by Sarah Rayne
Now I have no idea what anyone else would do in that situation, but in my defence certain things should be taken into account.
To begin with, I had been netted in a kind of giant fishing net and knocked unconscious, so that I was slightly confused and a bit dizzy. On this count alone I was completely at the mercy of my saviours. (Apologise for any biblical connotation that may be inferred here, and stress NO religious context meant.)
On a second count, if I was not precisely fed opium or mandragora, I was certainly given some extremely strong (and very delicious) wine.
Finally (and I do feel that here we reach the real crux of the matter), all of the ten or twelve females were so scantily clad they might as well have been naked.
Some of them were curled into graceful heaps before the fire, blinking in the warmth and occasionally sipping wine from jewelled goblets, and some of them were padding about the room on little bare feet. They were astonishingly alike: all with black silky hair, growing rather low on their brow and worn loose about their shoulders, and they were dressed in the thinnest of white gowns and nothing else. When they passed in front of the fire the gowns might as well have been transparent, and speaking as someone who cut his sexual teeth on laced corselets (extraordinarily complicated to remove those things, never mind getting tangled up in the lacing), it was loin-stiffeningly erotic. If these were the mythical four score handmaidens of Touaris the myth might have exaggerated the numbers, but it had not overrated the attractions.
Their faces were paler than most European girls, and although they had the slanting cheekbones of the East, they had large black-fringed green eyes and short curving upper lips. Like cats. The simile was impossible to avoid.
They bent over me, offering sweet potent wine and bringing bowls of warm scented water for cleansing. It was immensely soothing but it was also immensely arousing to lie in the glow of the firelight, the heady scents of the room washing over my body, feeling little silk hands, like velvet paws caressing my skin . . . I challenge anyone, short of an octogenarian Trappist monk, to find himself stripped of his clothes and washed by six half-naked females, all plainly hellbent on seduction, and not respond in the most basic of ways.
Even so, I did not give way all at once, in fact I tried quite strenuously to resist. I certainly tried to think what might have happened to Theo and what I had better do about it, and whether there was any way in which I could communicate with these people.
But after about ten minutes of intimate exploration by those velvet-skinned hands (to say nothing of being within prick-ing distance of the sensuous gleaming thighs), Theo was relegated to the back of my mind . . .
I didn’t manage the entire twelve.
What I did manage was a very energetic five hours, starting off with a stand as rampant as any I ever had in my life, which took about five hours to gradually dwindle to wrung-out impotency.
It was intriguing, as well, to discover that it was perfectly possible to caress between the thighs of two females with my hands – one on each side, one hand to each – while a third bestrode me, and not lose any synchronisation of movement. That experience on the railcar earlier must have helped, or perhaps I simply have a natural sense of rhythm.
By the time dawn was lightening the low-ceilinged room, that portion of my body which is the most sensitive, was as raw as if it had been flayed with sandpaper and was clearly going to need several hours (if not an entire day) to recover. Some of the blame for this must be laid at the door of my companions who continued their attempts to coax a final few drops of passion, long after it must have been obvious that the last drops had been shed, and very agonisingly too, towards the end. However, I’d be interested to know how the achievements of Giovanni Casanova compare, because I refuse to believe anyone capable of making love satisfactorily to twelve women in five hours.
I had fallen into an exhausted sleep when there was a commotion outside, and the sound of marching feet and sharp commands in an unfamiliar tongue. The girls leaped up in panic and huddled into a corner of the room, chattering in terror and clutching one another. Plainly something castigatory was about to take place, and from the look of them it was going to take a very unpleasant form.
I grabbed my discarded clothes and scrambled into most of them – it’s an Englishman’s duty not to be caught naked in ladies’ bedchambers, no matter how bizarre the bedchamber or willing the ladies – and was fastening my trousers when the door was summarily flung open.
Eight men stood there, all of them armed with glinting wickedly sharp spears.
The armed men half dragged, half carried me out to a dawn-washed square, which seemed to be at the centre of the jade and ivory palace, and thrust me unceremoniously before four more of the black-haired men, who were standing in the courtyard’s centre with the palace behind them. Four sets of stupa eyes looked down.
There was a rather nasty air of hasty tribunal about the whole thing, and cold fear began to churn in the pit of my stomach: What had until now been a hazardous but intriguing adventure was beginning to slide into something very much darker and very much more frightening. I wondered if it was unreasonably optimistic to hope that Theo might have escaped.
All of the men bore a strong resemblance to the ladies in the firelit room – the black, low-growing hair appears to be a strong racial characteristic among them: it’s rather attractive but combined with the lean sinuous build it gives them an uncanny resemblance to huge cats, and it was the most unnerving experience in the world to be hauled before four men who looked as if they might bound forward on all fours at any minute and savage me. What was worse was that they looked as if they would enjoy savaging me. The cold knot of fear tightened.
I marked their leader out before he spoke. He radiated such authority that the air about his head positively sizzled and I was not in the least surprised when he stepped forward to address me. His teeth were slightly prolonged, and the upper ones were discernibly pointed.
Incredibly, he had a smattering of English. I won’t reproduce the vicissitudes we had to resort to in order to understand one another, or attempt to describe the sign language employed to reach precise meanings, because if an author’s licence is permissible anywhere, it’s permissible here. So I will simply set down the approximate gist of the conversation.
There was some kind of ceremonious exchange of bows – our version of a handshake, probably – and then the man, whose name is apparently Tamerlane after some long-ago conqueror of Samarkand, said, ‘You have entered the sanctum of Touaris’s handmaidens and violated them.’
I thought this was a bit much, since any violating had been instigated by the handmaidens themselves, and I said so, quite forcibly. I’m aware that this is contrary to all laws of chivalry which decree that gentlemen don’t kiss and tell (and certainly don’t fornicate and tell), but these things shouldn’t be carried to excess and chivalry is no good to anyone in the face of four savage-looking gaolers, to say nothing of eight guards brandishing spears.
I also pointed out that if Tamerlane’s people don’t want guests they shouldn’t leave their city gates open and unattended, and that in my country the laying of mantraps is against the law. (Think I may have been on shaky ground there, but Tamerlane unlikely to be familiar with the niceties of English law.)
‘The handmaidens will be punished according to our law,’ he said. ‘They are allowed to take prisoners, but they are required to bring them all to me.’ He paused. ‘They are greedy and selfish, and they are aware of the punishment.’
‘Well, could I be aware of it as well, please?’
Tamerlane studied me and then said, ‘They will be brought to the Burning Altar at midnight.’ His hard green eyes glittered like bits of glass, and the thin cruel smile curved his lips, reminding me unpleasantly of the sharp long teeth. ‘As for you, English traveller,’ he said softly, ‘you, also, will be brought to the Burning Altar at midnight.’
‘Why?’ I said, with more insolence than I was actually feelin
g.
‘You have offended against the Decalogue,’ said Tamerlane. ‘You have intruded into our city, and you have sinned against the Eighth Stone of Treachery and Betrayal. Because of that, you will suffer the punishment graven thereon.’
He nodded to the spear-carriers and I was taken away from the square.
I have set my watch on the edge of the table and I’m watching the minutes tick away. It’s like one of those dreadful timing devices where thin sand trickles slowly but inexorably from one glass funnel into another.
Just over one hour remains until I’m to be taken out to face the punishment of the Eighth Stone Tablet, and God alone knows what it’ll be. Cannot decide if it would be better to know, or if ignorance until the last moment is preferable.
There’s still no sign of Theo, and I’m torn between hoping he managed to escape and wishing he were here with me. (This last utterly selfish, but true. I never felt so alone in my life.)
I can see the scaffold structure quite clearly, because Tamerlane’s people have set blazing torches all around the square, and the flames are washing over the palace walls, drenching the entire building with leaping flames. The glow is tinting the night sky, and it’s as if we’re at the centre of a huge bloody wound that’s leaking its gore upwards into the darkness— No, I daren’t think like that!
The guards are bringing out what looks like an immense table, easily ten feet square and covered with vivid scarlet and jade silk that ripples gently in the night air, so that there’s the impression of unnatural life under the silk. I find this unspeakably sinister. Hell and the devil, I find the entire thing so utterly terrifying that I don’t know how I’m managing to write this down!
The square is lined with wooden seats – had not noticed them when I faced Tamerlane, but they’re three and four deep and set around the edges in tiers like the auditorium of a theatre.
Fifteen minutes to go, and something’s happening.
About five minutes ago I became aware of dozens of human voices intoning a rhythmic chant and from my window I made out the flickering lights of a torch procession: a line of people walking slowly through the palace, each one carrying either a candle or a small burning cresset that spilled light through the palace windows. As they approached my heart began to beat erratically.
And then they were pouring into the square, through a door at the far side, chanting as they came: appearing in pairs but separating as they emerged, the men taking seats on the left, the women on the right. Tamerlane’s people – for all I know, Touaris’s people as well – the cruel beautiful dark-haired tribe of the forbidden city, all assembling to see the punishment of the Decalogue dealt to the English intruder.
I haven’t counted them but there must be at least a hundred and fifty. They’re all in place now, and the chant’s filling up the whole palace: a dark mesmeric rise and fall of human voices that thuds sickeningly against your mind and rakes at your senses. Somewhere within it is a soft steady drumbeat and I’m dreadfully afraid that it’s a death knell.
Two minutes to midnight and I can hear footsteps approaching along the passage outside.
The guards are coming for me.
Chapter Twenty-four
As Lewis followed Touaris across the Death Temple to a dim corner beyond a groyned arch he was aware of mounting excitement.
This is it. I’m about to descend to the Stone Chamber of the Decalogue. I’m about to see the Stone Tablets – Satan’s Ten Commandments – that the long-ago tribe brought out of the pharaohs’ Egypt. He watched his extraordinary companion – was she really the present Touaris? – lever up a square trap door sunk into the floor. It came up with a faint screech of protest, sending the accreted dust of years scattering across the mosaic floor. A dank tomblike odour gusted upwards, as if an ancient coffin had been unsealed. This is the breath of something timeless and something that has lain down here for thirty centuries, Lewis thought. He blinked and pushed the showering images aside. Because as well as all that, this is a forbidden place, and if you’re caught there’ll be a reckoning.
Beneath the trap door was a narrow flight of stone steps winding down; they were shallow and worn away at the centre and Touaris, looking at them with fascination, said, ‘That wearing-away has been made by my people descending to the crypt to consult the Decalogue.’ She looked back at Lewis and he felt the tension between them. Because of what we are about to do? Or from some other cause altogether? Touaris kneeled to brush the dust from the floor back into the yawning aperture.
‘Covering our tracks?’ said Lewis, bending to help her, half amused, but uncomfortably aware of a knot of nervous anticipation at the pit of his stomach.
‘Of course. We truly must not be found here.’ She stood up and looked at him and Lewis felt a sudden twist of physical desire. He quenched it instantly, because that would be mad, that would be the maddest thing yet— She was astonishingly beautiful, fine-boned, and with the silky black hair and the striking pallor that was neither quite European nor Eastern, but a sensuous blend of the two. He thought she was about nineteen or twenty.
‘Ready?’
‘Yes.’
‘It will be very dark. We should take lights.’
‘I have a torch in one of my knapsacks. Or would that be—’
‘Sacrilegious?’ Warm amusement showed in her eyes. ‘I think we have already gone beyond sacrilege, Lewis.’ She had an unusual, rather attractive way of pronouncing his name. Lewis reminded himself that all he intended to do was take a look at the Stone Tablets – if possible copy out any inscriptions – and then beat it. Like a bat out of hell? said a jeering inner voice. Well, maybe not quite. Maybe it would be worth talking to the lady for a little. Oh sure, said the voice sarcastically.
‘You will take the torch,’ said Touaris, suddenly becoming practical. ‘And I will take the candles.’ She paused, and then said, ‘You understand that it is necessary to be very silent and very careful?’
‘Yes, I understand.’ They looked at one another.
And then Touaris said softly, ‘Shall we go down, Lewis?’
If the Hall of the Goddess and the strange grisly Death Temple had felt timeless, descending to the crypt was like stepping outside of time altogether. Lewis felt a cold prickle of fear brush the nape of his neck, and as they descended it was as if they were slicing down and down through the centuries . . . Down and down through the hundreds of years, stretching back and back. There was a dry ancient smell: old damp stone and brittle timbers.
He directed the torch carefully, the cold modern electric beam cutting through blue-grey shadows, disturbing the silence and the solitude. The steps wound down into the darkness, curving as they went. At one point Touaris paused at a kind of half-landing and held the candle up, indicating a low crumbling archway. Lewis shone the torch and made out low-ceilinged chambers, snaking away into silent blackness. There was a brief glint of wall paintings.
‘Through that arch is the buried city of the first Bubasti,’ said Touaris, and Lewis saw how her eyes looked into the pouring darkness with a mixture of fear and awe.
‘Your ancestors?’
‘Yes. They built that city three thousand years ago, but now it is only a heap of rubble and dust,’ said Touaris. ‘I went in there once – I wanted to see the original city entrance, which our chronicles say was one of the most beautiful things ever built by man, and which was supposed to have ranked with the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus.’
‘The Eighth Wonder of the World,’ said Lewis, staring through the arch.
‘Yes, but now it is probably in ruins like all the others,’ observed Touaris, becoming practical again. ‘And in any case, the walls of the tunnels had fallen in and also some of the roofs, so I did not find it, which was a pity.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, but for me to have got buried for ever would have been a greater pity.’
They went on down, and after what seemed to Lewis an eternity, the steps debouche
d into a wide cavernous tunnel with immense thankas. They were executed in soft glowing colours, with all the exquisite attention to detail he had come to recognise, but none of the thankas he had seen in Lhasa were remotely like these.
‘Some of the images are what are called Tantric Deities,’ said Touaris, as Lewis paused to inspect them. ‘They symbolise the Kalachakra Wheel of Time, which is so complex that only those who have studied it for their whole lives can understand it, and even then only partly. Other images are past incarnations of Touaris, and some are future incarnations.’ She indicated an enigmatic figure portrayed in cool peacock shades. ‘This one depicts a Touaris as yet unborn. She holds one hand to her heart in the Buddhist gesture of turning the wheel of teaching but the other is extended to reveal the thumb and first finger in the symbol of eternity.’
‘They’re very beautiful,’ said Lewis, studying the paintings as if he had all the time in the world, and as if his heart were not thrumming with the anticipation of what was ahead.
He looked back at Touaris. She was standing a little ahead, the candle flame illuminating her face from below, scooping out dark hollows, and it was as if her eyes peered calculatingly out from black caverns. Lewis felt a stab of fear. I’m alone, below an ancient city with a creature who claims to be the incarnation of a long-ago cat goddess. Supposing she’s one of Kaspar’s Flesh-Eaters; supposing it’s all a plot? I must have been mad to follow her.
He said abruptly, ‘Are we near to the Decalogue yet?’
‘Yes, we are almost there. Can you not feel it?’ She smiled, and the candle flame danced and the light danced in her eyes, and it was again the half-mischievous, half-imperious lady who had arrayed herself on the sacred throne and lain in wait for an unwary traveller.
Even without Touaris’s words, Lewis thought he would have sensed the Decalogue’s closeness. It was as if they were approaching an immense powerhouse or the magnetic centre of a vortex. The cold tomblike stench seemed stronger, and when Touaris spoke again she lowered her voice as if she were afraid of being overheard.
