No, she thought. No! she wanted to shout. But she dared not resist him.
Was this not her fate?
Aimée spread her legs and tensed her muscles as the Agha parted her buttocks to look between, and then moved round in front to do the same with her sex. She thought of the slave block: had Giovanna had to suffer this? My God, she thought, I am being examined like a slave. Because that is what I am now.
But she knew there was no use in calling on God. If He had not finally forsaken her, He would expect her to follow this road to the end. To the best of her ability, as William had said.
The eunuch stood. “My master will be pleased,” he said. “You are very nearly perfect. Were you a virgin, he might have taken you to wife. As it is…he is impatient.”
She stared at him. Could he really have touched her, or any woman, so intimately, yet show no reaction at all?
The Agha walked away from her and opened yet another door. “My lady will enter.”
Aimée started, as if waking from a deep sleep, and stooped to retrieve her haik.
“My lady does not require clothes,” the Agha said.
Aimée straightened again and moved to the door. Calm, she told herself. Stay calm.
She followed him through, and paused in surprise. She stood in what was clearly a bathing chamber. The doorway led on to a slight dais, on which were several magnificently draped divans. A shallow flight of steps led down to a marble floor, in the centre of which was a large marble slab, rather like some sacrificial altar. Another three steps led down to a third level, again marble, although covered with wooden slats, and off which led several large drains. Onto each level opened a doorway, but the entire room was empty. It was lit by several huge skylights in the ceiling.
On the lowest level stood two large wooden tubs of water, one of them steaming. More surprisingly, set into the wall of the second level was a roaring fire, above which a spit was suspended on tripods. From this spit there hung an iron pot from which a most enticing aroma emanated.
Did they mean to feed her here? Or cook her?
To her dismay, all the eunuchs came into the chamber behind her. One of them closed and locked the door, and then, like the others, he began to undress.
They cannot be going to strip completely, she thought. Then I will surely faint.
But they stopped at their loincloths.
The Kislar Agha pointed to the marble slab. “My lady will lie down,’ he said.
To endure some obscene assault?
“Why?” she demanded.
“My lady’s hair must be removed,” he explained.
She stared at him open-mouthed, then at the eunuchs, who stood in a row looking at her face rather than her body. Somehow their impersonality was harder to bear than if they had showed some lustful reaction, just as the thought of being shaved actually seemed somehow worse than rape.
She turned away from them, descended the three steps, and lay down on the slab. The marble was cold and her flesh came up in goose pimples.
The Harem Agha came and stood beside her, raised her head and gathered out her hair, scooping it from beneath her so that it flowed over the edge of the altar.
One of the other eunuchs appeared on her other side, carrying a tray on which lay a curved knife some eight inches long.
The Kislar Agha now lifted her right arm, extending it above her head. “My lady must lie absolutely still,” he said. “I am skilful, but even I may not be able to cope with a sudden movement.”
Aimée sucked air into her lungs, as slowly as he began to hone the knife. Meanwhile another of the eunuchs was powdering her armpit, coating it thickly and pulling the hairs through it. Then the blade scraped with the utmost gentleness across her flesh.
Her left armpit was equally treated.
“Now, lady, spread your legs,” the Agha commanded.
How strange, Aimée thought as she obeyed; I give not a thought to defying him, where only this morning such a suggestion coming from any man but my husband, much less a half-man of an alien race, would surely have sent me into a swoon.
She closed her eyes as the fingers began to rub the powder into her flesh. There was something gentle about the feel, yet it was all she could do to keep still. Once again the Kislar Agha was scraping away, his head bent over her groin.
“Those ladies who prove recalcitrant,” he said conversationally, “are depilated by having the hairs plucked individually from their flesh. It is very painful, and can leave considerable inflammation for some time. You are wise to submit to the requirements of the harem, lady.”
Aimée closed her eyes. The knife was now moving between her legs, guided by those so knowledgeable and yet so disinterested fingers. It required all her willpower to lie still.
“My lady will stand,” the Agha commanded.
Aimée opened her eyes, sat up and looked down at herself. She now realised that she had never before known what an adult woman truly looked like there. She felt heat again in her cheeks, and glanced anxiously from side to side as she swung her legs to the floor, but the eunuchs were busy peering into the iron pot, and two of them were stirring vigorously.
“This may feel hot to your flesh, lady,” the Agha told her, “but it will only provide a temporary discomfort. Now kneel, and stretch your arms across the block.”
Aimée obeyed, still wondering at her total subservience to this creature. In fact she was even curious to discover what next would be done to her. She watched as the heavy pot was carried across the room, and placed on the block, between her arms, then felt a mixture of fear and disgust as a giant ladle was dipped in and a molten brown mess lifted out. Some of this was dripped on to her left arm, producing a gasp of pain. It was extremely hot. Then fresh pain as some of the toffee-like mixture was dropped on her right arm. The eunuchs immediately smeared the mess over her skin, coating every inch of each arm from wrist to shoulder.
“It is a mixture of sugar and lemon,” the Agha said. “Now you must lie absolutely still. What follows is a great test of skill. I cannot be responsible if you move. The slightest mistake in applying pressure will result in skin being removed.”
He had gone round the block to face her, and now leaned on the marble surface holding a length of silken thread between both hands. This he placed on her shoulder, where it joined the upper arm. He pressed gently, until the thread dug into the brown substance coating her skin; then slowly and carefully, watched with intense interest by his subordinates, he drew the thread down the length of Aimée’s arm, removing the bulk of the smothering mess as he did so — but also, she discovered to her fascination, every trace of hair. The golden down that normally covered her arm was entirely gone by the time he had reached her wrist, leaving her flesh absolutely white and clear.
Her arms completed, the Agha made her lie down again while her legs were attended to. Then she was made to kneel again while her back was coated and cleaned, and then she lay down yet again while her armpits received another scouring.
The Agha grinned at her. “Now is the truly difficult part, lady. I can only advise you again: lie still.”
She closed her eyes. She could not bear to look at their faces, so close, so eager, although still without any hint of sexual interest. The mess was smeared over her breasts — she could not possibly have hair on her breasts, she thought desperately — coated on her stomach, reaching her groin and between her legs. How could they avoid harming her down there, she wondered in sudden desperation.
She gave an involuntary shudder and received an admonitory slap on the thigh.
“I am commencing now, lady.”
Aimée attempted to hold her breath, then abandoned that in favour of slow and careful breathing. She felt the cord sliding over her skin, slipping between her breasts, and discovered that a subordinate had hold of each nipple, gently but firmly pulling the mounds apart to permit their master’s thread to pass between.
Her breasts were released, then the cord passed over her stomach. She tens
ed her muscles and felt it coursing across her groin. She felt fingers once again on the inside of her thighs, stretching them so wide she thought she might be torn in two. She wanted to cry out in anticipated pain, but there was none — and suddenly she was released. She received another gentle pat, and looked up to see the Kislar Agha grinning at her.
“You are well disciplined, lady,” he said. “Now, come, it is time for your bath.”
Aimée sat up and slipped off the table. The eunuchs had already descended to the lowest level, where the huge tubs waited. They carried silver bowls in their hands.
She was first made to kneel while the Agha carefully soaked and then washed her hair, using a soap of remarkable fragrance. Her hair was then rinsed and tied on top of her head with a length of ribbon. Next she was made to stand on the wooden slat, and hot water was poured over her seven times. The water, she discovered, was already soapy.
“My lady will lie down.’
Aimée obeyed, stretching herself out on the wet boards, and the eunuchs each armed himself with a loofah and massaged her from her neck to her toes. Her flesh was warmed, and the feeling of cleanliness and well-being was now overwhelming. She discovered she had quite lost both her horror of them as creatures and her embarrassment at being so intimately manhandled. There seemed to be nothing worse they could possibly do to her compared with what they had already done.
Besides, the strange excitement remained…and was even growing.
The soaping process completed, she was made to stand and was rinsed seven times in cold water.
“Now, lady.” The Kislar Agha wrapped her in a large towelled robe and released the ribbon holding her hair. He escorted her up the steps to the top level and sat her on a divan. She was amazed to discover just how exhausted she felt, and wondered for the first time how long she had been in the steamy confines of the bathchamber.
Several hours, apparently, for no sooner had she sat down than the sounds of a gong reverberated through the palace and the eunuchs immediately prostrated themselves for the afternoon prayer, apparently knowing the direction of Mecca even in this enclosed room.
She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall. She wanted only to sleep.
But her toilette was far from completed. While she sat on the divan, feeling her body slowly drying, the eunuchs finished their prayers and continued to fuss about her, extending arms and legs, first to trim and then to paint her fingernails and her toenails with henna. Others with great care circled her eyes and coated the lids with kohl.
The Kislar Agha himself gently rubbed her hair dry, seeming to work from strand to strand.
“In most cases,” he explained, “we henna the hair as well. But in your case, lady, it could do no more than detract from your beauty. The Padishah made particular reference to it.” She supposed he was paying her a compliment.
Her nails were now finished, and a eunuch was offering her a cup of steaming black coffee, so strong it made her gasp, to be followed by a mouth-watering sherbet which seemed to trace its way down her throat like a cascading waterfall. She had eaten nothing since early morning, and she realised, looking up at the skylights, that it was all but dark.
Giovanna would be at her wits’ end; her servants would be scouring the city. Would any of them dare grasp the truth?
She accepted another cup of coffee while the Kislar Agha continued to busy himself with her hair, brushing it and combing it, smoothing it with his fingers, endeavouring to remove the very last suspicion of a curl, to have it lie absolutely straight on her shoulders. And discovered that one of the eunuchs was standing before her, holding a tray on which lay a fearful mess: all the hair which had been removed from her body, sunk into the coagulated sugar and lemon mixture, together with all the parings from her nails.
“He wishes you firstly to confirm that there is none missing,” the Agha explained. “And secondly to tell him your wishes as to their disposal.”
“Should I be concerned with either?” She was coming to regard the Kislar Agha almost as an old friend. Certainly she had never spent so long naked in the company of anyone else — not even her husband!
“Of course, my lady. For if any is left about, to be secreted by some other guizde, you may be sure that one of your rivals will secure it and use it to cast an evil spell upon you. A sickness, perhaps, or a skin blemish.”
She was to have rivals! She had not thought of that. “Then what do you suggest?’
“That these are cast into the flames, here and now.”
“Very well,” she agreed. “Will you instruct him?”
The Agha gave instructions in Turkish, and the contents of the tray were immediately tipped into the still smouldering fire, causing it to flare up and give off again that unusual smell.
The Agha then removed Aimée’s robe and made her lie down on the divan, whereupon she was massaged by the four of them, front and back, with an unguent which gave off the same delicious fragrance as her hair, and left her smelling sweeter than she would have ever thought possible. It also sent her mind soaring into the most erotic of daydreams.
“And now, lady,” the Agha said, “your toilette is complete. Will you dress?”
A eunuch waited with a fresh tray, on which lay a pair of silk trousers, a bolero jacket and a jewelled cap, together with a pair of felt slippers. The motif was crimson, with gold thread intertwined at the hem and through the shoulders. It felt extremely odd to be wearing clothes without a single undergarment, and she could not reconcile herself to the way the bolero failed to meet across her breast, so that whenever she moved, her nipples were exposed.
Then to her surprise the Agha adorned her with a clean white yashmak. He clapped his hands and one eunuch hastily produced a large mirror, which he held up for her inspection.
Aimée gazed at herself in growing wonder. The heat from the bath had introduced a faintly pinkish tinge to her flesh, which seemed to glow after its massage. The sheer crimson trousers outlined the shape of her limbs — another shock, as she had never exposed her legs in her life before. Her nipples peeped round the hem of the bolero, and she was delighted with the way her breasts seemed to rise up, without a trace of sagging.
And, to top it all, the half-concealed face, and the white-gold hair flowing out from beneath the crimson cap.
“Well, lady, are you satisfied?”
“I am amazed,” she said. “How often is a woman required to suffer such a metamorphosis?”
“That depends on how you please the Padishah, my lady. As a guizde, why, not more than once a year, if at all. As an ikbal, why, perhaps once a week. But should you ever become an odalisk, then you will spend much of every day in this chamber, so as always to be ready for your master’s summons. Although clearly future occasions will not require so much attention.”
Will there be future occasions? she wondered. Especially when the Hawkwoods find out what has happened to me.
Instead she said, “I am glad to hear that. And now may I be shown to a bedchamber? I am extremely tired and wish only to go to sleep.”
The Kislar Agha permitted himself a smile. “Sleep is not for you this night, lady. Come, it is time for you to visit the bedchamber of the Padishah.”
11
The Day of Reckoning
The mountains seemed to climb forever in every direction. Once William Hawkwood had thought the Ulu Dag high. And once he had stared up at the Matterhorn. He had never anticipated having to climb such heights.
Brusa was now eight hundred miles behind him as the crow flies. But it had not been possible to travel in a direct line.
The little army had been several months on the march. It had followed the coast as far as possible, and even that had proved hard going. But when they had turned inland, for the mountains, they had encountered terrain such as only Hawk Pasha and his veterans of the Persian war ever suspected to exist.
They had wintered in Trebizond, on the coast, where the Black Sea surged into a wide bay, forming over the centuries
a triangle of tableland between two deep ravines, separated from the main part of the Anatolian plateau by the Pontic mountains.
Traditionally the place where Xenophon the Greek and his ten thousand had reached the sea after escaping from Persia, this seaport was a relatively recent acquisition of the Turks. Backed by those formidable mountains, it was difficult of access; here the Grand Comneni, descendants of the Byzantine emperors who had been ousted by the Frankish sack of 1204, had lived and ruled for two hundred years and more, describing their limited kingdom as the Empire of Trebizond. The ruins of their palace could still be seen. The walls erected by the Byzantines in those days of their glory still stood.
It had been Mahomet the Conqueror, with Hawk Pasha at his side, who had finally annexed Trebizond, soon after the fall of Constantinople.
The beylerbey, Mustafa Pasha, was an old friend of Anthony, and had made them welcome. But, with the first melting of the snows, Anthony had driven them onwards into the mountains. Now they gazed at snow-covered peaks more than ten thousand feet high surrounding them on every side. Even in the passes the temperature plunged below zero every night, so that the men and horses huddled together for warmth.
“It is never hot in Erzurum,” Hawk Pasha informed them. “It is six thousand feet above sea level.”
*
William was glad to see the towers of the citadel emerging along the pass. It was not merely the length of time already spent on the road, or the lonely nights when he dreamed of Aimée and wondered how she and Giovanna were faring, he also feared for his father, Anthony Hawkwood, who was now sixty-four years old. True he had spent almost his entire life either campaigning or travelling, first for the Conqueror and now for Bayazid, but he was old to be climbing up and down mountains, and there were days when his face looked grey. But he would accept no concessions in his determination to cover a predetermined number of miles a day. Others might collapse with exhaustion, but Anthony drove himself onwards.
And, at last, Erzurum. It was a surprisingly large city, and an old one. Known as Theodosiopolis by the Romans, even in those antique times it had been a frontier fortress, guarding Anatolia against the men from the steppes and the even greater mountains of the Hindu Kush. More recently it had been the home of the Seljuks, who had called it Arzan-ar-Rum, or Land of the Romans, whence came its present name.
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