The Fourth Queen, page 2
The Emperor's Chief Wife, Queen Batoom, is slumbering like a sow beside me. Her huge mounds of dark flesh glisten like heaped aubergines beneath her muslin robe. And I am reminded that the Moors have a dish made from aubergines, baked in olive oil and allspice, which they call imam baylidi, meaning “apt to make a priest swoon.” Thus is my sleeping Queen, steeped in her own musk, basted by the oil of her sweat, sweetly cooking in the midday heat.
And I might be swooning beside her, nuzzling beneath those hills like a runtling rooting for truffles—except, except, except, I have a pen in my hand for the first time in four years, and black ink in this wee tin beside me. So I am inclined to keep my blunter instrument dry for once, and continue with my scribbling.
For I can imagine that you are wondering how it is that a frog like me should be basking alongside the very epitome of Moorish Beauty? The answer is that the wondrous Batoom is the most discerning of women, by which I mean that she alone—of the heedless hordes that dwell in the Harem—has perceived the princely heart that pulsates in this squat body. And came by and by to discover, by dint of some determined and deft exploration, the princely pego, all intact, all aquivering in these eunuch's salwars.
In short, I am long in that spurtle that stirs a girl's porridge, well endowed with that wealth that is wanting in a house filled with women. The Good Shepherd, who snubbed my nose and dished my face like a saucer, domed my forehead and shrunk my limbs to a dachshund's dimensions, was not so cruel as to leave me with no compensation. Indeed, I am inclined to conclude that God never made a man Little but He made it up to him in something else.
And just as I have invaded Batoom's chamber, so I have somehow become lodged in the heart of this great woman, like a sand grain in the brown flesh of a Tay mussel, there to be enveloped in secretions until I am become transformed to something precious in her eyes. Thus does Love layer every aspect of the Beloved with pearly perception, and judges flaw and fine feature to be equal exemplars. So by Love is Beauty finally dethroned.
For my part, once I came to relish the aesthetic of a shaven scalp on a lass, the shift from Admiration to Love was but a simple step. I look at Batoom now and my mouth fairly waters—
But I digress. For there is need, too, to explain how an intact man like myself came to be taken for a eunuch. The answer is simple. For though I was christened Jeffrey by the father who sired me and Joey by the wet-nurse who fed me in her fish-flavored pouch, the name I call myself is Microphilus, which means, in the Greek, “little leaves”—for though my stem may be stout, my limbs are like those of a child.
And it is these little limbs which have hoodwinked the Emperor, and hooked the key to his Harem onto my belt. For he believes that my armaments are as infantile as my arms, and that I am as unmanned, in effect, as the giant eunuchs he employs to guard his lovelies. Indeed, so taken is he with the lowness of my stature, that he has raised me to the rank of Chief Eunuch, for the sheer amusement of seeing me surrounded by his galumphing geldings, a wee spuggie fluttering around their fat black ankles.
Batoom alone knows my secret. It was she, cunning queen, who coined for me the sobriquet Fijil, which is Moorish for “radish”—a wee pinkie of a name to circumjack all conjecture about the secret neep she holds so dear. Because if the Emperor were to discover he has been cuckolded by a Dwarf, then death would be the very mildest punishment he'd mete out. More likely would be some excruciation copied from his grandfather, the Emperor Ishmael.
They say that this ingenious Monarch devoted much time to devising elaborate machines of torture. The breast-vise was one of his favorites, and something he dubbed the “spiked djellabah.” He also applied his mind to expanding the repertoire of his executioners and schooled them so thoroughly that they could ascertain, from a single gesture of the Royal Thumb, exactly which method he wished them to use with each miscreant.
What they refer to as “tossing” was the quickest, in which the unfortunate was lifted, much as your caber is hoisted up by your Highlander, and tossed in the air such that he landed on his head with a conclusive crack. Far slower was crucifixion, or boiling in oil, or dissolving in the lye his builders used to mix with their clay. So many were liquefied in this last manner as to give the palace walls a curious mottled quality. Indeed, if walls can truly be said to have ears, they must have been rendered deaf by the wailing that went into their rendering.
But let me not dwell on such horrors. My sweet whale is surfacing. It is time to emulate Jonah.
Chapter 3
THREE WEEKS OUT OF GREENOCK, THE MAIN PASSENGER cabin stank like a pigsty. It had rained steadily ever since they set sail, making it impossible to spend time on deck, so they had to do everything in the near-darkness of the cabin. The pitching of the ship meant buckets were always tipping over; food was forever being dropped or slopped on the quaggy boards. After a spell of rough weather, the sour smell of vomit was added to the soup of stenches in the dark swaying barn. Rats nibbled unseen in the rotting rubbish and there were cries of disgust almost daily as another litter of pink young was discovered in the middle of someone's bag of clothes.
Helen tried to be brave. She took her turn emptying the close-stools and shoveling up the slimy sweepings from the floor. She borrowed Betty's spare blanket and was grateful, and smiled at her gormless brother Dougie and made him blush. And tried to forget they were from the poor end of the village, where the work was seasonal at best, and measles took off all the weans, and gin was used to warm the empty bellies.
They'd been kinder than she deserved: waiting by the side of the track when they heard her running after them that shameful morning, listening solemnly to her lies about why she needed to come with them. They'd exchanged knowing looks, but had never asked any questions, simply handed her a bundle to carry and moved apart to make space for her to walk between them. Betty had even insisted on giving her her shoes.
“How come you're kind to me?” Helen asked suddenly. They were kneeling on the filthy floor, sharing a big bowl of pea soup.
Betty shrugged and shoved her hair behind her ears. “It's nice having someone to blether with,” she said gruffly. “And Dougie's no use—are you, man?” He humphed, dunking two ships' biscuits and cramming them into his loose mouth. “See? I couldn't stand three months of that sort of chitchat.”
“But there's the money too, for the stagecoach and ship. I'll pay you back, I swear, once we get to the Colonies.”
“I told you, it's not our money, it's the whole village's. Your father put his hand in his pocket same as everyone else—deeper than most, probably. So some of it's yours by rights anyway.”
Betty bailed green gruel eagerly into her mouth. “The soup tastes different tonight,” she said. “Someone must've added a dish of vinegar to the pot.” A green dribble snaked down her chin.
Helen's stomach churned with a mixture of hunger and nausea. How could they eat that swill? Nibbling the corner of a biscuit, she forced herself to swallow. It tasted of oat mold and barn dust.
“You feeling queasy again?” Betty leaned toward her with a worried frown.
“Aye, a bit. I can't stomach this muck.”
“Well, you know what you can do about that.” She nodded toward the door leading to the rear of the ship, to the stores where the steward would be waiting.
Helen had visited him six times now, she counted them up: six foretastes of Hell. There, in a fug of sweaty cheese, she'd dodge and dimple, then let him press her up against a barrel of wet butter, where he'd slobber over her naked breasts until he jerked with some sort of release. Then he'd back away, fumbling for his keys, and unlock the cupboard where he'd put her reward: a dish of marmalade or applesauce; once a whole honeycomb wrapped in a muslin cloth.
Helen made a face. “He's been wanting more lately.”
“So? Give him more.” Betty shrugged, slurping soup.
“I can't bear to let him kiss me on the mouth, let alone—”
“So wank him then. You know, milk his thing, like whores do when they're on their monthlies. You can wash your hand after and he'll be awfully grateful.”
“Jesus God, Betty.”
Betty grinned and wiped her chin with the hem of her skirt. “All right, dinna fash. Maybe you could try going all coy-like. Say you're not that kind of lass. That you're saving yourself for your true love.”
“He'll not fall for that. Last time I said it was only my monthlies that was stopping me.” He'd given her a whole bag of sugared figs that time. And she'd eaten half of them straightaway, crouching in a dark corner and stuffing them guiltily into her mouth, swallowing so quickly she almost gagged. She'd wanted to fill herself with sweetness, choke on it, not give any of it away.
“So, tell him you're scared of getting pregnant.” Helen dropped her biscuit into the bowl. Sweat prickled hot on her scalp, then went cold. The only things of Betty's she hadn't borrowed were her monthly rags. She counted the days in her mind. Betty'd been bleeding when they'd set off from the village. She remembered thinking then that she wouldn't be due until they were on the ship. But that was over two weeks ago now. Which meant she must be carrying John Bayne's bastard.
THE SEA WAS ROUGH AGAIN THAT NIGHT and the hammocks swung wildly. Helen lay awake for a long time, listening to the sounds of the ship as it lurched through the towering waves: the squealing timbers and slapping sails; the thud and rattle of every loose box or latch or barrel all over the ship. And around her, the retching and coughing, the belching and scratching of a hundred bodies; the swearing of those crawling in the filth beneath the hammocks toward the wooden partition in the corner.
She unbuttoned her skirt and slipped her hand inside, knuckling it into the flesh where her bastard wean was growing, fisting into the pink maggot God had sent to remind her of who she was: a common slut like all the others. Hot tears burned her eyes and ran into her ears as she lay on her back and sobbed silently in the darkness.
WHEN SHE WOKE THE NEXT MORNING the cabin was almost deserted. Two oblongs of sunlight lay beneath the two trapdoors like white paper and she could hear talking and laughter above her head. She climbed the ladder and found that the sky was blue and the sea sparkling and everyone was sitting about on the deck in the first sunshine they'd seen since they'd set sail.
Blankets were draped everywhere and the women were scrubbing clothes and washing their hair in big tubs of seawater they'd winched up from over the side. The men sat in noisy groups, passing pipe tobacco. Helen picked her way through the scattered bodies to where Betty and some other lasses were combing one another's hair.
Sitting down, Helen untied her own matted curls and began dragging a comb viciously through them.
“Are you trying to make yourself bald?” Betty slapped Helen's hands away. “Here, let me,” she said, kneeling up and starting to tease out the tangles. “Oh, I wish I had hair this color, instead of this mousy mane. So how's the sickness this morning?”
Something in her voice made Helen look up. The brown eyes were full of concern. “You're carrying, aren't you? We guessed as much that first day, when you said Meg had thrown you out. Then when you started being poorly I said to Dougie that's a sure sign.”
“I didn't realize until yesterday.” Helen felt a tear trickle down her cheek. “I don't know what to do. I'll not be able to get work with a wean to look after. And no man'll ever marry me now.”
“Don't be so daft. Dougie'd marry you like a shot if you wanted. There's a dozen men on this ship'd be proud to have a lassie like you for a wife—baby or no. As for getting work, my sisters never had any bother. We just took it in turns to tend the weans.” Betty's eyes began to shine with excitement. “God, I hope it's a wee laddie. Our house was always full of lasses.”
“You mean you'd help?” Helen wiped her nose on her shawl and stared at the other lass. It began to seem possible. She began to imagine a neat little house with lime-washed walls, and a bonny blond laddie toddling unsteadily in through the door. And Dougie bringing in the wood; and Betty tending the stove.
“I've always loved bairns,” Betty said quietly. “But I don't think I can have one of my own. I was carrying twice last year, but I lost it both times. If you had a baby we could all share it.”
Chapter 4
June 5, 1769
SO WE HAVE HAD A PURGING! THAT IS WHY I HAVE neglected these pages for so long. I have been playing cat and mouse with the housekeepers, moving my cache of papers much as your squirrel would his nuts, from this hiding place to that, in the wake of their furious brooms. For we have had such sweepings and scourings these last weeks; such shakings and scrubbings as would make your humble cockroach tremble in fear for his life.
Indeed this very morning I saw a dozen such creatures, drowsy and dust-clogged, stamped on by the child of one of the Harem scullions. For what other being but a cockroach could succumb to this lowliest of children? Thus is power wielded constantly downward, like a very waterfall of tyranny, from the Emperor at the apex, inexorably down through the hierarchy of wives and slaves, such that his smallest whim can result, in extremis, in a veritable Slaughter of the Innocents in the world of Insects.
So the Emperor eats an overripe quail's egg and conceives a slight itching in the armpit. The result is this turmoil, as his scratching sets us all a-jumping like fleas on a dog's back.
Normally we are alert to his moods, as a band of nose-quivering coneys catch the scent of a fox on the prowl. But there has been such a heavy Heat in the air these past weeks, that has dulled all our senses and flattened us like flounders in a pool. So on Thursday, when he comes to select his diversions for the week, the women are drooping like limp cabbage leaves as they shuffle out to the courtyard to greet him. And they sag like lumps of dough as they position themselves before him, subsiding on thick feet in the heat.
His lip curls in disgust as he surveys them: silk stuck to their skin, swaying in torpid parody of seduction. So he looks them over, with his anger growing. And paces up and down, scratching vaguely at his armpit, until at last his agitation rouses them from their lethargy.
Then the fidgetings begin; the nudgings, the fiddlings with jewels. And they look sideways at each other and roll their eyes like frightened sheep. Then he's spinning on his heels and sweeping past them down the passage to their quarters. And they're following him, bleating and waddling like seals, fluttering their hands and calling for their children.
It is to no avail, of course. For he's already hauling carpets from beneath kief-sodden slaves and scattering baskets of fruit to the ground, flinging heaps of clothing aside and calling on Allah! to deliver him from his plague of idle sluts. I am translating freely, vous comprenez. His exact prayer was for a giant pig to consume their children and all their belongings and then to position its anus in such a way that, when it loosened its bowels, his whole Harem would be drowned in an ordure of its own making.
Perhaps I should explain that the humble pig is regarded by your Moor as the foulest of creatures, to such an extent that every rich household keeps at least one of these despised animals as a pet, allowing it free run of the garden, for the sole pleasure of heaping curses upon it. For I have noticed that we humans do like to gloat over that thing which we abhor the most; to pick at it and torture it with a demented intensity that one is almost tempted to call Love.
The result of the Emperor's frenzy was this manic cleansing we have been forced to endure, coupled with a thorough survey of his seraglio, during which fully half of his unfortunate women were disposed of.
For the Emperor, though the richest man in his kingdom, yet has something of the frugal about him. Indeed such frugality is the very sine qua non of wealth. For what is wealth but the failure to spend what one has? The accumulation of riches is a sort of accretion of the world to oneself, not unlike the waves of flesh that gather up and spill over the bones of the new women in the Harem. For every new acquisition is subjected to an obligatory fattening, much as your Christmas goose is stuffed full of corn, before she is considered fit for the Emperor's bed.
Growing rich is likewise a process of consumption, a vast repast which must be munched on and savored and conjoined to the swelling body of matter which comprises the wealthy man.
And waste is anathema to this agglomeration. It is the spilled claret on the laird's waistcoat—or, in the Emperor's case, the greasy scented tea tipped over his green slippers, tea being the beverage of the wealthy of this realm: a cup of sweet mint tea with a lump of ambergris melting in it. For though your Moor will smoke himself insensible on this leafy opium they call kief, yet to allow just a drop of alcohol to pass his lips is tantamount to the vilest debauchery.
Thus is the Emperor in his countinghouses like a hungry man at his table. The difference being that the hunger for riches is an appetite that can never be satisfied. For are there not always more riches in the world? I have also observed that a man whose vocation is Accumulation often looks on that which he has accumulated with a sort of repugnance. Once a thing has been purchased it loses much of its value, much as the food, once chewed and swallowed, becomes a loathsome wet bolus contaminated with gall juices of the foulest kind. Thus the very Act of Consumption degrades that which it consumes.
Your young virgin is the perfect example of the phenomenon I have in mind. While she refuses a man and is, so to say, still on display in the baker's shop window, he desires her with a very frenzy. But once she has been brought home and tasted, her charms seem to fade in his eyes. She is the gatepost that some dog has pissed on, albeit that the piss he can smell has issued from his very own pistil.
Such are the motives that engendered the Emperor's sudden urge for purging—these and a certain more personal purging that was brought about by the aforesaid quail's egg. So he orders his carpets and cushions and has them laid out beneath the great olive tree in the Harem garden.
