The Fourth Queen, page 23
She started moving by herself, watching it appear, red and glistening in front of her, then disappear again beneath her, sliding slyly as a tongue against her secret parts. Her things were clamped either side of his body, two great triangles of marbled flesh, dimpling and puckering as she moved. She was glued to him with some shameful mix of sweat and slime. His brown belly was smeary with the stuff, its black hairs matted and shining. Where was it coming from, all this wetness? Were other women like this?
“Here is the pinkness again, spreading like sunset on the sea.” His voice startled her and she stopped moving. She looked at his face. The mocking smile was gone and had been replaced by a look she couldn't identify. “On the neck, and over the breasts—” Helen looked down in astonishment at the red mottling on her skin.
“How fascinating it is, this pale skin,” he said. “Like the roll-tail lizard's, which changes color when its mood changes. Salamatu used to color like this, too, when she was excited.” His smile was full of sadness and affection. “I could always tell how much she wanted me by this pinkness on her skin.”
It was a different man Helen was looking at now. His face seemed smoother, younger, as though some vague worry had gone. “When she was near her release, it covered her neck too, and her shoulders at the back.”
Helen lowered her eyes. Was that what the pink blotches meant? She felt she was melting, like wax around a wick; aching and itching at the same time. She wanted to move again, to ease her discomfort. Pressing down on him slightly, she felt his thing twitch in response. “Does it feel good, Aziza?” he asked softly, and Helen nodded, shaking her hair forward like a veil to hide her face. “Do you want it inside you?”
She nodded again, tilting her hips instinctively to let him enter her, then pushing back against him with a sigh of relief. His own groan of pleasure sent a shock of sensation up her spine. She found she was moving again, but pressing down harder. The feelings were different with it inside her: vaguer and less intense. But he grabbed her arse again and began pushing against her too, making the feelings stronger and more urgent.
Forgetting where she was, Helen leaned forward greedily inside her tent of copper hair. All her senses focused on the knot of pleasure in her crotch, worrying at it, trying to untie it. She pushed her pelvis down on him, harder and harder, digging her nails into his shoulders and sobbing with frustration. Then it happened, the feeling she was fighting for: the burst of pleasure as the knot gave, the sweet ripples as it unraveled at last. And she was aware suddenly of his dark body bucking beneath her, and her head filled with the roar of his voice.
DAWN WAS BREAKING WHEN MALIA arrived to walk Helen back to the Harem. The old witch was saying something about goats' milk, about how good it was with honey for young babies. But Helen wasn't listening. She was savoring the slight soreness between her legs, the slight tingling of her teats where his beard had rasped her.
“So, my Aziza,” he'd said with a smile. “Shall I invite you, like a proper Christian, to go walking?” He took her hand and bowed over it. “Would you do me the honor of meeting me this afternoon in my garden?”
“It will be my pleasure, my lord,” she replied with a curtsy.
“And the night after?” He kissed her wrist and the soft skin inside her elbow. “And the night after that,” pulling red silk aside and nuzzling her shoulder. “And the night after that,” fingering the buttons open again, “until I have run out of places to kiss you?”
“And then what?” She smiled down at his bent head.
“And then—with your kind permission, of course—I shall begin again.”
Chapter 36
October 8, 1769
I SAW HELEN, BUT SHE DIDN'T SEE ME.
I was waiting in her courtyard. I do not know why. Perhaps I wanted to see for myself whether the rumors were true: that the Lalla Aziza (already this is how the women are addressing her) has grown yet more beautiful since she has been with the Emperor; that the Emperor's milk has brought a soft sheen to her skin; that she is plumper, rosier, brighter than ever before and her face brims over with joy.
One glimpse told me that all the rumors are true.
I think I intended saying something, though I cannot imagine what that something might have been. “Do you still have my pebble?” What would she want with it now?
Chapter 37
“TELL ME, AZIZA,” SAID THE EMPEROR LAZILY, “HOW did you come here?”
He was lying on the divan in the ironed-out, deep-breathing, splayed minutes after love; his skin was gleaming, his chest hair was matted with sweat. Helen was molded along his flank, beneath his arm, drowsy as a sun-warmed cat, breathing his sharp licorice smell.
“It seems so long ago,” she began. “My ship was captured by pirates and taken into Sallee.” She was watching his chest rising and falling, the little brown teats barely visible in the pelt of black hair. She wanted to worm her nose in there, and suckle like a kittlin. “I was traveling to the Colonies—”
“Alone?” The arm around her stiffened.
Helen's mind jolted awake, a hare with its ears up. Of course; a Mohammedan woman would never travel without a male relative. It would be like admitting she was a whore. She stretched and pressed against the Emperor, playing for time, while the hare raced around inside her skull. She daren't tell him the truth. Every part of her story—her sudden flight from Muthill, taking up with Betty and Dougie, sleeping in a hammock amid a hundred strange men—all trumpeted she wasn't a virgin.
“My father—” she blurted. “I was with my father. We had a little cabin—a—a cabin each,” she added, unsure whether it was permitted for a father to share with his daughter. “Away from the other passengers.” Feeling a blush sting her cheeks, she began teasing out the damp tangles on his chest with her fingers.
“Your father.” His voice was mild. She closed her eyes as in prayer and moved her hand lower. She'd heard him speak in this tone before. It meant he was controlling himself, deciding whether to be angry. “So. Who is this father of yours?”
“A laird, my lord. Someone who owns land that other men farm. When my mother died, he sold his land and—” He was raising himself up on one elbow, rolling her away from him, back onto the pillow.
“And what happened to this father?” Still that dangerous calm tone. The hare froze in the gun's sights. Had he guessed she'd been spoiled? Had she forgotten to tighten herself when they were playing sex just now? She tried to think. She'd been so hungry for him . . . What would he do if he found out?
“He was killed, my Lord. By the pirates. They—” The dead puppet of Robert Baird jumped into her mind: the tatters of shirt dangling from his empty rib cage. “He tried to protect me and they—” Could he feel her heart pounding? “They sliced off his hair, then tied him to the mast for the gulls. They were going to kill me too, but their Chief stopped them and—and locked me up with the other bints.” She tried to breathe normally. Blood pounded at the base of her throat. He was disentangling his arm and sitting up.
“Why do you lie to me, Aziza?” He was smiling down at her, but his eyes were hard. “Do you think I am blind that I won't notice this pink in your cheeks?”
Her hand flew to her blazing face, then down to wrench the damp bedsheet up to cover her breasts. It was all over. He'd discover everything now.
“I'm sorry, my lord. Forgive me.” How could he have changed so quickly? Ten minutes ago he was drinking her, moaning relief into her open mouth, like a traveler come home after years abroad. Now he was a stranger: face closed, lips tight.
“So. Now tell me the truth. This father—” that calm voice, like a threat. “He was not some mighty laird, was he?”
“No, my lord.” Why was he harping on about her father? Helen clutched the crumpled bedsheet closer. The thuds of her heart shook her whole body.
“There was no land, was there?”
“No, my lord. Just the house and the forge. He was a blacksmith.”
“Look at me, Aziza.”
Was he going to hit her? She tensed her shoulders and raised her eyes warily. He was still smiling, but it was a different smile now: tender, exasperated. “Oh, my foolish Aziza. Do you think I care if your father was a poor man?”
He thought she'd been lying about her father! A great sob of relief doubled her over like a belly-punch. “I was afraid it would turn you against me.”
“You see?” He caught a tear on his finger and lifted it to his lips. “You can never deceive me. Your pretty cheeks will always betray you. Poor Aziza, let this be a lesson.” Now he was sighing and laughing at the same time, tugging the sheet away, rolling her on top of him. “There is no escape. Your body will always be faithful to me, even when your lips lie.”
Squeezing her eyes closed, Helen breathed a prayer of thanks. She'd been so close to confessing everything. She cursed her thoughtless tongue. What if she'd blurted out about why she'd left home? About John Bayne and the baby. All of a sudden she was exhausted. She felt like the hull of a fishing boat after a long storm, beached at last above the high-tide mark.
But the exchange had left him exultant. He was teasing suddenly, full of affection. “Come, let's wash and get dressed. I want to show you something.”
HE TOOK HER TO THE JEWEL ROOM. She'd heard the other women talking about it, but none, she thought, had ever seen inside. There was a shop in Perth the lassies talked of at home, where customers were served in a brocade parlor, one by one like guests, and jewels were brought out with the shortbread on trays. She'd dreamed of one day being bowed into that shop on the arm of a gentleman. But that was mean stuff compared to this.
Behind them, the guards locked the great doors. The room was silent, cushioned by pouches of kid leather and velvet that crowded the shelves like roosting owls. Silk-padded boxes and trunks were herded against the walls, crammed with glistening intestines, a thousand, thousand king's ransoms.
“Let me see. What would suit you best? Something amber, to match your curls. Or green, for your eyes. Or turquoise. Sometimes when the sun catches them, they look almost turquoise. But the turquoise has no depth, so perhaps—”
A plain purple carpet had been unrolled across the floor. Sunlight sliced in through the window bars and lay like white swords across it. Signaling Helen to kneel, the Emperor began tipping necklaces out onto the carpet in front of her slowly, one after another, a rain of sparkling entrails. Soon the room was full of rainbow shards as the light shattered on the cut surfaces of the stones. Helen could feel them playing across her face as she gazed downward.
“So, Aziza likes jewels.” Helen started guiltily. Was it that obvious? Her urge to gather them all into her lap, the whole glorious glittering heap, to dangle and trickle them through her fingers, sniff them, lick them, feel them cool and heavy on her skin.
But he seemed pleased. “Aren't you going to try them on? Go on, choose something. Anything. There's a mirror over there.”
She reached out a tentative hand and began spreading the heap out on the carpet. The necklaces were warm where the sun had touched them, but cold as river pebbles underneath. Inlaid in gold or silver were rubies, sapphires, amethysts, and myriad other gems she couldn't name: yellows and purples; pinks and glowing russets. And emeralds, of course, cut and uncut, every shade, every size.
She knew immediately which one she wanted: a double row of big green stones in a heavy gold setting. But she tried on three or four others as well, pretending she couldn't decide. She wanted to stay there forever, dipping her hands in the cool jewels and trailing them across her skin like a princess in an enchanted tower.
It was better than sex: bending her head and pulling apart the heavy curtain of her hair, feeling the air on her white nape, his knowing fingers on the clasps, the long caress of rippled stones at her throat. At her neck, wrists, and ankles, where her blue blood snaked close to the surface, she ached for the touch of cool stones. Desire—for them, for him—was rising out of her like smoke. He was breathing it in, turning her toward him. Outside, the clink of spurs as the guards fidgeted in the hallway. Inside, his minty tongue; the sweet pain as he spread her on the hard jewels.
LATER, BACK IN HIS QUARTERS, after he'd washed again and gone off to do whatever he did during the day, and the slaves had finished fussing with the water and linens, Helen took out the necklace and laid it out on the new bedsheet.
Her own emeralds. She touched each stone: bigger, every one, than the largest of Naseem's sapphires; altogether far heavier than Microphilus' puny pigeon egg. She lifted them and clasped them around her neck, then walked over to one of the great gold-framed mirrors in the washroom. Oh, yes. The sweet weight of them. She lifted her chin and twisted sideways to make them catch the light.
Energy sizzled through her. She'd have to buy some new clothes to wear with them. Batoom had said there was a special payment for every night with the Emperor. Well, there had been five in a row already. She'd have to find Microphilus and ask for what she was owed.
When was market day? She'd lost track of the rhythms of the Harem, had been living a separate existence ever since he'd first sent for her: awake by night, asleep by day. The Emperor's chamber, with its carved archways and snowy sheets, had become her whole world. She'd lain awake for hours beside him—too excited to sleep, too afraid of waking him to move—and had just gazed around the room at the perfumed oil lamps, turned down and glowing faintly in the darkness; the plumes of soot the slaves wiped off the walls every morning; the nighttime fruit bowls, dewed with cool water; his white gowns and her silks tangled together on the floor. She listened to the shush of slippers as the tasters and guards shifted outside the carved doors.
There was a quiet knock on the chamber door: Malia, come to escort her back to her room. Helen scowled. Why did she always have to wait for that old hag and trail behind her through the ogling courtyards, as though she were a child who couldn't be trusted to find her own way? But she knew why. It was to make sure she was gone by the time the Emperor came back for his afternoon sleep. So he could send for a different woman if he wanted one.
Reaching up beneath her hair to unclasp the necklace, Helen hesitated. Why should she hide it in her pocket like a common thief? She shrugged her hair back from her shoulders. She'd give them something to look at. Let them all see how much he loved her.
“YOU KNOW, YOU SHOULD BE MORE CAREFUL.” Naseem was sitting in Helen's room, her long legs folded beneath her on the rug. “They're all talking about the gifts the Emperor is showering upon the Lalla Aziza. Your one necklace has already grown into a whole chest of treasures in their minds. They are saying you are going to have a special guard to watch your room at night—
“No, don't laugh. It's serious. Haven't you noticed how they stare at you, some of them? With those slitty eyes, like daggers. It's bad enough that you are going to him every night.”
“Oh, they've always stared at me.” Helen was combing her hair. “First it was because of my pale skin, then because of Fijil and Batoom. If I hadn't been wearing the necklace, they'd have been blethering about what I had hidden in the bottom of my clothes trunk.”
Naseem shrugged. “Is Reema being careful about your food? And what about your hair?” She picked up an amber strand and wound it around her forefinger. “If I were a jealous sort of woman, think of the mischief I could do with this.”
Helen put her comb down. “You're not, are you? Jealous, I mean. I assumed, after what you said—I mean, you seemed so—”
“Not me, you silly nanny-goat. I don't care if he never looks at me again. In fact I'd prefer it that way,” she added with a sideways smile. “Then I could get on with my life in peace again.”
Helen stared at her friend. “What have you been up to?” Naseem's cheeks were flushed and her eyes had that same reckless glitter she'd noticed the previous week. She seemed thinner, too, as though whatever secret she had was burning her up from the inside.
“Promise on your mother's grave that you won't breathe a word.” Naseem gripped her hand. “You know that big eunuch, the one who beat me?”
“Lungile?”
“The Emperor has put him in charge of Naseem's horse.” She paused and squeezed Helen's hand harder. “Well, Naseem has put him in charge of Naseem!”
Naseem and the giant? Helen felt disoriented; her world tilted slightly on its axis. Why would Naseem be interested in a eunuch? “How long has this been going on?”
“Just a few days. But it's so strong, Aziza. I have never felt like this before, with a man or a woman. It's like he is inside my skin, in the vessels that take my blood around my body. When I look in his eyes I see my mother, my father. I see my people—myself as I used to be—” there were tears in the blue eyes, “—before I was locked up in this chicken coop.” She hissed through her teeth.
“My spirit was dying, Aziza. My body was getting soft, my mind like a cushion. Every day: all the food we need, slaves to do our chores; nothing to think about except the market and the baths, how we look, what we eat, who is playing sex, who is quarreling. Lungile reminds me there is another way to be a woman.”
“But where do you—?”
“In the garden. In the middle of the day, when everyone is asleep. He brings the mare from the stables for me to ride, and we find somewhere in the woods to be alone.”
“Fijil told me he was in love with someone.”
“He said it was because I was so quiet when he was beating me. He said any other woman would have burst his ears with her screaming. But he thought I wouldn't want him because he's been cut.”
