Silk Over Razor Blades (3 page)

His hairy skin tasted foul, but
the intimacy of this intrusion brought life back to Lenina. She bit
down and ground her teeth together until fluid burst on to her
tongue with the taste and smell of old pennies.

The pleasured moans turned into
a yelp of surprise. He punched her, hard enough to rattle her skull
and Lenina slackened her jaw. Pain exploded across her face. Blood
ran down her lips and chin. Some touched the back of her throat and
kept going, burning a trail down her throat and beyond. She felt
every drop as it went and each one sent a fresh line of fiery pain
coursing through her body.

Her heart beat harder,
hammering her ribs with such force that she jerked forward. A
tingling sensation prickled at the ends of her toes and travelled
through her body like the march of tiny ants. With it came a rush
of agony that bunched her muscles into painful knots before letting
go. She threw herself to the side, gripping her stomach as it
fought to eject every piece of food it contained.

‘Bitch!’ The man cradled his
hand to his chest. ‘You’ll regret that.’

Lenina had just the time to
realise that she already did, before vomit clawed free of her
mouth. Blood-streaked ribbons of bile and food splashed the grass.
Some caught her hands and knees, but violent convulsions rendered
her prone and helpless. A sensation like the prick of a thousand
hot needles pierced a trail down her spine. It continued along each
limb and billowed out until even the tips of her fingers felt ready
to burst. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Wiping them away left
pale smears of pink against her fingers and palms.

At her side, Nick finally sat
up. He swayed and faced her. ‘Nina?’

The man chuckled, shaking his
injured hand. ‘You’re both gonna die.’

The words barely left his mouth
before Nick lurched across the grass like a drunken rugby player.
He caught the stranger around the knees and pulled him down to the
ground. ‘Nina, run,’ he begged.

She longed to do as he asked.
But cold now replaced the heat in her body and dark mist crawled
across the edges of her vision. She shivered. ‘Help me . . .’

Though not a wrestler by any
means, Nick used his broad shoulders and strong hands to good
effect. His crooked nose told the story of past fights and he
wasted no time in taking charge of this one, pounding his fists
into the stranger’s mid-section. ‘Can you hear me, babe? Stand up.
Please.’

She reached towards him, but
her vision clouded with more featureless darkness that finally
obscured him and everything else. Her hand fell on something long
and hard. Something sharp that pricked her fingers and added fresh
pain to the growing catalogue.

When the cloudiness cleared,
what Lenina saw made her heart make one last desperate bid to beat
free of her chest cavity. Instead of the park she saw stone
statues. Long corridors filled with golden sunlight. In place of
grass and the stranger’s sickening scent, Lenina smelled blood
laced with the sweet tang of cinnamon and cumin. Sand compacted
beneath her feet: hot, dry and coarse. Replacing the taste of
blood, there was beer, strong and yeasty. The imagined taste washed
down her throat but couldn’t begin to touch the roaring thirst she
felt.

Loud voices took over from the
wind in the park, clear and jubilant, raised in song and prayer.
All of them spoke a language utterly foreign, though strangely
comforting to the ear.

Weary, confused, Lenina tried
to touch one of the statues. When she raised her hand, she saw not
her own familiar fingers but a square, thick-fingered, scarred
hand. A hand with chipped fingernails caked with dirt and sand. A
hand with dark hairs bristling from the knuckles. The hand wore no
engagement ring.

From behind a stone statue with
a carved falcon’s head, a woman approached, dressed in white. She
had large eyes, ringed with thick, black make-up and full, pouting
lips. ‘Good to see you, Saar,’ whispered the ghostly form.

No sooner had the woman spoken
than the images vanished.

The park returned with a rush
like howling wind, and Lenina felt the ginger stranger sprawl
beside her, crushing her extended hand. Dark smudges ringed his
thin lips which hung open in a silent ‘O’ of surprise.

Lenina heaved again, scrubbing
at her eyes. With effort she pulled free and scrabbled away from
him.

Nick stood two steps away, his
chest heaving, hands bunched into fists. A lump of blood dribbled
from his left nostril. His clothes hung off his body, ripped and
bloody. ‘Get lost,’ he hissed. ‘I’ve got more where that came from,
I swear to you. Touch her again and I’ll break your legs instead of
your nose.’

The stranger narrowed his eyes.
Snapped his mouth shut. ‘Fine,’ he grunted. The word emerged thick
and laboured. ‘Fine!’ He scooped his dagger from the grass and
leapt to his feet in a move so fast and smooth it might have
belonged to a dancer. He rushed forward, slashing with the
weapon.

Lenina screamed, curling her
hands over her head even as Nick dived towards her. He crashed
against her, shielding her body with his own as he took them both
to the ground.

Pounding footsteps reverberated
through the grass.

Silence.

It seemed like hours before
Nick allowed her to sit up. He gazed at her, blinking away the
blood dripping into his eyes from a cut on his forehead. A swelling
on his cheek signalled the start of a bruise. His lower lip
swelled.

‘You okay?’ He touched her
cheek.

She whimpered.

Her last clear thought before
unconsciousness claimed her, was that neither of them would be in
any state to pose for wedding photos.

Maybe she would wear make-up
after all.

31 July 30 BC

Screams of wounded and dying men rang
out across the sand.

Golden grains, once dry and loose
underfoot, clumped into red-soaked clods, as if the earth itself
wept tears of blood. Beyond, shrouded by clouds of dust, a shape
hundreds of cubits tall stabbed into the air like an accusing
finger.

Saar wiped blood from his eyes and
cleaned his sword on the body of the dead man at his feet.
‘Forward,’ he cried. ‘Drive them back to the river.’

As if his voice gave strength to those
still standing, he watched his men pierce the Roman forces and
continue until the first line broke and scattered.

‘
Use your gifts, blessed sons and
daughters. Show them the true power of we who are god-touched.
Offer mighty Set his rightful tribute.’

The change in atmosphere was palpable.
The excited energy of his soldiers lifted the hairs on his arms and
neck. A prickle of warmth rushed over his skin. Fangs lengthened
from his gum line to brush his tongue.

Many of his men tucked their swords
away. Others tossed down their weapons and formed tight fists. None
stopped fighting.

Stares and whispers among the enemy
quickly changed to screams as Saar’s chosen soldiers exposed their
deadly fangs. Men and women alike attacked like animals: biting,
scratching, pulling, kicking.

Saar threw down his own sword, flexed
his fingers and attacked. His first victim shrieked as he gripped
the man’s head, yanking it to one side. A quivering expanse of
naked flesh showed above his breastplate.

In that straining throat, Saar saw a
pulse, beating against the skin like a trapped butterfly. Hunger
swelled within him, moistening his tongue. With effort he tamped it
back and closed his lips over the jumping flesh. He bit down in one
smooth move.

Blood spurted into his mouth, hot and
smooth, tinged with a sweet edge that characterised the taste of
fear.

Two swallows later he let the man fall,
unwilling to let the pleasure of feeding distract him. Instead, he
moved on and saw, all around him, others of his men performing
similar savage acts.

Even Kiya, after hurling her daggers
into the back of a fleeing soldier, leapt on his flailing body and
rode it to the ground. She bent over his throat and bit deep to
access the blood beneath.

A rush of pride tingled through him as
he watched her. Her beauty, her skill, her deadly accuracy. Never
before had women fought at his side, but today, he could think of
nothing better.

Despite the change in hand-to-hand
tactics, Octavian’s men displayed an impressive level of
discipline. After recovering from the initial shock they resumed
their attack and several Alexandrian soldiers fell.

Saar smiled.

Those soldiers unmarked by his blood
fell and quickly died. Others touched by the power of the mighty
god Set, healed within moments. Though they bled and screamed like
all others, they resumed battle after a brief rest, most of them as
if untouched and often with renewed ferocity.

Through the heat of battle Saar felt a
new tug on his senses. He had no other way to describe it. Deep
inside, where he felt the minds of all of his God-Touched children,
he recognised the touch of one he feared he’d never feel again.
Hope soared within him.

His lungs tightened. ‘Mosi? As he spoke
the name he saw the man approaching from the city, sword in hand.
He laughed. ‘Mosi! In my hour of greatest need you return to my
side.’

Anger crackled across the bond between
them, stinging his skin like insect bites. Hot enough to steal his
breath. He stumbled on the sand. Stared. ‘Why, Mosi?’

The answer became clear as he
looked.

Mosi wore unfamiliar armour, his dark
hair hidden beneath an ugly plumed helmet. He carried a Roman
sword.

The hairs on Saar’s neck and arms
snapped to attention. His innards tensed into painful knots. ‘No.
You wouldn’t. Please, no.’

Their gazes locked.

Mosi smiled. A cold smile, the like of
which Saar had never seen on his face before.

His sometime friend pointed with his
sword and began to run. With him came a fresh unit of Roman
soldiers, charging down the slope in tight formation. They sliced
through the unprepared Alexandrian forces, scattering them into
smaller, vulnerable groups.

Kiya screamed, her voice shrill with
panic as the enemy charge washed over her. When Saar saw her again,
she lay pinned to the sand by a heavy wooden spear.

Saar forgot the battle. Forgot Mosi.
Forgot everything.

He dashed towards Kiya with
single-minded purpose, beating or kicking those who strayed across
his path. Before he could reach her, arrows filled the sky,
temporarily blocking the sun like a flock of birds. Though they
came from the direction of the city, they had nothing to do with
his men. He barely had time to bellow a warning before the first
arrow struck his shoulder. The impact spun him around. Pain robbed
his breath. The next rain of arrows landed with deadly accuracy,
peppering the Alexandrian forces until they resembled
porcupines.

First to fall was a tall, thin man with
eyes the colour of charred wood. Distantly, Saar recalled his name
to be Aswad. Six arrows sprouted from his chest, neck and shoulder,
their shafts shuddering in the dying sunlight. He held out his
hands, screaming, then fell into the sand on his back. Aswad’s skin
paled to the colour of faded parchment. His flesh withered, drying
like an animal carcass left too long in the desert sun. Then the
limbs began to crumble.

Saar froze, fingers slack on the arrow
shaft protruding from his left shoulder. His heartbeat filled his
ears like a steady drum until he could hear nothing else.

‘
What—’

An explosion of pain cut him short.
Searing agony as though he’d been dipped in hot tar. But not his
pain. Saar gazed at Aswad and knew it was
his
pain. Knew that the younger man was going to
die. With that knowledge, the rock of Saar’s mind cracked and a
fragment broke free, like a piece of amber beneath a clumsy
hammer.

He could hear it, the shattering of
that secret place in his head which housed the connection to each
of his children. Though he fought to gather the pieces, the act
resembled futile attempts to repair broken pottery without
clay.

Saar dropped to his knees. Sweat
coursed down his back. It burned in his wounds and mixed with the
blood before running down his skin like crimson tears. His exposed
fangs lengthened from his gum line and slashed his lips and
tongue.

Aswad’s body crumbled like an aged
statue. Dust gathered beneath his writhing limbs until nothing
remained but a large pile of golden sand, encased in bloodied
clothes.

He gaped. Stared. Brushed his hand
through the warm sand. It couldn’t be real. His eyes . . . perhaps
an illusion. A trick of the fatigued mind.

Pain winked out, taking all sensation
of Aswad with it. The place he once inhabited in Saar’s mind ached
like a raw wound; a deep gouge in the mountain face of his
senses.

Saar clenched his fists to stop them
shaking. A deep breath in, then out again, but the drums in his
head intensified. He couldn’t stop them. More arrows rained from
the sky. Fresh screams rent the air as the deadly projectiles met
their targets.

To his left, another of his children
screamed and grasped her stomach. Eyes bulging, body shaking,
Moswen stared at her belly where the same terrifying decay consumed
her flesh. Sand cascaded from the tips of her fingers, climbing
both arms and meeting at her chest. Her legs collapsed beneath the
weight of her trunk and spilled sand across the ground.

Saar gasped as the pain began anew
along his abdomen.

Another fragment chipped free in his
mind, the piece called ‘Moswen.’

Her screams cut short as the decay
claimed her face, and Saar felt the loss like a deep pit in his
head. He shrieked and gnashed his teeth until blood filled his
mouth. It seemed to take hours, though he knew mere moments had
passed.