The Age of Zeus

54. THE LOTUS EATERS

T he black cab dropped them off in the southern part of Mayfair, between Piccadilly and Pall Mall, outside a Georgian building with a discreet brass plaque that read The Hellenium — Members Only. A white-gloved doorman greeted them with a tip of his top hat, polite because they looked the part. Ramsay wore a Savile Row suit and hand-stitched shoes. Sam and Mahmoud were in Donna Karan evening gowns cut in the fashionable Doric chiton style and accessorised with Louboutin ribbon sandals and Givenchy clutch bags. To the casual passer-by they certainly were dressed like people who would belong to a club like the Hellenium, or at any rate be friends with someone who did.

"We're guests of Mr D and Miss A," Ramsay said.

The doorman's expression altered a fraction, just perceptibly hardening. "Welcome," he said, part opening the door for them, but not all the way.

A clerk at a desk in the foyer likewise stiffened as Ramsay repeated the code phrase. "This way," the clerk said, leading them a private lift which he summoned by turning a key chained to his belt. "The basement."

Creaking downwards in the elderly lift, the three Titans exchanged apprehensive glances.

"Into the lion's den," said Sam. "They could kill us at any moment."

"I don't think so," Ramsay replied. "My gut says they're on the level. The offer's genuine."

"In any case, we're carrying protection," Mahmoud said, tapping her clutch bag. "We just have to be quick enough with it. By the way, Sam, rocking that dress."

"True that," said Ramsay appreciatively.

A bell dinged. The lift halted. The cage-like metal doors concertinaed open.

Another doorman waited to check them over. This wasn't a courteous old retainer like the one upstairs. This was a thick-necked bouncer type, ex-military to judge by his razor-edged crew cut, who made little effort to hide the shoulder holster he wore beneath his jacket. He frisked them from top to toe and rummaged through the women's bags. Both bags contained, among other requisites, plastic tampon holders. Sam and Mahmoud exchanged a quick glance of concern, but the man could barely bring himself to touch the tampon holders, let alone open them to check inside.

"Right," he said, jerking a thumb. "I don't recognise you, so that means you must be them. The special visitors. Go on in."

Above street level the Hellenium was an entirely respectable establishment. Judges, civil servants, politicians, captains of industry, bankers, and others of the British upper crust drank in its bars, dined in its restaurant, and dozed in its wingback armchairs before blazing fireplaces with glasses of port wilting in their hands. The Hellenium had its own club tie, an exorbitant membership fee, and a ten-year waiting list. To join, you had to be recommended by no fewer than seven current members, and a single word of dissent from any other member would instantly and indelibly scupper your chances. Only the most stainless and well connected could get in.

Downstairs, however, was another story. For nigh on a decade the Hellenium's basement had played host to an event whose existence was a secret even to many of the club regulars. Down there, perhaps once every four months, perhaps less frequently than that, the Lotus Eaters congregated.

They didn't necessarily have to be members of the Hellenium. They didn't necessarily have to be British or even European. The criteria for being a Lotus Eater were simple. You must be powerful, not just influential, not just some elected official, truly powerful, which in almost every instance equated to being rich. And not just the ordinary kind of rich — fabulously, insanely rich. The kind of rich that rich people dreamed of being. Rich enough to have the ear of statesmen, the attention of generals, the adoration of supermodels, and the fawning respect of luxury yacht salesmen and high-end real estate brokers everywhere. You also had to have no shame. Shame was a commodity that ill befit a Lotus Eater. Shame, if you carried any about your person, had to be left at the entrance with the thick-necked doorman, along with firearms, knives, any other weapons, sharp implements, and narcotic substances.

Beyond the entrance, in the basement's many chambers and partitioned-off subchambers, you became someone else. You shrugged off care and inhibition. You slipped out of the skin of your life and surrendered yourself to euphoria and carnal indulgence the likes of which could be found nowhere else on the planet.

As Sam, Ramsay and Mahmoud moved through the basement they saw, through open doorways, sights that would have had the editors of downmarket tabloids wetting themselves with glee. Here was the most successful director in Hollywood history lolling languidly on a divan with his flies open, fondling his tumescent (if still rather unimpressive) cock while a pair of prostitutes cavorted in front of him, pouring honey over each other's immaculately depilated bodies. Here was a billionaire Russian oligarch letting himself be rigorously penetrated with a gold-plated dildo strapped to a gimp-masked dominatrix. Here was the lead singer of the top-selling rock act of all time happily fellating a man who closely resembled, but surely could not be, the present incumbent of the Throne of St Peter. Here was a diva-esque fashion house owner who, having just had three young men ejaculate on her suspiciously smooth face, was now inviting them to rinse their semen off with their urine.

It was a jaw-dropping parade of famous and notorious personalities engaged in acts of depravity and self-pollution, all with smiles of pure bliss irradiating their faces, all with dreamy, delirious looks in their eyes, as if never before had they scaled such peaks of ecstasy and never before been so totally not at home to themselves. Their actions were slow, almost robotic, reminiscent of animatronic mannequins at a theme park ride. Time had wound down in the Hellenium's basement, the world's elite operating at a mere fraction of their usual meteoric pace of life, squeezing a minute's worth of joy from every second, relishing the prolonged savour of normally fleeting pleasures.

Incense covered up the smell of the emissions and effluvia that spurted all around — or almost did. But the miasma of rank sourness was pervasive, and choking, and somehow, in its way, more offensive than the deeds that gave rise to it. Sam struggled not to gag. And she thought the stench of the Hydra had been bad…

All the corridors in the basement branched off a central hub, and in this central hub was the source of the glazed looks and the heightened orgiastic sensitivity.

Dionysus and Aphrodite were perched on two thrones, side by side. A mismatched pair if ever there was one: plump, jocose Dionysus, slender, exquisite Aphrodite. Before them stretched a line of the ultra-wealthy, all queuing up to make their obeisance and receive the boon of the Olympians' powers. As the three Titans arrived, a bearded British entrepreneur who'd made his millions franchising a single brand name was on his knees before the god and goddess, promising to honour and serve the Pantheon with all the assets at his disposal. Dionysus beamed twinklingly down at him, Aphrodite nodded graciously, and then both of them closed their eyes and the bearded entrepreneur shuddered as their combined benison flooded into him. When it was over he tottered upright and left the room like a sleepwalker, already loosening his shirt buttons as he headed off towards whatever sexual scenario he had scheduled for himself tonight.

Next in line was the heiress to a prestigious hotel chain, but before she had a chance to prostrate herself, pet Chihuahua and all, Dionysus raised a hand.

"So sorry," he said to the young woman. "It will have to wait. I see we have newcomers, and if I'm not mistaken they're here in answer to a certain invitation that Aphrodite and I extended."

He was looking at Sam, Ramsay and Mahmoud.

" Am I mistaken?"

"You aren't," said Ramsay.

"Then come," said Dionysus. "Let us repair to a private room."

He and Aphrodite stood, to a collective groan of disappointment. The hotel heiress huffed and pouted and stamped her foot, but was ignored.

"Follow us," Aphrodite told the three Titans. "This is a highly significant moment, and one, I believe, that may resolve a great many things."