The Athenian Murders (34 page)

Without warning, the feeling stopped. He was left with a stinging emptiness, as if he'd been slapped. He realised that the girl's caresses had ceased. He opened his eyes and saw her lift her
peplos
and sit astride his legs. Her firm dancer's belly pressed against the rigid sculpture she had created and which now stood up urgently. He questioned her with his moans. She began moving her hips . . . No, not exactly; she was dancing, using only her torso. Her thighs gripped Heracles's fat legs and her hands rested on the bed, but her torso moved in time to the music of the flesh.

A shoulder appeared, then, slowly, deliberately, the
peplos
began to slide over its shapely edge, down her arm. Yasintra turned her head and freed the other shoulder. The cloth clung to it a little longer, and Heracles thought this might even have been calculated. In a single, practised move, the hetaera drew in her arms and freed them from the tunic. It slipped down and hung from her erect breasts.

Undressing without using your hands must be tricky, Heracles reflected, and this slow difficulty was one of the pleasures that she was offering him; the other - more unruly, less immediate - was the continuous, increasing pressure of her pubis on his reddened shaft.

With a precise sway of her torso, Yasintra made the tunic slide like oil down over the convex surface of one of her breasts and, clearing the obstacle of her nipple, it floated as lightly as a feather down her stomach. Heracles gazed at the newly bared breast: dark-skinned, round, within reach of his hand. He felt the urge to squeeze the hard, dark embellishment trembling atop the hemisphere of flesh, but he held back. The
peplos
began to spill down the other breast.

Heracles' slim body tensed; his forehead, with its sharply receding hairline, was damp with sweat; his black eyes blinked; his mouth, surrounded by a neat black beard, issued a moan; his entire face was flushed; even the small scar on his prominent right cheekbone (a memento from a childhood fight) looked darker.
¹¹²

¹¹²
It's me. This is a description of my body, not Heracles'. It's me lying with Yasintra!

Trapped by the metal link belt, the
peplos
ceased its ecstatic descent. Yasintra used her hands for the first time, and the belt yielded with a gentle click. Full of resolve, her body made its way towards nudity. Free at last, the flesh appeared, to Heracles' eyes, beautifully muscular; the memory of movement was apparent in every area of skin.

Grunting, Heracles sat up. Acquiescing to his initiative, she allowed him to push her down on to the bed. He couldn't look at her face. Turning, he flung himself on top of her. He felt capable of causing pain - he parted her legs and, gently, roughly, thrust inside her. He wanted to believe that he made her moan. He felt Yasintra's face with his hand, and she cried out as he nicked her with the ring on his middle finger. Their movements were now questions and answers, orders and acts of obedience, an instinctive ritual.
¹¹³
Yasintra stroked his wide back with nails as sharp as knives, and he closed his watchful eyes.
¹¹⁴

¹¹³
It's appalling to see myself here, described during the sexual act. Perhaps all readers picture themselves when they read scenes such as these: he thinks he is him, and she, her, I'm aroused, despite myself. As I read and write, I sense
the arrival of a strange and overwhelming pleasure
. .. (T.'s N.)

¹¹⁴
The three eidetic words of warning: hack', 'knife', and 'watch! It's a
trap
! I must... I mean, Heracles must. ..
(T.'s N.)

He kissed the gentle curves of her neck and her shoulder, biting her gently, placing modest cries here and there, until he sensed
the arrival of a strange and overwhelming pleasure
.
115

¹¹⁵
My own words! The ones I've written in a previous note! (I've underlined them in the text and in my note so that the reader can check.) Of course I wrote them
before
I translated the sentence. Isn't this almost a
fusion,
an act of love? What is making love if not the merging of fantasy and reality? Oh, the pleasure of the text -stroking it, enjoying it, rubbing my pen against it! I don't care if it is a coincidence - there can no longer be any doubt, I
am him,
I am
there, with her ... (T.'s N.)

He cried out for the last time, his voice echoing - thick, torrential - inside her.

As this was happening, belying her apparent ecstasy, the hetaera slowly raised the object she had picked up earlier -Heracles saw it, but he couldn't move, not just
then -
and plunged it into his back.
¹¹⁶

¹¹⁶
Heracles doesn't react. Nor do I. He continues. I continue. And so on, to the end. We've both chosen to continue. (T.'s N.)

He felt a sting in his spine.

A moment later, he jerked away from her, raising his hand and bringing it down on her jaw as if it were a sword handle. She tried to move aside, but she was pinned to the bed by the weight of his body. He sat up further and pushed her. She rolled, like a flayed animal, and fell to the floor with a strangely gentle thud. But she let go of the long, sharp knife and it bounced with a clink that seemed quite absurd amid so many smooth sounds. Clumsily, wearily, Heracles got off the bed. He pulled Yasintra up by the hair and dragged her to the nearest wall, slamming her head against it.

He started thinking again, and his first thought was: She didn't hurt me. She could have stabbed me, but she didn't. His rage was unabated, however. Still gripping her hair, he banged her head against the adobe wall. 'What else were you to do, other than kill me?' he asked hoarsely.

As she spoke, two red trails ran from her nose, avoiding her thick lips. 'I wasn't ordered to kill you. I could have done so if

I'd wanted to. They just said that when you reached the peak of pleasure, and only then, not before or after, I was to place the point of the dagger against your flesh, without harming you.'

Heracles still held her by the hair. They were both panting, and her naked breasts were pressing against his tunic. Shaking with fury, the Decipherer changed hands, now gripping her hair in his left. With the right, he hit her twice, extremely hard. Afterwards, the girl simply ran her tongue over her split lip, staring at him, showing neither pain nor fear. Heracles said: 'There never were any "tall men with Athenian accents", were there?'

Yasintra replied: 'Yes, there were. But they wore masks. The first time they threatened me was just after Tramachus' death. And they came back after you and your friend spoke to me. Their threats were terrifying. They told me what to do. I was to tell you that it was Menaechmus who threatened me. I was to go to your house and ask for protection. And tempt you and let you enjoy me.' He raised his hand again. She said: 'Kill me. I'm not afraid of death, Decipherer.'

'But you are afraid of them,' murmured Heracles. He didn't strike her this time.

'They're very powerful.' Yasintra smiled, despite the split lip. 'You can't imagine what they said they'd do if I didn't obey. Sometimes death comes as a relief. They promise infinite pain, not death. They soon convince anyone they wish. Neither you nor your friend stands the slightest chance against them.'

'Did they tell you to say that, too?'

'No. I just know it.'

'How do you contact them? Where can I find them?' 'They find you.' 'Have they been here?'

'Yes,' she said, and Heracles noticed that she hesitated. He pressed her
back
more firmly against the wall, digging his elbow into her shoulder as if it were a
knife
and
watching out
for any move she might make.
¹¹⁷

117Why have the three eidetic words (I've underlined them) reappeared, when Heracles would no longer seem in danger? What’s going on?

Yasintra added:
'They're here now.'

'Here? What do you mean?'

Yasintra paused. She glanced around the room. Strangely slowly, she said: 'They also said that. . . after lying with you, I should talk .. . and distract you

Heracles saw her eyes dart from side to side.
¹¹⁸

¹¹⁸
Now I understand! Heracles, watch your
back
! (T.'s N.)

Suddenly he seemed to hear a voice inside him, shouting: 'Turn round!' He did so just in time.

The figure wore a mask and a heavy black cloak. Its right arm had just described a silent, deadly arc when the unexpected obstacle of Heracles' forearm knocked it off course and the blade stabbed the air harmlessly. The Decipherer turned round and caught his attacker by the wrist. There was a struggle. Heracles looked into the masked face and felt his strength fail - he recognised the blank
features, the artificial counte
nance, the dark unease seeping from the eye holes, now flashing with hatred. Making the most of Heracles' momentary confusion, Ponsica forced the point of the dagger closer to his soft, fleshy neck. Heracles stumbled backwards against the wall. He reflected - a fleeting thought, like a glimpse out of the corner of one's eye - that at least Yasintra wasn't attacking him, though he couldn't imagine what else she was doing. So he was facing a single opponent, a woman (if extremely strong, as he had just discovered). He decided to risk allowing the blade a little closer, while he summoned the strength to raise his right fist and strike the mask. He heard a moan so low it might have come from the depths of a well. He struck another blow. Again, a moan, then nothing. But in concentrating on his fist, he had forgotten the dagger, which was moving ever closer to his throbbing neck, to the fragile branching veins and trembling, docile muscles. He stopped and did something that must have taken his frenzied opponent by surprise: he unclenched his fist and began tenderly stroking the outline of the mask, the ridge of the nose, the side of the cheeks, like a blind man trying to recognise an old friend by touch.

Too late, Ponsica realised what he was going to do.

Two thick battering rams, two huge pistons were thrust suddenly through the eye holes, sinking easily into a strange viscous substance protected by a slender membrane. The dagger immediately fell away from Heracles' neck, and moans, roars came from behind the mask. The Decipherer withdrew his fingers - moist to the second joint - and moved away from her. Ponsica howled. The mask remained patient, neutral. She stepped back, stumbling.

As she fell to the floor, Heracles flung himself on top of her.

He managed with difficulty to restrain the almost irresistible urge to use his own dagger. Instead, after removing her weapon, he kicked her with his bare feet in several places left vulnerable by her blindness. He dug his heel in, as if squashing an enormous insect.

When it was over, panting, confused, he saw that Yasintra was still standing, motionless and naked, against the wall, just as he had left her; she seemed only to have wiped a little of the blood from her face. Heracles felt almost disappointed that she hadn't attacked him, too: he could have vented his rage at both of them, in a single fight, one long storm of blows. Now, there was nothing but the air and the objects around him for him to tear up, destroy, annihilate. When he had recovered his voice, he said: 'When did they recruit her?'

'I don't know. When they sent me here, they told me to obey her instructions. She can't speak, but her hand movements are easy to understand. And I already knew what the orders were.'

'The Sacred Mysteries!' Heracles said contemptuously. Yasintra stared at him blankly. 'Ponsica, like Menaechmus, told me she worshipped the Sacred Mysteries. They were both lying.'

'Maybe not,' smiled the dancer. 'They didn't say
w
hat
kind
of Sacred Mystery they worshipped.'

Heracles looked at her, one eyebrow raised. He said: 'Go. Get out.'

She gathered up her
peplos
and belt, and obediently crossed the room. She turned at the door. 'Your slave woman was meant to kill you, not I. They do things their own way, Decipherer, and neither you nor anyone can understand them. That's why they're so dangerous.'

'Get out,' he said again, panting, gasping for breath.

But she added: 'Flee the City, Heracles. You won't live beyond daybreak.'

When Yasintra had gone, Heracles leaned against the wall and rubbed his eyes, no longer concealing his weariness. He needed to recover the peace of his thoughts, to clean the intellectual tools of his trade and start all over again, calmly ...