Odalisque (5 page)

Lazar shaded his eyes and squinted into the shimmering scene below. They had been directed here by scouts. Out to the west the sun was already past its high point, and the fiercest heat of the day was scorching. He wrapped the tail of the white turban around his face. It was purely habit, for in the foothills sand was not a problem unless the feared Samazen whipped up, but that was a month away at least. It would get hotter still today before it cooled but time was against them. Night fell fast across the desert plains and although these were only the western foothills, barely fifteen miles from Percheron, the darkness would race to claim them faster than they could ride home. Not that being away bothered Lazar. They had been out on the ridges for days and he was happiest when he was away from people.

Home!
He scorned himself for thinking of it that way. Percheron had, however, become a sanctuary. It still had its distasteful elements, and immediately Herezah came to mind, but surely
there could be no realm more beautiful? Percheron had seduced him and he had become her willing lover. He wondered, as he gazed down at a tiny dwelling that clung to the steppes, whether he could ever leave the stone city. Until recently he would have answered no. Now he wasn’t so sure. Herezah’s influence was already being felt and he sensed her bite was only going to get worse.

She had disbanded the harem the same day as Joreb’s funeral procession. Once more he had been forced to grind his teeth and sit out the second of Herezah’s unpleasant spectacles. The Valide Zara had masterminded the event down to the tiniest detail, to the point of ordering that the horses which pulled the open-topped carriage and the old Zar’s corpse should have the underneath of their eyelids smeared with pepper paste, so even dumb beasts had shed tears for the Great One’s passing.

Lazar had never heard of anything quite so ridiculous but there was plenty more to come, such as the four virgins, holy women chosen for their beauty, drugged and thrown into the flames of the pyre. This was supposedly to symbolise each season of the old Zar’s life, from birth through childhood, to adolescence and manhood. It was also a sly reminder that Joreb was the god Zarab’s appointed representative on the land. By burning the holy women it reinforced the destruction of the goddess Lyana and the pointlessness of those who still privately worshipped her.

Herezah’s third and final spectacle was to have the women of his harem unveiled, which was the most painful humiliation she could impose. It was more grievous than death for most of these women who were put into ordinary clothes before being paraded on foot and forced out of the palace and into the streets. Each one was given a pouch of gold and effectively cut loose from the protection of the harem and the lavish, lazy world they had known. They could sew, make fine quishtar and gossip. That was the sum total of their accomplishments…unless, of course, one counted their ability to pleasure men to heights of ecstasy. If they looked after their money, hopefully that talent would not need to be promoted in the outside world that these confused wretches now inhabited.

Where they went, how they lived, or even if they survived, Herezah could not care less. They were no longer required. Their role as servants of the Zar died with him. As for those who claimed the title of wife, they no longer had status. That had died with the Zar and his eleven precious offspring.

Her next step was to assemble a new harem. Displaying her dark sense of humour, she had ordered the Spur of Percheron to join the hunt for suitable young girls. Fuming at his orders, personally delivered by the Valide, he had considered riding out of the city gates and never returning.

To calm himself he had strode in the direction of the harbour, knowing he would pass some of the city’s inexplicably beautiful sculpted beasts on his way. They seemed to him to be so real and warm despite their implacable silence and stone flesh. They were creatures of myth and the only humanlike sculptures were the twin giants, Beloch and Ezram, who presided over the city’s busy harbour, a massive horseshoe-shaped sparkling bay.

No, despite Herezah’s presence, Percheron’s enchantment for him had not waned over the years. In fact, he felt more connected to this city than his own.

His own. The thought made him sigh inwardly; it was his homeland across the ocean he was thinking about as he had reached to touch his favourite creature—Iridor, the owl…the messenger of the Goddess Lyana.

Iridor had always attracted him and he could rarely pass any of the bird’s images dotted around the city, without pausing momentarily to admire the owl or share a thought. He could never admit it to anyone but Iridor felt like an old friend. It was the first of the stone sculptures he had seen when brought through the vast Golden Gates of Percheron and the memory of that knowing expression on the owl’s face had left a lasting impression. He had often thought somewhat whimsically that it was the secretive bird who had urged him to put forward the reckless challenge to the Zar that had won him favour.

No-one else, or so it appeared, bothered with the owl or any of the other magnificent engravings or sculptures. Some argued that Percheron was spoilt for art treasures and that if you grew up surrounded by such beauty you tended to take it for granted.

But there was more to it than that.

Lazar knew that the people had been taught from childhood that the ornate statues of the beasts and giants were linked to the Goddess and Lyana had no place in Percheron. Her followers had long ago been dismissed as cranks, and although some women still continued to worship at her shrine, they were few and far between.

Percheron’s spiritual wellbeing had been cared for by the priesthood for many centuries now and Lyana had faded to myth. It was thought that the statues themselves dated back to the last occasion when the cyclical battle of the gods had erupted, but no-one knew for sure.

Nevertheless, whether it was truth or folklore, Lazar loved this story. He thought about it again as he stared at Iridor, sworn enemy of Lyana’s nemesis, Maliz, the demon warlock granted eternal life by the jealous god, Zarab. Hating Lyana’s popularity Zarab had offered Maliz the ultimate prize if he would rid the world of the Goddess and give men ultimate ruling over the matriarchal society in which Percheron had thrived.

Lazar gave a rare smile as he thought about the rising of Iridor which signified the return of
Lyana and triggered the reincarnation of Maliz. They would do battle every four or five centuries, or so the story went. But it had been too many battles since Lyana had prevailed, her memory all but wiped out due to constant defeat; only the statues attested to her once powerful hold over Percheron. The story told that these were part of her army, supposedly turned to stone by Maliz in the last great battle.

The few true believers swore she would rise again to fight another battle. Lazar liked the notion of this spirit in Lyana.

He left behind the city proper to stroll into the more seedy area of Percheron down to the harbour, always a hive of activity and somewhere to lose oneself. He could be anonymous here in the mass of twisting lanes that had sprung up haphazardly around the eastern rim of the harbour. This was not a place where the wealthy or famous went. It was the haunt of the peasant Percherese and thieves, sailors, low-class merchants and prostitutes. Lazar, wearing the common robes of the streets, moved swiftly through the market area and beyond to an open road that led to a lonely temple. A tiny one. It sat on a narrow strip of a peninsula that jutted a mile into the bay. Not as far out as Beloch, of course, but only people on boats could get close enough to the brothers. He looked out to where the enormous stone giant stood proudly on a plinth soaring upwards from the clear waters,
guarding his city. Opposite him, flanking the other tip of the harbour’s horseshoe shape, was Beloch’s twin, Ezram.

Arriving at the tiny place of worship he climbed the short flight of stairs into the small vaulted space of simple design. This was a temple that harked back to the old ways, of a time when goddesses were worshipped and priestesses led prayers. Although he had never been inside it before Lazar liked its remoteness, and as Lyana had been in his mind, it seemed a good enough place to go for some quiet. He lit a small candle and kneeled at the altar below a sculpture of a serene woman who looked down upon him. He should have bowed his head in prayer but he could not take his eyes from the statue. Her soft smile was so tranquil, her eyes so sad, reflecting his mood. He fancied that her expression had been carved just for him, for this very day when he entered her temple with a heavy heart and a question. On her right shoulder sat an owl—it was Iridor—and amongst the folds of her dress flitted an assortment of birds and strange symbols.

Just looking at her soothed his anger.

‘She’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ a voice said, and when he turned a tiny hunched woman emerged from the shadows. She was dressed in aquamarine robes—the colour of the sea over which her tiny temple looked.

‘I am Lazar, Spur of Percheron, priestess,’ he said, standing and bowing.

When he straightened she was smiling. ‘We have been expecting you.’

He was taken aback. ‘We?’

Her answer was to look to the sculpture. ‘This is Lyana. She especially welcomes you.’

‘She is the loveliest of all the stone sculptures in Percheron, I’m sure,’ he replied, knowing this to be a high compliment.

‘Has she helped?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Did she answer your question?’

He frowned. ‘I haven’t asked anything of her.’

Again the soft knowing smile. ‘Not yet perhaps. Forgive my disturbance, son. Please continue,’ and the old woman made to leave.

‘Wait.’ When she turned to look at him, he hesitated. ‘What did you mean, you were expecting me?’

‘We have been waiting many years to meet you, Lazar. You have a reason for being in Percheron. You are welcome here always.’

He had no idea what she was talking about but her soft voice was mesmerising, as soothing as her sculpture’s smile. ‘I don’t know your name.’

‘I am Zafira. We shall meet another time soon.’ Once more she turned to leave and again he stopped her.

‘What can she tell me?’ he asked.

She didn’t turn this time. ‘Please stay—you are needed here,’ she said as the shadows swallowed her.

Lazar had puzzled over that brief conversation for many days now. How could the old priestess have known he was thinking of leaving the city? In fact it was her words that had convinced him not to ride out of the city in anger but to remain in Percheron—for now anyway. There was something about the certainty of the way she spoke to him that made him obey, although even her suggestion that ‘they’ had been waiting for him was confusing. He put it down to coincidence. Perhaps everyone in Percheron ultimately visited the Sea Temple, although in his heart he knew he was clutching at the thinnest of explanations. The Sea Temple was as unfashionable as it was redundant in the lives of the Percherese. They had no use for priestesses these days. Zafira was a remnant of a past long gone.

Jumo arrived now to disturb his thoughts of that day. ‘Is all well, master?’ he asked, guiding his horse to stand alongside.

Lazar smiled. He and Jumo had long ago ceased being slave and master, ever since Lazar granted the reed-thin man his freedom. But Jumo had neither refrained from the title nor from serving Lazar. They were now the closest of friends, their deep bond an unspoken commitment between them. Lazar had once described to Pez that losing Jumo would be like losing his limbs or his sight. ‘I would be useless without him,’ he recalled saying. And Pez had understood…but then Pez understood everything.

‘All is well,’ he answered, looking into his friend’s swarthy face, the colour of molasses and creased in bemusement. Jumo came from an exotic land far to the north that Lazar had never seen and was unlikely to. ‘Am I making you nervous?’ he asked, knowing full well that very little, least of all silence, unsettled Jumo.

They had been a party of twelve but as each girl had been found, she had been sent off with two escorts to the city. Herezah had demanded six girls from Lazar’s foray into the foothills. He had sent five safely on their way.

Jumo’s face broke into the smile he reserved for very few. ‘No, your quiet manner is not making me nervous. What is troubling you, master?’

Lazar sighed. ‘Nothing, my friend. I’m fine. Just still questioning this unpleasant task of ours.’

‘They will fill a harem with or without your help,’ Jumo offered. ‘We need only one more girl to fill our quota. Her family will be happy, the Valide will be happy, surely the Zar will be happy and you, master, you will be happy to be returning to your proper duties. Everyone will be happy.’

‘Typical Jumo reasoning,’ Lazar replied dryly. ‘You’re right, although I don’t know why I feel so reluctant to disturb that gentle scene down there.’

They both looked at the hut, its chimney cheerfully smoking. Outside two young girls, presumably sisters, sat, their backs to the men.
The older of the two was brushing the other one’s hair; they were as different as two sisters could be. The eldest was dark, whilst the younger one was lighter; the sunlight picked up fiery glints in her hair as her sister brushed it. The girls were singing. A much smaller child, a boy, buzzed around them like a fly. Nearby someone squatted, sorting rice in a large basin, her repetitive action one they had often seen in the neighbourhoods of Percheron. They watched her drag her hand flat across the surface of the grains, spreading them, then begin sorting grit and stones from the rice.

‘Is that the mother, master?’

‘Looks rather young,’ Lazar replied, slightly mesmerised by the simple toil that she somehow managed to make elegant with her slim arms, long fingers. ‘No, this would be the mother,’ he added as a broader, clearly older woman emerged from the hut. He watched her squint as her eyes adjusted to the brightness.

‘The father is a goatherd, I gather,’ Jumo said, nodding towards the small pens beside the dwelling.

Lazar nodded. ‘The scouts warned he would probably be away.’