Dark Enchantment Page 19

  He repeated them to me.

  ‘Good. You will find yourself in a chamber. In it is a … wooden cow, the size of life. It opens up along the side, where it is hinged.’ I paused to lick my lips. I’d once when small asked Asterion what the cow was, because it seemed so strange to have a carved effigy, faced in hide to look just like a real creature, forgotten and mouldering in the basement. He had replied ‘My mother,’ before grumbling off into the dark – which was nonsense of course, besides being a joke in poor taste. ‘Inside it is padded but all turned to nests by mice. The sword will be under all the mess. Later I will find you and lead you to a secret way out.’

  ‘What about a lamp?’

  ‘I can’t bring you a light, not beforehand. Asterion would find it. You must fight him in the dark.’

  He nodded. His eyes seemed to burn. ‘Thank you, Ariadne.’

  ‘For this you will take me away with you, back to Athens,’ I said. ‘You will marry me.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. Just as you wish. You will be the heroine of Athens for helping me end this barbaric ritual.’

  I still thought he used the word ‘barbaric’ too freely, but I forgave him for the sake of his smile and his blue eyes. From now on my happiness was twined with his. ‘My heart will be with you, my love,’ I promised.

  He nodded. ‘And my life depends on you, beloved. Remember that. Remember that I will love you and take you with me. The ship is ready to sail at a moment’s notice. You must not let me down.’

  I nodded, tears welling in my eyes. Despite my fear for him I was full to bursting with happiness. Isn’t this the most precious gift a girl can receive – the love of the man to whom she has offered her heart?

  That night at moonrise we gathered as we did every month to witness the immuring. The Prince acquitted himself better than most, striding to the door with head held high and a confident, easy gait. His skin gleamed; he’d had himself oiled as in preparation for a wrestling match. He glanced over at the royal party coolly – his gaze lingering, I thought, upon me – and refused the draught of poppy-infused wine offered by the priest of Poseidon. The beams of the door were knocked off with hammers, and a cordon of torch-bearing soldiers pushed it wide and examined the immediate interior. I knew the passage well, though I’d only ever approached the door from inside the basement, and knew what the Prince was seeing: from here a flight of steps plunged down into impenetrable blackness. The torch flames fluttered in the draught from the tunnels below.

  There was no previous offering to remove this time.

  Quickly, the guards urged the Prince to descend and secured the doors behind him. Then we went, as we did every month, to make an offering of a bull calf to Poseidon upon the family altar. It was a duty I could not escape from, but as I stood watching the priests lay the requisite body parts upon the embers I strained to hear any noise from beneath my feet. There was silence. I imagined the Prince groping his way along the wall in utter darkness, the ball of wool turning in his hand, the thread unwinding between his fingers, counting under his breath and dreading to hear the ominous snort of breath or the stamp of feet nearby. I ached to be with him, knowing my place was at his side. Like him I was feeling my way forwards into an unseen future, unravelling the thread of my destiny. Ordinary people may blunder about randomly, but like my Prince I had a path to find, the sure knowledge of a purpose. We are special like that, some of us. History sits upon our shoulders, and as we unwind our days we are brought to the goal the gods have devised for us. Only when we look back along the thread do we wonder at how intricate and winding a path has brought us here.

  As soon as I could I took my leave of the family and retired to my room. Taking a lit oil lamp in the palm of my hand I hurried to my secret entrance and climbed down the rubble slope into the Palace Below. The little wick cast only a small light, illuminating the indistinguishable rock walls and the pieces of abandoned rubbish that provided the only landmarks: a pile of worm-eaten timber here, a heap of fleece all gone to yellow mould there, a spill of bones, a basket with the bottom worn through, a broken loom …

  The wooden cow. I reached its chamber, breathless, and cast about. I knew which entrance the Prince should have reached this place from, but examination revealed no sign of him or of the red thread he should have been trailing. Biting my lip I worked the latch on the cow’s flank and lifted the lid. The interior stank of mice. I plunged my hand into the mass of fluff that was all that was left of the silk-lined cushioning and my fingers found the cold hardness of bronze. The sword was still there.

  Fear made me feel cold.

  I pulled out the sword, its blade only a little longer than my forearm, and wrapped it loosely in my himation. I had little idea what to do now, other than knowing it was late, that the Prince should already have been here, and that it was up to me to find him. I took up the lamp again and stole from the chamber, heading towards the stair.

  I found the trail of red thread only two rooms away. It led off in the wrong direction. I caught it up from the floor with my fingers and hurried, my bronze burden clutched awkwardly in the crook of my elbow. Two more low doorways, a dogleg to the right, and there was the end of the thread: a little tangle of wool discarded in the centre of the floor. The room was empty. I stopped, holding my breath and staring into the doorways that gaped black and blind about me.

  There: a noise. A groan.

  My little circle of light pushed back the thick dark as I stepped over the threshold. Forms blossomed into view: limbs glossed with oil and sweat and bulging with strain, clutching hands, a bowed head of black curls. The Prince had listened to my warnings; he did not cry out, though he raised a face wide-eyed and slack-jawed with anguish as he responded to my light. Asterion’s great bulk loomed over his crouched form, hands on his shoulders, ploughing hard between his arse cheeks. His rhythm was regular and inexorable. I stopped, transfixed. The look on the Prince’s face was extraordinary – torment certainly, but something more than mere pain and humiliation. This was the moment, I thought. This was what he had dreamt of all his life, the beast that had haunted his sweating nights and ruthless days, the apex of his destiny. This was what the gods had brought him here for.

  Slowly I moved forwards, mesmerised by the long fluid strokes, by the sense of power and domination. I could smell them now: oil and sweat and a masculine heat. I could hear the Prince’s soft groan at every thrust and the slap of Asterion’s flesh against his. I could see the ripple of muscles in Asterion’s widely braced thighs and the heave of his chest. With each thrust he snorted down his nose. The Prince’s eyes rolled, half closing in shame. Sweat and olive oil were hanging in droplets from his jawline. I imagined him colliding with Asterion in the pitch blackness and the two of them grappling for purchase, hands sliding over slick flesh, muscle mass against muscle mass, until the inevitable penetration was achieved.

  Oh, I knew what it was like to take that huge phallus up my rear passage. I could imagine only too clearly the sensations the Prince must be feeling.

  Then Asterion paused in his rutting. His eyes turned upon me. I wondered what he would do; I had never intruded upon his time with others before. Was he still angry with me?

  What he did was reach forwards, take the Prince by the shoulders and pull him upright, so that that lithe torso was framed against Asterion’s bulkier chest. The change in angle brought no relief clearly; the Prince’s mouth shaped an unvoiced cry of shock as that thick root shifted within him. But what it did was reveal the Athenian’s own phallus, which was upright and as stiff as a spear shaft. From his new position, holding the Prince immobile, Asterion resumed his punishing thrusts. Completely entranced I dropped to my knees before the two of them, laying the lamp upon the ground. I bent low in worship and offered the Prince’s swollen glans my open mouth. It took only my breath, my enveloping kiss, the swirl of my tongue across his contours to trigger his eruption. Crying out, he poured his hot seed over my tongue in such copious quantities that it ran out of the corner
of my mouth and, as I pulled away, thinking him done, one last pulse brought the final produce of his testes welling from the eye of his phallus and oozing down his shaft like a milky tear.

  He tasted salty, like the sea. Like sorrow.

  Then, even as the Prince sagged in his arms, Asterion’s climax was upon him and he came with two savage thrusts and a long roar that made my ears ring and the echoes reverberate through the rooms of Palace Below. I stared in awe, seed wet on my parted lips. Emptying himself into the Athenian’s bowels, he shut his eyes and his head sagged. The grip of his knotted forearm loosened upon the chest of the man he held. Seizing that moment as Asterion relaxed, the Prince of Athens reached down and pulled the sword from the folds of my bundled cloak. Raising it over his shoulder, he plunged it down behind him – straight and true and deep between Asterion’s collarbone and neck.

  His second roar was only a gurgle. Then he collapsed. I put my hands over my mouth and stared and stared and stared.

  The Prince took me away with him on his ship, but he did not take me home to Athens. I had seen too much.

  This island was named as Naxos on their map, I think. It is uncultivated, so far as I can tell, and there aren’t even goats to nibble back the scrub. I am the only human soul on the place, though there are sometimes noises that I cannot identify out there in the undergrowth. Perhaps it’s wild boar or bears. I hardly care any more.

  There is one building: a small and crumbling shrine dedicated to Dionysus. I worked that out from the friezes depicting grapevines and satyrs. In the inner chamber of the shrine are propped huge sealed vessels full of wine. I think they have been left here over many years because some of the amphorae are unrecognisable under dust.

  Last night I dreamt I heard flutes.

  Can one survive on wine alone? Perhaps I will live long enough to see the worshippers arrive with their next offerings, in weeks or months to come. Certainly there’s more than enough wine to dull my hunger and my hurt, for the moment. Perhaps I will drink my fill and step off the edge of the cliff sometime soon.

  Or perhaps I will continue to lie here and weep, knowing myself cursed. Knowing that I deserve this punishment because I betrayed my family and my King, all for a handsome face and a heart as hollow as the central chamber of the labyrinth. I thought I loved Theseus, Prince of Athens. I thought my desire for him outweighed everything else in the world. For false and unrequited love I betrayed to his death the one man who truly cared for me: Asterion, my half-brother, the Minotaur.

  Janissaries

  LET ME TELL you something I know from my own experience. The only way anyone – even the most trusted palace slave or the highest-ranking councillor – may approach the private rooms of the Ivory Empress is through the Court of Janissaries, and through the apartment of the Imperial Elite themselves. The janissaries are the Empress’ personal bodyguard, 500 strong, every one of them hand-picked as a child from the slave markets and raised as a warrior. They might originate from anywhere in the empire, or beyond, and without family or caste they owe loyalty to the Empress alone. Everything in their lives is dependent on her favour so they are fanatically devoted to her service. Such unquestioning loyalty is important to her. She is a termagant who leads her armies to battle, a cast-iron virgin who refuses to marry lest she lose her power, and a heartless bitch who keeps her witless younger brother in a golden cage where his only task is to sire a child to be her heir – and only the youngest of these children at any time is permitted to live, because she will not tolerate the existence of a viable alternative for the imperial throne. Her laws hold nations in thrall, the riches and glory of her empire are beyond measurement, and her cadre of assassins are dreaded by those who even imagine rebellion.

  The Imperial Elite are the six janissaries picked as the most effective and devoted of all guards, responsible for her safety day and night. Always there are at least four of them awake and on guard about her.

  I am the pet of the Imperial Elite.

  They call me Kitten. It’s not my name. They are not interested in my name. To them I am not a woman, not even a slave, I am an object to be used for their amusement. I am a mouth, a pussy, an anus, a pair of wide eyes streaming with tears. I am a gaping receptacle for their semen. Nothing more.

  Whenever I enter the apartment of the Elite I am dressed as they prefer me, which is to say in a long rope of plaited leather, dyed crimson, that loops over and around my body to make a complex harness of diamond shapes. It doesn’t restrict my movements, but it makes it easy for me to be seized from any angle, to be strapped down, tied up, immobilised or tethered. Set into the braids at many places are brass rings to facilitate this. The harness conceals nothing: my breasts are bare. Attached to some of these loops is a long skirt of soft crimson hide that hangs down the back of my legs, and at the front a wisp of scarlet silk loosely arranged over my mound. If I stand very still and at the right angle this cloth drapes the shaven split of my sex from view, but I am rarely permitted to retain my modesty in this way.

  Certainly not when Captain Teodric inspects me, as he does each evening. He glances over me as I enter the antechamber. ‘Present yourself,’ he orders.

  The first presentation position is standing upright, my feet together, my elbows raised and my wrists crossed at the back of my neck, my head high but my eyes cast down. My straight, taut body has almost the parade-ground stance expected of the janissaries themselves, and Captain Teodric is used to inspecting his men. He circles me, searching for any imperfection. I dare not raise my eyes to look at him, but I know he is a gruff, greying man, still fast on his feet even though he is not as bulky as he once was. He is the least selfish of the Elite; his thought is always for his men and he always makes sure that I am shared around until every one of them is satisfied. He straightens some of the ropes, making the pattern across my back symmetrical, and, hearing the disapproval in his harsh exhalation, I quiver in fear.

  ‘Sloppy presentation,’ he growls.

  ‘I am sorry, master.’ My voice trembles.

  He lets it go, for the moment, and returns to face me. In this position my breasts are thrust out, and because this little antechamber is unheated my nipples are puckered. He takes hold of one between finger and thumb, drawing it out.

  ‘Bells for the Kitten,’ he says. Jewellery glints in the open palm of his other hand. ‘Put them on.’

  His gifts are decorative clamps, little gold curls closed and tightened by tiny screws. My fingers trembling, I put one on each of my nipples, tightening them to the point of discomfort. From each clamp hangs a ring and on each ring is a cluster of tiny bells. Every time my breasts sway, with every step I take, I will jingle sweetly. When I return to my inspection posture Captain Teodric smiles and tightens each screw another half-turn, making me gasp. I am allowed to express my pain and distress; it is the only freedom permitted me in this place. They like to hear me. My cries never earn me any mercy.

  Then Teodric wobbles each orb to test the effect. ‘Now thank me.’

  Obediently I say, ‘Thank you, master,’ although I hate the bells, even more than I fear the pain: their frivolity mocks me. The Captain must notice the dismay in my voice, because he grabs my jaw in his big hand and yanks my head from side to side, forcing me to look up at him. His fingers bite into my skin; there is no rebellion in my expression now, only aghast submission.

  ‘What are you?’ he snarls.

  ‘Whore.’

  ‘What are you?’

  ‘Tits.’

  ‘What are you?’

  ‘Cunt. Just tits and cunt.’

  His lip curls in contempt. He releases me. ‘Present in the second posture.’

  For that I go over to the fountain and bend to set my hands on the marble rim, arching my back so that my bottom is thrust out. The leather skirt hangs from my hips; it does not cover my bare cheeks, it merely frames them. Captain Teodric bends over to inspect the crack of my arse. He spreads my cheeks with his hands, gazing into the cleft of my sex,
and sniffs. I’ve been sugared and pumiced and washed in rose water until I’m smooth all over and as fragrant as possible, but I know he can smell me. The sexual aroma of a woman cannot be hidden. When his rough fingers part my lips I can feel the moisture on the delicate tissues.

  ‘You pass muster.’ He sounds bored now. He slams his hand down stingingly hard on my left bum cheek. ‘Hurry up. We’ve been waiting.’

  As I stand I know that there will be a red handprint emblazoned on my bottom. It is still burning as I pass into the main chamber of the apartment. There they are, the five others, lounging upon couches about a low table – the Imperial Elite at rest. Three of them are still in their leathers, on duty, while the other two are naked except for their breechclouts. They stop talking as I enter, looking up from their games of back-gammon with no acknowledgement but expressions of casual satisfaction. I walk to the middle of the room and then go to my knees; it’s what I have to do every time in their presence. I assume the kneeling posture, my wrists crossed at the small of my back, my thighs parted, my breasts thrust out. Captain Teodric takes his place and sits.

  For a moment half-a-dozen pairs of eyes are on my breasts, my splayed thighs, my half-hidden sex. Alain scratches lazily at his crotch.