by K. T. Tomb
It was a wonderful dinner and they relaxed and had after dinner drinks and talked well into the night. None of them knew when they would have the chance to be together like that again; it would certainly not be soon.
Fatma Maulidi would be leaving to go back to Damascus in the morning. The museum board had decided to close the property down until the city was returned to some form of stability and she would have to ensure that the process of closing down the operation went smoothly. Ted would be returning to New York for work, Anthony would go back to Izmir. In a few weeks, even Oscar and Lana would be heading back to the States and then it would be Sirita and Chyna; of course, occasionally they would see Rashid.
It was a wonderful way to get started on their new venture in the Middle East; being surrounded by friends and colleagues who shared in their happiness. It was something Chyna had felt strongly about doing since she had returned from Sweden. She had taken the trip to Stockholm with Sirita, Oscar and Lana to return the golden falcon to its rightful home and also to have the chance of seeing the other one.
Inga had spent a week preparing the exhibit to receive it. She had even gone to the lengths of having reproductions of the ancient standards of the Drammen Jarls made to attach to flagpoles and the great falcon finials attached to the tops. When Chyna visited the exhibit on her last day in Stockholm, she was surprised that they had received such a place of honor. The Swedish History Museum was known for having the largest collection of Viking artifacts in the world and Chyna could think of no better place for the falcon.
The entryway to the Viking exhibit was magnificent. The colossal doorways framed the view of the prow of a giant Viking ship that was taken from a burial mound found on a farm in rural Sweden. The ship was magnificent and beautifully preserved; the wood was as black as night and intricately carved on every piece of trim. The falcon flagpoles had received the place of an honor guard one at each side of the main door, arranged with their heads looking towards the enormous ship.
***
Chyna snuggled closer to Anthony’s warmth as the sun started to peep through the drapes. It felt wonderful to be in his arms again and she still didn’t know how she would be able to tell him that she didn’t want him to leave again. It felt selfish and wrong; it wasn’t what they had always been about; the fundamentals of their long standing relationship. It had worked for them for over fourteen years; who was she to want to change it? Who knew if he wanted anything between them to change at all? For Chyna it was better to sadly let him go, knowing she was definitely going to be with him again, than to confess to him that she wanted him to stay and watch him run for the hills. No! She would be satisfied and wait. She had made the first move by bringing her work and her life closer to him, if he wanted something more than that right away, he would have to man up and tell her.
She felt his hands come around her waist and knew that he was rousing from his sleep. He loved to rest his hand in the cradle of her waist and stroke the soft skin between her hip and her breast while he woke up. Chyna loved that, it was one of the things she missed the most on the days when she woke up in an empty bed. She had no idea how long they would have together now, but at least she wouldn’t be leaving and this time when he did, he would be a lot less far away. She took his hand in hers and touched his fingers for a while before sighing and throwing back the covers.
“It’s time to get up, sleepy head,” she said.
Chyna had a full day ahead of her, and so did Anthony, whether he wanted to admit it or not. They were going apartment hunting today. The fastidious Shakira Mendes had sent over a list of about fifteen different apartments and houses which she thought would suit Chyna. There was no way that she wouldn’t be able to find a place to live today. In fact, Chyna had so much faith in Shakira, after the offices she had selected for Found History, that she already knew that her house was one of the top three on Shakira’s list. She wouldn’t be searching for long, so she had decided that they would go shopping for her furniture immediately afterwards. She hopped out of the bed and walked around the bed to the bathroom door.
As lazy as he was feeling, Anthony poked his head out from under the covers as soon as Chyna was out of the bed. He loved to watch her cross the room in the morning and head for the bathroom. She was magnificent in the morning. Whether she was in her standard black or white cotton bikinis and tank top or completely naked; seeing how confidently she moved when she should have been completely vulnerable always set the blood rushing through his veins. He heard the shower turn on and he smiled. Quickly, he called room service, ordered them some breakfast then he sprang out of bed and went to join her under the hot water.
When he stepped in behind her, Chyna turned and threw her arms around his magnificent shoulders. She leaned in and kissed him passionately, pressing her wet body against his. The water flowed over her shoulders and down her body in gentle hot streams that had started to drive him crazy with sensation. She pushed him up against the shower wall and kissed him more hungrily. Her leg went up his thigh and around his waist as she waited for him to make his move. As he leaned back against the wall he lifted her and she wrapped her legs around his waist, Anthony Stewart could help but think to himself, Now this is what I call a damned good morning.
***
“You’re the most thoughtful man in the world,” Chyna said, completely surprised.
The breakfast items had been arranged perfectly on the dinette table in the living room. Everything was perfect right down to the black, white and yellow pansies in the vase, her favorites. There was semolina porridge which she had realized was very indigenous to the Middle East; she rarely got it anywhere else in the world. It had slivered almonds, dried cranberries and raisins spooned on top. A little jug of honey sat nearby. Eggs were being kept hot under a steel platter cover as well as crispy bacon and savory sausages. Pancakes and toast were on another covered platter and surrounded by tiny ramekins of different syrups, jams and jellies; it all looked delicious. With a pour of honey over her semolina, Chyna dug in hungrily. After a few mouthfuls, she looked up to see Anthony nibbling on a piece of bacon and staring at her.
“What is it?” She asked, laughing a little.
“Nothing,” he replied turning his attention to buttering a slice of toast and pouring them both some coffee.
“It’s not nothing. Come on, tell me, Babe. What are you thinking?”
“Okay, I’m just gonna come out and say it. If you don’t like the idea, I’ll understand so don’t worry about hurting my feelings or anything. I was just going with my gut here.”
“Out with it, Mister.”
“Okay, Babe, jeez. I applied for a transfer two weeks ago and I think they’re going to approve it,” he blurted out and cringed slightly waiting for her response.
Oh, my goodness, she thought. He’s going back to the States and I’m going to get stuck in Turkey on my own.
“Transfer? Transfer to where?”
He immediately saw his misstep and jumped in to reassure her.
“No, no, it’s not to go back home; I’m not ready to leave here yet. I requested a transfer from the attachment to the agency in Izmir to the consulate here in Istanbul and I think I’m going to get it. I go in to talk to the Consular General today.”
“My goodness, Babe! That’s the best news I’ve ever heard! I’m so happy.”
She stretched around to hug him tightly, relieved and pleasantly surprised. He pulled away enough to look at her and then he kissed her.
“When I boarded that plane at JFK a few weeks ago, it suddenly hit me that I never wanted to find myself leaving you again and not really knowing I would see you next. I’m tired of feeling like that Chyna. I’ve always known where in the world you were but now I want to know that I’m coming home to that place at the end of the day too.”
“I feel the same way, Babe. I really do. I want you there to hold me at the end of a hard day and rest your hand on my waist in the morning.”
“Hey, is that your
way of asking me to move in with you?”
She paused and smiled at him.
“Is that your way of telling me that you want to?”
He reached for her again and kissed her passionately.
“Yes, Chyna,” he replied. “Yes, it is.”
The End
Chyna Stone returns in:
The Babylonian Basilisk
A Chyna Stone Adventure #4
Return to the Table of Contents
THE
BABYLONIAN
BASILISK
A Chyna Stone Adventure
#4
by
K.T. TOMB
The Babylonian Basilisk
Prologue
“Why should you take another, Sire? We are already three wives in Babylon and your harem is full of unused concubines who spend their days gossiping and growing fat and unattractive,” Ishtari complained.
“I have taken wives from the courts of my allies, Ishtari, but as a good king I must take concubines from the courts of my enemies, both conquered and unconquered. Otherwise, how will I form new alliances for Babylon or enforce her rule over the conquered nations?”
Ishtari shrugged and picked up the wine jar to refill her husband’s cup. She wasn’t pleased. No truly loving and caring wife would be, under the circumstances. What else did she expect Hammurabi to do? The city needed supplies for its markets and the extensive construction work at the Ninurta Temple complex. He had to make peace with the Assyrians; they had been causing serious unrest north of Babylon, disrupting the importation of goods necessary for commerce and survival in their country.
“Ishme-Dagan is a difficult man to deal with, wife,” he continued. “I doubt it will end peacefully between us but for now it is important to make him feel so. He is threatened by us, as he should be, but I do not want to begin a war with him, at least not until the temples are complete. It would be unlucky.”
“You are wise, husband. One cannot glorify the gods and wage war with the same hands.”
Hammurabi nodded his agreement with her wise words and smiled.
“That is why my royal wife is Babylonian,” he said smiling, extending his left arm to her, and beckoning Ishtari to his embrace. “Only one as such can understand our political position at all times.”
She sat beside him on the large curule chair and nestled into the crook of his arm. He kissed her neck and buried his face in the perfumed waves of her long, black hair. The scent of jasmine and olive oil was fragrant on her milk-bathed skin. How he loved this goddess of a woman. She sighed at the sensation of his breath on her skin; he smelt of the wine he drank, odorous of the sun-ripened fruit of their fertile valley. As always, when in her husband’s embrace, Ishtari felt the sumptuous stirring of desire for him.
“The Assyrians have confiscated all the black hematite that was mined in the north for the temple altar,” Ishtari said. “Now that you have decided on the idols for the temple, how will the craftsmen create them in time for the festival?”
“Woman, it is time for love and you keep asking questions!” Hammurabi said with a laugh. “It is why you are queen and not another. This is the first thing I shall negotiate with Ishme-Dagan. He is to escort the caravan of stone to Babylon city bringing with him the girl and her retinue that we may judge her worth. He already knows that I will not consider her unless the confiscated caravans are returned to us and the roads reopened.”
“This is good news, my king,” Ishtari said, standing from the chair to kneel and remove his sandals.
She signaled to a nearby chamber slave, who brought a basin for her and a jug of cool water. Ishtari placed her husband’s feet into the basin and poured water over them, gently washing them with her beautiful, long, black hair. Though she was now thirty-five and had borne Hammurabi ten children in their fifteen years of marriage, she had not one grey hair on her head or one wrinkle on her beautiful face.
“You honor me, wife,” he said, touching the top of her bowed head. “When the markets become full of Hittite and Mesopotamian merchandise again, then I will invite him and his court to Babylon. The hematite will come with them as a sign of good faith.”
“Then you will take Kashira as a royal concubine of Babylon,” she stated, drying his feet with the ends of her own veil even though the slave held a piece of cotton cloth out for her to use for that purpose.
The slave instead quickly removed the basin and the jug while Ishtari took her seat on the floor and tenderly rubbed olive oil into his freshly washed skin.
“Do not be troubled by this, my love,” he replied, stroking her hair gently. “You do not need to attend the bedding if you do not wish to. However, I believe that you will want to be there to be assured that there will be no passion between this girl and I. She will wear the collar of the harem women just as the others do because she is no wife of Babylon.”
“Very well, husband,” Ishtari succumbed. “All this talk of bedding Kashira is spoiling the moment. I only wish to bed my husband.”
Hammurabi smiled. After fifteen years as his queen, Ishtari had become bolder and bolder with him, it was the quality he loved most about her. She served him and she pleased him, in every way that a king or a man would desire, but she was also strong and clever. She knew the politics of ruling an empire and she knew the laws of it as well.
He stood and took her by the hand. As she rose to her full height, he pulled her closely to him with one hand and gestured his dismissal of the chamber slaves with the other.
“You will have no attendants this night?” Ishtari asked him, surprised.
“Why?” he asked. “I am attended by love.”
She smiled as he led her into the bed chamber.
***
A few weeks later, the markets within the city limits were again bursting with food and supplies of every kind. There were the dried and salted meat and fruit delicacies from the west, the woven treasures from the east and the jewelry merchants’ tables were laden with delicate pieces from Egypt and Phoenicia. Hammurabi was pleased with the reports from the city. Even from the palace balconies, he could see the change in the atmosphere among the people. There was a certain air of relief, as if some doubt had been brewing about the city’s future and it had now been dispersed like so many wisps of smoke.
“All seems well again in the world, wife,” he said, smirking.
“Indeed, husband,” she agreed, not lifting her head from the garment she was expertly mending.
“I see you even have beads to decorate your clothes again. Why don’t you have your slave do that, Ishtari? You always bring sewing into the throne room.”
“Does it displease you, Master?” she asked, teasing him with the term of respect.
“I am accustomed,” he relented, taking his seat beside her. “You have sewn your own clothing since before I married you. I just do not understand why.”
“My sister was murdered with a poisoned veil when I was ten years old, husband. She was married to the brother of an Egyptian Pharaoh and her handmaidens hated that she was a foreigner so much that they killed her. I do not allow slaves to tailor my garments nor those of my husband or my children.”
“I did not know this,” Hammurabi said softly.
“I did not care to mention it before, so that is no fault of yours.”
“Will you continue to sew when Ishme-Dagan and his court arrive?”
“I will, as I usually do, Master,” she replied. “It is important to me for them to see that even though I may sit at your side as the Queen of Babylon; it is you who rules here.”
Hammurabi nodded his pleasure at her response. He noted how she never took her eyes off the needle and fabric in her hands and worked assiduously, as if she was in a hurry for the garment to be ready. There was an open vial of liquid which was tucked into the beaded belt at the top of her bodice. Occasionally, Ishtari dipped her needle into the tiny bottle, threaded a new bead onto it and continued sewing. He knew nothing of working garments, so the king thought
nothing of it.
Some time passed before they heard the horns that heralded the arrival of the Assyrians. Hammurabi stood from the throne and took a few steps forward, fixing his crown and smoothing out his robes. Ishtari remained seated, not even raising her eyes once as the colorful procession entered the throne room. When they were all assembled in front of them and Hammurabi was again standing in front of his golden chair, Ishtari took her cue. This quaint custom of her husband’s was his rebuttal to her insisting on sewing while they held their court; he would not sit on his throne as King until she had laid aside the fabric and donned her crown as Queen.
Ishtari slowly put the material and her needle down on the tiny table beside her where the bowl of multicolored beads lay. She waved her slave forward with the crown while picking up the little cork, covering the vial of liquid at her belt and tucking it away. The girl picked up Ishtari’s hair in a huge roll and secured the tall crown on her head. When it was securely in place, the queen stood and walked around to her husband’s left side where she stood beside his throne and gracefully leaned against it with her hip. She folded her arms before her chest. The slave girl hurriedly folded the curule chair and the table she had been using and moved it away.
There was a murmur among the Assyrians as they were kept waiting for her to prepare herself for receiving them. They were even more shocked when Hammurabi didn’t sit down until she had positioned herself at his side in her feline stance. Their confidence as a royal couple was undoubted within the room and anyone who might have come to Babylon thinking that they would be meeting a weak ruler would be completely deflated. Together, they exuded a wondrous power that was an enigma to behold.