And indeed Strongbow’s eyes were rolling in his head, his head was swaying on his shoulders and his whole body had begun to shake uncontrollably. He was sending himself into a dervish trance, a trick he had learned long ago when he first came to the desert and the impenetrability of his disguises might have been in danger. As he knew, no Arab would remain close to a dervish suddenly possessed by spirits.
The crowd withdrew muttering charms and a dazed Numantius retreated with them fearing he might be a victim of brain fever, rejoining the caravan and leaving behind the only opportunity there would ever be to discover what had really happened to the young Duke of Dorset after his shockingly obscene disappearance in Cairo on the eve of Queen Victoria’s twenty-first birthday.
But it was the third incident at Cambridge that was most significant to Strongbow in the end because it involved the Secret Seven, or the Immortals as they were also known.
This undergraduate society had been founded in 1327 to mourn the passing of Edward II after a hot poker had been thrust up the king’s anus. Through legacies the society had gradually grown in wealth until its endowments surpassed those of any other private institution in Britain. It supported numerous orphanages and hospitals and commissioned portraits of its members for the National Gallery.
The protection it provided its members was absolute and perpetual. If a member happened to die in a remote corner of the Empire his body was immediately pickled in the finest cognac and brought home at the society’s expense.
Among its alumni were kings and prime ministers, scores of bishops and battalions of admirals and generals, as well as many country gentlemen who had never been known for anything other than certain eccentric dealings with their valets. The alumni of the Secret Seven, in short, constituted the richest and most influential old-boy network in the land.
Of all the masturbation societies in the public schools and universities of England, none could match its enduring prestige.
As indicated by its name, only seven undergraduates were members at any one time, their term running from midnight on a winter solstice to midnight on the following winter solstice, when a new group of seven was chosen. During their year as members the reigning Seven, other than engaging in masturbation, spent their time discussing the merits of their potential successors.
The Christmas holidays began well before election night but all Cambridge undergraduates in Britain, by secret agreement according to tradition, sneaked back to their university rooms by devious routes on the day of the winter solstice. There every gate and door was left unlocked and no one stirred in the wild hope of a miracle. The Seven were known to begin their visits at eleven o’clock at night under cover of darkness and end an hour later, the last man chosen being the most illustrious of the new group and its future leader.
Thus Strongbow, who hadn’t bothered to interrupt his research with the Christmas holidays, was sitting in his rooms one winter night perusing a botanical treatise in Arabic when seven loud knocks struck his door. The handle then turned but nothing happened. Strongbow’s door was locked. He had just emerged from a bath and, still warm, hadn’t bothered to dress yet.
Of course he didn’t hear the knocks but he did notice the handle turning ineffectually. He went over to investigate and immediately seven young men filed into the room and drew themselves up in a row. They didn’t seem surprised by his nakedness but the leader of the group spoke his classical Greek in a confused tone of voice.
Your door was locked.
That’s right.
But it’s midnight on the winter solstice.
Correct. And so?
But don’t you know what happens on this special night?
I know we have more night than any other night, but who are you anyway? Amateur astronomers?
You mean you don’t know who we are?
No.
The Secret Seven, announced the leader in a hushed voice.
My God man, thundered Strongbow, I can see you’re seven but what’s your infernal secret?
You mean you’ve never even heard of us?
No.
But we’re the most ancient and honored secret society in England.
Well what’s your secret? What kind of a society is it?
A masturbation society, said the leader with dignity.
Strongbow roared with laughter.
Masturbation? Is that all? What’s so secret about that? And why in God’s name are we speaking Greek?
You are elected, intoned the seven young men in unison.
I am? To what?
Our society. The Seven Immortals.
Immortal you say? Because you masturbate?
The Seven were stunned. There had never been any question of explaining their society to anyone, let alone justifying its purpose. They stood in line speechless. Strongbow smiled.
The Seven Sages of Greece, are you? How often do you meet to exchange your wisdom?
Two evenings a week.
Not enough, said Strongbow. Am I to confine myself to masturbating only two evenings a week? Ridiculous.
No one’s confined. That’s just when we meet formally.
But why be formal about it at all? A ludicrous notion.
The leader began talking about charity and fraternity. He even mentioned kings and archbishops and famous statesmen who had been members of the society, but all these impressive names Strongbow waved aside with a long sweep of his arm.
Listen, o wise men. Masturbation is certainly relaxing, but why have a society for it and one that is secret at that? Nonsense. Pure farce.
You don’t mean you’re refusing election, stammered the leader.
Of course that’s what I mean. What an absurdity.
But no one has refused election in five hundred years.
Distinctly odd. Now I’ve cooled down from my bath and I think I should dress and get along with my duties. The chapter I’m reading has to do with Solanum nigrum, probably known to you as deadly nightshade, composed in Cordoba in 756, learned but not quite right. Shall I explain the irregularities to you? We’ll have to switch from Greek to Arabic but of course you can carry on with your usual activities.
The door opened. The seven young men slinked away into the longest night of 1836. Midnight had come and gone and in refusing to accept immortality Strongbow had insufferably effronted over three hundred of the most powerful Englishmen of his day, not to mention the memories of another three thousand dead heroes of his race, an insult that would be well remembered nearly half a century later when he published his monumental thirty-three-volume study entitled Levantine Sex.
Nor was it merely his intellectual ferocity, his savage fighting skills or his insolent disregard for tradition that caused him to be viewed as dangerous at Cambridge. There was also his unfathomable manner.
For of course no one realized Strongbow was deaf and that he could only understand others by reading their lips. Therefore anyone outside his field of vision was ignored as if nonexistent, just as any event occurring behind his back was ignored as if nonexistent.
There was the disturbing occasion in the spring, for example, when a heavy downpour caused half the botanical laboratory at Cambridge to collapse at dawn. The laboratory was thought to be empty but the thunderous crash was so great the entire university rushed to the spot within minutes.
What they saw standing on what had once been the third floor, the precipice only a few inches behind his feet, was Strongbow bent over a microscope studying the lines of a new spring leaf, oblivious to the destruction that had jolted everyone from their beds.
Strongbow’s concentration, in sum, was frighteningly aloof and apart. Because of his unnatural height he bore only a distorted resemblance to a man and the only voices he seemed to hear were those of plants. In other eras he might have been burned at the stake as the Antichrist, and undoubtedly it was only because his nineteenth-century world was so rational that he was merely regarded as exceptionally perverse, maniacal and un-English.