Silk Over Razor Blades (19 page)

Kontar glared at the floor. ‘I’ve
tried. Every year since coming of age. But I’m too weak to join.
You told me so, yourself.’

‘
Forgive me, I’ve no memory of
you.’

‘
No forgiveness needed; I’ve grown
since then. I ask only that you reconsider.’

‘
Why?’

When Kontar met his gaze, Saar
recognised the fire in his eyes. He saw it reflected back at him
from the surface of the water set by to wash his face each
morning.

‘
Octavian’s influence grows every
day and soon he’ll turn his attentions here. If Antony does marry
our queen, the insult can’t go unanswered.’

Saar lifted his eyebrows. ‘You’re well
informed.’

‘
I see many soldiers.’ Kontar
flicked his hair over one shoulder.

‘
Really? When? How many?’

Kontar studied his face. ‘The knowledge
distresses you. Is it that your soldiers come here, or that they
come to see me?’

‘
Neither.’ Even to his own ears,
Saar knew he’d answered hastily.

A smirk from Kontar. ‘Your body betrays
you. I see your discomfort.’

He snatched his weapons from beneath
the bed. ‘I must leave.’

‘
No— forgive me, Captain. I meant no
offence. Don’t forget why you came. You’ve yet to touch
me.’

‘
The fact that I want you so much
makes me uneasy. No common man knows the political woes of this
country as you just described them and certainly no male
whore.’

A frown furrowed Kontar’s brow. ‘I know
only what your men let slide from their slack, drunken mouths.’

Saar strode towards the door.

Kontar leapt ahead, blocking the way
with his arms spread. ‘Wait! Don’t leave me, Captain. My family is
dead and I grow too old to continue working here. Make me a
soldier.’

‘
Step aside.’

‘
Not before you reconsider.’

‘
Move.’

‘
Please Saar!’ He lunged
forward.

Maybe Kontar meant to touch him. Or
embrace him. He never knew. Saar reacted as years of training
instructed he should, but with a speed he barely recognised. The
sword in his hand slashed up, then down, bisecting angles across
Kontar’s slender body. The other man gasped. Clutched his chest.
Blood blossomed through the linen robe.

Before the sound fully registered, Saar
struck again, two more slices with his stolen blade, fine lines
across his stomach and ribs. Kontar hit the floor. The heavy thud
brought Saar back to himself and his mind caught up with the
actions of his body. Writhing, moaning, Kontar clutched his
wounds.

Kazemde’s promises of strength and
speed returned to Saar in the same moment he smelled the blood. It
wormed into his nostrils and bored into his senses, making his
mouth water. His stomach writhed at the glorious, wet sight and an
urge to taste the crimson fluid crawled into his mind.

He dropped the sword. And the
dagger.

Saar threw himself down, slicing his
palms and knees on the fallen weapons in his haste to reach the
dying man. As his own blood mingled with Kontar’s he pulled the
younger man into his lap. Sacrifice . . . tribute . . . is this
what it meant?

‘
Forgive me! This power— it’s too
new. I can’t control it.’ He longed to call for aid, but how would
he explain?

Kontar reached out, but his fingers
skidded on slicks of blood. ‘You move so fast. The favour of the
gods lives in you. I knew you were great, that’s why I wanted to
join you.’ His eyes fluttered closed.

Saar shook him, biting his lip to hold
back cries of desperation. ‘Look at me.’

‘
I’m cold. I can’t— I’ll never be a
soldier now.’

Saar ran his bloodied fingers over
Kontar’s mouth. No, Kontar would never be a soldier and Saar would
never kiss those lips.

Kontar sighed, his body limp and
lifeless. His eyes rolled back in his head.

Saar gnawed his thumbnail. A heavy
weight filled his stomach. This was no battle, no righteous
death.

‘
Re, forgive me,’ he
whispered.

Kontar’s eyes snapped open, showing a
white, blank glow. He gasped and clutched at the air. His body shot
from still and silent, to violent thrashing in the space of a
heartbeat. He rolled free of Saar’s grasp and on to the floor.
Bubbles of white foam poured from his mouth, tinged pink by the
blood on his lips. He screamed and scratched his face until deep,
bloodied furrows joined his other wounds.

Saar cursed. Leapt to his feet. Backing
up, he pressed against the wall beneath the window. One hand
clutched his dagger. He couldn’t remember picking it up. The metal
burned his palm. Lines of blood slid down the blade.

Kontar’s heels beat a rapid tattoo on
the floor. He thrashed like a fish scooped from the Nile, first
shrieking, now moaning, all the time clutching his face. Black ooze
gushed his ears and nose.

Saar gagged. He remembered that smell.
His body tingled, as though plunged in cold water.

Dropping the dagger, Saar crouched
beside the thrashing form and ripped away the ruined linen robe.
Four wounds; deep, red and dripping. The clean edges gaped like
mouths, obscene smiles on Kontar’s chest and stomach. Smiles that
closed as he watched. In the space of seconds Saar witnessed
several weeks’ worth of healing. He gaped, tracing the vanishing
wounds with trembling fingers.

Kontar sat up. Shoving Saar’s fingers
aside he felt his own chest. ‘You cut me— what happened?’ As he
spoke the white glow faded from his eyes until his usual brown
colour took over once more. Before Saar could answer or consider
what it meant, the younger man shrieked and covered his ears.
‘Those sounds,’ he sobbed. ‘The light burns. Why does the air smell
of death?’

It took both of Saar’s hands and all of
his considerable strength to hold the frantic man in place.
Eventually, Kontar slumped against him and wept. Saar held him and
stroked that long, beautiful hair. He strained his hearing, but
beyond the faint traces of music and laughter from other rooms he
heard no one else.

Kontar gnawed his bottom lip. ‘Am I
dead?’

‘
No. You have my word.’

Beyond that fact Saar didn’t know what
to add. Instead he kept silent and let his gaze fall on the bronze
dagger. Red stains marked its tip and caught the decorative swirls
on the blade.

‘
From blood all power comes,’ he
whispered.

When he looked again he saw more blood,
including his own, smeared across Kontar’s lips.

Saar laughed. A small bubble of sound
that burst from his lips before he could stop it. ‘All power . . .’
More laughter, frantic now and he gripped Kontar ever tighter,
staring into his wide, frightened eyes.

‘
Forgive me,’ he begged. ‘I’ve
blessed you. Cursed you. I don’t know which.’

‘
Let me go.’ Kontar’s voice was very
small.

Saar straightened and retrieved the
dagger, studying it.

There: his own dried blood mingled with
that of Kontar which was fresh and dripping. Mixed with that, just
visible to his heightened sight he saw dry black particles of blood
far older than his own.

Kontar growled low in his throat. His
gazed followed Saar’s hand, which he cradled in his own. Then,
without speaking, he pushed Saar’s bloodied fingers into his
mouth.

‘
No!’ Saar yanked his hand back but
the blood was already gone and Kontar’s stare raked his body,
searching for more. Just in time, Saar jerked the dagger out of
reach and stood back, watching the younger man lower his head to
the floor and lap at the spilled blood.

‘
Don’t— you mustn’t.’

Though he tried to stop him, Kontar
kept licking until his tongue rasped stone. Next he shoved the
crimson portions of his ruined robe into his mouth and sucked on
those. When finished, Kontar sat back on his heels. His chest rose
and fell with each shuddering breath. ‘I need more.’

Saar felt limp. Weary. ‘What have I
done?’

The room faded away. Before Saar could
question it, he stood on a dusty stretch of road watching dozens of
men march out of sight. They carried swords, spears and bows, and
moved with the pace and careful precision of men on a long march.
Among them strode a young man with a small, jagged scar across his
nose. Pride swelled Saar’s chest as he watched his brother march
away to war.

A lonely street at night. A man with
sweaty skin and a crooked smile pulled his hair. The man thrust him
against a wall, pulled his shendyt to one side. A terrible stab of
pain followed, then rhythmic thrusting, grunting and soft words
moaned against his ear.

The army training grounds. Dozens of
boys of various heights and strengths, lined up for inspection by
the existing soldiers of Cleopatra’s army. A tall, heavily built
man with short, curling hair and commanding eyes, looked him up and
down and shook his head before walking away. Saar recognised his
own younger face, before shame and despair welled up inside
him.

When he next opened his eyes, he stood
back in Gyasi’s room. Kontar gazed at him, clutching his head with
both hands. Saar swayed and touched the wall to regain his
balance.

Kontar lowered his shoulders and shrank
in on himself. His shoulders trembled. ‘How did you do that? I
could feel you inside my head.’

‘
I saw . . .’ Saar gripped his hair
and yanked it. ‘I saw you. I
was
you. You have five brothers. A sister who died soon after birth.
I saw your life, like pictures on a scroll.’ He wiped the dampness
on his cheeks, refused to acknowledge it as tears. ‘I saw you in
the street. A man attacked you – even before you came here – he
tore off your clothes and took you.’ The words stuck in his throat.
‘In the street. You were so alone. Scared—’

‘
Stop!’ Kontar pressed his hands
over his ears as though to block out the words. ‘You can’t— you
mustn’t know what I’ve done.’

‘
I can’t help it. I didn’t ask for
this and I—’ He broke off. ‘No . . . I wanted to know the minds of
men. I wanted control. Power. This is exactly what I asked
for.’

‘
You’re a shadow in my mind. I feel
everything . . .’ Slowly Kontar emerged from behind his hair.
‘You’re afraid. Why?’

Though he longed to deny it, Saar’s own
knowledge of Kontar’s mind wouldn’t let him. ‘Because I’ve done a
terrible thing. I’ve made you as I am. Tied you to Set
forever.’

‘
My whole life I’ve wanted to be
like you.’

‘
Not like this.’

Kontar stood. He flexed his hands and
made fists, looking about the room with an expression of wonder in
his eyes. ‘I feel like I could conquer the world single-handed
should the desire strike me. I could run for miles. Lift the
pyramids. I could tug stars from the sky and use them as a path to
touch the sun. If this is what it means to be like you then I want
nothing more.’

‘
But Set will own you forever. He
demands blood tribute for this power.’

A slight widening of his eyes. And
then, ‘I give up worse things every single day I work in this
place. Take me with you. Show me what to do.’

‘
I can’t.’

‘
Don’t leave me here,’ Kontar’s
voice cracked. ‘Please. I’ll do whatever you need.’

Saar hesitated. ‘Perhaps you could join
the army?’

‘
Yes! Yes, I’ll join. I’ll cut my
hair. Change my name if you must, but let me join you.
Please.’

Chewing his thumbnail, Saar ran his
free hand through Kontar’s long mane of dark hair. ‘Everything will
be different if you join me.’

‘
I know.’

He sighed. ‘When my mother saw the mark
on my thigh she took it as a sign that she should enlist me. My
oldest uncle told her she could do Alexandria no greater service. I
loved him very much.’

‘
It would be an honour to take his
name.’

Saar turned and strode to the doorway.
‘Then, come, Mosi. We must leave immediately.’

Lenina scratched the back of
her hand. Brutally clipped fingernails scored fine white lines on
her skin, flaking away crusts of blood lingering between her
trembling fingers.

She stared at the cardboard cup
of tea on the table, noting that the little curls of steam had
ceased to rise. The sugary scent of the black fluid stung her
nostrils.

‘Miss Miller, is there anybody
you would like me to call?’ Detective Inspector Brad Thorne leaned
against the wall, watching her. His expression, much like the first
time they met, resembled the look of a man chewing something he
disliked the taste of. This time, however, a hint of sympathy
lingered in his eyes. At his side, Tristen looked everywhere but at
her face, his fingers fussing with a button near the collar of his
black and red overshirt. Dark waves of chestnut brown hair frothed
around his face and neck. Bloodied handprints dotted his sleeves.
In a distant way Lenina recalled that she had put them there. He
had found her in the back of the police van outside her house.

Surrounded by whirling blue
lights, curious onlookers and dozens of law enforcement
professionals, she sat on the low step and huddled in a black,
scratchy blanket provided by a kindly police officer wearing too
much make-up.

When Lenina saw Tristen, her
handbag slipped from her fingers and she jumped up to meet him.

In that moment she wanted
nothing more than his arms around her. His green eyes on hers. His
peppermint breath across her cheek. It made no sense. She hated it.
Yet his very presence soothed her. He held tight enough to make her
gasp and didn’t let go even when Inspector Thorne arrived behind
him.