by Mia Marlowe
She only hoped the number of those days would be more than the fates had allotted poor Landina and Bernard.
“People don’t change.
But sometimes when you least expect it, you see them for who they really are.”
—from the secret journal of Damian Aristarchus
Chapter 31
* * *
“Valdis, my oracle, the worthy chief eunuch's wine bowl is empty,” Mahomet said. “And that serving girl has made herself scarce again.”
Valdis couldn't blame the child. She was no more than twelve, her tiny breasts mere buds, and yet each time she refilled Mahomet's glass of pomegranate juice, he made a point of fondling her. Once he even joked about checking to see if the figs were ripe enough to be plucked. Damian smiled politely, but refused to join in her master's laughter.
She liked Damian better for it.
“Run down to the kitchen and scare her up,” Mahomet said with a sly grin. “Aristarchus looks parched and dry as a stick.”
A dry stick. Was that not the new derogatory term for a eunuch she'd heard only last week? Damian's lips thinned slightly at his host's wit. She marveled at his forbearance.
“A good jest,” she heard him say sardonically as she glided from the room. “Isn't it a pity we dry sticks run everything worth having in this Empire?”
Once she reached the kitchen she found the serving girl sobbing in a corner. Valdis bent to whisper to her. “Get you to your bed, child. I will tell the master you are ill.”
The girl swiped her cheeks with her small fists. “He'll have me beaten.”
“No, he detests malady of any kind in his servants.” Valdis winked at the girl. “Why do you think I've escaped his attentions? It's my falling sickness that turns him from me. Stick your finger down your throat and purge your stomach. You'll be safe for a few days.”
The girl's face brightened, then fell in mock illness. She grabbed at her gut and moaned.
“Good girl,” Valdis whispered and then went to fetch the wine Mahomet kept for his non-Muslim guests. With any luck at all, she and Erik would successfully rid the world of her child-mongering master before the girl's "illness" passed. She hadn't thought of a plan yet, but she was determined.
She climbed the stairs back up to Mahomet's ornate dining room and paused just outside the closed door. Damian was speaking, but she could hardly believe the words coming from his mouth.
“I've arranged for the guard to be negligent the night before the race,” the chief eunuch was saying. “Your hired courtesan should be able to slip in and drug Heracles with no problem. He should be incapacitated for several days. The Greens may be the finest examples of horseflesh ever to grace the oval track, but without their driver to make them run as one, the Blues will take them without trouble.”
Damian was planning to fix a chariot race. What devilment was this?
“As you requested, I have placed the word on the street that the Blues anchor, the Arabian mare that runs on the inside, has turned up lame. She assuredly is not, but even her trainer has been paid handsomely to say so,” Mahomet said. “Because the Greens are so heavily favored, no one will back the Blues against them.”
“No one but our purple-born friend,” Damian said.
Purple-born? Was the emperor betting against his own team? From Mahomet's words, it seemed as if the chief eunuch, and not her current master, was the author of this plan. Valdis pressed her ear to the crack in the door.
“This will ruin the aristocracy and most of the high-ranking guild members, who will bet lavishly on the Greens, because to do so shows their support for the old Bulgar-Slayer without risk,” Mahomet said with relish. “Leo Porphyrogenito will own them after the race turns the economy on its ear. They will be unable to extricate themselves from crushing debt unless they support the lion's claim to the throne.”
Leo. As Damian had intimated, Leo was looking to hurry his uncle off the throne. The only surprise was that Damian seemed to be helping him.
The chief eunuch wasn't trying to flush out the emperor's enemies. He was trying to join them, even to lead them, if she could credit her own ears.
“That is why we should also plan to storm the Imperial box after the race, to press our advantage,” Mahomet said. “While those in power are still reeling from their losses, we strike. Cut off the head of the serpent and its body may writhe for a while, but it has no way to spread its poison.”
Poison. There was an idea with merit. If she could slip poison into her master's drink, she would be free. She and Erik could leave the city without fear of pursuit. Let the Byzantines intrigue among themselves.
But Damian’s duplicity troubled her. Lies, if such they were, fell from his lips as easily as if their conversation were about the weather instead of unseating the emperor. Valdis could trust no one. Her hand shook as she pushed open the dining room door. A tingle ran from her fingertips up her arm to her spine. Her vision tunneled. If Loki were with her instead of shut up in her chambers, the little dog would be growling now. She recognized the beginning of her sickness, but she was powerless to stop the Raven from descending to claim her. The wineskin slipped from her hand.
“Stand back. Give her some air,” she heard Damian through the murk. Valdis followed the sound back to the waking world. “She's coming around.”
Valdis's eyes fluttered open and she found she was lying in a sticky red pool of wine. She started to rise, but Damian held her down, his dark brows drawn with concern.
“Not so fast,” he cautioned as he pressed his own drinking vessel to her lips. “Here, take some of this.”
“Will she speak for the spirits now?” Mahomet asked from across the room. Damian didn't have to warn him twice to keep his distance when her malady was upon her. Habib Ibn Mahomet was pressed against the far wall, a combination of horror and fascination twisting his features.
“Give her a moment. The spirits have disordered her mind,” Damian said. “You've not seen the sickness in full flower before. Now you know the gift of Sight comes with a price. Her strength is sapped. Valdis will need to retire in order to reflect on what she has seen. I will escort her to her chambers.”
Valdis suspected Damian wanted a chance to coach her. But she'd heard enough to know of his plans and if she rattled him with her knowledge, so much the better.
“No.” She sat up, putting a hand to her forehead. “Let me speak while the vision is fresh.”
In truth, she'd seen nothing at all that she could remember while her spirit wandered between the nine worlds. But Mahomet didn't know that. And perhaps when she was finished, neither would Damian.
“I saw a mighty team of horses, even finer steeds than Sleipnir, Odin the All-Father's six-legged beast. Faster than thought, they surged around an oval. The horses were blue as the summer sky, fleet as clouds racing to cover the sun. None could catch them, certainly not the grass green team, rooted to earth and sluggish.”
As Valdis spoke, Mahomet's face changed. He seemed to lap up her words like honey, and against his will, he was drawn toward her. Damian's brows arched in surprise.
“And as I watched the horses, I saw what made them so fast. A lion burst forth from the underworld and chased the team around the track. An eagle swooped from the heavens, trying to stop him, but with a mighty leap, the lion plucked the eagle from the sky.”
Both Mahomet and Damian's mouths were gaping. As an afterthought she added, “And as the vision faded, a silk banner fluttered to the ground to be trampled underfoot by a great multitude.”
She closed her eyes and sighed. “I leave it to you, my master, to unravel the meaning of these portents. Already the vision recedes from my mind.”
A pointed look passed between the two men, and for a moment she feared she'd overplayed her hand. Then Mahomet walked over, extended his jeweled fingers to her, and raised her to her feet.
“I had not realized the price you must bear for this gift,” he said. “The power of the sickness is truly terrible, bu
t the vision is one of equal strength. Once these events come to fruition, I will make sure you are never seized by the spirits again. Even though I will be giving up my oracle, if taking your maidenhead will release you from their grip, I will see you free of your malady.”
Valdis gulped. This was an unlooked for reaction. The last thing she wanted was her master's libidinous attention—especially since Mahomet would surely discover her lack of a maidenhead. Images of Chloe's noseless face and Landina's severed head wavered unsteadily in her mind.
“My master is kind, but I am prepared to bear this burden in order to continue to offer you my gift,” she said. “Has the prediction failed to please you?”
“If it be true, it will satisfy my highest desire,” he said. “But this power of yours, it is surely too much for a woman to wield. However, if you could pass such an ability to a son, I would make you my fourth wife.” His lips drew up into the lazy smile of a dedicated voluptuary. “Once this vision has come to pass, I will devote myself to the pleasant task of getting you with child and we shall see if it is possible for the gift to pass to my son.”
The offer left Valdis speechless. So it wasn't concern for her burden that prompted his solicitousness; it was greed for power. Even if she were able to swallow her repugnance and feign virginity convincingly, a child would tie her to this cursed house like an anchor stone.
If such a thing happened, she'd never be free.
“I wonder if it is possible for a spider to become tangled in his own web.”
—from the secret journal of Damian Aristarchus
“When one ventures into an unknown country it is imperative to have a guide.”
—from the secret journal of Damian Aristarchus
Chapter 33
* * *
Damian put down his quill and studied the document before him. He shook sand onto the parchment to set the ink. There it was, to the naked eye all perfectly legal. He was satisfied the forgery would stand up in any court of law. He'd let it dry tonight so it would be ready to take with him on the morrow.
Tomorrow.
So much depended on everything working in concert. He went over the plan once more, checking to be sure he'd covered every contingency. It was a good thing he'd unearthed Valdis's little plot. So far, she had no idea he suspected a thing. And the fact that the Varangian yet lived, well, even that could be useful when the time came.
But in the meanwhile, Damian had an appointment to keep. He glanced at the small water clock in the corner of his office. He'd have to step lively or be late.
Damian threw on his cloak, taking care to bring along the mask he'd ordered especially for this night. The last thing he wanted was for either party to know his true identity. Once he cleared the Imperial grounds, he slipped the mask over his face and hurried to meet his guide for the evening.
Damian was going on a sybaritic exploration. He meant to test the limits of what was possible for a man in his state and what better way than to watch a similarly afflicted member of the third sex in action. Alexander Lucanus was a late-made eunuch with an exclusive clientele of well-born women whom he saw by appointment only.
Women whose husbands traveled frequently on business.
Alexander was waiting for him in the Forum of the Ox, at the base of the statue of Theodosius.
“There you are,” Lucanus said pleasantly. “I was ready to give up on you. The lady we are visiting tonight does not like to be kept waiting.”
“She knows someone is coming with you?”
“Eudora was enchanted with the idea of an audience.” Alexander smiled, his fine even teeth flashing in the darkness. He led the way down a street that angled off the forum. “As you will soon discover, the lady is not shy.”
“To be honest,” Damian said as the hobnails in their sandals clacked on the cobbles. “I'm more interested in you.”
Alexander's smile disappeared. “You've mistaken me. I am indeed an expert in pleasuring women. I have no interest in pleasuring men.”
Damian’s cheeks burned. “I only meant I want to know what you can do. Like you, I am a late-made eunuch. I want to know if I can ...”
His voice trailed off. How could he put into words the longing he felt? It seemed like forever since he'd held a woman naked in his arms, since he'd felt the shudder of her release around his swollen cock, so long since he'd thought himself a real man. Even with the anonymity of his mask, Damian couldn't voice his desires to this paid lover of women.
“I see,” Alexander said, his long-lidded eyes half-closed in speculation. “Let me get an idea of what we're dealing with then. How long since you were gelded?”
“Ten years.”
“Did they take just your testicles or was your penis removed as well?”
“I've still got my cock.” Damian bristled under his prying. “And it still stands on its own.”
“Good,” he said. “That was my next question. Don't get testy. I'm here to help, you know. Even if they'd fixed you so you have to pee like a girl, there are still methods of pleasuring you could try.”
“I don't want to try,” Damian interrupted. “I want to succeed.”
“Duly noted,” Alexander said. “Now about these cock-stands you're so justifiably proud of—only in the morning or are you able to be roused by a woman?”
Damian remembered kissing Valdis on the rooftop. When he plunged his tongue into her mouth, his groin hardened quickly enough. But when she pushed him away, he shriveled in a moment. “I am roused, but I don't know for how long.”
“An honest answer,” Alexander said with a compassionate glance. He turned down an alley so the back sides of a number of great houses were facing them. “So you haven't tried—”
“No.”
“Not even with a serving girl?”
Damian shook his head.
“I know a discreet woman of pleasure who enjoys a challenge. She could—”
“I don't want to be someone's challenge,” Damian said. “I just want to know what's possible. If you can do it, I can do it.”
“Fair enough,” Alexander said as they entered a walled garden and walked up to a dark door. “I will show you what's possible.” He wrapped twice on the portal. “And after we're done here, I'll tell you what isn't.”
Damian looked around as they waited for the door to open. This moon-kissed garden seemed familiar to him, but he'd been so absorbed in his conversation with Lucanus, he neglected to keep his wits about him and watch where he was going. When the door opened, he was grateful for the mask he wore. It hid his surprise.
The woman who greeted them was the fresh-faced young wife of Sergius Regulus, the aging ambassador to Crete. Damian had dined with the ambassador and his wife in this very house a number of times. Eudora— 'Dora' to her clearly smitten older husband—was a model hostess, soft-spoken and apt to blush when Damian complimented her. Damian would have sworn she was the soul of modesty and propriety.
As soon as the door was closed, she pulled Alexander's head down and kissed him hungrily. Then she released him and delivered a ringing slap across his cheek.
“You're late,” Eudora accused, her sweetly dimpled cheek taut with fury.
“I'm sorry, Dora. I came as soon as I could.”
“So did I.” She grinned wickedly at him. “You made me start without you.”
Damian’s guide took her hand and sniffed. “The smell of a freshly satisfied woman is one of the wonders of the world.” He licked her fingers one by one. “No wonder you taste so delicious, my little tart.”
“That's what I love most about you, Zander,” she all but purred as his lips traveled over her wrist and up to the crook of her elbow. “No matter how bad I am, I know you're worse.”
“Infinitely, my pet,” he agreed. Then he grabbed her and pulled her in front of him, her spine pressed against his chest. He reached around and ripped open her palla to bare her breasts to Damian's view. They were golden globes tipped with crimson-tinted nipples. She squealed in
mock alarm.
“Here you are, Excellency,” he said to Damian. “Meet the breasts of Eudora Regulus. Sweetest tits in the Empire, and if they don't raise your standard, my friend, your flag will not fly.”
Damian didn't dare say a word lest Eudora recognize him by his voice. Her breath came in shudders, causing her breasts to waver before him. His cock stiffened at the sight.
“Don't you want to play?” She slid out of her palla and let it pool at her small neat feet. Eudora pouted prettily at him.
“He's just here to watch, remember?” Alexander whispered into her ear as he cupped her luscious breasts and delivered a trail of baby kisses down her neck. “But I'm not.”
Alexander turned her around and lifted her so she could hitch her legs around his waist while arching her back to present her breasts to his lips. He took one of her nipples between his teeth and pulled back on it till she cried out. When he released it, the little minx put the other one into his mouth.
“More,” she ordered.
He suckled noisily on the fresh pap as Eudora, the staid wife of the respected ambassador, threw her head back and growled with pleasure.
When Alexander finally came up for air, he looked back at Damian. “Time to go to the playroom.” He turned to walk with Eudora still wrapped around him like a Varangian's breastplate.
Damian followed the couple, half envious, half embarrassed by their whispered giggles as they led him through the ambassador's stately home. The Thessalian marble corridors were empty, the open doors leading into dark chambers. Obviously, the ambassador’s gaggle of servants had all been given the night off.
“Eudora's very inventive,” Alexander said over his shoulder and then set her down lightly on her bare feet. “What are we doing tonight, sweet?”
"You are the wicked Roman conqueror and I am Boudica, the pagan queen of Britain,” she explained as she led him to a wall where shackles hung in wait of a willing victim. Eudora clapped his wrists in the restraints, letting her bare breasts tease across his chest. She brandished a willow switch. “You raped my daughters, you fiend, and now I'm going to punish you.”
