prices for the entertainment of the sensation-hungry populace of Rome.
In the Opet year of 450, the nation is at the zenith of her wealth and power, but she has outgrown herself. Her boundaries are extended, her slave population hardly sufficient to support her multifarious enterprises. In desperation the Gry-Lion sends a slaving expedition for ten days’ march to the north of the great river. Hasmon Ben-Amon returns with 500 superb black Nubian captives, and claims his reward from the Gry-Lion.
We had reached the end of Huy Ben-Amon’s second golden book, and the Lear was waiting for us. Reluctantly we had to interrupt our readings and go.
Leaving Ral and Leslie to supervise the site, Eldridge, Sally and I flew out to meet the international flight from Luanda. We had to pay the excess on 200 lb of overweight luggage, and the fare of the Botswana Police Inspector sent by his Government to guard their interests in the ancient relics we carried with us.
In London we had one free day, one precious day to ourselves and as usual I tried to do it all. The crocuses were out on the lawns of Lincolns Inn Fields, the bitter at the Barley Mow in Duke Street tasted better than I remembered, and the new crop of girls in the King’s Road were prettier than the last. When the National Gallery closed at six o’clock Sally and I took a cab directly to San Lorenzo in Beauchamp Place and ate Lorenzo’s wonderful
By the time we returned to the Dorchester it was after midnight, but Sally was still wrought-up with the first impact of that fabulous city.
‘I’m too excited to sleep yet, Ben. What shall we do?’
‘Well, I’ve got a bottle of champagne in my suite,’ I hinted, and she looked at me with an amused twinkle in her eyes.
‘Ben Kazin, my favourite boy scout. Always prepared. Okay, let’s go drink it.’
It was Krug, very pale and dry. When the bottle was half finished we made love for the first time in six months. If it were possible this was for me a more cataclysmic experience than our first time. Afterwards I lay exhausted physically and spiritually, and it was Sally who took the empty glasses and carried them through into the lounge. She came back with the brimming pale wine and stood over me naked, and lovely.
‘I don’t know why I did that,’ she said, and gave me a tulip-shaped glass.
‘Are you sorry?’ I asked.
‘No, Ben. I have never regretted anything between us. I only wish—’ But she stopped and instead she sipped at her glass and sat down beside me on the bed.
‘You know that I love you,’ I said.
‘Yes. She looked at me with an expression I could not fathom.
‘I will always love you, I said.
‘No matter what?’ she asked.
‘No matter what,’ I told her.
‘I believe you, Ben,’ she nodded, her eyes dark brooding green. ‘Thank you.’
‘Sally—’ I began again, but she placed one long tapered finger on my lips, and shook her head so the soft dark wings of her hair swung against her cheeks.
‘Be patient, Ben. Please be patient.’ But I lifted her finger from my mouth.
‘Sally—’ She leaned forward and silenced my lips with hers. Still holding the kiss she placed her glass on the floor beside my bed, she took mine from my unresisting fingers and placed it beside hers. Then she made love to me with such devastating skill and subtlety that there were no questions nor protests left in me.
At nine o’clock the next morning I got Sally into a taxi headed for Elizabeth Arden in Bond Street, a little apprehensive as to what would happen to that dark silky head of hers. What some of those faggots do to a pretty girl they should be hanged for. Then I climbed into another taxi and headed for the M4 and Heathrow to become snarled in one of those traffic jams which make British motoring such a leisurely and soothing experience.
Louren’s flight had landed by the time I paid off my taxi and ran through into the International Terminal, that seething cauldron of humanity.
I heard someone in the crowd exclaim, ‘It must be Dicky and Liz!’ and I was immediately alerted to the whereabouts of the Sturvesant party. With the limited horizon that I have from my altitude above ground, I am forced to rely on these gratuitous sighting reports.
I fought my way through to the entourage which had been mistaken for that of the Burtons, and realized that the error was excusable. This was Louren Sturvesant travelling heavy, in the grand manner, with his fore-riders running interference and clearing a path for the doors. There was a light screen of the gentlemen of the Press skirmishing along the flanks of the advance, but unable to break through the ranks of BYM. Their methods were too conventional. I got into a head-on position and went in low and dirty, and there were a few yelps and cries of, ‘Watch that one,’ and, ‘Get him,’ which changed quickly to ‘Sorry, Doctor.’
And I was through into the soft centre. Bobby Sturvesant let out a shriek and landed around my neck, and the entire advance broke down for the minute it took for us to accomplish the greeting ceremony. Hilary was in a soft wrap of honey mink which was made to look shabby by the lustre of her hair, and over her towered Louren, his mane of hair sun-bleached to white gold and his face burned dark nut-brown.
‘Ben, you old bastard.’ He grabbed me around the shoulder. ‘Thank God you made it. Will you look after Hil and the kids for me. I’ve got a few things to clear up, then I’ll see you back at the Dorchester.’
There were two long shiny black limousines waiting under the portico and the party split neatly, but not before Louren had doubled back to tell me proudly, ‘I got a black marlin in the Seychelles - 900-pounder, Ben. A real beauty.’
‘That’s the tiger,’ I congratulated him.
‘Get out the Glen Grant, sport. I won’t be long.’
I sat in the jump seat opposite Hilary, having beaten one of the BYM to it, and I was delighted to see how
