Tom Swan and the Head of St George Part Three: Constantinople by Christian Cameron Page A
Authors: Christian Cameron
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paused. One finger flicked the head of his penis. In Arabic, she said, ‘Don’t go anywhere.’ She laughed and slipped off the bed.
Swan, even deep in the throes of lust, noticed that she had a dagger in her hand.
Everything seemed to be happening very slowly. For the first time, it occurred to him that he’d been drugged.
Auntie was magnificent, naked, in the light of a single lamp wick, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away. She curved, and curved.
There was a sound of running feet.
Auntie said something softly. Swan would have sworn she said ‘Shit’, in some language or other. She picked her long shawl off the floor and slipped it around her body.
Swan tried to prop himself on his elbow, but he didn’t seem to be in full control of his body. One part of him was working very well – rather embarrassingly well. The rest – refused their duty.
She slipped out through the curtain.
Another scream, and the unmistakable sound of one blade on another.
He tried to get to his feet, and failed. His erection was comic, and he giggled and fell back on the bed. The colours of the wall hangings were deep and vibrant, more like sounds than colours.
Drugged .
He couldn’t stop giggling.
A figure appeared at the curtain. More running feet, and more blades.
A second figure appeared.
‘My poor dear,’ whispered Khatun Bengül, in Italian. And then, ‘My. My, my.’ And a giggle.
Well-muscled arms lifted him. He couldn’t have resisted if he’d wished to.
He was wrapped in a sheet, and thrown over a man’s shoulders. He had the wind knocked out of him.
He could only see the floor.
Through the curtain to a vestibule. Magnificent with gold writing – Persian. There was a corpse, face down, on the tiled floor.
Stairs.
A pool of blood, and blood running down the steps like some sort of ghastly waterfall. At the top of the steps, behind them, lay the African, dead, his head half severed by a scimitar.
And the blood ran on and on, over the tiled floor., down the steps like some ghastly waterfall. Beautiful, in a way.
Good Christ .
The man carrying him ran down the steps and into another hall, and then ran as hard as a man can run while carrying another man.
It was like a nightmare, except that Swan was never afraid. They crossed a courtyard – arched, colonnaded, and magnificent with glazed tiles and fine hangings. Even in his dream state, Swan realised he’d been there before. With horses.
Up. A flight of steps, and there were lights appearing all along the top of the colonnade opposite.
‘Faster!’ said Khatun Bengül.
And then they went through a door, into a blaze of light.
Through a set of beads, and another, and past a great set of double doors of cedar inset with ivory and silver, and then he was unceremoniously lowered into a great trunk, also of cedar. He hit his head, and admired the shooting stars that whirled around him.
Khatun Bengül’s head appeared, framed in the light. ‘My poor Frank,’ she said. Her eyes shifted away. And back. A certain light came into her eyes, and she leaned down and put her lips on his.
He responded instantly. His face rose to hers. The tip of her tongue caressed his, and then she was gone.
Someone slammed the lid of the trunk shut, and he was alone in the darkness.
The extreme alertness didn’t fade, and he heard a male voice – raised in anger, but some rooms away. Perhaps out in the central courtyard. And then another, and a woman’s, shrill as a fishwife’s. All in Turkish.
Then the sound of a man’s hand knocking at the outer door.
‘Khatun Bengül!’ he cried. ‘Khatun Bengül!’ and then a long, calm string of words in Turkish.
He heard her, even across several rooms, go barefoot to the door of her apartments and open it.
Turahanoglu Omar Reis . Even full of whatever he’d been given, he knew that voice.
Khatun Bengül’s father.
Idris’s father.
What am I doing here ? Swan thought.
Auntie must be his sister , he thought, his
Swan, even deep in the throes of lust, noticed that she had a dagger in her hand.
Everything seemed to be happening very slowly. For the first time, it occurred to him that he’d been drugged.
Auntie was magnificent, naked, in the light of a single lamp wick, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away. She curved, and curved.
There was a sound of running feet.
Auntie said something softly. Swan would have sworn she said ‘Shit’, in some language or other. She picked her long shawl off the floor and slipped it around her body.
Swan tried to prop himself on his elbow, but he didn’t seem to be in full control of his body. One part of him was working very well – rather embarrassingly well. The rest – refused their duty.
She slipped out through the curtain.
Another scream, and the unmistakable sound of one blade on another.
He tried to get to his feet, and failed. His erection was comic, and he giggled and fell back on the bed. The colours of the wall hangings were deep and vibrant, more like sounds than colours.
Drugged .
He couldn’t stop giggling.
A figure appeared at the curtain. More running feet, and more blades.
A second figure appeared.
‘My poor dear,’ whispered Khatun Bengül, in Italian. And then, ‘My. My, my.’ And a giggle.
Well-muscled arms lifted him. He couldn’t have resisted if he’d wished to.
He was wrapped in a sheet, and thrown over a man’s shoulders. He had the wind knocked out of him.
He could only see the floor.
Through the curtain to a vestibule. Magnificent with gold writing – Persian. There was a corpse, face down, on the tiled floor.
Stairs.
A pool of blood, and blood running down the steps like some sort of ghastly waterfall. At the top of the steps, behind them, lay the African, dead, his head half severed by a scimitar.
And the blood ran on and on, over the tiled floor., down the steps like some ghastly waterfall. Beautiful, in a way.
Good Christ .
The man carrying him ran down the steps and into another hall, and then ran as hard as a man can run while carrying another man.
It was like a nightmare, except that Swan was never afraid. They crossed a courtyard – arched, colonnaded, and magnificent with glazed tiles and fine hangings. Even in his dream state, Swan realised he’d been there before. With horses.
Up. A flight of steps, and there were lights appearing all along the top of the colonnade opposite.
‘Faster!’ said Khatun Bengül.
And then they went through a door, into a blaze of light.
Through a set of beads, and another, and past a great set of double doors of cedar inset with ivory and silver, and then he was unceremoniously lowered into a great trunk, also of cedar. He hit his head, and admired the shooting stars that whirled around him.
Khatun Bengül’s head appeared, framed in the light. ‘My poor Frank,’ she said. Her eyes shifted away. And back. A certain light came into her eyes, and she leaned down and put her lips on his.
He responded instantly. His face rose to hers. The tip of her tongue caressed his, and then she was gone.
Someone slammed the lid of the trunk shut, and he was alone in the darkness.
The extreme alertness didn’t fade, and he heard a male voice – raised in anger, but some rooms away. Perhaps out in the central courtyard. And then another, and a woman’s, shrill as a fishwife’s. All in Turkish.
Then the sound of a man’s hand knocking at the outer door.
‘Khatun Bengül!’ he cried. ‘Khatun Bengül!’ and then a long, calm string of words in Turkish.
He heard her, even across several rooms, go barefoot to the door of her apartments and open it.
Turahanoglu Omar Reis . Even full of whatever he’d been given, he knew that voice.
Khatun Bengül’s father.
Idris’s father.
What am I doing here ? Swan thought.
Auntie must be his sister , he thought, his
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