Odalisque (21 page)

Lazar had thought about closing his eyes to Ana but they seemed to have a will of their own. He saw her eyes water and he shook his head softly, willing her to be strong. They both felt the beauty of that moment, entirely connected, only the pair of them—no-one else mattered. Ana shook her shoulder free of Horz’s curiously protective hand and wiped at her tears quickly, mouthing something to Lazar he would never see for the veil covered her mouth.

It was just as well for it would have undone him.

The first bite of the Snake struck wildly across his shoulders and Ana watched Lazar open his mouth in a wide grimace but no sound came out. She would never admit to the smiling eunuch, who was watching her and not the Spur, that she would rather be here focused on Lazar’s face than having to confront the damage at his back. Ana glanced towards Jumo whose expression was blank but she could read beneath it to the horror and the fear. He blinked as the whip was flicked back
again for the second strike and she returned her attention to Lazar who was breathing hard, his only way of steeling himself against the burning pain. The Snake bit again, and this time Ana saw its forked tongues curling around Lazar’s chest, ripping savagely through flesh as blood rushed to the open wounds and ran down his body.

She heard a sound of awe mixed with horror. She was not sure who gave it and hoped it was Herezah. Perhaps from that height, the royals had not realised the deadly nature of this weapon.

Lazar closed his eyes now, squeezing them tight, but still no sound issued. Ana felt her heart racing—eighteen more to go—and this time she risked a glance up at Herezah. Ana saw only hunger in those dark, cruel eyes.

The third strike was clearly off target, some of the beads, with their sharply razed edges, raking through Lazar’s hair, tearing the flesh of his scalp as Shaz inexpertly flicked the whip backwards. Ana noticed how horrified the young Inflictor looked. She could not see any of the damage, bar the wounds on Lazar’s side, but she could see the lifeblood coursing from the injuries and could imagine how ugly it must already appear from the Inflictor’s perspective. Shaz faltered as he drew a shaking hand to wipe the sweat from his face. And still Lazar gave no sound.

The fourth stroke whipped cruelly around to his belly as Shaz desperately tried to adjust the
height of his lashing to avoid the victim’s head. Again skin tore and yielded bright blood, keen to drench Lazar’s white cotton trousers. Blood was running down his face too, joining with the sweat won from pain. Lazar’s freshly washed hair, once shiny in the afternoon sun, was now damp and clumped with the liquid of life.

The fifth lash of the Snake won a groan—short and guttural. Salmeo smiled—he had obviously been waiting for it. The Vizier was less obvious. He looked towards his bejewelled sandals but there was satisfaction nonetheless, Ana noticed. After the next five strokes, Lazar’s body gave little resistance and although he gave no further sound, he began to slump against the pull of the bonds that once held him upright.

Halfway.

Ana saw that Shaz was panting, perspiration sheening his body. He cracked the whip again, his expression anguished. And as he dragged it back, his assistant handed him a cup of water, which he gratefully drained with a shaking hand.

No-one offered Lazar anything but silent love or hate, depending on who Ana looked at.

He had counted each shocking bite of the Snake and with the mounting toll he felt his strength being leached away with the blood that ran so freely now. By the eleventh, he was losing the will to fight. He adjusted his original notion that a flogging was not designed to kill or maim. Lazar felt
that one or both would occur. He could no longer open his eyes and his throat was parched, his lips too dry and cracked to let much sound out even if he could. His touchstone, Ana, the reason he had been able to withstand this vicious punishment for half the number of strokes, was gone for him now. He knew she was there, willing him to stay strong, urging him silently to prevail, but he could no longer see her through the blur of the blood and the intense, searing pain.

Something else. He wasn’t sure, for never having been flogged before he had no idea if the numbness he was experiencing was the body’s own weapon against the shock. But it felt like a death creeping through him, as if his very veins were running with a killing liquid rather than life itself. Lights, incandescent and of all colours, were flashing behind his eyelids…was this death beckoning? It would be so easy to give in to it. Should he? Was that the fourteenth lash? He could no longer tell, could no longer count, could no longer hear anything around him. He wasn’t sure he would ever open his eyes to look on her fair eyes once again and bid her farewell. Sweet Ana. He had not meant to give his life but if he had to then he was glad it was for her. He loved her and could not help himself in this. Oh he knew she was too young to be loved in the way his treacherous mind tormented him. And he knew, deep within his fractured heart, that she loved him too and he did not care that it was a
childish love from her, for a first love is always the sweetest, the most intense and pure.

How odd that he could remember it so well. Lazar thought he had buried the memory of Shara so deep he could never lift it free again. Loving Shara had been so easy—youth made it easy and carefree and filled with such brightness that he never imagined it could be tarnished. But life had taught him that even the most radiant of treasures could be dulled. And life was teaching him that same harsh lesson once again.

He envisaged his legs giving way, unsure of whether this had in fact occurred, for he no longer felt connected to himself. The pain remained unfortunately, sharp and vivid, but it was the sense of weakness that frightened him. Had he called out? He had no idea. He was no longer in control of his wits. Lazar wanted to believe he was still standing rigidly against the post taking the punishment, but he suspected his stance was not nearly so proud.

He began to tremble, became aware of it because his teeth began to chatter, jarring him into a sense of wakefulness but only enough to reinforce that he was sure he was dying. A rush of anger blazed at the notion that his death would give Salmeo, and no doubt, Tariq, such satisfaction. His anger brought a measure of clarity to his dulled mind, allowing him to hear the murmur of Shaz counting his seventeenth stroke. He had almost made it but death was
whispering gleefully to him. The Valide would not be so smug about his passing. She might be enjoying his suffering but she would not be smiling when he died, for who would protect Percheron?

Lazar felt himself withdrawing fully within himself. He was suddenly tiny, retracting into his soul, which he must now relinquish to the gods.

It was time.
Give in, Lazar,
he heard himself beg inwardly.
Let go.

And then a new voice, cutting shrilly through the pain and despair.
Lazar! You must live. Fight it. For her…for Ana, if not for yourself. Live, damn you.
He could not tell whether it was a man or woman who spoke.

Who?
It was all he could muster in response but wasn’t sure he had formed or even spoken the word.

‘Last stroke!’ he vaguely heard in the distance. Again he had no idea whose voice had called it. He could no longer remember the name of the Inflictor.

I am Iridor,
said the intruder.
You are done, Lazar. They have finished with you but we have not. We need you. Promise me you will live. Swear on Ana’s life!

I swear it, he thought he might have replied as he slipped into the void of unconsciousness.

Jumo had watched, traitorous tears betraying his usual stoicism as his master—his great friend—
sagged so far it was only the bonds around his wrists that prevented him from slumping fully to the ground. He had watched as Lazar’s knees had buckled by the thirteenth vicious stroke and then Lazar had called out Ana’s name on the sixteenth lash. Jumo saw all tension leave Lazar’s body by the final bite of the Snake as he surely yielded his life.

Jumo looked deliberately towards Salmeo, who sought permission from the Zar. Boaz, white-lipped, nodded and then stomped away, acknowledging no-one, leaving his mother in his wake. It didn’t matter to her, Jumo noticed, for she could not tear her eyes from the ruin of the blood-soaked man.

He gave a glance at Ana. The terror in her eyes pained him but there was nothing more he could do for her as she was hurried away from the carnage, blood spattering the veil she wore.

‘You may remove the Spur,’ Salmeo said carefully. Thank you, Inflictor,’ he added, tossing a purse at the feet of the trembling Shaz.

Everyone retreated from the courtyard in silence, leaving Jumo alone with only Shaz and his younger, equally shocked assistant to look upon the mess.

‘Have I killed him?’ Shaz asked, barely able to speak.

‘He breathes,’ Jumo said with an intense relief that lasted only a moment. The Spur looked as if he would not last much longer. ‘Water!’ Jumo
commanded and the younger boy rushed away as Shaz approached, crouching and then falling to his knees beside the man whose flesh he had all but flayed. They could see bright bone through the mess.

‘Will he survive?’ Shaz begged Jumo.

Jumo shook his head. ‘I cannot see how.’ He spoke in a monotone, not wanting to share the depth of his hurt with anyone.

Shaz began to wail softly, rocking backwards and forwards on his knees. ‘I told them I wasn’t ready. I begged them not to force me do it but Rah made me.’

‘Rah?’

‘The Deputy Inflictor—he was told to claim illness.’

‘When?’

‘This morning, after he told me of this flogging. Felz, our superior, is away.’

‘Ah,’ Jumo replied. It all fell into place. ‘Salmeo suggested Rah be sick, you mean?’ Shaz nodded through his haze of tears. ‘Help me cut him down,’ Jumo said, suppressing his fury. It was not the boy’s fault.

Before they could cut Lazar free, the assistant arrived with a bowl of water and rags. Using his fingers, Jumo dripped water through the cracked lips of his unconscious friend, praying silently to his god that this life would be spared. Lazar coughed weakly but it was the gladdest sound Jumo had ever heard.

‘Lay those wet rags against his back,’ Jumo directed, checking again that Lazar breathed. ‘There is nothing we can do for him here. He will need a physic’s attention.’ The two young men set to. ‘Do it gently,’ Jumo cautioned unnecessarily.

Shaz’s eyes widened. ‘Sir, look,’ he said nodding towards Lazar’s wounds.

Jumo returned his attention to Lazar’s back. ‘What? I know they’re bad.’

‘No, look,’ Shaz said, more fear in his voice now. ‘There,’ he said pointing, wiping blood from Lazar’s neck.

Jumo said nothing as his mind raced to understand what the strange bright streaks were that traversed Lazar’s neck, despite it being relatively unscathed by the Snake.

‘What could it be?’ Shaz thought aloud.

Jumo blinked slowly with resignation. So the palace had not intended for the Spur to survive. ‘There is only one thing that leaves livid marks like that,’ he whispered, his voice filled with rage. He looked up at Shaz. ‘Poison.’

The young man shook his head in desperate denial. ‘No, sir, not me. I did not do this.’

Jumo’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who then, Shaz?’

Again the youngster baulked. ‘I don’t know, sir. I swear it. I was given no instructions. No-one tampered with the whip to my knowledge.’

Jumo watched a new shiver overtake Lazar’s body. He was not cold, he was already past shock
and he was dying. There was no time for recriminations if the Spur was to have even the slightest chance to live. ‘Pick him up,’ he ordered and both obeyed wordlessly, carefully lifting by his arms. ‘Lay him over my back!’ Jumo commanded, bending slightly.

Shaz nodded. ‘How will you manage?’

‘Don’t worry about me, Inflictor, worry about yourself and whether your head will still be connected to your body after the Zar hears of this,’ he growled. Then, without a farewell, he left the Courtyard of Sorrows and its stench of blood and betrayal.

For a thin man, Jumo was deceptively strong. He was all hard muscle and tough sinew and this was not the first time he had carried his master in this fashion. That previous mercy dash had saved Lazar’s life. Let it be so again, he prayed. He hoped his legs would stay loyal and not buckle as he began to run with his heavy burden.

At first he hardly recognised that it was Pez shouting to him. Jumo was so focused on his feet moving forwards that he didn’t even hear his own name being called. The dwarf had to grab him before he drew to a halt.

‘Quick! I have a cart,’ Pez said, ‘I know where to take him.’

Jumo wore the expression of man in deep shock. ‘He’s been poisoned,’ he declared.

Pez’s face had never looked more grave. ‘I figured as much. Come, time is against us.’

Jumo laid Lazar on his belly in the back of the cart. ‘He breathes,’ he noted in a faraway voice.

Pez squeezed the loyal man’s arm. ‘He’s strong of heart, mind, body. If anyone can, he can survive this.’

Jumo tried to nod but instead gave a dry sob. Odd questions roamed through his mind as they travelled, him guiding the donkey as if from memory, for he was certainly not concentrating, and Pez squealing in the front and throwing nuts at the people they passed.

Jumo hardly heard but found his voice. ‘Why do you suggest the Sea Temple?’

‘We’ll have help there. Hurry, Jumo.’

They said nothing else as they weaved an exasperatingly slow path through the afternoon crowds. They had covered Lazar fully so he remained anonymous, but many passers-by still glanced into the back of the cart and saw the shape of a man beneath the light linen. Pez began to whistle tunelessly and made faces at onlookers; Jumo ignored everything but the hammering of his heart, willing the donkey to go faster through the throng. Finally they were out into more open pathways and the beast could make quicker progress.

Standing on the steps of the Sea Temple was the priestess he had seen only once on the first occasion Lazar had visited. She was shading her eyes against the glare of the sun, waiting for them anxiously.