Watson, Ian - Novel 16 (10 page)

 
          
After
a while one of the men shrugged, tossed down a coin, and said something. The
woman before him rose. Together they headed for the temple hall, side by side.
The other man completed his circuit - dubiously, by no means as eager as the
sparrows which hopped anxiously about - and made his way towards the gate just
as Alex finally strayed inside.

 
          
Encountering
Alex, the man drawled in Greek, ‘A homely dumpling. A horse. A mouse. A slut.
An urchin. A grandmother. Someone who looks just like my sister. Acne. A pox of
freckles. And three whom I already know! Oh dear. I wish there was a temple
with boys. Last night my friend told me he had seen a girl just like a boy
arrive as they were closing for the night. He was lying, japing me! Or else he
meant that urchin. Maybe he did mean her. Her nose is runny. I’m sure I’d catch
a rheum.’

 
          
The
fellow reeked of patchouli. His eyes looked drugged, the pupils dilated. His
hair was dandified, oiled and waved. His nose was somewhat crooked, as though
it had once been broken. He was as smoothly clean-shaven as a woman; which made
Alex conscious of his own two-day growth.

 
          
The
soldier who faced inward began to pay attention. ‘Here, you,’ he said, or
something equivalent in Babylonian.

 
          
Alex
hastened to put a couple more paces between himself and the presumed pederast.

 
          
The
man continued speaking Greek: ‘What is it, my bold bullyboy?’ He minced nearer
to the soldier till finally he reached out a finger and softly tapped the spear
point; then he ran his fingertip down the blade.

           
The soldier rapped out a string of
Babylonian.

 
          
In
mock alarm the fellow darted back, and clutched Alex’s arm. ‘My dear, he tells
me I can’t leave until I’ve chosen! Or else he’ll tickle my ribs with that
sharp tool of his.’

 
          
Alex
shook himself free. He felt oppressed - not naively disgusted so much as
threatened. On the other hand, here was someone who seemed able to play the
system and get away with it.

 
          
Unless,
in addition to all else, the fellow was an exhibitionist and a masochist;
albeit a cautious masochist, perhaps, who came early to the temple when male
visitors of more straightforward tastes were less likely to gang up on him.

 
          
Suddenly
inspired, Alex said, ‘You’d like to be sitting on one of those mats, wouldn’t
you?’

 
          
Whether
this was accurate or not, the dandy growled quite venomously, ‘Oh, my
dear!’
He swiftly recovered his
composure. ‘Heigh-ho, it’ll have to be the urchin, then. I’m sure I’ll sneeze
in a rag for a fortnight.’

 
          
Back
he went, to cast a coin and say something. The skinny figure who arose at his
bidding hardly came up to his chest.

 
          
It
occurred to Alex that presumably he also couldn’t leave the courtyard till he
had made a choice. So he walked around the gangways slowly, though his heart
beat fast. What if Deborah emerged from the temple hall? What if she only just
now
arrived
at the gateway? He felt
nakedly exposed, which was ridiculous, considering his role and the women’s -
wasn’t it?

 
          
Most
of the women had put their hair up in tight buns, fastened by hairpins of
silver or copper or plain bone - depending upon their social status, no doubt,
otherwise it might have been hard to tell a high lady from an alewife, since
they all wore simple gowns and no cosmetics. A few women had straw tangled in
their hair, so these must have stayed overnight sleeping in the courtyard or
the cloisters; or maybe these were women who had stayed for many nights and
tired of performing a thoroughly scrupulous toilet.

 
          
Actually,
the pederast’s description had been quite slanderous.

 
          
Quite;
not entirely. Here was the spotty dumpling. Here was the horse, angular and
bony. However, the freckled redhead was a comely girl. And here was a young
tanned bosomy blonde, though she was plump and greasy. And here, a handsome
strong-looking Negress with skin of polished ebony over rippling muscles; she
could probably bend iron bars, clutching them in her ivory teeth.

 
          
No,
the pederast wouldn’t have liked a strong woman. Or a bosomy one.

 
          
Surely
this was a disgusting way to assess people? But did he not, at the same time,
assess himself? Did he not assess the criteria by which he chose to judge - and
thus discover those private criteria which under ordinary circumstances would never
have such free rein to express themselves?

 
          
No,
the pederast wouldn’t have liked this one . . . Thus Alex shifted the blame,
away from himself.

 
          
If
the fellow was a boy-lover, why did he come to a woman’s temple? Homosexuality
couldn’t be illegal in
Babylon
. Alexander the Great had loved men as well as women. ‘Greek love’ and
all that. . .

 
          
Probably
the pederast could have satisfied himself elsewhere, except that his tastes ran
to the boyish rather than to actual young men. Perhaps he disliked the physical
inconveniences involved (as Alex imagined them).

 
          
Alex
felt increasingly confused, and tried to concentrate. Should he choose the
‘obvious’ tanned blonde? Or the horsy woman who was definitely ugly; though why
should her body be ugly too? Lying with her might prove an alien, disconcerting
experience for both of them. There was a certain deft familiarity about the
joining of bodies accustomed to such manoeuvres; and Alex, while not
particularly accustomed, was nevertheless not wholly unaccustomed. The ugly
woman might be unused to lovemaking. Contrariwise, she might be far more
sensual; whereas beauty might be frigid. She might be wiser in the ways of
Babylon
, if not in the arts of love. Ought he to
seek the familiar? No.

 
          
He
was glad Deborah wasn’t here; though several more women were turning up now,
and in their wake more men.

 
          
Why
was he glad? Was he happy that her tryst had arranged itself quickly? Relieved
that she hadn’t seen him? Glad for whose sake?

 
          
He
realized that this temple could teach people of themselves: of their mixed
emotions, false chivalries, sanctimonious shams, egotisms, lusts and illusions
- so that they could at last learn love, affection, joy? Ishtar’s temple could
expose and disorder your emotional routines as a way station to a future which
must be grasped emotionally, before all else.

 
          
When
he made his choice it was by accident. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a
glimpse of Deborah emerging from the hall accompanied by a tall, robed,
black-bearded man, wearing a beehive of a turban, who inclined his head and
then walked off, swinging a walking stick.

 
          
Alex
was at the end of a row of mats, standing before someone who might have been
the pederast’s ‘mouse’. A little mouse with shortish brown hair and small, ordinary
features; neither beautiful nor otherwise. She looked to be in her late teens.

 
          
Burrowing,
he found the first coin to hand. Without inspecting it, he dropped it in her
lap. ‘You,’ he said.

 
          
With
a faint smile, she said, ‘You must say, “In the name of the goddess”.’

 
          
‘In
the name of the goddess.’

 
          
She
rose smoothly, holding his coin, which proved to be silver.

 
          
Perhaps
this was how a choice should be made at the
temple
of
Ishtar
, ideally. At random. Literally by the toss
of a coin. With the value of the coin determined likewise.

 
          
Let
Deborah - who was heading away across the courtyard - make what she would of
his choice. If she noticed. She seemed preoccupied; perhaps she was taking
pains not to stare at him.

 
          
As
the mouse stepped ahead of Alex he noticed in her hair, short though it was, a
golden pin.

 
          
Inside
the temple, light filtered softly from the high clerestory windows. Private
chambers resembling a row of confessionals occupied one side of the nave.
Richly brocaded curtains were drawn across the few which were occupied - one,
doubtless, by the pederast and his urchin. No noises penetrated the heavy
curtains. In each of the open chambers he saw a couch, a ewer of water, a
bowl, a towel. Wine and fruit; and a little oil lamp burning.

 
          
Alex’s
mouse led him down towards the altar. An old woman was sweeping the floor and
whistling. Another old woman was replenishing with clean linen and fresh water
the chamber which Deborah and her lover must just have used. Perhaps every
woman who entered the temple became a priestess for a while; for at the
unattended altar the mouse herself deposited the silver coin in a great golden
bowl half full of other coins. A cauldron of sandalwood chips and incense
smouldered beside it. She knelt and prayed briefly, whispering in Babylonian.
What did she pray for? Gentleness on his part? Or that she would not become
pregnant?

 
          
She
led him to an open booth flanked by other open booths. They entered; Alex
closed the curtains. Facing each other in the faint lamplight, they undressed.
For a moment he imagined her at a high-school function; or in church, in
Smalltown
,
USA
. Instead, she was the whore of
Babylon
.

 
          
Her
breasts were small but pointy. Her hips were narrow; her pubes were shaved,
making her seem more naked and much younger. Her armpits were hairy, though.

 
          
Then
he forgot about high schools and churches as their bodies met.

 
          
The
meeting was fairly satisfactory. He entered her without much difficulty and
came quickly inside her, then held her tight while his penis remained fiercely
sensitive and moved only slightly, which she in turn seemed to find exciting.
Gradually he built a rhythm again. He did not ejaculate a second time but she
definitely reached a climax of her own, sighing instead of crying out.

 
          
Afterwards
he stroked her hair and the golden pin. ‘What did you pray for at the altar?’
he asked.

 
          
‘For
you, Greek,’ she replied. ‘I prayed for you.’

 
          
Should
he ask more questions? No . . . they had already exchanged, in a different way,
sufficient information about one another. Soon she began to move in a manner
suggesting that she wished to disentangle and leave. He rose. ‘Some wine?’

           
She shook her head slightly.
Shifting off the couch, she plunged her hand in the ewer several times, dabbed
water on her sex and thighs and patted dry with the towel. She began to dress.

 
          
Alex,
too. He took up his loincloth, quite forgetting how carefully he had taken it
off and folded it so as to conceal the package within. The package flew out on
to the floor at her feet. To his horror she swooped, picked it up, felt it.

 
          
‘What’s
this, Greek? An amulet to protect your loins?’

 
          
‘No,
no.’

 
          
Her
fingers danced slightly - hardly at all - and the cloth flopped open, exposing
the plastic case.

 
          
Her
eyes widened. ‘Holy Ishtar!’

 
          
‘Give
me that! Don’t look at it!’

 
          
‘Don’t
look? One glance is enough.’ She didn’t hand it back. ‘What a funny little
wound-up scroll inside. Well, well.’