by Mia Marlowe
The punishment consisted of undressing him slowly, pulling his robe up over his head and letting the garment further bind him since it couldn't be completely removed. Eudora used the switch more to tickle than whip him, and Alexander's bared member swelled to an impressive size.
“Now for the slave collar,” she said as she opened a small casket on an ebony table. Eudora removed an ivory ring, yellow with age. She held it up for Damian to see. “A little trinket from the East,” she explained.
The ring was smooth as glass and Eudora put it to her mouth and ran her tongue around the inside of the circle. “Zander has amazing stamina on his own, but when he wears this, I swear, the man could go all night.”
Eudora slid the ring all the way to the base of his erection. “Now it's your turn to punish me, Roman,” she said to Alexander.
A low growl issued from his throat. He tore the manacles from his wrists and Damian realized they were theatrical props, designed to be destroyed. Alexander grabbed "Boudica," bent her over and took her savagely from behind.
Eudora was ecstatic. "Deeper," she urged before losing the power of speech as a rolling orgasm made her body buck with its force.
So, it is possible to bring a woman to completion, Damian thought, even though the earthy Eudora seemed easily moved.
From one feat of sexual athleticism to another, Alexander Lucanus and his client took turns being the aggressor. Though there was occasional submission, nothing remotely like tenderness passed between them. At one point in a standing position, while Lucanus was pumping away furiously, Eudora looked back over her shoulder at Damian, cupped her own buttocks and spread them.
“Come, my silent friend,” she invited. “I've always wanted to be taken both ways at the same time.”
Damian looked at the tight little sphincter winking in her crevice and shook his head. He was here to learn, not to experiment. Despite the erection aching under his robe, he still questioned his potency. When he was ready to take a chance, it would be with a woman who wouldn't flay him for a failure. Eudora stuck her tongue out at him and turned her attention back to Alexander.
When Eudora finally declared herself too sore to continue, Lucanus removed the ivory ring and handed it back to her. Only then did his prodigious erection subside.
“Same time, next week,” she said as she handed her lover a leather pouch that emitted a satisfying jingle. Eudora sent a glare in Damian's direction. “And if you're going to bring someone with you again, make sure they want to do more than watch.” She yawned hugely. “Let yourself out, would you, Zander? I'm going to bed.”
Damian and Alexander walked in silence back toward the Forum of the Ox.
“Well, now you know what's possible,” Alexander Lucanus said when they reached the statue of Theodosius. “Do you have any questions?”
“Just one,” Damian said as he reached for his purse. Alexander waved away payment.
“Eudora is more than generous,” he said. “What do you want to know?”
Damian pressed the bezants into his hand anyway. "You've shown me what's possible for a late-made eunuch. You said you'd also tell me what isn't.”
Alexander sighed and studied the paving stones for a long moment. “It is possible for men like us to give pleasure, but we cannot receive it. Oh, the feel of a woman's skin is fine under a man's fingers, and what man can suck enough tits? But you saw for yourself, however many times I bring Eudora to the fields of Elysium, I never arrive at that blissful country myself.”
“Never?”
“Never.” He shook his head. “I hope each time that I'll pass a barrier of some kind and find a measure of release, but it never happens.” His face hardened in the pale silver moonlight. “The worst thing is, I've begun to despise the women I service—all of them. The selfish cows take and take and not one of them can give me more than a handful of coin in exchange.”
Damian felt despair emanating from Alexander Lucanus, the self-proclaimed king of late-made eunuchs. “Do you think it would be different if you loved the lady?”
Alexander shrugged. “I don't know. My heart has never been thus engaged.” Then his sensual mouth lifted in a mocking half-smile. “So you love a woman?”
Damian nodded.
“Perhaps it would be different then,” Alexander conceded charitably. “Let me know when you find out.”
If I find out, Damian amended in silence.
“The Devil indeed is in the details.”
—from the secret journal of Damian Aristarchus
Chapter 34
* * *
“What do you think you're doing here?” Agrippina demanded. The round-faced slave ruled Mahomet's kitchen with the same high-handedness with which Publius reigned the harem. She snatched the knife from Valdis's hand. “Odalisques serve the master elsewhere. Let me see to the needs of his belly. You can tend to what hangs beneath it.” She cackled at her own wit.
By coming early while the rest of the household was breaking their fast, Valdis had hoped to have the kitchen to herself to put her concoction together. She should have known Agrippina wouldn't stray too far from her domain. She turned a forced smile on the old woman.
“What you say is true, Agrippina, and I could never hope to rival your reputation as a cook” —the woman grunted in agreement—“but I want to make something special for the master, to take with us to the races today,” Valdis said.
“I already have a hamper of food packed and ready to go.” Agrippina pointed to a wicker casket. “The master doesn't trust the food sellers at the Hippodrome and well he shouldn't. Filthy swine, the lot of them. He'll have leeks, olives and cold chicken curry just as he requested.”
“But you haven't packed a drink,” Valdis said with hope. “The Hippodrome is dusty and if the sun isn't hidden by clouds, it'll be hot as well. I have fruit here— oranges and pomegranates fresh from the market that I thought to mix for a refreshing juice. Please, Agrippina, I only want to make something special for him.”
Agrippina frowned. Clearly Valdis had thought of something she hadn't. “You can help me then,” she conceded, “but don't get in my way.”
The cook sliced the fruit and ran the pieces through a press to squeeze out the juice. She poured the liquid into a bowl.
“Here,” she said, handing Valdis a long-handled spatula. “You can stir while I add some spices. Bet you didn't think of that. Any fool can mix juice, but only a cook can add the right flavorings to make it something special.” Agrippina cast an appraising gaze at Valdis. “Not one of those others has ever thought to darken my kitchen to make something for the master. They don't seem to realize men like it when you fix them a special dish with your own hand. Keep this up and you'll be a favorite in no time.”
Valdis smiled as if the status of harem favorite were her sole aim in life, while Agrippina added a pinch of ground cloves and a dash of nutmeg to the swirling juice. Then the cook dipped a finger into the bowl and sucked the liquid off to taste her creation.
She grimaced. “Needs honey.” Agrippina took the honey pot from the top shelf and ladled in a generous dollop.
Valdis continued to stir, wondering how she'd be able to add the vital ingredient she'd brought in the vial secreted within the folds of her palla without arousing Agrippina's suspicion, or worse yet, insisting on a taste of the finished product.
Agrippina dipped out a swallow of the drink in a small cup. She rolled the liquid around her mouth for a moment like a true connoisseur.
“Nectar,” she pronounced.
“How about adding ice?” Valdis asked, hoping to distract the cook.
Agrippina's lips pursed tightly together. She obviously wasn't accustomed to receiving or taking suggestions in her own kitchen. She shook her head. “No, he doesn't favor ice chips in his drinks, but this mix might taste better cold. Now do you think you can pour it into that amphora without spilling it? Good. I'll just go shave some ice to pack around it and it'll be cool by the time the race starts.”
&n
bsp; Valdis could scarcely believe her good fortune as Agrippina waddled away to the cold room, where precious blocks of ice were kept. Her hand shook as she emptied the powder from the vial into the amphora. Then, holding the amphora steady as she could, she ladled the juice in a little at a time. Every other dipperful, she cast an anxious glance over her shoulder and shook the amphora a bit to mix the spotted corobane thoroughly. She was fitting the bung into the mouth of the vessel when Agrippina returned with a small crate filled with ice in which to nest the amphora.
“That should do nicely,” Agrippina said, rubbing her thick-fingered hands together to warm them. She gave Valdis an approving nod. “Serve the master as well in his chambers as you've served him here, and I'll not be surprised to see you elevated to wife if you give him a son.”
Valdis's stomach curdled at the thought, but she thanked Agrippina for her well-wishes and her help. As she climbed the stairs back to her suite, Valdis wondered what would become of the cook and Publius and the women of the zenana once Habib Ibn Mahomet was no more.
It was a delicate business, this taking of another life. She had never even thought about it, much less considered carrying it out. Now that she was committed to it, she realized that her act would affect many more lives than just her intended victim. Had Mahomet arranged for his women and servants to be provided for upon his death?
Valdis doubted it.
And yet, even if she stayed her hand, Erik would not stay his. When he came for her at the Hippodrome, after whatever he did to undo the skullduggery already afoot for the race, Erik's sense of honor would oblige him to kill Mahomet to insure he didn't again try to help Leo Porphyrogenito unseat the emperor.
Mahomet was reputed to be a master in the use of his curved scimitar. He certainly handled the wicked blade with ease when he lopped off poor Landina and Bernard's heads. Valdis tried to tell herself she was bringing justice to her friend's memory, but her heart condemned her as a liar.
She was afraid. Erik was a blooded warrior, but how much had his injury changed his abilities? At any rate, a contest of blades was a risky, noisy affair, sure to bring unwanted attention at a time when she hoped to slip the leash of her master's control. Valdis didn't want to take any chances.
With any luck at all, by the time Erik came for her in Mahomet's private box, her master's body would be cooling in his ornately carved chair.
* * *
The beautiful horses known as the Blues were stabled in subterranean stalls beneath the massive Hippodrome. The flooring may have been sawdust and sand, but the walls enclosing the pampered equines were smooth, azure-veined marble.
Erik stole a glance around the corner and down the corridor where the Blues were housed. He saw only one guard stationed before the stables. Erik turned back to his friend, Hauk.
“Are you ready?”
“When someone back from Hel gives the order, what choice do I have but to obey? But I'm in no hurry to visit that Cold Hall myself, so what you're about to do, do quickly.” Hauk opened the skin of date palm wine and sloshed half the contents over himself. Then he took a long tug at the mouth of the skin, the excess liquid dribbling down his russet beard. “Point me toward the guard before this rot-gut strikes me blind.”
Erik watched from the shadows as Hauk stumbled toward the tagmata on duty, singing a ribald drinking song at the top of his lungs. Badly.
The horses snorted their displeasure at Hauk's growling voice, but the guard eyed the supposedly drunken Varangian with amusement.
“Look, friend,” the tagmata said. “You're not supposed to be down here.”
“Where's the privy?” Hauk slurred, all but running into the hapless guard. “Don't tell me they don't have one, a fancy tavern like this.”
The guard tried to wave him off and argue with him about where he was, but Haukon was a huge man, head and shoulders taller than the Greek. And he lived up to the Northmen's reputation for stubbornness by refusing to believe he wasn't in an ale house. Hauk also provided admirable cover for Erik to slip unnoticed into the stable area while the guard tried to give him directions to the nearest privy.
“All right,” Hauk said amiably between prodigious belches. “I go down this corridor, then up two flights of stairs—”
“Only one flight,” the man corrected.
“Make up your mind,” Hauk demanded. “Tell me again and talk slower this time.”
Good man. Hope he doesn't overdo it, Erik thought. He and Hauk had seen each other through some tight spots in the past, but this scheme required more delicacy than any other they'd attempted. If Erik were caught meddling with the Blues, he expected to be drawn, quartered and fed to the great cats who were also housed beneath the Hippodrome in the emperor’s menagerie.
Hauk had argued for killing the guard, but that would alert the grooms that the team had been tampered with. In order for Erik's plan to succeed, the Blues incapacitation had to be taken for dumb bad luck.
The horses whickered softly at his approach, tossing their arched necks and casting him inquisitive looks. The boldest one came and leaned his head over the stall, sniffing at Erik's offered palm and rolling his large liquid eyes. The stallion nosed him, the velvet nostrils aquiver. Erik reached into the pouch at his waist and drew out a handful of oats, salted with a noxious herb that horses seemed to find irresistible. The weed would reduce the animals to drooling sluggishness, but the effects would wear off by the time the sun found its bed. When Erik first told Hauk what he intended, his friend counseled him to hamstring this magnificent team to insure a lost race. After seeing them up close, Erik was glad he'd chosen a different path.
When Erik made his way out of the darkened stable area, Hauk had managed to lead the guard a good ten paces away from the entrance. He was still trying to get directions to the privy. Erik advanced toward them, abandoning stealth.
“There you are, cousin,” Erik said loud enough to make the horses stamp and blow in their stalls. “I wondered where you'd gotten off to.” He turned to the guard and lowered his voice. “He wasn't bothering you, was he? Got kicked in the head last week, trying to stand up to a cavalry charge. He hasn't been right since.” Erik sniffed the air and curled his lip at his friend. “Or sober.”
A thunderous roar made the stones above their heads reverberate in sympathy. The games in the Hippodrome had begun.
“No, no harm done, but all the same, you'd better get him out of here,” the guard said. “The driver and the grooms will be coming before long and they don't want anyone lingering near the stables.”
“I didn't do no lingering,” Hauk protested as Erik dragged him in the direction the guard had pointed. “I just got to take a piss.”
Once they rounded a sharp corner, Hauk's frame straightened and he threw off his drunken disguise. He slapped a ham-sized hand on Eric's shoulder. “I guess this is where we part company. Even though I'm doubting I'll be needed after your bit of trickery, I'll hie myself to the emperor's box. I'm one of the guards for the Bulgar-Slayer this afternoon.”
Erik stopped in his tracks and clasped forearms with his friend. “I haven't thanked you—”
“When was there need between the two of us?”
He wouldn't form the words. His heart was full for this friend who'd stuck by him through his disgrace and even traveled with him to Miklagard, this bizarre city of the Christians.
“Who knows if we shall ever meet again in this Middle Realm?” he finally managed to spit out.
“Then look for me in the Shining Lands,” Hauk said, looking away lest Erik see his weak eyes. “We'll raise a horn together there. Smooth sailing to you and your lady.”
“Strength and honor,” Erik offered in return as Hauk stalked away. The words seemed so small a thing for their parting. He and Hauk had saved each other in battle, starved together hunting in the frostlands, and undertaken the greatest journey of their lives when Erik was banished and they ventured down the wild rivers to the Black Sea.
He would miss his frien
d, but now Erik was beginning a new journey with Valdis. Above him, the crowd roared again.
It was high time he wrested the love of his life from her master.
“When a plan falls apart, one has no choice but to improvise."
—from the secret journal of Damian Aristarchus
Chapter 35
* * *
Damian tried not to let panic force him into an undignified trot. He'd expected to have more time, to be able to make his preparations and join Mahomet and Valdis at his leisure, but the latest scrap of intelligence to reach his keen ear sent him striding out of Leo Porphryogenito's elite box with scant apologies for his untimely departure. He climbed to the farthest reaches of the Hippodrome and made his way along the outer corridor, far from the press of humanity jammed into the rows of seating.
Tigers from beyond the Indus were in the arena, stalking helpless antelope once again. The act was a popular one, and Damian didn't meet a single soul on his circuit of the vast oval. Then he heard the sound of footsteps behind him, a heavy, hobnailed tread moving at a fast pace.
Best to find out if he was being followed, he reasoned. Damian ducked into one of the many alcoves along the curving way, wedging himself between the wall and a statue of the inebriated Dionysus on a waist-high pedestal.
Damian could make out a man advancing steadily down the corridor, the figure appearing and disappearing in the recurring patches of sunshine and shadow peculiar to this hall, half open as it was to the outside. Chain-mail glinted in the light and the man's ice-grey eyes shone in the dark.
The Varangian. Damian almost swore aloud. He would only be in the way. Damian had half a heartbeat to decide what to do about him. As soon as Erik Heimdalsson strode past his place of concealment, Damian pushed the statue and brought it tumbling down on the back of the Northman's neck with all the force he could muster.
