by Stewart Ross
“A Long Dead poet wrote about that.”
“Who was it?”
“I can’t remember. I only glanced at the poem. It was about a bridge, I think.” He wrapped an arm around her. “The poet mentioned that ‘God’ thing. I wish someone would explain to me exactly what it means.”
“Me too. But I don’t think the Long Dead had a very clear idea. As far as I can see, it meant whatever they wanted.”
“Like the moon? God is the moon!”
“Maybe. And the moon is also God.” She raised her eyes above the grey shadow of the walls. “In three days the God moon will be full and bright.”
They stood for a few moments before Cyrus added, “A full moon’s special, isn’t it? It’s when things happen.”
“Not this time, I hope.” She shuddered and held him tighter. “Come on, it’s getting chilly. Let’s go back inside.”
The next day started with ominous normality. After a quick bite to eat, Cyrus gave an extra lesson to Jalus and Poso, as Yash had demanded. He then joined Miouda for work on the terraces before finishing the morning with military training in the square. Sammy, whose accuracy with a bow was still well below that of the Albans, spent his time shooting arrows at a target by the Soterion Gate. As usual, the students turned up for classes shortly after sunhigh. Yash sat down without a word and continued reading his history book. He was very fidgety, Cyrus noticed, and frequently glanced around the room. Clearly eager to be elsewhere, he left early.
When the classes were over, Miouda went to see a friend and Cyrus set out to visit a sick child in one of the junior dormitories. His path led him across the square. As he approached the well, he noticed a figure sitting on the ground with their back against the surrounding wall. It was Jannat.
“Hello,” he said as he approached. “What’re you doing, Jannat? You ok?”
She raised her head and looked towards him with unfocussed eyes. “Lovely!” she said, pronouncing the word as if her tongue was too big for her mouth. A dribble of saliva ran down her lip onto her chest.
Alarmed, Cyrus squatted down and took her hand. “What is it, Jannat? What’s the matter?”
“I’ve been drinking Yash’s wine!” she slurred with exaggerated care. “It’s lovely!”
“Lovely? You seem in a bad way.”
“No, Cyrus! Wine makes you do amazing things!” She grinned salaciously. “Wanna know a secret?”
“Go on.”
“I been with Sakamir!”
“You what?”
“Shh! It’s a secret. I been with Sakamir on the terraces.” She lowered her head. After taking an intense interest in Cyrus’ feet for a moment, she lifted it again and asked, “You want to kiss me too?”
“I don’t think so, Jannat.” He got up and stood looking down at her. “There’s something wrong with you. You’re not yourself.”
She didn’t reply. After Cyrus had repeated the question and still received no answer, he knelt beside her again. To his astonishment, he found she was sound asleep.
Instead of going to the dormitory, he returned to the Ghasar and opened the dictionary. A … B … C … D … yes, there it was. ‘Drunk, adj. ’. Fascinated, Cyrus read the entry before turning to the encyclopaedia and looking up ‘alcohol’.
As he was reading, he became aware of a throbbing noise outside. He ignored it and continued to the end of the article. Miouda came hurrying into the hall as he was finishing.
“Have you heard, Cyrus? Have you heard what Yash is doing?”
He looked blank. “Doing? Is that him making that boom-boom noise?”
“Far worse, Cyrus!” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “It’s the moon, that God thing! You said something was going to happen.”
He sat her down and held her hand. “Easy, Miouda, my dearest! Start at the beginning and tell me what’s going on. Then I’ll tell you what I’ve just seen.”
She wiped her face on her sleeve. “I’m sorry. I’ve got that feeling again – you know, that nothing’s going to last. I’m afraid the end’s very near.”
“Nonsense! Come on, tell me. Please.”
Yash had made an announcement, she said. To celebrate the safe return of his copemate, Alba was going to stage what he called a ‘festival’ the day after tomorrow, when the moon was full. It would be the best evening the Albans had ever had. He had cancelled all patrols so everyone could share in the festivities. The streets would be lit with flaming torches, pigs roasted over blazing fires, and a new drink handed round to everyone.
Cyrus groaned. He knew what was coming next.
It was this wine Yash had been making. He had tested it, and found it tasted good and made the drinkers very happy.
“You could say that,” interrupted Cyrus wryly. “Very happy – and very stupid and very ill.” He told her about Jannat.
“Poor woman. And when she said she’d ‘been with Sakamir’, do you think…?”
“Who knows?”
“That sort of relationship, like using the word ‘love’, is not really approved of in Alba. It’s too personal, too individual.” She sighed. “Ah, well. And I haven’t told you about the noise yet, have I?”
Researching the festivals of ancient Rome, Yash learned that drums as well as wine played an important part. Accordingly, he and a few hand-picked craftsmen had made six drums from wood and animal skins. That was the noise Cyrus had heard – the drummers practising for the festival.
The Emir had ended his proclamation with an announcement, Miouda said. He was going to change his title from ‘Emir’ to ‘King’, and Sakamir would become his ‘Queen’. During the festival, the new arrangement would be marked with what he called a ‘coronation’. It wasn’t a very important change, he assured people, and he’d explain everything carefully when the time came.
“Two days,” muttered Cyrus. “We have just two days to save Alba, and probably the Soterion as well.”
Suggesting Miouda bar the door of the Ghasar after he’d gone, he hurried out to find Bahm.
Bahm lived with his copemate of three years’ standing, a tall, loose-limbed woman with a freckled face and long red hair, in the dormitory reserved for Konnels with regular partners. He was asleep when Cyrus arrived. On waking and recognising his visitor, he pulled on a grubby smock and went outside to talk with him.
He was not surprised to see Cyrus, he said. After Yash’s announcement, he had been expecting him. He was, in his own words, ‘boiling like an angry pot’ at what the Emir was doing.
Cyrus was too, he assured him. He limited his remarks to the proposed festival and coronation, and steered clear of what Sakamir had been up to. Bahm understood facts only. As there weren’t enough of these to act on, he decided speculation about a link-up with the Zeds would only complicate matters.
Over Yash’s crimes, the pair were in full agreement. In cancelling patrols, holding a festival and changing his title to ‘king’, he was betraying the position of Emir. He was nothing short of a traitor, Bahm declared, just as Padmar had been.
“Right,” said Cyrus. “I agree. But we’ve got no more than a couple of days. Any suggestions?”
Bahm rubbed a fist thoughtfully through his beard. “Well, you and me hasn’t always been friends, Cyrus. Ever since you showed up, even afore that, there’s been trouble. Not your fault, maybe, but trouble all the same. Since I’m all for a quiet and peaceful life, here’s what I propose.
“I don’t think we can stop this daft festival thing – people are too excited about it. That means Yash will go ahead and make himself a king. But that’ll help us. When he’s up there, being all kingy and mighty, everyone’ll see how wrong it is. The archers respect us, Cyrus. Most will come over to our side when we explain what we’re doing, like they followed Yash when he turned against Padmar and Timur.
“We’ll get rid of Yash and that woman of his, and return to the good old days.” He turned to Cyrus with a triumphant grin. “And to make it happen, you know what you’ve got to do, don’t you
?”
Cyrus felt a numbness steal over his heart. “I can guess.”
“Good. You put all that Soterion stuff back in the cave where it came from, lock the door and throw away the key. Then all will be well again.”
Cyrus clenched his fists in frustration. To save the Soterion, they had to destroy Yash; but destroying Yash meant sacrificing the Soterion. It was an impossible position.
“Well, Cyrus, do we have a bargain?”
“For goodness sake, Bahm!” he cried. “It’s not about bargains. I’m sorry, but you don’t know what you’re saying! We’re in worse danger than you realise. Much, much worse.”
10
The Festival
On the night of the coronation, the moon rose like molten metal over the empty land beyond the walls. The grey buildings of Alba gleamed silver in its light. Within the settlement, from fifty balconies and eaves, battlements and stairways, fiery torches hung. Their seething flames, orange and amber-red, flared into the thick warm air. Yash looked out upon all this and was pleased. Silver and gold were royal colours, he had read, a perfect combination for a crowning. And the light would help what was to follow – mischief is not always best carried out in the dark.
With the moonlight came the drumming. The six performers clambered onto a wooden platform at the top of the square, grinned at each other, and began. New to their art, they started with a steady unison throb – boom, boom, boom, boom – that broadcast their sober heartbeat to the world. Later, as the festival grew in intensity, their rhythms grew faster and bolder. Drum spoke to drum, each arousing the other to greater frenzy. The players, swept up in the joy of their new-found skill, forgot themselves and the occasion in the swelling pulse of intoxicating sound.
And with the moonlight and the drumming came the wine, thick and bitter and warm. Trusted archers from Yash’s patrol carried it down from the terraces in buckets that they placed beside the well for all to help themselves. At first only the bold dipped their cups into the red liquor. The taste was sharp and strange, they said. Perhaps a little disappointing… But not for long. They were soon laughing, staggering a little, and pressing the fermentation on their friends. It’s good, they said. Very good. Men, women, children – there was scarce an Alban without the tell-tale red stain about their lips. As inhibitions slid away, normally cautious Constants fell into animated conversation while behind them couples fumbled and sighed in the flickering shadows.
Now the meat was ready. Ten of the finest carcasses, Yash had decreed, prepared in ten different places around the settlement. Each animal was turned over fire until the pork was a crisp and succulent brown, and rich fat dripped, spurting into the embers below. The Konnels, except for Bahm and a fellow dissident, carved generous slices and handed them to the grinning people. Standing in line to receive their bounty, they’d never before experienced anything as good as this. It was so new, so exciting, so all-embracing. Such was the festival’s allure, hardly one of them spared a thought for the morrow.
Yash’s education had been slow but methodical. Page by careful page, he had laboriously worked his way through stories of Roman ritual, learning how kings and emperors had secured their power by pleasing the masses. ‘Bread and circuses’, he read; he wasn’t sure what circuses were, but he grasped the theory. People were happier with full stomachs – so he had fed them. They liked ritual – so he had given them one. The mob could be manipulated in a way impossible with individuals, so he would bend and twist the Albans to his will. And when he had finished, there could be no going back.
The Emir kept himself and his copemate out of sight while the festival got under way. Now that everyone had eaten their fill and their minds were loosened by wine, he made his appearance. Emerging out of the shadows behind the drums, he walked to the front of the platform.
“Friends, citizens of Alba,” he began, speaking slowly so his voice carried over the carpet of glowing, upturned faces that covered the square. “Listen!” When the last murmur had died away and the throng stood still and expectant, he continued. “This night is very special!”
“Yeah!” cried a voice. A wave of laughter swept through the crowd, followed by spontaneous clapping. Again, Yash raised his hands and the noise gradually died down.
“A special night because we have a festival.” Knowing the remark would provoke a response, he added, “Do you like our festival?”
As he had predicted, the tipsy mob howled its response. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
Yash smiled with inward satisfaction. It was better than he had expected, much better – Alba was at his feet, adoring him. At this moment, the people would give him whatever he wanted. And then, at the time of his triumph, an unsettling thought came to him. Did he need the Zeds any more? He could take control of Alba and the Soterion without them. He felt the presence of his clever, cold copemate behind him. The dangerous alliance with the barbarians had been her idea – the only certain way of securing the Soterion, she said. Tonight’s events had proved her wrong.
The realisation brought him no comfort. Sweat broke out on his forehead and he swept an uneasy hand through his hair. Questions tumbled through his mind, tripping over each other in their haste. Was there a way of calling off the Zed attack? If he warned them now, at this late stage, were the Albans in a fit state to resist? Sakamir’s plan was for the Zeds to destroy all Alban opposition – had she really managed to get them to agree to that? Had she told him all she knew? In fact, could he trust her at all?
The cheers had subsided and the crowd was expecting him to tell them what came next. With a final sweep of his hair, he forced himself back to the present. It was too late for a change of plan. The only way was forward – forward to power, to control of the Soterion, to the Salvation Project and victory over death itself.
“This festival is not for me – it is for the heart and spirit of Alba – it is for you!” he exclaimed, building to a climax on the final phrase. Further cheers. “Because I – your chosen leader – care for you.”
“Yash! Yash! Yash!” rose the chant. He let it run for a while before continuing. “And because I care for you, because recently we saw what happens when a leader does not care, I will surrender the title of Emir.” The crowd groaned. “Don’t worry! I won’t abandon you. Instead of your Emir, I will be your king!
“The Long Dead had kings. Kings were fathers of their people, caring for them, guiding them, protecting them. So will I look after you.” He paused and looked round the crowd. “Fellow Albans, my friends, tell me: Is this … is this really … is this really what you want? Speak to me!”
The roar of approval carried high into the night sky. It rolled through the streets, up the terraces, over the walls and into the wasteland beyond. There, hidden in the trees, Malika Xsani heard it and turned to her kumfort. “Good, Jintha. It ith jutht ath Thakamir thaid it would be.”
Back in Alba, Sakamir handed Yash a woven circlet of vines. “This,” he cried, holding it up for all to see, “is a crown! It is worn by kings to show their majesty. Look!”
He raised the garland over his head and slowly brought it down until it rested around his brow. “I am now crowned,” he explained. “At this moment, in Long Dead times, the crowd shouted, ‘Long live the king!’”
He needed to say no more. “Long live the king!” howled the crowd. “Long live the king! Long live the king!”
How appropriate, thought Yash. When I have the Salvation Project, I’ll certainly live a long, long time. He took Sakamir by the hand and led her forward. “Every king has a queen,” he announced. Lifting the crown from his own head, he placed it on Sakamir’s. “There! You have a king and a queen, just like the Long Dead.”
The crowd’s yelling was less raucous this time. Sensing it was time to bring the ceremony to a close, he shouted, “Albans, my subjects, the coronation is over! Thank you for your support. I – we – will not let you down. On with the festival! More drums! More wine! The best is still to come!”
As the cheers ech
oed about him, the new king led his queen off the platform and across the square to the Emiron. So thrilled was he by his triumph, he failed to notice that she was still wearing the crown.
As Yash and Sakamir left the platform, the drummers struck up once more. The beat was faster, more insistent, and for the first time in their lives, the Albans began to dance. Swaying, stamping, waving, reeling and clapping, they allowed their bodies to move instinctively to the rhythm of the night. Around the well, beakers splashed into the wine buckets, filling and refilling. Things were said that should never have been said; things were done that should never have been done. In one short evening, the culture that had held Alba together for generations fell apart. Like a soldier who has set aside his armour, the community lay open and vulnerable to the enemy.
Cyrus, as experienced a warrior as anyone in Alba, knew this. At the beginning of the evening, soon after the drumming had begun, he had climbed to the lower terrace with Miouda and Sammy. Corby, ever the loyal and patient companion, lay panting at his master’s feet. Seated on the low stone wall, the three friends gazed at the extraordinary events unfolding below. Cyrus, despite his misgivings, marvelled at the vivid richness of the scene: the cold moonlight and the fiery flames of the torches and cooking fires, the mouth-watering smell of roasting pork, the snatches of distant conversation, cries and laughter, and over it all the bewitching rhythm of the drums.
“You want to go down?” he asked Miouda. “They’re enjoying themselves.”
She shook her head. “No thanks, Cyrus. I’m happy just watching.”
He smiled. “What about you, Sammy?”
The young man put his head on one side. “Mmm … maybe. Sounds fun, doesn’t it? Yeah, I think I’ll go and take a quick look for myself at what’s going on.” With that, he was off down the slope with Corby bounding beside him.
“Don’t stay too long!” Cyrus called after him. “Remember what it’s all about!” The caution drowned in the sound of the drums long before it reached him.
