The Playmakers (35 page)

“That is right, Rasa, and…”

“And we have been friends through all the
times since - our days on the road, our times in London, our
spectacular departure from Deptford, and now our journey through
France.”

“Yes, and in that time, you have always been
a friend of mine. And the lover of Christopher, whom I consider my
friend, too. And I just wonder, that is, I was just intrigued,
that, you know, with these princes, and warlords, like, um …that is
…”

Rasa let his words trail off, her face
displaying her regal pose. Then suddenly, she burst into a smile,
and let out a mighty laugh that echoed through the canyon, bouncing
off the shiny, white stones that bordered the edge of the
river.

“You mean,” she said eventually, leaning
forward and grasping the strong-man’s giant hand tenderly, “you
mean, Samuel, that when we inevitably reach the final night of
these escapades, and the little tin-pot potentate and I are last
seen heading up the stairs hand-in-hand, am I then unfaithful to
Christopher?”

The big fellow shifted uneasily, picked up a
stone and hurled it into the slow-flowing water. “Yes, that is what
I am asking.”

“Look,” said Rasa, pointing behind him.
“Look, see?”

The strong man turned around to take in the
view. About one hundred yards away, the mighty Pont du Guard, a
supreme example of Roman engineering, straddled the river.

They could make out Christopher and Soho
walking across the platform of the first tier of arches. Marlowe
was walking delicately, ensuring he would not stray too close to
the unguarded side and fall into the slow-flowing river, while
Soho, typically, was doing handstands and tumbles.

“See, see how strong that mighty construction
is?” said Rasa. “They were so clever, they built it of
accurately-carved lumps of yellow-stone piled on top of each other,
the one holding the next, even the archways suspended by their own
weight.”

“Yes, yes, I see,” said Samuel.

“Well, then, that is how strong my love for
Christopher is. And see how perfectly shaped the arches are. Three
tiers of exquisite beauty. That is how beautiful our love is.”

Samuel nodded.

“And the Romans, they loved to do things
directly,” added Rasa. “No going around bends or over hills for
them. See at the top, there is the channel that carried the water.
That is what will happen with our love, it will flow on
forever.”

Samuel looked at her and began to nod.

“Not only that,” she said, her voice
hardening, “it is functional, too. The Romans arrived at Nimes even
before the times of Jesus. They could build a colosseum, but they
could not drink the water.”

“I see.”

“So, what did they do? They built this
aqueduct to carry the pure, sweet water from a spring thirty miles
away, just so they could bathe and drink and cook without feeling
ill. Like the Romans, I, too, have a difficult job to do.”

“Yes.”

“And like the Romans, I have devised the
perfect solution that allows me to still remain faithful to my
Christopher.”

“You have?” said Samuel, his heart starting
to lift.

“You should know by now, Samuel, having
worked with Mr Budsby and William for so many years, that all is
never what it seems.”

“I know that only too well.”

“The art is to get the master of the house so
drunk that, in fact, nothing ever happens. When a man wakes up in
the morning with a thumping headache, his pants around his ankles,
and his prick holding up the sheet like a tent-pole, he immediately
concludes he must have had a good time and is subsequently happy
for the next few days.”

“Absolutely,”

“Especially when he finds a golden ring among
the bed-sheets …”

The strong man began to laugh.

“You will be amazed,” continued Rasa, “how
quickly some of these ardour-struck romancers are snoring from the
effects of the wine the minute we hit the bed.”

“I think I have been guilty of that once or
twice.”

“And you will be intrigued to know that there
have been some, who, after all the bravado in front of their
courtiers, have confessed in their drunken stupor that they would
actually prefer to be under the sheets with Christopher instead.
They swear me to silence, turn over, and that’s the best night’s
sleep I ever get.”

“You mean some of these little dictators are
faggots?” rumbled Davidson. “Well, I’ll be.”

“But, of course, there is always one
wild-card in the pack, the sex-charged Lothario who is going to try
and make love to me no matter what.”

“And?”

“A few grains of a little white powder that
Christopher obtained for me from Sir Thomas, placed surreptitiously
in his drink, does the trick.”

“Knocks him right out?”

“Within minutes,” said Rasa. “The best result
was that awful man back at Bordeaux, what was his name,
Deauville?”

“You mean, the fat fellow with the bulbous
nose, that kept dribbling in his beard?” said Samuel
enthusiastically. “My stomach turned when you started to walk out
with him.”

“Mine did, too. Especially when he kept
whispering in my ear that he was hung like a donkey!”

“And ..?”

“As it turned out, after the sleeping draught
had taken its effect, I examined this subject of such boasting with
great interest.”

“Not up to scratch?”

“Hah!” said Rasa, waving her hand
dismissively. “You will remember that Bordeaux was also the place
where we left the next morning, much, much earlier than usual.
Before the cock crowed - or in this case, before the cock
burst.”

“Burst? I don’t understand?” said Samuel
looking puzzled.

“Samuel,” said Rasa, leaning forward, “I
couldn’t resist it. After all that boasting.”

“What?”

“Well, when he woke up in the morning, he did
indeed have the headache, his pants around his ankles, a stiff
tent-pole, and the gold ring in the bed.”

“Yes.”

“Only in this case, the ring was firmly
screwed onto his cock.”

The big strong-man hesitated for a second,
then threw back his head, and his massive chest, honed on years of
lifting weights, heaved with laughter.

“Well, after all that boasting,” continued
Rasa matter-of-factly, “when I discovered it was so tiny, I
couldn’t resist.”

The big fellow doubled over in laughter.
“What a picture,” he said. “What an image you paint.”

“When I left, the ring was nicely seated at
the base of his limp little turnip, but we have it on good
authority when he woke in the morning, it was now painfully
circumventing an enlarged, red, and very sore dick, and it took the
court goldsmith two days to cut it off.”

The strong man began to wipe the tears from
his eyes. “And did he, ah dear, did he find out, did he find out
that …”

“That all the jewellery we wear is fake
theatrical props, supplied by the Budsby entertainment group? I
don’t know. But if he did, considering the circumstances in which
he discovered our little subterfuge, I don’t think he was ever
going to let on, or chase us down. From what I gather, the
goldsmith has been made a viscount and sworn to secrecy.”

And the strong man put his head back and let
out another laugh, a laugh that Budsby would have been proud of, a
laugh that echoed up and down the Gard river valley.

It was a laugh that almost but not quite
drowned out the screaming noise that had suddenly erupted from the
direction of the aqueduct.

“Sssh,” said Rasa suddenly, “sshoosh!”

She cocked her ear and listened again, as
Samuel Davidson tried to regain his composure, wiping the tears
from his eyes, and saying “Ah, dear, ah dear.”

“Quiet!” hissed Rasa again, putting her hand
over the big man’s mouth.

The scream came again, only this time, more
audible and making some sort of sense. “Help!” said the voice.
“Help! Rasa, Samuel, come quick.”

The pair turned to see Christopher standing
on the aqueduct, screaming and flapping his arms
uncontrollably.

A feeling like being stabbed in the back with
a dagger of ice overwhelmed Rasa when she realised that Christopher
was now alone, and Soho was nowhere to be seen.

The picture began to become clear when
Marlowe began pointing down toward the water on the other side of
the aqueduct. “Soho! Soho’s fallen. He’s fallen in!”

By now Samuel Davidson had jumped to his
feet, his big frame slowly picking up speed, as he began to run
along the stony edges of the waterway, shouting, “Show me, show me.
Where is he? Where is he?”

The stones were large and slippery, and
crunched under his feet, and it seemed to take ages as the
strongman ran as best as he could, with Rasa in pursuit. The rest
of the entourage, now attracted by the noise, began to rapidly
break away from their lunch in a clearing in the lightly wooded
forest.

Samuel reached the aqueduct, and ran under
the archway support closest to the river, his heart pounding from
the exertion and the fear of losing the life of his little friend.
They had supported each other from the first day they met, not only
as an act, but off-stage, as well. An incongruous pair, they raised
eyes wherever they went, and even on this tour, when they had
finished their duties for the day, they had enjoyed going out to
the local eating houses to see the sights, amaze the locals with
their tricks, and cadge a few drinks.

Samuel began to blindly run into the water.
He looked up to Marlowe who was fearfully standing near the edge,
but not too close, and shouted, “Where is he, where is he?”

“There, there,” said Marlowe, pointing to a
spot about one-third of the way in from the shore.

Samuel began to wade in, and was all prepared
to plunge full body into the water, when he realised that, as it
was summer, the level was still only barely above his knees. He
thrashed on, and when he got to the point where Marlowe was
gesticulating, he looked down in the clear water, which by now was
about three feet deep.

There, lying on the stony bottom, was Soho,
flat on his back.

The water was clean enough to see him
clearly, and in that instant Samuel noticed how the little fellow’s
eyes were shut and his gargoyle face, instead of being twisted in
its traditional image of fun, was calm, tranquil, almost in repose.
His little misshapen hands, the ones with the big sausage-shaped
fingers on such tiny palms, were crossed over his chest.

“Soho,” screamed Samuel. “Soho!” And plunging
his giant forearms into the water he bent down, slid them under the
tiny body, and scooped him out in a split-second.

Water flew everywhere as the sun glinted on
the still face of the tiny gargoyle.

From up above, Marlowe held his hands to his
face and mumbled, “No, no, please Lord, no, no.”

“No!” screamed Samuel, staring to the
heavens. “No!”

By now Rasa had reached the water’s edge.
Marlowe spotted her and began blabbering through his tears.

“He was just tumbling,” he stammered.
“Tumbling. You know how he loved to somersault. He went to the very
top, and he just got too close and went over the edge.”

The strong man looked up at Marlowe. His
years in the mummers troupe told him that the little fellow had
dropped from about one hundred and fifty feet, an enormous height,
even for the most resilient and experienced performer.

He slowly trudged out of the water, and laid
Soho down on the stones, as the entire entourage gathered around.
There was a moment’s silence, as all conversation was still, while
heads were bowed to stare at the lifeless, baby-sized body. Samuel
Davidson’s tears of laughter from just a few moments before had
been erased and replaced by tears of immense sorrow.

“Ohh, Soho, Soho,” said the big man, “don’t
leave me now.”

He leaned forward, placed his ear near the
tiny misshapen mouth, and after a few seconds drew back, and shook
his head.

There was a shocked murmur through the
crowd.

And as Samuel gently leaned forward again and
kissed the little gargoyle on the forehead, people began to look
away.

For a few moments, only the sound of the big
man’s sobbing could be heard above the babble of water flowing
across the stones.

Then, in a symbolic gesture underlying his
relationship, he slid his huge hands under the tiny body, stood up,
and effortlessly held Soho up towards the sky, like an offering to
the gods, tears streaming down his face.

He opened his mouth to say something, to let
out his feelings of grief and anger. But, just as his small friend
had had to endure for his entire life, no sound came.

“You are cruel, God,” came a voice. “So
cruel.” It was Marlowe, who had scrambled down from the aqueduct
and now was making his way through the parting group.

“You dealt him the wild card in life,” he
shouted skywards, as he joined Davidson at his side.

“A body such as no man should deserve,” he
continued, shaking his fist at the sky. “Diminutive and twisted and
silent. Yet he took up your heinous challenge, and lived with it,
with dignity and grace and humour, and no anger or jealousy or
regret. And now, when he has given so much, done so much and
deserved to live out his days in peace, you have suddenly, so
cruelly taken him from us. I wonder about you, God. I really wonder
about you. Why would you do such a thing to such a man? Housing
such a beautiful spirit in a broken temple? Where is the
compassion, the love, the forgiveness that we hear so much about?
Why is it your believers speak so much of love but inflict so much
cruelty in your name? Are you jealous and vindictive because he
played your nasty little game with grace and enthusiasm and was
beating you? I wonder about you, God. I just wonder.”

It was Marlowe at his best - in full flight
exploring all the options in a situation that was not lost on Rasa,
who had now joined his side. Her brilliant Christopher, the
wordsmith, stepping up and supplying the material from behind the
scenes for someone who, for whatever reason, was incapable of doing
so …