An Immortal Dance

by Alastair Fontaine

  The chief rushed to reassure him of their loyalty, “Asriel, we will follow where you lead. Do not doubt that. It was merely a thought.” Iauareté almost laughed at how quickly his father, once a proud ruler, had been brought to heel by the devil. Though they referred to each other as friends, everyone in the room knew the truth. They belonged to Asriel. He would reward them for their service, but any rebellion would be met with lethal force. They would die, along with their families. The meeting was not a council at all, but a briefing. Still, he did not voice his thoughts, for he knew that his words would achieve nothing and only land him in trouble later.

  “Thank you, good chief. Thank you all. I understand your concerns. To assuage them, I shall tell you a story,” Asriel said.

  “A story?” Buira asked.

  “The story of Babylon.”

  ***

  He had told them of jewelled palaces, ziggurats reaching to the heavens, extravagant gardens and masterpieces of silver and gold. He had spoken of great hunts for exotic beasts in ancient jungles and glorious battles against powerful kings. He had filled their heads with the dream of a marvellous world. The Yacumo would reign supreme amongst all the peoples of the world, and they and their descendants would live in their own luxurious citadels, answering only to their immortal emperor. They would ensure peace amongst all peoples, allowing the world to prosper and grow in beauty as humans stopped their foolish squabbles and dedicated themselves to rebuilding it as Belit would have wanted. The Earth would become a paradise for mankind and Babylon would be at its centre. Never again would his beloved city fall into ruin or despair. It would be the radiant capital of an eternal empire ruled by his chosen people, a tribe, long forgotten, who would now be remembered until the end of time. Currently, the Yacumo were dispersed amongst the people of the nearby cities of Al Ḩillah, Karbala and An Najaf so as to avoid suspicion, waiting for their future monarch to summon them. They sat patiently in lavish suites, watching television and reading magazines amidst piles of duffle bags full of carefully smuggled arms.

  In the meantime, Asriel strolled through what had once been Babylon. A cool, dry wind made the blistering heat of the Mesopotamian plains tolerable. He began to feel something wasn’t right. The Ishtar gate, one of the great treasures of the ancient world, was gone, replaced by a replica, a puny structure, devoid of the craft of the master builders of Nebuchadnezzar. They had failed to properly recreate the engravings of the gods of Babylon. Even the materials used in the replicate were cheap alternatives to the original cedar wood and bricks glazed with vibrant, blue lapis-lazuli. It was even worse than the desolate ruins that he had expected. As he walked, his handsome face twisted gradually into a mask of horror, and then fury, as he saw what had become of his beloved city. It had been defiled, horribly scarred by the ego of a dictator long since deposed. Inscriptions bearing his name were plastered on every sorry attempt at a restoration of the proud structures that had once graced the city. The wrecked carcass of a garish marble palace was the final insult, one that made the immortal tremble with the beginnings of a fearsome wrath. He ran up to the crumbling roof of the structure, far above the soldiers and tourists that walked below, oblivious to their peril.

  “Mortals,” he roared, speaking in Arabic, “leave this place. Leave and never return if you wish to live.”

  The humans only looked up at him, curious. A few grabbed their children, pulling them close. He saw a group of bewildered, but stern, guards begin to walk towards him, gripping their rifles. An officer wearing a black beret stood in front of the others.

  “Get down from there and let’s have a talk,” he shouted.

  “No! I will give you three hours to get everyone out of here. After that, I cannot vouch for their safety.”

  “With what army?”

  “Three hours.”

  “Alright, friend. Come on down, the joke’s over. Come on down or we will be forced to bring you down.”

  Asriel leapt down, hitting the stone floor below with a thud. He heard running boots responding to the officer’s shouted commands. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old flip phone, hastily pressing a combination of buttons and raising it to his ear. The soldiers would find him soon.

  “Three hours. Babylon. Begin the main assault from the North. Leave men around the city to pick off any survivors,” he whispered hastily. Then, he threw the phone to the ground, smashing it with his feet and kicking it far away. Just as the deed was done, the Iraqis rounded the corner. He raised his hands above his head, staring defiantly at the rifles aimed towards his heart.

  “What took you so long?” he asked, smirking, before he was violently shoved to the ground. He closed his eyes, allowing them to restrain and inspect him. He would enjoy slaughtering them all.

  ***

  “Where are you from?” the officer asked, for the third time. They had been sitting across from each other, in an office unworthy of his rank, for over two hours. It was dusty, there were holes in the walls and his desk was in utter disarray. He resented having been sent to guard the ruins, and the foreigner was getting on his nerves.

  “I rose with the sun,” Asriel said, looking amusedly into the man’s, worn, hazel eyes.

  “Please, make this easier on yourself. Where are you from?”

  “What is your name?”

  “I ask the questions,” the officer growled, his frustration finally beginning to show.

  “That doesn’t mean we can’t get to know one another. You mortals are such curious creatures.”

  “Huh? What are you talking about? Mortals?”

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “I never told you my name.”

  “Do tell, I want to know who I am speaking to.”

  “Naqeeb Gabir Awad. I am the commanding officer of this detachment of the Iraqi army. I believe that you pose no legitimate threat, but what you were saying was very serious. I will have to call someone from Baghdad to come and pick you up. Before I do that though, I would like to speak with you. If you cooperate, I will put in a good word for you. Deal?”

  “Well, Gabir, I do not think you will do that.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Try your phone.”

  Looking at Asriel dubiously, the soldier placed a call to his commander in Baghdad. To his utter shock, it did not go through. He tried again, to no avail. “How?” he demanded angrily.

  “Do you want to know my name? Come closer.”

  “Tell it to me from there.”

  “I’m bound, Gabir, are you scared of me?”

  The officer put his hand over his pistol, glaring suspiciously at Asriel. He ordered, “Speak, I will not ask again.”

  “Alright.” Asriel exploded upwards, kicking his chair back and bursting out of his restraints in an awesome display of strength. Papers flew everywhere as two shots rang out. Asriel felt a searing pain as the bullets ripped through his abdomen. With steel shackles hanging from his wrists, the chain between them broken, he flipped the wooden table that stood between him and his erstwhile captor. He snarled at the fallen officer, “Gabir, that was very foolish of you.”

  “What… are you?” Gabir murmured, pinned down by the heavy table and labouring to breathe. He clenched his teeth, fighting the fear that began to rush through him.

  “I am Asriel, lord Babylon, emperor of the world,” the immortal said. He stepped forward, standing on the overturned table, causing Gabir to cry out in agony. He heard shouts and rushing boots echoing through the hall outside of the office. Asriel knelt and took the pistol from where it had fallen. He pulled the trigger, and a bullet ripped through the wounded man, ending his torment.

  He turned to face the office door. Soon, he thought, they would burst through it, to their deaths. To his surprise, they never came. They rushed past it without even bothering to check on their commander. Curious, he waited until they had all passed. Then, he followed them, remaining at a distance, until they reached the exit. As he walked into the dimmin
g light of the evening hours, he began to hear explosive gunfire in the distance. To his elation, he heard the voices of the Yacumo, bellowing their battle cries above the din. He rushed to join the fight, tearing through a group of unsuspecting Iraqis. It had begun.

  ***

  “Are you Iblis?” the child whimpered, her big, grey eyes looking up at Asriel. She stood in front of him in the middle of a small courtyard, shielding the prone body of her father. The battle raged in the city around them, and she could hear gunshots and explosions accompanied by the occasional scream. She was alone, facing the devil that had brought doom upon them all.

  “Move aside, child,” Asriel laughed in cruel amusement.

  “He is my father, please, do not harm him,” the child pleaded.

  “He fought against me. He must be punished.”

  “Then will you kill me too?”

  “Must I?”

  “You cannot kill my father. Please. He is all I have in the world,” the child pleaded. She threw herself at Asriel, only to be gently pushed aside.

  “Stop wasting my time. Turn away if you do not wish to see your father die.”

  Again, the child cried out, lunging at the immortal. She was shoved violently away. Asriel gave her a savage look, freezing her in place. Then, he turned back to the man lying stricken in front of him. The child shook her head and wiped the tears out of her eyes. She ran in front of her father, lying across him looking, wide-eyed and horrified, down the barrel of a rifle.

  For the first time in untold ages, the hands that held the gun trembled. The finger at the trigger hesitated.

  “Get out of the way or I will shoot you both.”

  “Then do it. I will go to Allah at my father’s side.”

  “Did you not see how I felled your father with but a single blow? Who is to say that I am not sent by Allah?”

  “You are not. Allah would not need guns, nor soldiers to destroy us. Allah would not harm us. Look around you. The fire, the cruel death, that is Iblis, not Allah. God is kind, and fair. What have I done to deserve this? What did my father do, but defend me and the other innocent people that you have hurt?” the child yelled in defiance, closing her eyes, waiting for the bullet to come as she pressed her little face into her unconscious father’s chest.

  Asriel urged himself to turn the insolent mortals cowering before him into cadavers. Yet, he realized, they were not cowering. The girl had stopped trembling. She was not crying anymore, but singing softly to her father. Her long, black hair fell around her as she waited, her arms around her father, for death to come.

  Sighing, he bent down and gently put the rifle on the ground. As he straightened, he took a little flower from the ground. Thin, brown leaves stood between delicate purple petals, forming the shape of a star. A tiny, black cone protruded from its centre, surrounded by a white ring. Asriel gently placed it in the child’s hair, and put a palm to her head. She flinched as she felt his touch, latching harder onto her father in fear. A few minutes passed in silence, and the child felt her father stir.

  “Niesha? Niesha, are you alright?” he whispered, coming to his senses.

  “Baba!” she squealed, hugging him tightly, forgetting her surroundings.

  “What happened Niesha, where did he go?”

  “What do you mean? He is he-” she stopped as she turned to look, seeing no one. She turned back to her father, confused, “He was just here…”

  “What is that on your head?”

  Niesha felt through her hair, and pulled out a little flower. Bemused, she and her father stared at it for a moment. Then, they embraced once more and stood, running to escape the ruins of Babylon.

  ***

  Babylon. The jewel of the ancient world. What had they done to it? Asriel shook his head, incensed at seeing his beloved city in such a state. Soon, he promised himself, Babylon would be restored to her former glory. It would be made into a fitting capital for his domain and more importantly, a grand memorial for Belit. The world would never forget her. As Asriel wandered the ancient streets, reminiscing about the time when they had been filled with dazzling colours and the din of thousands, his council talked in the shadow of an ancient willow.

  “Welcome, Iuaraeté! Join us,” the chief greeted his son, beaming.

  “I cannot stay for long, Asriel has called for me. He has not let me rest, even for a moment, since the battle began. He delights in tormenting me,” his son complained.

  “Remind me, who brought it upon himself? You should not have incurred his wrath. Cheer up, the work will toughen you,” the chief laughed, while looking carefully for any sign of resentment in his son’s amber eyes. Satisfied, but a little disappointed, that he had found none, he relaxed. It had been a good day, and he would not allow his lout of a son to spoil it for him.

  Buira, wishing to avert further conflict, quickly interjected, “We have won a great victory here today. Tomorrow, Asriel plans to march on a place called Baghdad. Our women and children will have arrived here by then.”

  “That is excellent news. After seeing what we did today, there is no doubt that Asriel can deliver on his promises to us,” the chief said.

  “An empire that he plans to rule,” Iauareté commented bitterly.

  “Better to serve him, and become mighty, than to remain in the jungle. Have you forgotten how we lived in those days? Do you not think that eventually, another people would have come and wiped us out? We would not have stood a chance with our sticks and stones against men with guns,” Buira rebuked his fellow tribesman. The others nodded in assent.

  “Anyways, we have a feast to look forward to tonight. We shall honour Uirá’s sacrifice for the glory of our people. Tomorrow, we march on Baghdad. After that, we shall carve ourselves a new, greater Babylon. None can stop us as long as Asriel stands with us,” the chief proclaimed, hope burning in his eyes. His son did not speak, only bowing his head in submission.

  God,

  A Rainbow in all my storms,

  A Smile in all my tears

  A Promise for every care

  My Only Reason to Live

  -Anon, Nigeria

  25

  Pinturicchio’s ‘Risurrezione di Cristo’ dominated the Hall of the Faith. The artist had acquitted himself well with the fresco. A golden sun radiated from the majestic figure of Christ, floating above his opened tomb. Below the son of God, the likeness of Pope Alexander VI prayed and richly dressed men-at-arms knelt in supplication. Asriel was unimpressed. He had been in the city in the days when it had truly ruled the West. He fondly remembered the day when a new governor was sent to Judea. He had never liked Pontius, and had enjoyed his shocked reaction upon hearing that he was to be posted to that volatile border province. A few years later, news had reached Rome of a troublesome Jew who laid claim to divinity. Of course, Pontius had taken the stupidest course of action available to him. He had cemented that claim by making Jesus of Nazareth a martyr, bending to the will of a bunch of greedy old charlatans. Asriel had seen ‘Christianity’ take a hold of the empire and eventually outlast it, giving rise to the painting that he was currently admiring. It had never ceased to amaze him how one fool could change history. What truly interested Asriel about the work, however, was the small, almost imperceptible depictions of the mortals of the new world. They reminded him of the mortals that he had lived amongst long before the idea of Rome was even conceived. Given the chance, he would meet one of them. For the moment, though, he was once again occupied walking the corridors of power in a city that had proved almost as eternal as he.

  An ornate oak door, inlaid with gold and precious gems, burst open at the far end of the hall. A slim silhouette stood at the threshold, his arms outstretched in a warm greeting. “Micheletto, I am sorry to have kept you waiting. You know how my Holy Father is...” a jolly voice boomed.

  “Yes, I’m aware. What do you want, Cesare?” Asriel replied, annoyed at the delay. He had better things to do than admire the pope’s interior design.

  “I w
ant Italy. I want the world. For the present, though, I think I’ll settle for Vitellozzo Vitelli’s ugly head on a spike.” Cesare Borgia’s eyes sparkled with a certain mischief. Asriel knew that look. He had seen it when the walls of Forli fell, and again outside the gates of Imola. He had seen it at the royal court of France, just before King Louis made Cesare a duke and granted him a noble wife. Suddenly, he was interested.

  “Go on then. What is your genius plan to bring Vitelli to heel?”

  “Joined by the Orsini brothers, that ungrateful miscreant commands a sizeable force. Now, instead of marching into Bologna, I am forced to deal with his little temper tantrum,” Cesare spat, stepping into the light so that Asriel could see his dark eyes smouldering beneath a sinister mask. Despite his princely clothes, athletic figure and flowing, brown locks, Cesare had an unsettling visage, looking more the part of Satan’s butcher than the divinely ordained monarch that he aspired to become. The brown leather mask that he wore hid the ravages of a fearsome illness that had only recently come to Europe- the so-called “French Disease”. A pity, for he had once possessed a handsome countenance.

  “You do have a plan, right? The great Cesare Borgia surely did not summon me here to moan,” Asriel said, a note of exasperation in his voice. Much like his father, Cesare had always loved the sound of his own voice.

  “I’m getting to it. My God, someone is touchy today. Right. Our traitorous friends have realised that they are nothing without their glorious leader. They have taken the city of Sinigaglia in my name, hoping to ingratiate themselves with me again. They will find no mercy. Those traitorous swine deserve what is coming to them. With them gone, their men will fight for me alone.”