The Thorn Boy Read online

  I had chambers on the third floor, high above the city. It was where all the King’s concubines and favourites lived. He had other boys, apart from me, but he used their services rarely, preferring to lend them out to visiting dignitaries and ambassadors from other lands. Subservient lords were forever sending their beautiful sons and daughters as gifts for the King. Some, he partook of only once, out of politeness and quite often, they eventually ended up in the household of some Duke or another. Alofel didn’t like to think of any of his people being bored and the life of a concubine must necessarily be one of relaxation. Also, those whom the King ignored could only enjoy low status among their ranks, so it was for the best that some were moved on. Porfarryah and I were privileged, but we did not make the mistake of believing our positions were secure. At any time, another girl or boy could come to the palace and take Alofel’s eye, if not his heart. Sometimes, when we thought it expedient, we had resorted to poison. Not murder, but something more subtle, that destroyed good looks and slurred the speech, made the body smell foul. Alofel only liked beautiful things.

  ‘He will call for you tonight,’ Porfarryah said and we walked slowly to the third floor.

  ‘No, for you,’ I said. It was a ritual between us, for in truth, we could never guess. The only certainty was that it would be one or the other of us, at least for an hour. Then the Queen might have him, if she was lucky. After that, a lesser concubine, when he was tired, or a boy with whose own pleasure Alofel was not concerned.

  As we mounted the final steps to the third floor, a host of downy girls in floating gowns of pale colours came running down the corridor. They virtually dragged us onto the landing, covering us with kisses, wrapping us in their soft, perfumed arms. ‘Tell us stories! Did you see the battles? Were you ever in danger?’ Later, we would have to gratify their curiosity, but for now, we pleaded tiredness and were able to escape to our own chambers.

  I bathed and dressed myself with care, attended by my servant, Wezling. Just as he was finishing arranging my hair, a messenger came to the chamber door. ‘The King has asked for your attendance,’ I was told. This was unusual. It was not the hour when my art was required.

  I presented myself at the royal apartment and was ushered into the King’s presence. He received me in his sitting-room, a place where we had often dallied in erotic play. It was a comfortable room, swathed in draperies, cool in summertime, warm in winter. The King wore only his dressing-robe and was standing up. I sensed that something was bothering him and prostrated myself with extra diligence.

  ‘Rise, Darien,’ he told me. ‘There is something you must do for me.’

  I gestured widely with my arms to indicate I would do all within my humble power to accommodate his desires.

  ‘Akaten,’ he said. ‘This night, he will attend my bed-chamber, but it would please me if you would sit with him after the servants have made him ready. His state of mind is skittish. Sit with him until the banquet is over. You should miss only half an hour or so of merriment.’

  At first, I was at a loss for the name Akaten meant nothing to me. Of course, I nodded vigorously and declared that it would be my pleasure to do this thing. Inside, I was perturbed that this unknown person had taken the place of Porfarryah or myself. It was a departure from routine and I was immediately suspicious of it. Had some lord sent the thing we feared at last; a beauty to command the eyes of the King?

  ‘My squire will come for you at the appointed time,’ Alofel said. ‘I would be grateful if you could attempt to assuage Akaten’s fears. You are a gentle boy, Darien. I’m sure he will trust you.’

  Trust me? I fought down a surge of anger. ‘Is he familiar with palace procedure, my lord?’ I enquired delicately. ‘That is, how long has he been resident here?’

  Alofel looked at me blankly for a moment, then enlightenment dawned. ‘It is the Khan’s boy,’ he said.

  I felt a wing of doom brush the palace roof.

  I confided my fears to Porfarryah as soon as possible, even going to her chamber before the reception began. She listened with complete attention, the pupils of her dark eyes wide with a potential for attack. ‘Be observant,’ she advised. ‘Talk to him, befriend him. We must take care. This Akaten is a king’s boy too. He will match you in art. Alofel was touched by his loyalty to his dead lord. It took them some minutes to disengage him from the corpse. I heard only an hour ago, that he attempted suicide on the journey back from Mewt. Alofel himself stopped the blood, and sat by the boy’s bedside for half the night. It is unsettling that the king’s body-servants felt the need to keep quiet about this.’

  I shook my head, aghast. ‘I am troubled. I don’t deny it.’ Never before had such information been kept from me. Usually, Alofel’s servants fell over themselves in their haste to pass me morsels of gossip.

  Porfarryah brushed my fears aside with a careless gesture of her hand. ‘A minor inconvenience, I’m sure. Let Alofel have his fun attempting to woo a boy who looks upon him as a murderer. It will not last. Chances are he’ll throw himself from the palace roof at the first opportunity!’

  Torches burned low on the walls as I followed the King’s squire to the royal chambers. I was not sad to leave the banquet, for my evening had been poisoned by the thought of this thorn that had come to embed itself in Alofel’s flesh. I was not stupid in my jealousy, for I knew the boy, Akaten, had not designed the circumstance. I suspected he would be indifferent to it, but his indifference was irrelevant. He existed, he was a potential threat. I would be a friend to him, for now.

  The squire left me in the ante-chamber to the king’s bedroom. Here, I examined myself in a mirror on the wall to check I looked my best. Then I opened the final door as quietly as possible, so as to give myself a few moments’ private scrutiny of the rival before he was made aware of my presence.

  The windows were open to the night, admitting the perfumes of the summer city, and the lilting chime of music from the banqueting-hall. Climbing vines had crept into the room, festooned with fleshy, blue flowers that smelled of spring rain: mingvolvus; the creeping lover of the god, Tantanphuel. Akaten was there beside the window, his knees pressed against the sill. The King’s chamber was on an upper floor of the palace; it was eight stories to the gardens below. If a body should fall from that window, its flight would be impeded by the stone arms of caryatids and gargoyles, or else impaled. I could see him thinking of his own death, and he was achingly lovely as he did so: the archetype of all the boys ever loved by kings. His hair, unbound, flowed down him like a veil; the colour of dark honey. His eye, in profile, was slightly slanted, its cat-like shape accentuated by a kiss of kohl. They had dressed him in a simple tabard and leggings. His ribs were bare at the sides, showing a tawny swatch of flesh, a braid of rib and muscle. He was effeminate in his beauty, but also intensely masculine. There was little softness of line about him. I watched him, transfixed.

  He mounted the sill.

  I could let him fall and none would be the wiser. In a moment, I could go into the outer chambers, seek the squire and complain there was no-one within the bedroom. Then a search would be made, inside and out, and a shattered body would be found among the roses.

  He shook upon the broad slab of marble, crouching down. He did not want to kill himself, and yet he did. How would I feel in his position? If a king other than Alofel took me to his bed? I realised I would not care. If it meant I would survive, I would kiss anyone, open my body for any man.

  One moment, I was standing by the door, the next I found myself by the window, Akaten’s upper arms in my grip. I pulled him back. He uttered a dull, dismal sound; relief and regret.

  ‘Don’t be foolish!’ I said and turned him round. We were much of a height, and perhaps around the same age, nineteen years. He would not look at me.

  I half led, half dragged him to the canopied bed, and made him sit down on it. He had begun to weep, silently, his body shuddering to his chest-deep sobs, tears running freely down his still face. He wept as a woman might, o
r a prideless barbarian. I’d heard stories of how Harakhte had wept publicly before his army when certain of his favourites had been killed on the battle-field. Alofel would never shed tears in the company of others.

  Feeling impatient and strangely vexed, I poured the boy some wine from the flagon that stood waiting for the king’s hand beside the bed.

  ‘Drink this.’ I was surprised that he took it. He drank it down in one long gulp, then wiped his face and handed the goblet back to me. Still, he would not meet my eye.

  ‘Are you afraid?’ I asked him. Perhaps he could not speak our language.

  He looked at me then. ‘Afraid? No. Not of what you think.’ He spoke Cossic fluently, beautifully accented with a hint of Mewtish. In his eyes, I did not see weakness but a quiet, if saddened, strength.

  ‘You were Harakhte’s slave, now you are Alofel’s. What’s the difference? Act temperately and your life will continue much as before.’ I don’t know why I proffered this advice, for I wanted him to be miserable enough to brave the fall to the garden.

  He looked at me steadily. ‘The man I loved is dead,’ he said, and then added with scorn, ‘Do you really believe I wish to give myself to the one who slaughtered him?’

  I felt only disdain. People such as Akaten and I could never be the lovers of kings. We were baubles, ornaments, to be discarded at will. Where did love come into it? Of course, I adored Alofel as my sovereign, but I did not rely on his love in return. That would only be asking for heart-ache. I handed Akaten a cloth. ‘Wipe your face. The king will be here shortly.’

  He looked at the cloth as if he’d never seen one before, then applied it with dignity to his eyes.

  ‘It can be of short duration,’ I said, ‘if you know how to arouse him. If he thinks you require pleasuring, he will take his time. To avoid this, after the first kiss, raise and offer yourself to him. He will understand. He is not a cruel man.’

  Akaten looked at me, as if stunned. ‘Why tell me this?’ he asked. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A member of the household,’ I answered. ‘The king has a large retinue of concubines and boys. We are a community of sorts. We look out for one another.’

  ‘I was Harakhte’s only lover,’ he told me. ‘besides his queen.’

  I shrugged. ‘Customs vary.’ In truth, I scorned his sentiments.

  He wound the cloth around his fingers. ‘I remember you,’ he said. ‘Your hair was very black in the sunlight, your skin very white. You looked strange to me, like a ghost. When they tortured me, you were there.’

  ‘When they tortured you?’ I was confused for a moment, then laughed. ‘If you mean when they put the thorns in your flesh, that was meant to soothe you. The herbalist did it.’

  ‘A strange way to soothe,’ he said. ‘You enjoyed watching it.’

  ‘I did not!’ My voice rang out too loudly.

  He smiled and shrugged, pushed his hair off his face. ‘I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Not now. Back there, at Alofel’s camp, I thought you were the Dark Messenger come to lead me from life. Now here you are again.’

  There was a fatalistic tone to his voice. Death was not far from his mind. I realised, or convinced myself, that Alofel might hold me responsible should anything happen to this creature before he took his pleasure. I sat down beside him on the bed. ‘Come now,’ I said in a gentle voice, ‘surely your Khan would not want you to suffer. Be strong for him, for his memory. Endure this night, then carry on living. I should imagine that is what he would have wanted.’

  Akaten regarded me coolly. ‘You have no idea what Harakhte would have wanted. Don’t patronise me.’

  I shrugged uneasily. ‘I’m not. I just think your situation isn’t as bad as you think.’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘What is this to you? I don’t think you care about anyone but yourself.’

  His unsettlingly astute remarks made my heart beat faster. ‘You are simply a stranger to our ways,’ I said airily. ‘What you perceive as indifference is no more than courtly behaviour. We adhere to strict protocols.’

  He smiled. ‘You are lying. Still, at least you spared the time to try and comfort me. You did not have to come. I understand it does not rest easy with you.’

  His attitude was beginning to irritate me. This barbarian could know nothing of the way I felt or conducted myself. Neither did he realise that I had no choice in the matter of being there with him. I gritted my teeth and grinned at him. ‘It is the least I can do.’

  ‘What is your name?’ he asked me.

  ‘Darien.’

  He nodded. ‘I have heard of you! Alofel’s famous, beautiful catamite.’

  My teeth were pressed together so hard I thought my jaw would break. ‘I am a member of Alofel’s household,’ I managed to respond. ‘Second only to the queen.’ This, of course, was not entirely true.

  ‘You are like me,’ he answered. ‘Only you have never cared for the one who owns you.’ He frowned and looked around the great bed-room. ‘What place will I have in this royal house?’

  I too had been wondering about that.The best I could hope for was that he’d end up in the harem of one of Alofel’s friends. I wriggled my shoulders. ‘You will be looked after. No-one of your beauty would ever be abused in Tarnax.’

  ‘How comforting,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I will choose the window-sill after all.’ I knew then that he had decided to live.

  I would have given much to have lingered in the king’s chambers that night; concealed behind a curtain, lurking beneath the bed. I wanted to see the outcome of his taking of Akaten. I did not feel jealous, surprisingly, but weirdly aroused by the thought of Alofel’s long, sensitive hands removing Akaten’s garments, smoothing his tawny skin. As I prepared myself for bed, I thought about how I might turn all the conflicting thoughts and feelings I had for the Khan’s boy into an amusing anecdote for Porfarryah. Occasionally, in private, we swapped lewd stories. I could almost hear her delighted shrieks of laughter as I described what I imagined Alofel might do to Akaten.

  That night I dreamed of him as I’d first seen him, struggling in the hold of his captors. Only he was not bloody and dirty, but dressed in clean, white linen and crowned with purple flowers. I knelt in the dust before him, at the feet of the king. Alofel was talking about how Akaten would be brought to his bed-chamber that evening, but that I would have to take his place. ‘You must use my sword,’ Alofel said, and I knew then that I had to execute the Khan’s boy.

  ‘But I want his head now,’ I said, speaking far more firmly than I would dare in waking life. ‘Give it to me, my lord, upon a bed of lilies.’

  ‘He wants your head!’ Alofel said, smiling. ‘And he will have it.’

  I felt disorientated, aware I had no control over the situation. I could not remember what I should say next. And then the executioner came striding through the flapping tents, clad in scarlet silk. Akaten was pushed to his knees, his hair hanging forward to pool on the ground before him. I saw his pale neck, and the knobs of spine and gristle. Would it be my head that fell in the dust when the fatal stroke was delivered?

  I awoke before the sword fell, my groin pounding with desire and the echo of Akaten’s screams ringing like temple bells in my ears.

  Discomforted, I went out in the dawn, to walk in the palace garden. My thoughts were tortured by memories of my dream, and the events of the night before. Had Alofel dismissed Akaten immediately his pleasure was taken, or did the foreign boy slumber still in the chamber of the king, his honey hair fanned by the swaying canopies? I thought of him lying there, on his back, his torso naked above the coverlet which hid the most delicious secrets. I imagined his tawny skin, the scent of him in sleep. This vivid image disturbed me. I knew desire when it assailed me, but generally my interests always veered towards men of power and status. Never a servant like myself, and certainly not a slave. As I walked through the mists of the garden, surrounded by the ghost-calls of drowsy peacocks, I fantasised making a request of Alofel; not for Akaten’s head, but for his im
measurable self. Would the king grant me that favour? I could say that Wezling was incompetent, and that I needed a further attendant. My servant’s ineptitude was already a joke about the palace. But perhaps Alofel was already ensnared by the interloper’s charms and would jealously keep Akaten to himself.

  Even as I thought these things, my face burned with shame. I dreaded Porfarryah discovering my feelings. It was senseless. All based on a short time in his company and a lurid dream. Was I mad?

  There is a saying: in dreams the heart speaks truly.

  The temple loomed out of the morning mist ahead of me, the fane of Challis Hespereth. Her earthly abode was called Phasmagore, and it was a wonder of the world. Its construction had begun during the reign of mad King Missiker, four hundred years ago - only a mad-man could have conceived it - and had been completed when Missiker’s grand-son, Tastuel, had held the throne. Phasmagore was monstrous, a towering mass of stone that shadowed the land around it. It was a statue of Challis Hespereth of cyclopean size. Her hollow, seated body concealed a labyrinth of chambers, tunnels and royal tombs, while her high crown housed observatories and the school of astronomy. Some days, the goddess’ face seemed to sneer down from the clouds, while at other times, her countenance was benign and tranquil. Today, it was invisible, just a dark blue shadow in the sky.

  I felt confused and anxious, as my feet led me towards her. It was some time since I’d visited the temple. Now, I needed to make penance, to speak with the goddess in the manner she demanded of her sons. All the way, Akaten’s face swam before my inner eye. I felt sickened and excited, as if my steps led to the arms of a cherished lover. I knew they did not. My feelings were inexplicable and wayward, and the strange, disorientating flavour of my dream lingered in my mind. I sensed that only doom lay in the future of my yearning. In the dark halls of Challis Hespereth’s holy house I could purge the sentiments that gripped my mind. I would offer myself unto her, cleanse myself of the hunger that had come to hang like a hag upon my heart. Never in my life had desire attacked me so quickly and so thoroughly. I thought it was unclean, a disease of the soul.