Gods and Monsters, Part 8

[mlyn.livejournal.com]

Gods and Monsters, Part 8
Rated NC-17
Notes: Notes: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7
Archive: my LJ and 13_warrior only


Ahmed and Herger arrived in Kherson without incident. Once at the port city, however, they were stuck until a ship was available to take them across the Black Sea.

Ahmed discovered that Romanium ships didn't sail in the winter because they were not hardy enough for the weather. Herger found that to be ridiculous, as the Northmen's ships were capable of handling the water in any weather. He was irritated about the topic every time they spoke about it thereafter, and it made conversations difficult at times.

Eventually they found a Greek ship to take them to Constantinople. The voyage would take one week. As he had feared, Ahmed's sea sickness returned as soon as they came into open water.

The sailors manning the vessel slept in hammocks in the hold. Ahmed asked for one of his own, in the hopes that being cradled in fabric would be better than lying on a hard floor. They reluctantly complied. As he had guessed, he felt better suspended, so the swaying of the ship was not as obvious to his stomach.

He hated being bed-bound, but at least he wasn't vomiting. He was merely committed to a persistent nausea that exhausted him and reduced his appetite to a level so low Herger occasionally forced food onto him.

Meanwhile, Herger helped pay their way by pulling his weight on the deck of the ship, but when he wasn't on shift he spent his evenings in the hold with Ahmed. With little else to entertain himself, Ahmed continued mentally working on his poem for Buliwyf. Each night he'd tell a little more of the tale to Herger, both to entertain him and to check the facts.

Herger seemed to like listening to him. Ahmed's voice and the rhythm of the poetry lulled Herger into a quiet, meditative state in which Ahmed rarely saw him. In this mood he would feel comfortable enough to engage in quiet conversations with Ahmed.

During those discussions, Ahmed felt as though he had hardly known the man he'd been spending months with. Without violence or the difficulties of their environment to distract them, they were developing the sort of friendship Ahmed had hoped for.

And at the end of the night, when everyone in the hold was asleep or drunk and before Herger bedded down, he'd lean over Ahmed's hammock and deliver a long, soft kiss. More than once they were nearly caught at it, so that it quickly became imbued with the thrill of getting caught. Some nights Herger laughed against Ahmed's mouth and pulled back grinning.

After a few days, Ahmed finally acclimated to the motion of the boat and started to feel better. He joined Herger on the deck during the days, and was restored by the daylight and fresh air. But the frequently cloudy skies and rain made being on deck uncomfortable at times.

Finally Ahmed woke one day to hear the sound of sailors rushing around on the deck above him. He could hear shore birds, too, and they meant one thing: land.

The hatch opened and Herger's legs appeared on the ladder. He bent and looked over at Ahmed in his hammock. "We must go, Little Brother."

Ahmed scrambled out of his bed and hastily gathered his things. Finally, after months of travel, they had reached a destination of sorts.


They rode through the streets of the nearest district, making their way through throngs of people. Ahmed heard Latin, Arabic, Greek, and Allah knew what other languages filling the air to become a deafening roar. The smell of perfume, sweat, excrement, rich food, and incense all clashed to make Ahmed simultaneously nostalgic for home and disgusted by the lower standards of hygiene in western cities.

Animals and people filled the streets, making it difficult for anyone to move. It was so crowded that Ahmed could feel people pressing against him even as he sat mounted in the saddle. Herger finally kicked his mount to start plowing through the throng, the horse's sheer size clearing the way.

Ahmed asked around for an inn, and was directed down a side street. Herger took the horses to find a stable while Ahmed arranged for a room.

When the innkeeper announced his fee, Ahmed reluctantly reached for his purse. Constantinople was much more expensive than anywhere else they had been yet, and as he removed his purse from his belt, he realized it was getting dangerously light. But he was not certain Herger would want to sleep in the same room with him, given the tenuous state of their renewed friendship. On the other hand, Herger might be insulted by being separated from Ahmed in their sleeping situation. He decided to take a chance and paid for an extra room.

After he was shown upstairs to the two single-bed rooms he had rented, Ahmed set down his saddlebags and went back down to the street to wait for Herger.

It was not hard to spot Herger in the crowd. He was the only one with blond hair, and his striding gait and spirited demeanor set him apart from the merchants and slaves who had never seen the outside of the city's walls. He looked disgruntled as he approached.

"What is wrong?" Ahmed called in Norse when Herger was in hearing range.

Herger shook his head and stomped into the inn. "I hate Romans," he grumbled. "Where are our rooms?"

Ahmed led him upstairs and pointed out the free room of the two he had rented. "I want to find a patron while I am here. My father, and his friend Melchisidek, may be known well enough here that I may find a benefactor."

Herger shrugged and flopped onto the bed, folding his arms under his head. "Do whatever you like. Wake me for supper."

Ahmed started for the door, then hesitated. "I had thought I would go to the bathhouse first. Are you sure you would not like to go with me?"

Herger snorted and did not open his eyes. "I think not."

Ahmed left him to rest.


He visited a bathhouse to quickly make himself more presentable, just to get the smell of their traveling and his recent sickness off his skin. When he saw how glorious the bathhouse was, he wished he could spend more time there, and decided immediately that he would convince Herger to go with him at some point.

But he had other needs to fulfill first.

He went to some Persian shop keepers and asked where he might find the residence of his father's friend, the merchant Methodius Maniaces. When he obtained an answer, he continued to make his way through the market places until he found a scribe's workshop.

"Do you have parchment to sell?"

Arabic or Chinese paper would be better for a first impression, but it was also more expensive. The old man running the shop looked at Ahmed's purse and said, "Paper?"

Ahmed hesitated, thrift and vanity warring. "Parchment."

The scribe pulled a sheet off a stack on a shelf and held out his hand. Ahmed dropped one of his coins into the palm. The scribe looked at it and said, "More."

"That is what I pay for parchment in Baghdad."

The scribe laughed haughtily. "This is not Baghdad."

Ahmed drew the strings closed on his purse. "Give me half the sheet, then."

The scribe did as he asked, and sold him a cheap pen and ink as well. Ahmed then took his purchases to a cook shop. While a cup of some Greek tea cooled at his elbow, he wrote out a letter of introduction for himself, including names of his connections and family history. When he had finished, he returned to the inn and summoned a slave boy.

"Deliver this to the home of Methodius Maniaces, the merchant. You know it?"

The boy nodded. Ahmed gave him some coin and sent him off, then returned to his room.

Herger was inside it when he entered.

"I could not sleep," he explained, getting up from Ahmed's bed. Ahmed saw the contents of his saddlebags spread out on the mattress. It appeared that Herger had been toying with his ogal. Ahmed felt simultaneously irritated that Herger had been in his possessions, and pleased that Herger was apparently curious about him. He decided to let it go without comment.

"Shall we eat?"

Herger nodded, and they went to the main floor to have food from the kitchen. While they were eating, the slave boy came up to their table.

"The house of Methodius Maniaces will admit you on the morrow, in the afternoon," he reported breathlessly. He stared at Herger as he spoke. Herger gave him a playful sneer and took a large bite of chicken off the bone, intentionally looking barbaric. The boy's eyes widened.

Ahmed patted him on the shoulder. "Thank you. One more thing," he added when the boy seemed about to flee. "I need my clothes cleaned tonight and ready by tomorrow. Come up to my room in one hour to get them."

The boy nodded. Herger gave a growl and started guzzling from his mug of ale. The boy gave him a leery look and scampered off.

When they finished eating and went upstairs, Herger followed Ahmed into his room and closed the door behind them. He squinted at Ahmed in the low light of the oil lamp Ahmed lit.

"What is it you Arabs wear around your eyes?"

Ahmed had nearly forgotten that he'd had some kohl applied at the bathhouse. It had been so long since he had run out of his own stores that he wasn't used to wearing it again.

"Kohl," he answered. Herger leaned closer and sniffed.

"You are perfumed," he said disgustedly.

"I am clean," Ahmed retorted. "I do not stink of horses and body odor and rotting food. Perhaps you are simply not used to smelling something different from yourself."

Herger laughed and clapped him hard on the shoulder. "Your sense of humor has improved, Little Brother. Now," he continued, eyes sparkling, "what should we do to pass the time?"

"I do not--" Ahmed broke off at a knock on the door. He brushed by Herger and answered it.

It was the slave. "Ah yes, my clothes," Ahmed muttered to himself. He looked over at Herger. "I must undress. I bid you good night."

Herger smirked and went across the hall to his own room. Ahmed gestured for the boy to come in, then quickly undressed and gave him his pants, shirt, tunic, and boots. The tunic needed mending in a few places and the boots could use a shining, but everything else merely needed the dust knocked out of it.

Stripped down to his libas, Ahmed was much colder and felt vulnerable in the open air. It was warmer in Constantinople than in Kiev, but still winter.

He got into the bed and added his cloak to the covers. The frantic pace of the afternoon had caught up with him, and he fell asleep quickly.

He did not even wake when his door opened. It was only when a weight pressed down on the mattress that he woke, his eyes opening quickly as his heart started pounding.

"Are you naked?" Herger's voice, warm and low, came through the dark.

Ahmed sighed and dropped his head back to the pillow. "No."

"A shame, that." There was a rustle of clothing, a brush of hair on Ahmed's face, and then Herger's mouth was on his. Ahmed opened his mouth immediately, exhaling when Herger's tongue touched his.

They kissed for a little while, Ahmed's arousal slowly growing like fire burning damp wood. He was tired and still a little fearful of where Herger was going, but the kissing still felt good enough to draw up his heat.

Eventually Herger murmured, "Wait," and pulled away. Ahmed heard the sound of clothes rustling again, and in a few moments Herger pulled back the covers and slipped into the bed. Ahmed made room and waited for his next move.

Herger took all of the extra room and then some, lying partially on top of Ahmed. The amount of hot skin touching him was a delightful shock. Herger kissed him and put a hand on his chest, stroking all over.

It had been many days since Polotsk, but Ahmed clearly remembered the pleasure of Herger toying with his nipples, and hissed approvingly when his hands sought them out now. Ahmed raised his own hands and did the same, exploring Herger's chest entirely by touch, something he had never done before.

They began to move against each other urgently, hips rocking. Herger spread his legs so that he straddled Ahmed's pelvis, then sat up suddenly.

Ahmed shivered to feel the fur fall away off Herger's back, but Herger made up for it by pushing his groin into Ahmed's hardness. Ahmed lifted his hips and worked his libas down his thighs, with Herger helping. Then Herger braced one hand on Ahmed's chest and wrapped the fingers of his other hand around their cocks, squeezing and stroking.

His hips took up a new rhythm; forward and back, dragging up and grinding down, moving much like the camp girl had when Jahhaf had seen them. Ahmed groaned and slid his hands up Herger's ribs, holding him as he moved.

"You smell good," Herger whispered suddenly. He didn't break his rhythm.

Ahmed stared up at him in what little light came in through the window shutters. "Wh...what?"

"Your scent. I like it." Herger leaned down, hips still moving. He licked up the center of Ahmed's chest, his neck and chin, and kissed him deeply. "I want to smell my come on you."

Ahmed let out a strangled moan. He felt his cock throb and begin to spurt, and Herger's hand sped up between them.

Herger pressed his face into Ahmed's neck. "Yes, that's it," he hissed.

Ahmed's climax surged through him. He dug his fingers into Herger's back and ground up against him, feeling Herger's fingers get slick and loose with his emissions. Herger moaned and jerked on top of him.

Ahmed hardly had a chance to catch his breath when Herger slid down his body, mouth dragging along his skin until it reached Ahmed's belly. Ahmed had thought his arousal had been sated, but he moaned and moved his hips eagerly when Herger began lapping up their combined fluids. Not in his wildest dreams had he imagined Herger doing this, but it felt wonderful.

When his skin was clean, Herger pulled his undergarment back up his hips and slid up Ahmed's body, settling at his side with the covers over them. Drowsy and replete, Ahmed closed his eyes.

He awoke later, realizing with alarm that it was late and he had not been sleeping alone.

Herger was behind him, the two of them lying on their sides in the bed like a pair of curled feathers. Herger had an arm under Ahmed's neck and the other hand resting on Ahmed's hip, innocent, but in a way that just drove Ahmed to distraction.

Herger stirred, feeling that Ahmed had awoken. He pressed his mouth sleepily between Ahmed's shoulder blades and said something. Ahmed strained to listen.

"Ahmed...Eben...Fahdlan. Eben Al Abbas. Eben Rashid. Eben..."

"Hamad," Ahmed provided.

"Eben means..."

"Son of." He finally had the words to say it in Herger's language.

Herger lifted his head and moved his free hand. Ahmed felt a fingertip draw up his spine and press on the spot where Herger's mouth had been resting. "...Ahmed."

Ahmed rolled over, facing Herger. The sky was lightening; he could see him better now. "You can call me Eben."

Herger looked at him for a little while, then smiled faintly and shook his head. His hand between them started brushing absently against Ahmed's belly.

Ahmed watched him back for a little while, the little smile on Herger's lips and the little brushes against his belly slowly stirring his arousal. Eventually Ahmed's length grew enough for Herger's hand to brush it. Herger grinned and reached into Ahmed's libas, wrapping his fingers around it.

"You see how it can be between us?"

Ahmed closed his eyes and nodded. Herger's mouth brushed his, lips playing softly.

He was being so tender, a far cry from the brusque rushing in Kiev. Perhaps he'd realized what he had done wrong, and wanted to show Ahmed that he knew better. Or maybe he did not think anything of his manner in Kiev, and this was merely another facet of his personality. Ahmed couldn't tell, but he was grateful for the change.

He moved his own hand between them, finding Herger's cock and stroking it too. Herger sighed but didn't deepen the kiss, keeping it all slow and simple.

Ahmed felt his heart warmed by quiet happiness of finding pleasure in another's touch, and using touch to please another. The feeling continued after they both reached their climaxes again. Herger sighed and curled closer to Ahmed, their legs intertwining.

"You cannot be here when the boy comes back," Ahmed whispered. He played his hand over Herger's face, feeling the range of textures between skin, eyelashes, eyebrows, beard, lips. Herger bit his thumb and released it.

"I know."

They kissed a final time, and then Herger slipped out of the bed. Ahmed tried to watch him dress, but his eyes grew heavy again with the post-coital stupor.

"Good night," he whispered. He heard Herger return the blessing and close the door quietly.


The boy woke him by knocking on the door. Ahmed collected his clothes and sighed when he saw them in the full light of day. His tunic was unforgivably shabby. He would have to buy something new before seeing Maniaces.

Herger's door was still closed when he came out, so he left word with the innkeeper that he was going out into the city. He found an Arabic family selling clothing from his culture, but everything they had was all very expensive for what he had left in his purse. But he needed something, and perhaps he could sell the robe again after wearing it once.

He was looking at basic black tunics and robes when the proprietor came over and asked to help.

"I have an appointment with a prospective patron later today," Ahmed explained. "But I have been traveling for many months. I want to look my best but my funds are limited."

The tailor nodded and said, "I have just the thing." He disappeared into a back room, then came back with a robe in a bold blue color, with silver embroidery and decorative silver buttons.

Ahmed wanted the robe, but the price the tailor gave for it was well beyond what he could afford at the moment. He regretfully declined.

Tenacious as any shop owner worth his salt, the tailor pressed him on it. Ahmed continued to demur until the man said, "I will make you a deal. I sell you this garment at half the cost. If you find your patronage, return here and I will tailor anything you want."

It was a remarkable offer, and Ahmed knew he was making it to get return business. He immediately accepted. The tailor fit the robe to him and made the necessary alterations within an hour. While he worked, Ahmed picked out a simple white turban to cover his head.

The price of the clothing left him with two coins in his purse.

It was still only midday when Ahmed left the tailor's shop, and he was hungry, but he didn't want to spend any more money than he had to. He could skip a few meals. Instead he found directions to the Methodius home, and walked there.

"I am Ahmed ibn Fahdlan," he announced to the slave who opened the main door. The slave bowed and stepped back, allowing Ahmed inside.

He was led through the cool, dim central rooms and a quiet, sunny courtyard to a far wing of the sprawling single-level house. The slave opened a door to what seemed to be a visiting room, then bowed again and left him, all without a word.

He entered the room and saw a woman sitting on a Greek-style divan. He looked around, but they were the only two in the room.

"I am Ahmed ibn Fahdlan," he said, going to one knee in a formal bow.

"I am Irene Sophianos, wife of Methodius Maniaces," the woman said. He sensed from the quality of her voice that she was approximately the age of Ahmed's mother had been when she died. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he took note of her appearance out of the corner of his eye.

She wore an undyed linen tunica covered by a dalmatica, both heavily decorated with elaborate clavi, the bands of ornamentation woven into the fabric. Bright silk threads, Venetian glass beads, pearls, and other small precious stones flowed from her shoulders to the hem of her garment, accenting the way the garments fitted her shapely figure. Her dark hair was gathered at her neck in the braided style worn by women, though some curls escaped to frame her face. A gauzy veil covered her hair, attached by a silver pearl-encrusted comb.

"Methodius is no longer with us," she continued, reaching for a tea tray. "He died in the past summer. He went out on the sea to visit some trading centers, and was lost."

"I am sorry, madam." Ahmed's heart fell. Irene would have no use for him, and he would have to find work in the streets.

"Rise and be seated, ibn Fahdlan. Why did you wish to meet with my husband?"

Ahmed took a seat on a stool and accepted a cup of tea from her. He saw that he had been right; she was in her early forties. Her hands were small and dainty, with colorful rings that winked as she passed the cup. From his seat close to her, he could now see that her eyes and skin were nearly as dark as his own.

"I have just arrived in the city from traveling for many months. I am accompanied by my friend, a Northman. I do not know where my travels will take me next, but I hope to return to my home in Baghdad."

"But you are in need of funds," Irene finished for him.

Ahmed nodded. She smiled and reached over, brushing her fingers over his collar.

"That robe was made for my husband, to wear on his journeys to Persia. He never had a chance to claim it from the tailor before he disappeared." Fingering a button, she added, "These I chose for him, and the trim."

Ahmed's face burned with embarrassment, but Irene did not seem to want to humiliate him with the knowledge of his poverty. She merely sipped her tea and continued.

"I read your letter. You are indeed a man of beautiful words. And languages, you said."

"Arabic, Latin, Norse, some Greek," Ahmed supplied.

"You should be able to pick up more languages quickly, then."

He nodded.

"Obviously you can write, and have lovely penmanship." She managed the curious blend of dignity and admiration that the elite learn from birth. "Can you write many languages too?"

"Arabic and Latin, and a little of the Northmen's system of runes. I am good with Greek if I can study." Ahmed smiled.

Irene laughed quietly, a musical sound. She gave a tiny cough and sipped more tea. "Your father is a businessman, a merchant too."

"I learned many things from my father before I left Baghdad."

"Why did you leave?"

The question took him by surprise, and he was reluctant to answer. Still, he told her honestly, "The caliph sent me away to appease a man in his court. I desired the man's wife."

"Have you a woman now?"

Ahmed shook his head and remembered his tea. He took a sip to give himself time to form his answer, one that was honest without revealing too much. "I have no woman. I have been traveling, and--"

"So you said."

Ahmed bit his tongue, embarrassed to be repeating himself like a fool and wasting a moment of Irene's time.

"Well, ibn Fahdlan, let me take another look at you." Irene lit a lamp and Ahmed stood in front of her. She turned him around by the elbows, then stepped back to give a long, measuring look. She hardly came up to his shoulders. He found her unspeakably charming.

"You are intelligent, polite, well-mannered, and talented. If you would stay in Constantinople for some time, I have need of your services. You would be my personal secretary and translator. Occasionally I may call on you to advise me on matters of my business. I am managing it until my sons may take over."

"You have children, madam?"

She nodded. "Two sons, both children still. I also have a daughter; she is of the age to marry."

Ahmed smiled. It seemed that he would not have to be a shop keeper, and instead would be working at tasks he was good at performing. He might also have the opportunity to write poetry. He imagined he could write a great deal of poetry for Irene.

"I would be honored to be in your service, madam." He bowed his head in thanks, heart pounding with excitement.

Irene nodded and stepped away, putting their tea cups on the tray. "You will stay here, in rooms I will have appointed for you. Will your Northman be joining you?"

"I do not know what he plans or wishes to do, madam. Will his presence be a problem for you?"

"Not unless it is a problem for you," Irene countered. She smiled and gave a flash of small white teeth, teasing. Ahmed returned the smile and folded his hands.

"One more thing, madam. I wish to send a message to my father. Do you have a caravan to Baghdad I may use?"

Irene nodded once. "Come in the morning tomorrow, with your note." She adjusted her garment and stepped toward the door, obviously excusing him. Ahmed went to open the door for her and found the manservant already a step ahead of him.

"Good afternoon, Ahmed," Irene told him, and left.


Part 9