Divine Torment

by Janine Ashbless

  The only time he mellowed was when he met the Malia Shai, as they passed in the corridors or in the sacred precincts on their way to their respective duties. He would incline his head and acknowledge her, always polite though never humble, and if she were not busy she would stop and exchange a few words with him, to the obvious dismay of her priests. Veraine found that highly amusing. He was also intrigued by the fact she seemed to welcome his conversation, though he searched her expression and her voice fruitlessly for any hint that she might be flirting with him. She never even smiled.

  That didn’t stop him fantasising that those dark eyes regarded him with more than casual interest. For that matter, his private fantasies ran the gamut of possibilities every night and in most idle moments; he didn’t seem able to shake his imagination free of her.

  ‘The body is an illusion,’ she said.

  ‘Really?’ His eyes expressed a humorous scepticism. They were standing in a doorway somewhere in the interminable bowels of the Outer Temple and she was trying to explain to him some theological precept, oblivious to the fact that he was far less interested in the spiritual truth than the warm, curvaceous illusion only an arm’s length from his own.

  ‘Yes. Think of it as an actor’s costume, that’s discarded between scenes. Only the soul is eternal, and it takes on new bodies throughout its journey.’

  ‘I see.’ A shaft of sunlight was gilding the soft fuzz of her cheek and highlighting the ripe sweep of her breasts. Her cotton dress was far too light to disguise her charms. ‘And the point of this journey would be?’

  ‘To learn. To grow. To become ever more familiar with the whole universe in all its facets.’ She shifted her stance slightly and the light caressed the slender column of her throat.

  I would like to kiss her, just there, Veraine thought. Just where the pulse ripples her skin.

  ‘You learn how unbalanced and harmful your flaws are. For example, if you were a man who used women thoughtlessly, for his own pleasure –’

  Veraine raised his brows sharply, with a look of pain. He didn’t quite make her laugh, but she stumbled a little in her speech.

  ‘–If you did, I’m not saying that’s true for you, then you might well be reborn as a woman to learn the suffering you’d caused.’

  He briefly entertained the idea of being female and then decided not to think about what that might entail just at this moment. ‘Would I remember what I was being chastised for?’ he asked.

  ‘Not consciously. But your soul would.’

  He saw priests coming purposefully towards them down the corridor and decided it was time to break away. Frustration tore at his guts with velvet claws. ‘Well, if it’s true, I have to conclude that in my last life I got everything I wanted far too easily,’ he murmured. ‘Malia Shai.’ And he nodded his head to her as he withdrew.

  Full-scale drill took place on the desert floor, under the beetling shadow of the city, but hand-to-hand combat was practised every day in the courtyard of their makeshift barracks. Veraine made sure he took part, too, mostly to burn off the excess of his tension. The thrust and slice of individual conflict gave him something more physical to focus on than the anticipated siege, and it helped clear his head.

  Word came to him via Arioc one day, just as he was squaring up against a big Irolian soldier under the blistering afternoon sun. This was Veraine’s third fight of the day and most of the other combatants had retired to the shade of the colonnade, but, though the sweat was stinging his eyes and there was a bruise on his right arm the size of his palm, he wanted to push it for one more round. His opponent was a notorious warrior among the men of the Eighth Host, not smart enough to have been promoted beyond optio but as heavyset as a small building and just as difficult to demolish. Both men were armed with short wooden staves instead of their iron swords, but Veraine, as an officer, carried his oval bronze shield rather than the larger, lighter wicker rectangle clutched by his foe. He had decided that in mock combat this actually put him at a disadvantage, but it would have been a point of shame noted by every soldier in the courtyard if he had discarded the metal shield.

  Just as the two of them were walking out into a clear space equidistant from the nearest sparring pairs, Arioc strode across the sand to his side. Arioc’s tunic was a blazing white in the sunlight, unmarked by sweat or dust. The young man rarely fought, and as a member of the General’s staff he was exempt from compulsory training. Veraine had noted that when he did get into combat, he did not have the bulk to parry very well but that he struck out with the speed and accuracy of a snake.

  ‘Sir, the high priest is here. He has asked to speak with you.’

  ‘Has he now? Where is he?’ Following Arioc’s nod, Veraine turned and looked at one of the many windows that opened onto the courtyard. Past the elaborately carved stone screen, in the darkness within the building, he thought he could make out the saffron blur of a priest’s robes. He frowned. ‘Tell Rasa Belit that he will have to wait a moment.’

  He turned his attention back to the armed man in front of him, as Arioc strolled away. A nod from him brought the soldier into a guard position and the two men began to circle each other warily. Veraine gauged his opponent carefully, decided he kept his leg too far out of cover, feinted towards the shield and had to spring back to avoid a swinging response. The soldier’s momentum carried him forward and Veraine twisted out of the way. They resumed their circling, like dogs facing each other off. He let the other lead the second time, catching the blow on his shield and swinging up from low down. His stave bounced off the other man’s bronze greave with a clang. They jumped apart. The optio grunted and shook his head: a blow off armour did not count, of course.

  Veraine decided to try for his opponent’s head, since any touch there counted as a decisive wound. The only problem was that the soldier was taller than him and the weapon too short for an easy stroke. He jabbed at the man’s sword-arm and then, when it was snatched wide, smacked his shield across it to keep it out of the way and closed in for a vicious strike to the head. The wicker shield was thrust high just in time to catch his stave, and a flurry of blows that felt like the kicks of a mule battered back on his own shield, jarring his arm to the shoulder. Veraine ducked, twisted aside and landed two blows on the exposed leg – but again on the greave that protected his shin. He pulled out, recovering the guard position just in time to prevent the delivery of what would have been a crippling blow at hip-height. The tip of the enemy weapon whacked off the bronze plates of his pteurges, but most of the force of the blow was caught on his shield once more.

  Sweat was pouring down the soldier’s face. He was a heavy man, and Veraine could see that he liked to use his bulk as momentum, like a wall falling. The General decided to try some more defensive moves, jumping out of the way of each attack, circling and side-stepping, letting the bigger man waste his energy in wild swipes and sudden lunges to regain balance. He liked fighting like this; being able to anticipate his foe at every move, deflecting the blows harmlessly. It was hard work, though, just because of the sheer strength of the other man, and Veraine was glad to seize the opportunity when it presented itself and catch the soldier’s over-swing with a backhanded blow that cracked off his wrist like the sound of a whiplash. The optio’s stave went flying from his paralysed hand, Veraine lashed out and kicked his leg from under him – careful to avoid the side of the knee, which would have broken that limb – and as the big man smacked onto the sand, tapped him sharply on the head with the tip of the stave.

  He saluted the soldier before he walked off, wiping his arm across his forehead. He was very satisfied with the conclusion of the combat, and glad it had not lasted much longer. In this heat, every breath he took felt like it was scorching his throat. He walked over to the quartermaster on duty, handed in the battered stave and took a scoop of water from the vat waiting.

  It tasted disgusting, as thick and silty as river-mud. Veraine spat it out on the sand. ‘What in Shuga’s name is wrong with this?’ he asked
.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ the quartermaster snapped. ‘The cistern on the roof is nearly empty.’

  ‘Then send a party of men down into the city and requisition the best well. I’ll not have my men drinking this! Arioc, go and get me something to drink that doesn’t taste like it’s been passed through an elephant first.’

  The aide hurried off, and Veraine contented himself with splashing the tepid water over the back of his neck before crossing the length of the courtyard, as unhurriedly as he could, and entering into the building. Rasa Belit was ensconced in a room next to the door.

  The interior of the barracks was almost impenetrably dark after the harsh sunlight outside, and Veraine paused in the doorway, blue lights dancing in front of his eyes. He forced his still-ragged breathing to quieten.

  ‘A fine display of your prowess, General,’ Rasa Belit’s voice came from beside the window. The other priests in the room stirred and drew back as the soldier approached.

  ‘We do our best to entertain,’ Veraine said. ‘What was it you wanted to talk to me about?’

  The priest sighed. ‘I have concerns about the treatment of pilgrims by your men.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I understand they are being refused entry to the Citadel.’

  ‘Only at night, high priest. I don’t want civilians billeted in the Citadel. The space is too limited.’

  ‘You understand that part of the temple income comes from provision of hospitality to pilgrims? We’re suffering greatly this year because of the invasion, as it is.’

  ‘And you’ll suffer more. But I am sure you will survive.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘Just what are those people thinking of anyway, priest – to come here in the face of an invasion?’

  ‘Oh, normally there would be many more, General. We’ve reached the driest point of the year. The desert withers, the streams run dry. Crops all across your Empire fail. This is the time of fear and hardship, when the earth turns to dust. Plague festers in the slums. This is the time of the Malia Shai, her great festival. The people make their pilgrimage to her, and pray for mercy. If she is moved, then the Rains come early. If not, then there is real drought, and famine.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Normally at this time of the year, the streets would be packed with pilgrims. You wouldn’t be able to move up the street for the press of bodies, General. They would camp in the alleys, in the desert – anywhere where there is room. The nights would be loud with prayer. In the cool of the evening, they come to the tank in the Citadel to bathe, and to light lamps, and make worship. They wash away the concerns and the illusions of this world here. They drink the water and they carry it home to their families. In this way they come a little closer to the goddess.’

  ‘Your beliefs are not my responsibility, Rasa Belit.’

  ‘No. You think they’re a foolishness, don’t you? You Irolians worship your dead, I understand.’

  Veraine snorted. ‘No. We revere our ancestors, we are told they watch over us still from the Field of Heaven. But we have faith in our gods.’

  ‘Do you, General?’ Rasa Belit’s voice purred from the shadow of his face. ‘Do you have faith in the gods? Because I think you’ll need it here in Mulhanabin.’

  Veraine frowned at him, but could see nothing but a silhouette against the glare from the window. He took a few steps closer, so that he was in the light himself. The priest turned to face him, his heavy-lidded eyes emerging from the gloom. He looks like some predatory lizard, Veraine thought.

  ‘I don’t need faith, priest. Not in any god that is supposed to sleep in a shrine, or eat the meat sacrificed to him, or father royal babies. And I do not,’ he emphasised, though his voice was so low that only Rasa Belit could have heard it, ‘believe that a goddess could be born as a girl.’

  Rasa Belit licked his lips slowly. His tongue looked blue. ‘You’re a fool, General,’ he breathed. ‘You think the Malia Shai is an innocent maiden. You think that you can use her as a tool against me. No. You are making a great mistake there. She is the mother of torment, and she will bring you nothing but pain.’

  Veraine blinked, shook his head and turned away. ‘Tell your pilgrims,’ he said flatly, ‘that if it matters to them then they can come into the Citadel after nightfall. But they may not stay there, and if they are found camping in the streets they will be thrown out. Does that satisfy you?’

  ‘It will do. So kind of you, General.’

  Veraine grimaced.

  ‘It now occurs to me, General,’ the priest added, shifting his bulk from one thigh to the other, ‘that you might like to attend the Drought Ceremony of the Malia Shai. It’s one of the few occasions upon which the populace are permitted within the Garbhagria. The rites are very holy, and you may find them instructive.’

  Veraine was taken aback. ‘Well,’ he murmured, stalling.

  ‘Ask your officers as well. They will all be welcome. After all, the Malia Shai seems to find no offence in your presence. I am sure the short one, your assistant, he’ll find it fascinating.’

  ‘I accept, on behalf of the Eighth Host,’ he said slowly.

  ‘At the full of the moon, then. At sunset.’

  ‘Fine. Do we have anything else to discuss, priest?’

  ‘No.’ He waved a hand languidly. ‘Our business is concluded.’

  Veraine turned sharply on his heel and walked out. In the doorway he nearly bumped into Arioc, who was waiting with a cup. Veraine grabbed the vessel from his hand, knocked back the watered wine and strode off down the corridor, signalling the younger man to follow him. When they had reached the sanctuary of the room set aside for officers’ ablutions, he slammed the wicker door shut with unnecessary emphasis.

  ‘Is there something wrong, sir?’ Arioc asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Veraine said, dragging his stained tunic off over his head and slinging it into a corner. The loincloth beneath rapidly followed. ‘I’m sure that bastard is up to something. I just don’t know what. All these hints and warnings –’

  He broke off as Arioc presented him with a bowl of water and a cloth, slopped the liquid into face, armpits and groin, and scrubbed himself briefly.

  ‘He reminds me of a vulture,’ Arioc ventured. ‘Those eyes.’

  ‘He reminds me of a scorpion under a rock,’ countered Veraine. with feeling. ‘He seems to be under the impression that I marched the entire Eighth Host here simply for the pleasure of pissing on his personal territory.’ He turned to the dais in the centre of the room, a broad surface spread with clean cloth, and laid himself face down on it. Laying his forehead on his folded arms, he listened to the sound of Arioc moving around the room and tried to relax. It was far from easy: images of Rasa Belit and the Malia Shai, each in their own way as disturbing, kept intruding.

  ‘Do you find this place gets on your nerves, Arioc?’ he asked, as the youth laved oil down his spine and the backs of his legs.

  ‘This room, sir?’ Arioc asked, setting down the pot of oil and beginning to spread the slippery liquid across the General’s shoulders with smooth, practised strokes.

  ‘Mulhanabin. I find the place has an atmosphere of oppression.’ Veraine finished the sentence with a long exhalation of breath.

  Arioc was seeking out the aching muscles across the top of his neck and kneading them with strong thumbs. ‘It’s a Yamani city sir. They’re all shit-heaps. The food tastes terrible, the natives stink, there’s no such thing as a bath house or a theatre. I would rather be in Antoth. But it’s no worse than I was expecting.’

  A trickle of oil found its way down the crack of Veraine’s arse and started to tickle his balls. It was not unpleasant, but he tried to ignore it. ‘What are you doing here, Arioc?’ he asked. ‘You requested this transfer to an active unit. Shouldn’t you be in Antoth?’

  He ploughed parallel lines either side of the General’s spine right down to the buttocks. ‘My family wanted me out of the capital, sir. Certain of my activities were starting to cause them embarras
sment.’

  ‘Nothing political, I hope.’

  ‘No, sir. It was a question of who I was fucking.’

  ‘No shit,’ Veraine sighed, his eyes shut, his nostrils filled with the green smell of the oil. ‘You could have found a better billet than this one, though. Administration somewhere on the frontier.’

  ‘I asked for this posting. I didn’t want to sit in an office. Is there a problem with my work, sir?’

  ‘No. No problem.’

  ‘I pride myself on a job well done, sir,’ Arioc pointed out, grunting slightly with the effort of massaging the big muscles of Veraine’s thighs.

  ‘Well. Ah. There’s a knot in there. A bit harder. You’re certainly bloody good at that.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘It’s just you’re a little different to the other officers. Most of them are not of such good family.’ Veraine could clearly picture Arioc’s face, the look of concentration, the set of his fine arched brows as he worked diligently at his task. He must have a fine view right up between my legs, he thought with amusement. No doubt the lad was enjoying it.

  ‘I have no complaints, sir.’

  Veraine snorted a smile to himself and lay silently as the other worked oil into the soles of his feet, rubbing the tightness from the heels and the instep. The youth had excellent hands, not to be faulted, and a dedication to his work that clearly sprang from a love of the masculine body.

  ‘You know, sir,’ Arioc ventured, after he had loosened the cords of the Achilles tendons and slid cupped hands right up the length of his legs, from rough-textured calves to the soft skin at the small of the spine, ‘your back’s like a board. You’re too tense. If I might say so, sir, you could do with a bloody good fuck.’