‘Madam?’
‘Oh please, please, do not make me ask you twice.’
‘Well, lah-di-dah,’ whispered Cliticia, in an aside. I glared at her. The nurse quickly retreated and left the room.
‘It is this dreadful neurasthenia,’ said the Serpentessa. ‘The vertigo, the insomnia, the interminable headaches ... I sometimes do not think I can carry on.’
Cliticia and I looked at each other—somewhat rhetorically, I suppose—from out of the corners of our eyes. But we kept our peace, more nervous than ever about what the Serpentessa might know, or suspect, about us.
‘I have heard of your little adventure,’ she continued. Her brow darkened. She seemed determined to get down to brass tacks. ‘And I have also heard—’ She cleared her throat. Her brow darkened still further and her voice became hoarse. ‘I have also heard that you have met the Men.’
‘We ’id in a culvert!’ Cliticia blurted out. ‘We—’ She had grown so used to embroidering our tale of peril and escape that she not only seemed ready to perjure herself at a moment’s notice, but to do so with dangerous enthusiasm. Luckily, the Serpentessa had chosen that moment to rest her eyes, and I had taken the opportunity to give Cliticia a smart kick in the ankle. My garrulous friend winced and drew air through her teeth, hissing like a wounded cat; but her abashed look implied that she understood that she was in error. If it had been otherwise, I quite believe that she would have there and then knocked me to the floor.
‘What are they like?’ said the Serpentessa, almost coyly.
I wondered how I should address her. Her name, I had been told, was Tashmetum-sharrat, after the favourite wife of the Assyrian king Sennacherib. It wasn’t a name that one usually associates with Shulamites. At least, not those who moved in my own social circles. She was naditu. She came from a wealthy family. And as such she was part of the gagum, or college of priestesses, that was restricted to daughters of the Illuminati and their friends. For all I knew, she might even be related to The Mantis herself, baalat of London, mistress of empire, and concubine to the Grand Master of the Illuminati, The Sargon. It was rare to come across one of her standing off-world; temples were usually governed by proxies.
‘What are the Minotaurs like, entu?’ I whispered, knowing that I would have to speak, entu was a Babylonian term derived from the Sumerian en, denoting a high priestly office held by a woman who was often a member of the ruling dynasty. It seemed an appropriate salutation.
The Serpentessa raised her eyebrows and then smiled, in appreciation, I think, of my cod-scholarly attempt to show respect.
‘Yes, my dear,’ she said, tiredly. ‘The Minotaurs. The Men.’
‘I, I, I don’t know,’ I said.
She sighed. A woman in her mid-twenties, and close, one would suppose, to retirement, the Serpentessa exuded sophistication, as recherché, indeed, as her name, her pedigree not only evident in her elocution and gentle manners, but—just as importantly—in the refinement of her invalidism.
‘I have long been troubled,’ she said, ‘about the Minotaurs.’ She lifted a lace handkerchief to her nose and inhaled. The air filled with the scent of jasmine. ‘These days, I often ask myself When did it all begin? Oh, hundreds of years ago, some say. And maybe even thousands. The Black Order has always been with us, even if it only came to full consciousness during the late eighteenth century, when Adam Weishaupt disclosed the truth about Modern Babylon. The truth! It has often seemed to me that “the truth” was no more than a dirty little secret... ’ Her voice tailed off into a diminuendo of nervous exhaustion, so finely played out as to suggest that she understudied for Sarah Bernhardt, or some other actress for whom life was little more than an interesting and beautiful disease. ‘Now everybody knows everything there is to know about Babylon,’ she continued. ‘But has the world really changed so much? In Europe, they still worship the Nazarene, even though they know he was seduced and secretly served the Goddess. And political institutions are, I would say, much the same as they were in the pre-Weishaupt days. Perhaps the only thing that is truly different is that the dirty little secret is out in the open and humanity has at last come to understand what it wants: to love... and to die.’ She winced, though less as a consequence of migraine, I think, than in ill-concealed chagrin with life and all its particulars. ‘Who are these Minotaurs? Who are they really?’
‘There are the stories of Thule,’ I said, reflexively, almost as if I felt an instinctive need to protect Lord Azrael’s reputation.
‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘Those are fairy tales. I have spoken to Lord Salisbury about the matter.’
‘You know the Prime Minister?’ I said, incredulously. ‘You know the Illuminati?’
‘I have asked him about the Illuminati, just as I have quizzed him about the Black Order, and he claims to have never met an Illuminist in his entire life.’
‘But they control us,’ I said. ‘He must know them. He must be one of them.’
‘If the Minotaurs are a mystery, then the greater mystery is this: Who are the Illuminati? Has anyone ever seen them?’ She sighed with wonderful grandeur. ‘I do not think the Illuminati exist.’
‘But when you go on sabbatical, don’t you entertain the Illuminati?’
I felt pressure on my fingers. Looking down, I discovered that Cliticia had grasped my hand. She was frightened.
‘On sabbatical’—her brows knit as she sought clarification—‘I have assumed a place in society’s grand strategy of sexual warfare. I have played games. I have acted out a role.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
She waved a hand, dismissing my interpolation from her mind. ‘I have,’ she continued, ‘walked through the streets of Mayfair only to see about me the ruins of Babylon. And I have likewise walked through Babylon and thought myself walking London’s streets at dead of night.’ Little grace notes of incipient hysteria had begun to decorate her voice. ‘A game may be played so long, and so intensely, that it begins to impose its rules upon the real world, and we all forget who we are and where we come from. History is dead. Today’s world is a world of fantasy.’
‘But the Minotaurs are real,’ I said, trying to find some kind of mental path that would lead me out of my confusion. ‘I’ve seen them.’
Slowly, her eyelids rolled back. My own eyes opened wide, and then wider still, as I regarded her hypertrophied pupils. ‘But who have you seen?’ She laughed. It was a brittle, tinkling sound, like that of a champagne glass shattering against cobbles. ‘We all see what we want to see, do we not, my dear?’ Again, she laughed, and this time more forcefully, as if a whole case of magnums had met with a similar fate. ‘The Minotaurs: aren’t they, perhaps, just another Hellfire club? A cabal of European aristocrats who enjoy slumming?’ She awarded us both a closer inspection, her eyes darting from my face, to Cliticia’s, and then back again. ‘It’s the truth, though, isn’t it? That an English gentleman has always liked a cockney lass?’ Perhaps it was true. Working-class girls were thought to be preoccupied with their natural animality. And I had read that gentlemen consequently adored, feared, despised, and craved them in equal measure, much as those who came under the spell of a succubus, or vampire. ‘After all,’ continued the Serpentessa, ‘he’s grown up so hemmed in, so restrained, by his own class’s proprieties, that he must find a place like the East End quite an escape. This talk about Hyper-borea and Thule—it’s wonderfully romantic. But isn’t it just talk, a rationale for male perversity, and indeed, our own?’ She looked past me and up towards the ceiling. ‘We all seem to have our own reasons for entertaining such delusions. For the Minotaurs, it is an excuse to kill the thing they love. But what of we sacred prostitutes? Why do we so passionately cling to falsehood and lies?’ She again lifted the scented handkerchief to her nose. ‘Could it be that, for a long time now, we too have sought a reason—a reason as fallacious, but as passionate, as the Black Order’s own— to be killedI?’ With a deep moan, she swung her legs from the daybed and extended a hand. �
��Help me. I need to ... show you something.’
I shook myself free from Cliticia’s grasp and held my hand out towards the Serpentessa. She took it and, with great effort, eased herself to her feet.
‘Now give me your arm,’ she said. I complied. Staggering a little under her weight, I allowed her to shepherd me across the room.
We came to a halt before her collection of paintings.
‘When I was last in London, my father arranged a consultation with Dr George Savage, the noted author of Insanity and Allied Neuroses. In Dr Savage’s opinion, a woman, generally single, or in some way not in a condition for performing her reproductive function, and having passed through a phase of hypochondriasis of sexual character, often becomes bedridden. The body wastes, and the face assumes a thin anxious look, not unlike that represented by Rossetti in his pictures of Shulamites.’
We stood before a sumptuous head-and-shoulders portrait of a pale, languid, world-weary female, almost smothered beneath flowers, jewels, feathers, white and gold drapery, and furs. ‘It is called Monna Wanna,’ said the Serpentessa. ‘The model is Alexa Wilding, one of Rossetti’s Shulamite lovers. It recalls certain portraits by Titian and Veronese, does it not? It evokes a time when Europe’s courtesans could not reveal themselves to be what they truly were.’ She took a few steps to her right, so that we stood before another painting. ‘This portrait is called Venus Verticordia. Again, the artist is Rossetti and the model Alexa Wilding. There is a hungry look about her that is quite... striking.’ She inclined her head. ‘Look at me, Madeleine,’ she continued. ‘There is a resemblance, do you not think?’ It was true: the woman in the portrait had the same flame-red hair. And her lips, like the Serpentessa’s, resembled a sliced pomegranate. But beyond physical likeness, the two were linked by a spiritual bond: Alexa Wilding held an arrow whose long, steel tip pointed towards her ebony breast, as if she had been caught in an amorous rehearsal of her own impending execution.
We moved to the next painting.
‘And this is my favourite: Alexa Wilding as Lady Lilith.’
‘Lilith,’ said a voice to one side of us. We both turned. Cliticia stood looking up at the painting. The portrait called Lady Lilith depicted a red-haired woman combing her hair and staring languidly into her mirror. She seemed spellbound.
‘Yes, Lilith. The dark side of the Goddess,’ said the Serpentessa. To my surprise, she smiled. ‘I can see that she is dear to you.’
A shudder passed through Cliticia’s body. She seemed to come out of a trance. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, no longer one of Lilith’s madeyed votaries but merely a small, buxom novice in a tea gown two sizes too big for her.
‘There’s no need to apologize, my darling,’ said the Serpentessa. ‘Come, let me show you my private sacrarium.’
Hesitantly, and making full use of my proffered arm, she moved to a section of wall that was curtained off. ‘Pull it,’ she said, gesturing towards a length of golden twine that resembled a bell-rope. I obeyed; the curtain slid back, and an alcove was revealed. It housed a miniature altar. Above the altar hung an iron cross. ‘The Black Sun,’ proclaimed the Serpentessa.
‘No,’ I said, ‘that’s not—’
‘But it is,’ she said. ‘It is the Black Sun in all its purity. Soon, its light will shine down on all the nations of the Earth.’ I stared at the cross. ‘It is to be found amongst the Semites,’ the Serpentessa continued. ‘And in Greece it was called Hemera and represented the male principle. But these days’—she smiled, almost coquettishly—‘we know it as the swastika.’
‘La Croix Gamahuchee,’ I said, under my breath. But nobody heard. And it was just as well, for I do not think I could have adequately explained myself, even if the cross’s symbolism was unmistakable: two interlocked figures: the union of Daughter-Earth with God-the-Sky-Father. Not the hieros gamos as it was, but as it was always meant to be. I put a hand to my cheek. I was flushed, excited, yet at the same time profoundly disturbed, as if the deepest reaches of my being had been infused with a delicious poison.
Beneath the swastika, and standing on the altar cloth, was something more immediately recognizable. It was a cylinder-seal from Earth Prime. ‘It is my offering to Ishtar-Lilith,’ said the Serpentessa. ‘And of course, to the men who constitute the Master Race.’
I looked more closely. The cylinder-seal showed a naked woman squatting above a man, apparently in the act of coupling. Another man, who stood nearby, held her by the wrist. In his other hand he brandished a dagger. The woman was a succubus. I knew this because the scene was familiar to me from a plate I had seen of a much later Hellenistic Greek relief depicting a naked siren, with bird’s wings and feet, astride a sleeping man with an erect membrum virile.
‘She is Ardat lili, the Babylonian “Maid of Desolation” who once inhabited the Tree of Life in Ishtar’s garden paradise but was evicted by Gilgamesh and transported to the desert wilds. “Ardatu” was a term that described a young woman of marrying age. Thus, the Ardat Lili was a young female spirit—a succubus or demoness. She reappears in the Bible and the Talmud as Lilith, who was created with Adam, before Eve, and who later became Mother of the Succubi.’
‘Is that what we are?’ said Cliticia. ‘Demonesses?’
The Serpentessa’s laughter made me uncomfortable. It was like the chafing of damp petticoats. It was the kind of laughter that made you feel unclean. ‘When our cult began to recruit the daughters of rich and powerful families—and as we began to exert growing political influence—so did we turn to the dark, or sinister, left-handed side of the Goddess in order to consolidate our power.’
We walked on. ‘In the coming days,’ she continued, ‘I will show you more of my collection: paintings by Burne-Jones, Simeon Solomon, and others. Indeed, I hope to have the whole temple redecorated quite soon. Morris and Co. has already submitted designs. Before very long, Ereshkigal will be one great altar to Lilith!’ She laughed, gently. ‘Ah yes, in the coming days, I will teach you the invocations and much, much else.’
‘The invocations? I think I know some of them already,’ said Cliticia. ‘I was always shaky when it came to Ishtar, but I know lots about Lilith.’
‘And I thought it was you, Madeleine, who was the clever one! But a born Shulamite, of course, does not have to rely on book- learning; the dark knowledge flows through her blood!’ And the Serpentessa laughed again, her voice a bird-like trill that rejoiced in all things dark and inhuman.
I was, of course, miffed. I didn’t like to be reminded that I was a Snow White in the presence of the big, bad Black Queen and her little pawn, the commensurately black Cliticia; but I hid it. I hid it because I knew that, despite my opalescent flesh, I possessed a black heart, and it was brimful with venom.
The Serpentessa disengaged herself and gently propelled me forward. We had reached the wall whose entire length was covered by heavy, velvet drapes.
‘Throw open the curtains, Madeleine.’
‘But, Madam—your eyes!’
‘I said open them, Madeleine. Open them upon the Night!’
I walked to where one drape met another, clasped its edge and pulled it back, then broke into a little run to bring it flush against the connecting wall. Hurrying back to the other drape, I repeated the operation, like a V.I.P. unveiling a monstrous plaque, and then came to an abrupt halt, leaving the thick curtain fabric crumpled and swinging from its brass rail.
I had revealed a great oriel window. Hundreds of feet below, the inner courtyard by which I had entered Ereshkigal swarmed with tiny, scurrying girls.
The night poured into the audience chamber, and the blue shadows that had crowded about its nooks and crannies swirled, eddied, finally to be subsumed by the deeper, more terrible shadows cast by the spectral light of the Babylonian moon.
The Serpentessa screamed.
‘Madam!’ I cried. In a moment I was by her side, holding out a solicitous hand. But she chose not to accept it.
‘The night—it is like a serpent inside my he
ad. It is poisoning me. And ... it is glorifying me!’
Cliticia wrung her hands. ‘I don’t like this, Maddy. Let’s go and get ’elp.’
‘No, no one else!’ cried the Serpentessa.
She stumbled forward until her hands were pressed against the glass. And then, tilting back her head, she forced herself to drink in as much of the night as she could bear, her pupils swelling until they almost completely displaced the whites of her eyes.
I averted my gaze and tried to hide my confusion and blushes by concentrating upon the view. Outside the gates, a handful of girls were unloading crates and boxes from The Empress Faustina onto a wagon. Within the gates, other girls milled about the storerooms, preparing to receive the supplies brought in from Earth Prime. The temple, it now became obvious, was, like so much of the city, an amalgam of heterogeneous architectural styles. (High above the inner courtyard, I not only looked down at the tiny forms of my fellow temple-maidens, but also at the glazed roofs of the surrounding buildings.) Some wings were neo-Gothic, and might have owed a debt to Nicholas Pugin; others were far older, dating back, perhaps, to Babylon’s founding stone. And some elements were plainly modern and pre-fabricated, in the manner of the Crystal Palace, to facilitate off-world construction by semitrained female volunteers. Lots of iron was visible: black girders and buttresses that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a factory or on a suspension bridge. But more insistent than the iron, stone, glass, brick, and slate, was the inescapable notion that the temple was constructed—not out of the elements of the world’s materiality—but out of the stuff of fevers and dreams.
‘Out there, look!’ cried the Serpentessa. ‘The great mirage of desire! The modern world’s waking nightmare!’ She put a hand to her breast. It tightened, claw-like, kneading the flesh as if she meant to turn her bosom into a single, angry bruise. ‘This conflict between Minotaur and Shulamite, between woman and man: it has gone on for so long. And no one really knows why they kill and we die. London, Babylon: who can tell which is which?’
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