Watson, Ian - Novel 16 (25 page)

 
          
He
was looking into an immense rectangular hall patchily lit by torches; most was
in gloom. The walls sloped inward, with the upper halves cantilevered further
inward. Trace their line upward in imagination and they would meet at the
lopped-off peak of the ziggurat. Fat mud-brick pillars disguised as the trunks
of palm trees rose to a ceiling where corbels jutted. A gallery ran the length
of one wall, slung under the cantilevered upper portion.

 
          
This
wasn't the chamber of eerie music and red lighting and stalagmite pillars into
which he had looked during his climb to the temple summit. This hall must be
below, or below again, and was proportionately vaster.

 
          
A
few black-robed figures with cone hats - magi of the night - moved in the
distance before a bulky statue of a bull seated on an altar slab. Even with its
legs tucked under it, the baroque bronze beast was a monster twice the height
of any mage. A fire flickered beneath, and maybe within, the body of the idol.
Shadows and tongues of firelight darted ominously.

           
As he watched, the magi finished
whatever they were about and departed up a grand flight of stairs, leaving the
hall deserted. He waited a good many minutes, but no one returned. He set his
lamp down, extinguished it, and stepped out of hiding.

 
          
Other
black woollen banners hung here and there, maybe hiding other exits and
entrances. Quickly he soft-footed to the wall overhung by the gallery where
there was only one such curtain, which must conceal steps or a ladder leading
aloft. He was sure the gallery was empty, but it might easily be a cul-de-sac.
Stupid to climb up there.

 
          
However,
he might be able to sneak up the grand stairway, slip through the temple
unnoticed at this hour of night, and escape into the city . . .

 
          
With
what aim? To seek refuge at the palace?

 
          
This
bottom hall had to be the hugest in the building. It was perfect for a lavish
wedding celebration. Here was where Marduk would wed Deborah.

 
          
He
recalled what Laurel or Hardy, one of the two, had said about the climax to the
marriage feast when the bride would be stripped naked and ogled by everyone present
before Marduk finally claimed her. Alex couldn’t quite stomach the prospect.
Yet the way things had worked out, that was the only way he might ever behold
Deborah nude. Supposing a slave was invited to the feast! Maybe Thessany might
ensure
that he attended, either to rub
salt into his wounds or to burnish the mirror of his soul.

 
          
What
did Deborah really signify to him - compared with Thessany?

 
          
He
tried to visualize brighter lights, wild music and dancing, tables heaped with
wine and viands, the throng of guests, the naked bride before the altar of the
bull. He felt excited and horrified.

           
Oh what whores we all are here!
Thessany was right.

 
          
Yet
why shouldn’t we give free rein to our desires and fantasies? Otherwise we
stifle ourselves; as Alex had been stifled by that commune in the Cascade
Range, with all its prohibitions. Do not skinny-dip with thy sister; thou shalt
not commit incest and inbreed. Do not horse around homosexually with handsome
youths; we must maintain our population. And no random exogamy with foreign
boys and girls; the stranger to the clan is a potential enemy, looter of food
stocks, bringer of sickness, rapist, murderer, communist, Judas. Armed
survivalist morality.

 
          
Yet
if people weren’t stifled, how would fierce desire ever arise? It was desire
which created history. A society which simply enjoyed itself made no mark. The
lotus-eaters of Polynesia had survived only by default.

 
          
Babylon
wrote out a different equation: the fulfilment of desire plus the peril of
punishment, enslavement, death.

 
          
And
all this while, as he was imagining the frolics of the feast - with its tough
underlying theocratic motive - he approached ever closer to the massive
ornamented bull. Two unlit candlesticks, each the height of a man, flanked the
brazen beast. It drew him mesmerizingly towards it, just as Babel had drawn
him.

 
          
A
shout from behind: ‘Stop, slave!’

 
          
The
words echoed. He spun. A mage! The mage stood by one of the black banners; he
must have stepped out from another corridor or room.

 
          
‘Slave!’
The shout rebounded.

 
          
Alex
began sprinting back towards the curtain which hid his exit. Robes aswirl, the
mage moved to block his path. Now other footsteps were clattering down the
grand stairway, but Alex didn’t waste time looking back. The mage darted and
feinted; his cone hat fell off. Racing, Alex got ready to dodge should the man
try to grab him.

 
          
Instead,
the mage hurled himself in a full football tackle, crashing into Alex’s knees
and flooring him.

 
          
Before
he could scramble away, the mage tackled again, sending him sprawling. Scant
moments later, two other magi were pinning him.

 
          
Held
in a painful armlock, he was dragged to his feet. He couldn’t help crying out.

 
          
‘Silence!’
hissed a captor. ‘Let Lord Marduk not be woken!’

 
          
‘Stop
breaking my arm, then — ’

 
          
The
agony subsided to discomfort.

 
          
‘He
isn’t one of our slaves.’

 
          
‘No,
he isn’t.’

 
          
‘He
wears the lion mark, though.’

 
          
‘Yes,
indeed.’

 
          
Hours
later Alex was hauled out of the black cell where he had been dumped. He was
marched before the altar.

 
          
Up
on the basalt slab, Thessany’s father stood leaning against the bull’s rump,
thoughtfully stroking the bronze. By now the fire within and below had burned
out. In the light of newly lit torches Alex could see by virtue of several
slits and openings, located where the metal hide rumpled, that part of the idol
was hollow. Marduk wore a nightgown, though he had donned his triple-horned
crown. His curiosity ws piqued, as well it might be.

 
          
Alex
answered humbly, blending truth with lies. He was unable to forget Thessany’s
hints that Marduk’s men might use torture. She had heard tales. Who better than
her to hear tales? Maybe she just said so to scare him.

           
‘Lord God,’ whimpered Alex, ‘I beg
forgiveness. I’m your daughter’s slave. Mistress Thessany’s! That’s why I wear
this mark. Curiosity possessed me. I couldn’t sleep last night. I went into the
chapel and looked behind the curtain. I went down the steps and found the
tunnel - ’

 
          
‘How
did you open the locked door?’

 
          
Alex
told Marduk, and the god’s watery eyes became blue ice. The priest’s eyes; the
god’s - he was one and the same.

 
          
‘Mistress
Thessany never told me, Lord. I just guessed.’

 
          
‘Of
course she didn’t tell you; since she doesn’t know! Why should I even suppose
that she might tell a slave such a secret?’

 
          
Alex
hung his head. ‘I don’t know.’

 
          
‘And
maybe you came from the other direction! From Babel. Only an imbecile would
attempt to escape from my house by breaking into my temple!’

 
          
‘I
wasn’t trying to escape, Lord. Not really. I was just looking.’

 
          
‘Maybe
you are an imbecile; a mischievous one. And maybe you’re an assassin.’

 
          
‘I
wear your mark, Lord.’

 
          
‘Anyone
can have themselves tattooed with any sign, if they have sufficient reason.’ To
one of his magi, Marduk said, ‘Go and request my daughter’s attendance
upstairs to identify this person.’ The mage hastened away.

 
          
‘I’m
often a merciful god,’ said Marduk to Alex. ‘Especially now while I am jocund
with the prospect of my wedding. I must also be just and terrible to defend
this city from disorder. If my daughter fails to identify you, the truth will
be wrung from you - and then the truth behind the truth. After a while you will
cease to be the same person. Eventually your separate parts will swim away down
that gutter to the river, with your trunk wallowing in their wake. If my
daughter does identify you - you who were consumed with curiosity - then you
will be consumed by fire, within my bulL
^,
Marduk slammed the idol
and it rang a hollow bell-note. ‘Your screams will bellow from its nostrils. By
comparison, this will be quite a quick death/

 
          
‘Lord,’
murmured a mage doubtfully.

 
          
Marduk
glared at the man, then smiled. Tm joking, of course. Human sacrifice shall be
carried out as compassionately as possible. You will probably be given drugs,
naughty slave, to dull all sensation. We have been pondering the identity of
the first sacrifice.’

 
          
Alex’s
heart thundered. ‘Sacri. . !’

 
          
‘Yes,
sacrifice! To affirm Marduk - just as Marduk affirms this city. It is needed. A
god slain in substitute! Then the eternal Marduk weds once more/

 
          
Madness.

 
          
Or
was it?

 
          
Maybe
the awe and terror of this event - and the sense of salvation felt by everyone
who wasn’t himself the victim - would be a psychic bulwark to the state. Maybe
that was part of Marduk’s scheme.

 
          
Fuck
his schemes, thought Alex. Fuck psychic salvation. Fuck everything except
surviving; except for not being slaughtered in such a mad, vicious, ancient
way!

 
          
Would
Deborah intercede? Could she beg for his life as a wedding gift?

 
          
‘I
had thought,’ continued Marduk, ‘of obtaining an unwanted child. A bastard
brat, a beggar baby. Now a slave has presented himself. Maybe, my magi, this is
a sign?
If
he’s a genuine slave. We
shall see.’

 
          
*
* *

 
 
         
Two hours later Alex was taken
upstairs through the hall of stalagmite pillars and fearsome statues, then
further aloft to a private suite - to the decor of which, in the circumstances,
he paid scant attention. Thessany was seated, sipping a cordial. Marduk,
draped in a rich robe, stood toying with a glass of wine.

 
          
‘Ah,’
said the god, ‘do you happen to know this slave?’

 
          
Alex
gazed at Thessany, begging her with his eyes to acknowledge him, trying
desperately to communicate that he hadn’t really been attempting to escape
from her, and also that he hadn’t betrayed her. Too many things for two silent
eyes to say?

 
          
Thessany
hesitated, then said firmly, ‘Of course I know him. He’s my slave.’

 
          
‘Ah.
In that case he will remain here. Thank you, Thessany. I’m sure you have much
else to occupy you.’

 
          
‘Was
he running away?’ she asked idly. ‘Praxis waits outside. We’ll take the slave
back with us. He merits a whipping and a branding.’

 
          
‘No,
he stays.’