Prayer-Cushions of the Flesh (3 page)

‘I am Anadil,’ she said.

She had large eyes and dark curls peeped out from an intricately-made cap of gold and silver filigree.

‘It is a pretty name,’ she continued. ‘Do you not think so? It means “Nightingales”.’

Orkhan tried gently to pull her up to his level, but she resisted.

‘Tell me first that my name is pretty.’ She was pouting.

‘Your name is pretty. Now come and sit beside me.’

Reluctantly she joined him on the bed. Again, Orkhan made to pull her towards him. Even though she was not strong enough to resist him, she still protested,

‘Not so fast! You are like a beast from the depths of the forest. I am not to be treated in this way.’

‘I treat you how I like. I am your Sultan.’

And Orkhan pressed himself against her, his swelling member against her thigh. He wanted to bury himself in Anadil. His hands moved over her body, seeking a way to strip her of her costume, but she looked sulky and kept shifting under his hands and, though her yellow silken robe with its unfamiliar hooks and catches, was flimsy enough for him to have ripped it off her, she was additionally protected by what amounted to jewelled armour. A girdle of pierced coins and amulets encircled her waist and heavy, many-layered necklaces hung over her breasts.

‘Slow down! It is as if you had never seen a woman before.’ Then she tittered as she realised what she had said. ‘But, of course, in the Cage there are no women! A body like mine is unfamiliar territory to such a one as you … Even so, if you have waited fifteen years for me, a few more hours’ dalliance is but a little thing. You have to please me.’

‘No, you have to please me. I am your Sultan,’ Orkhan insisted once more.

‘It is the other way around. Otherwise I will be unhappy and I will make you unhappy. It is no disgrace for a sultan to submit himself to a concubine, if he desires her, for that is the way of courtly love. In any case, I can see that I please you already,’ pointing to the swelling between his legs. ‘What have you got down there? It is very big, is it not? Is it not big because it likes me?’

Orkhan nodded.

‘I am pleased that it likes me. Does the rest of you like me?’

He nodded. Though her childish catechism exasperated him almost beyond endurance, the smell of Anadil, intimate and bitter, was working on him like a spell of subjugation, so that whatever she wanted, she could have, if only he could have her.

‘Well, smile then – and you will have to learn to talk properly and not just shake your head. I think I will have to teach you how you must speak to a concubine. You are so innocent – just a boy really. But there is no need to be frightened of me. All you have to do is tell me that I am pretty and which parts of me are especially pretty.’

‘You are the most beautiful women I have ever seen’. This was no great concession on Orkhan’s part. As he contemplated her, he was struck by the delicate colouring of her face and the soft vulnerability of her arms. If only the catechism could be over, then he might be in full possession of this softly, enchanting curvy creature. Although she was telling him not to be frightened, he still sensed something frightening in the supernatural quality of Anadil’s beauty, which was like the beginning of terror. She seemed to him to be a visitant from another world.

‘Well, that will do to begin with. Now, if you take your hands off me, I will undress myself for you.’

Stepping away from the bed, she stood to let cascades of gold, silver and brass drop to the marble platform, followed by her yellow robe. In a few moments she stood naked before him. Then she turned away, and looking over her shoulder, she said,

‘In the Harem, we girls like to read before we go to bed.’

She went over to the lectern and came back to the bed bearing the book. She sat close beside Orkhan and spread the book between her thighs.

‘It is called ‘
The Perfumed Battlefield: or Questions Posed by the White Sultan to the Dark Girl
,’ she said, spelling out the words with difficulty.

She turned the pages. The book was illustrated. Together they contemplated exquisite little pictures of women surrounded by ditches and ramparts, men advancing with battering rams and long, hooked implements, and brightly coloured smokes drifting across fields strewn with flowers and corpses. In flimsy looking castles men and women encountered one another in hand-to-hand combat. There were also abstract diagrams painted in gold and black with arrows of direction and schematic flags. On the last page was the image of a man, painted all gold. A woman knelt in front of him, her face pressed to his groin, and another stood behind him, peeping over his shoulder, and he was grinning madly – a silvery gleam in a golden face. Having reached this image, Anadil hastily riffled backwards through the pages.

‘Here,’ said Anadil, leaning heavily against Orkhan, is “The Chapter on the Need for Good Intelligence” and this is “The Section on the Naming of Parts”.

One hand moved across the page, marking her place as she read. She was stroking her breasts with her other hand.

‘What are these called?’

‘They are called breasts,’ replied Orkhan, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice.

To his astonishment, she slapped him lightly on the face.

‘Only the vulgar call them that. These are my moons. It is the language of love and poetry. Look here, it says so in the book. You have to practise. Say to me, I love your full moons.’

And she offered them up to be kissed.

Now, since she was now sliding a hand underneath his robe and fumbling between his legs, there was no power in Orkhan to refuse. Even if he thought that her games were silly, she could be indulged for a few moments more. He was prepared to crawl over the ice, bark like a dog and sit up to beg if only she would grant him what he desired. Her breasts were soft and came to delicate points.

‘I love your full moons,’ he repeated obediently and kissed them.

‘And what is this between your legs?’

‘It is my cock.’

She brought her hand up from between his legs to slap him again.

‘That is very vulgar. I would be ashamed to call it that. In the Harem we call it the pigeon, or, sometimes, the one-eyed man, or sometimes the cherry-blossom branch, or again the weeping one. It has many names. Here they are in the book.’

Then she let the book drop to the floor and, leaning over him, she delicately forced her tongue between his lips. At the end of the kiss, she drew back a little and sticking out her tongue again, she pointed to it.

‘What do we call this?’

‘I do not know and I do not care.’

‘We call this the coral branch, or the viper, or the honey-spoon. But I can see that you are impatient to begin. So just one last lesson, just one more word to memorise.’ She threw herself back on the bed and pointed between her legs. ‘Would you like to know what this is called?’

‘People who are not poets call it the cunt,’ said Orkhan.

‘Oh, we have a prettier name for it than that. It is the Tavern of the Perfume-Makers. Come close to examine it carefully please.’

Surely this lesson, this inspection, was absurd. But Orkhan thought that there would be no real harm in indulging the girl’s whims for now. Even if her chatter was tiresome, her body was certainly desirable. Her face was like a glorious promise of nobility and intelligence, yet her prattle was sheer childishness. How was it possible for anyone to be simultaneously so beautiful and so silly? Well, he would indulge her for now. But then, to ensure that no one else in the Harem should hear of the humiliations she had put him through, he would have her executed on the following morning. As he lowered his face between her thighs, he pictured himself watching her execution on the morrow. He would give the mutes instructions for her slow impalement. Unaware of the madness in his head, Anadil sighed and spread her legs a little further.

‘Does the sight please you?’ she enquired coyly.

‘It pleases me very much,’ and he might have said more, but she pulled his face closer yet and Orkhan found himself tasting her. The flavour was unfamiliar, bitter, strangely seductive.

‘Now we are ready,’ she sighed and she was indeed moist between the legs.

But no sooner had Orkhan thrown off his robe than she sprang away.

‘Yes, yes, we are ready. But not here. Down there,’ she said pointing to the surface of the ice pit.

Anadil stepped down from the marble platform and, wincing slightly, lay back upon the ice.

‘Come back, Anadil. Not on the ice. What is wrong with the bed? Come back here!’

‘It is better on the ice. That is why we are here. The coldness delays the climax and increases the pleasure.’ She wriggled seductively. ‘Come on lover.’

‘This is madness!’

Anadil looked up at him sulky and disappointed.

‘We Harem girls heard that all you princes in the Cage were men of stone, ready for anything and invulnerable to cold, hunger or pain. But now a little girl like me can lie on the ice and you dare not.’

‘It is madness,’ Orkhan repeated stupidly.

‘Come on, don’t be boring. It is more fun on the ice. Besides I will be beneath you as your prayer-cushion or above you as your blanket. But don’t let me get cold here alone.’ She reached up her arms to him in supplication.

Orkhan could feel a fire melting his insides. He had to have her. He descended to the ice and she fingered his torso appreciatively before wrapping herself around him. Then she reached down for his branch of plum blossom, or whatever it was she had called it, and guided it between her legs. Although, even before entering Anadil, Orkhan had thought that he was on the very edge of exploding from desire, it was as she had predicted; the ice delayed the climax as their bodies could get no purchase on its surface and she slithered about under him. Droplets of water covered both their bodies. As he kept moving inside her, he thought he glimpsed something dark and motionless in the depths of the ice below. A big fish, or just a shadow in the mind. It was a strange kind of race, he thought, between the heat of his desire and the freezing chill of their strange bed. The fun and mischief had now gone out of Anadil’s face. Her legs were now locked round his back and she was crying in frustration as he thrust within her. He, for his part, felt himself so desperate to come to a climax within this strange creature, that he was by now ready to offer up himself for slow impalement on the morrow, if only he could have what he wanted now. Nothing else mattered. Now. Finally he came in a hot thick torrent.

‘Oh, my Sultan!’

They lay together briefly collapsed in each others’ arms. Then Anadil wriggled impatiently under him.

‘Now my bottom is cold. You can warm it for me.’

And slipping out from under him, she rolled over in the melting slush. He ran his hands over her wet rump and smoothed away tiny particles of ice.

‘That will not warm my bottom. You can spank it, if you like.’

He pulled himself up on his elbows and, as he contemplated her soft little bottom, he felt desire stirring within him again. But, suddenly, even before Orkhan could raise his hand to deliver the first slap, she uttered a brief cry. Then she looked over her shoulder at Orkhan. Her face was grim and her teeth were chattering so much that she was impossible to understand at first. Finally Orkhan heard her say,

‘There is a face in the ice! We have been making love upon someone’s tomb! Look at it! You have to look!’

Peering over Anadil’s shoulder, Orkhan could now with difficulty just make out the body through the still thick layers of ice. He saw Barak grinning fiercely up at him.

Outside in the corridor, a pair of mutes barred their way. A third, seeing them emerge from the ice-cell, disappeared back down the corridor. In a little while, he returned with the Vizier. The Vizier started talking before Orkhan could open his mouth.

‘Now, you have beheld your brother face to face, just as was promised. In this place promises are always kept. Alas, that they are almost never kept in the way one is expecting. Yet the showing of your brother was meant kindly.’

‘Kindly!’

‘Yes it was meant to be a clear and vivid warning for you. I think that it is like the rearing of lion cubs. As everyone knows, the cubs are always born dead, but the loving lioness tends them and licks them into shape and after a few days they are made alive. Even so, it sometimes happens that there is a cub which cannot be licked into shape.’

‘You mean that it was the Valide Sultan who had my brother killed?’

‘A mother kill her own son! And she is your mother too! How could you think such a thing of your own mother?’ The Vizier did indeed seem genuinely shocked. However he continued, ‘Even so, it is always rewarding to contemplate the ways of the animal kingdom. The beasts of the desert and jungle have much to teach the politic man.’

‘But what have you to teach me? Who did kill Barak?’

‘Wild surmise will infallibly miss its mark. Barak was like a man making his way along a precipitous mountain ledge in a snow storm. Then he looked down and, having looked down, he lost his nerve and, having lost his nerve, he lost his footing and with it his life. It is best to think of your brother as an unlucky mountain man. Alternatively, you may think of your brother as a man seated at his ease and feasting at a party. Then Death the Butler comes round with a bitter cup. Your brother seizes the cup and drinks deeply from it. Yes, perhaps that is better – to think of your brother as a man leaving a party.’