Free Vlad: The Last Confession by C. C. Humphreys Page A

care. Rubbed longer with the kese mitts, the scented soaps; scraped every part of her, opened and explored every crevice. Her thick, hazel hair was washed in lavender water and coiled down her back. Then she lay on a divan while small women with strong hands rubbed and stroked and pressed to the point of pain, and back, slowly, to delicacy. Finally, the oils were applied. It had been some concern, the scent whose trace must linger into the night. And then a janissary of Hibah’s acquaintance had told her that he’d wrestled with Mehmet the week before and the youth had smelled of ginger and sandalwood, a combination that was straight-forward, masculine. Hibah had gambled that what pleased in one form of wrestling would please in another and ordered a jar from the Sultan’s own perfumers.
    Eventually, Ilona sat in another chair, still naked but not cold, for the room was heated by braziers and the press of women, both those who tended and those who urged the tenders on. These lounged on divans, eating sweetmeats and drinking apple tea, though Ilona was only allowed a sparrow’s share of each. Her hair was rubbed dry, then managed into ringlets. Apparently, Mehmet’s current favorite, Abdulraschid, wore his hair just so. And there was much debate as to which couplet from which poet would be inked onto the skin in a swirl that ran from the nape of her neck, over the swell of breast and belly, and down to climax on the pubis, the redness there from the caustic creams that had removed all hair two days before having finally faded. The woman calligrapher stood awaiting the decision patiently. When they settled on Jalaluddin—something about flight, Ilona did not understand Persian—she tried not to laugh as the brush danced across her skin.
    It took the whole day, the preparation for her deflowering. A day of laughter and music, for the ney was played throughout, the reed pipe’s notes rising now in joy, now with a wistful air. At one point she was commanded to dance. Just enough to remind that she was one of the best that they had ever had. Not enough to raise a sweat.
    One by one, the servants completed their tasks and left, till there remained just the three of them: Hibah, who would sell her; Tarub the merry, who would accompany her as far as the prince’s divan, and Ilona.
    She stood again in neutral stance, eyes downcast, as Hibah walked around and around her, commanding a touch more paint to lips that truly needed none, exchanging one silver toe-ring for another, making sure each bell on her belt gave out a complimentary chime. All except one, which was silent.
    Hibah fingered it. “You can find this? In the dark?”
    “Yes, mistress.”
    “Close your eyes and show me.”
    The belt was laid on the floor. Eyes closed, Ilona bent, searched with her fingers, found the tell-tale ridge, placed a painted nail under it. “Shall I open it, mistress?”
    “And risk staining your veils? Foolish girl! No. As long as you remember to do it before you sleep. By dawn’s light men like to see that they’ve had a virgin. So if you have no blood of your own, which you may not, then use the pigeon’s blood within. Rub it on yourself, but especially on him. Daubing the scimitar in gore, eh?” She cackled, then turned to Tarub. “Have we missed anything?”
    Tarub smiled. “My Lama sheds the pure light of the morning star, as ever.”
    “Hmm!” Hibah grunted. “Purity may be fine in daylight. But men want something different at night.” She turned to Ilona. “You will remember all we have taught you?”
    Ilona’s mouth had gone dry. She swallowed, nodded. “I…I think so, mistress.”
    “Think?” Hibah replied sharply. “You must know. Be prepared for anything. All men are different in their desires—and Mehmet is said to be more different than most…and as changeable as the Levant wind! He may wish to write poetry to you and worship you as an eastern star, bending before you to pray…here!” She slid a finger