. His hand is heavy, but not heavy enough. I press against it, my eyes filled with pleading.
Come to me, I beg him.
He kneels down between my thighs, nudging them gently apart with his own. I feel the roughness of the hairs on his legs, the firmness of the taut muscle. His member rises like the dawning of a new day. He bends forward over me as if kneeling to pray, his face coming down to worship my body, and I writhe in anticipation of that contact. His beard is soft and tickling, his lips soft and hot. He kisses my breasts, he kisses my belly. I cry out for pleasure and desire. I grab his hair with my hands and twine my fingers in it.
He moves down the length of my body, his tongue blazing a trail of fire. He licks around my navel. I am ready for him. So ready.
Yet without warning he lurches away from me, staggering to his feet, snatched by pale hands. I cry out. It is my other lover, the Rain, my grey and blue paramour with fists balled like thunderheads. They slam together, my two lovers, locked in a knot that has nothing to do with love though thigh strains against thigh and they grunt and gasp with passion. Hands claw and heave, scrabbling on sweat-slick skin to find purchase, to tear and rend. Back and forth they rock, the slap of flesh connecting with other flesh the only music to their dance. Muscles bulge and lock. Blow after blow is swung from both sides, to be blocked on rigid forearms or to land with hammering force on unprotected places.
They spin around each other like dancers. My lover the Sun is a warrior; strong, brutal, confident of his right and his ability to win both the fight and my body. My lover the Rain is a magician; subtle and cunning. He fights with the unscrupulous ferocity of the desperate.
At last they break apart, both crouched, both gasping for breath, both bloodied and bruised and snarling with rage, their eyes alight with jealousy. When they resume they will kill each other and I cannot let them do that. I step between, pushing both away as they try to snatch me. Then I kiss my storm-cloud lover on the swollen lips, tasting the salt of his sweat and his blood. His naked body is cold and shaking as I press myself against it. I hear my golden lover moan with fury behind me.
Then I turn from the Rain to the Sun and kiss him in turn. His skin burns like a furnace. Sweat is dripping from the fringe of hair over his eyes. Gently I unclench his fist and lay it upon my belly where it belongs. Then without breaking away I turn back to the Rain and spread his cool palm over my breast. At the touch of his icy fingers my nipples harden like ripening nuts.
Softly I coax them both against me, one on either side. Both cling to me as if afraid they had almost lost me.
I want you now, I whisper.
One on my right, one on my left. Then one before and one behind me. They take it in turns to kiss my hungry mouth and their hands are all over my body, teasing and caressing and possessing each curve and each cleft. I feel as if I am melting in their moisture, their warmth. My limbs soften. I yield entirely.
They lift me up between them and spread my thighs, taking my weight on their hard muscular frames. Then they both enter me at once. One from in front, one from behind, yet both sliding into the same wet and pliant
orifice. Member against member, both firm in my grasp. I gasp with pleasure, not realising until this moment that I was capable of taking so much. I am spread wide, my yoni an aching void that only they can fill.
They move, slowly at first, rocking me back and forth with their rhythm. My own eager moisture lubricates their motion, each sliding muscular thrust stretching me further, hard cock grinding against hard cock and soft cunt simultaneously. In me they are joined. They grab each other for balance, for leverage, as they chum deeper and deeper into me. I am tossed up and around like a boat on battering waves. I moan and they both kiss me, bloodied lips scouring my throat, tongues entering my mouth in turn. My golden lover holds my legs spread wide to facilitate his entry, and that of his rival. I am helpless. Their thrusts grow deeper.
I come, crying and shaking, pinned in the crush of their bodies and, feeling me buck between them, they at once spend their seed within me, groaning my name in the agony of their crisis. The foam of their desire runs down our legs like boiling milk overflowing a cauldron.
The Sun has risen upon me. The Rain has soaked my every pore.
And the Earth becomes fruitful.
* * *
The days passed, light and dark succeeding one another like sunlight flickering through the branches of a tree. No further news came from Antoth, though rumour rode in from the west on the pony of an imperial scout, fleeing from the storm wave that built, invisible, behind him. The Horse-eaters had taken the city-state of Oryon on the Western Spice Road, so it was said, and built a pyramid of the heads of its inhabitants. Veraine cracked his knuckles, ordered extra scouts out into the desert and strode up and down the Citadel wall, feeling as impotent as any of the sacred eunuchs in Mulhanabin. With the defences shored up, there was a limit to what he could set the Eighth Host to doing, apart from repeated drill. He got them to practise the defensive wedges that they would need to take on Horse-eater cavalry, over and over again until they must have been able to follow orders in their sleep. The men were restless and grumpy from inaction, and he was the worst of the lot.
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