by Jay Penner
“Stand down.” This time the voice is Rishwa’s. The remaining King’s Guard lower their weapons and look back for further instructions. Rishwa parts the men and gets to the front—but there is still a clear gap between them and us, with the bodies of the dead and the dying acting as a boundary. The tremors have stopped, for now, and I know we must act quickly.
“Put your weapons down, Teber,” Rishwa says. “We can end this amicably.”
“You put the Queen on display like an animal and let them torture her to death!” I shout.
Rishwa searches for answers, but he chooses not to respond. “We must all file out in an orderly way before these corridors collapse on us,” he says.
“Then tell your men to leave and not come in our way. Join us, Prime Minister, it is time to end this savagery.”
“You should—”
“No! Look around you. What do you see? Join me and let us bring peace back to the citizens of Atalanni.”
Rishwa is silent, and he eventually confers with Phaistos. I do not know what Kaftu’s new governor’s intentions are, but I am surprised that he has so far not tried kill me. Finally, Rishwa speaks. His voice is tired. “Do what you must. I will go oversee evacuations,” he says and signals his men. After some hesitation, all the King’s Guard, and the rest of the men with Rishwa and Phaistos begin to file out. Soon the large room is empty. I wait for the corridor to clear out, conscious of ambush.
We cautiously move through the corridor until we reach higher open ground.
There is no one around. The Palace terrace looms ahead, and it is a dark and ominous landscape all around us. Many of the buildings, including the Palace, bear signs of great violence. The air is thick with the smell of angry and open earth. We regroup to rest—it has been intense, and I am thankful that many of us are still alive. We take a quick count, and I realize I have lost thirty of my men and about half the dock guards.
I walk to Apsara. She watches me with a tearful smile as I near her. My men watch quietly; I know what they are thinking—that I will bow to the Queen and seek orders.
That I was here to preserve royal dignity.
Instead, I envelop her in my arms, much to everyone’s shock. No one protests and Itaja looks at me with a half-curious grin on his face.
Apsara relaxes and weeps.
I wait for her to regain her composure and bend down and kiss her deeply. I hear some shouts of approval and surprise around me. Finally, Itaja, his weary eyes full of mirth and his leathery face breaking into a full grin, cannot help himself. “You bastard, it was you who made her pregnant!” he exclaims. Most others laugh. I do not. Instead, I step aside and gently caress her belly and thump my chest.
Itaja is astonished. “I said that as a joke. You, really, sir!” He lets out a roaring laugh and others join him.
“No wonder the old man was going mad,” someone else chimes in.
“General Teber seduces the Queen in the corridors of the Palace. You designed the corridors yourself, sir?”
There is much laughter, and after a long, long time I let myself laugh. Apsara, who has her face hidden in my chest, finally emerges, smiling.
“Shouldn’t the soldiers behave themselves?” she asks, and her voice is music to my ears. The men continue to make ridiculous jokes. I know that this is a release of pressure because there is much to be done.
The King is alive, somewhere.
And I must know what the Oracle is up to.
Just then, a figure emerges from a broken wall.
Rishwa.
“Phaistos has left to make plans for evacuation. If he is unable to muster enough boats, he will leave to Kaftu to plan,” he says.
I nod to him. “We must talk, Prime Minister.”
His face has aged. There is great sadness in those wise eyes, and his gaunt face shows signs of immeasurable fatigue. He takes tentative steps towards Apsara, and she shows no hostility towards him.
Rishwa gently holds her, and she sobs again. “My child, my child,” he says, softly, and wipes his tears.
Once we settle, I ask Rishwa and Apsara to walk with me for a conversation. They give me a short account of all that happened when I was not around and the forces behind the various decisions. I am relieved to learn that Khaia had tried to prevent Apsara’s ghastly execution order. But I am livid that she pushed Apsara to end her own life.
I finally broach the subject. “The King must die.”
Rishwa nods, imperceptibly. “He has nowhere to go. He is probably hiding somewhere in the Palace with his remaining guards.”
“He has turned mad and dangerous. I can understand his following of the Oracle’s demand of the gods to wage war on Egypt, Prime Minister, but everything else? He is unfit to rule,” I continue.
Apsara gently touches my forearm. I turn to her. “You do not see what is in plain sight, Teber,” she says, and smiles.
“And that is?”
Apsara looks at Rishwa. “I have always wanted to ask you, wise Rishwa, but never found the right moment,” she says.
“Yes, my Queen,” he says.
“What do the laws of the Atalanni say on succession?”
“Succession?” Rishwa looks uncomfortable.
“Yes, who can succeed the throne on the King’s death or invalidity?”
Rishwa smiles. His eyes twinkle as if appreciating a gifted child’s remark. He sees something that I still do not.
“Explain that to Teber,” says Apsara. Rishwa bows to her again and turns to me.
“Atalanni laws are quite clear on succession. Circumstances do not always allow a King to have a child that can succeed,” he says.
“I have some awareness of our succession laws, but not all,” I say. My shoulder and forearm ache with a dull pain, but my mind is clear now. The sun shines on our back, and the vapors cloud the skies.
“The laws are exhaustive but clear. The King’s firstborn male is the rightful successor to the throne when the King dies or abdicates. But if the successor is not of sound mind, then the King can declare that child invalid for succession, as Hannuruk did with his firstborn. Then, the succession passes to the next child, and so on. If the child is a girl, then she assumes the role of a regent until she is of marriageable age, and then her husband assumes the role of King. Hannuruk’s father came to power that way—you may not know this, Teber, but King Hannuruk’s father was not born of this land or Kaftu, he came here through an alliance with an Eastern Kingdom.”
Hannuruk’s physical features are a little different than most of the Atalanni citizens.
“But what happens if the Queen dies and the King is invalid?” I ask.
Rishwa clasps his hands and nods appreciatively.
“If the Queen is dead and King develops a disability or dies without a valid heir, then the lawful succession would be to the man declared King of Kaftu.”
I see where this conversation is headed. “In our case, just as an example, Minos would be that man. But then he is dead. So, does Phaistos assume Kingship?”
Rishwa shakes his head. “Not Phaistos. The King has only appointed him temporary governor. Only a man declared King of Kaftu would be able to take that position, and only Minos was ever appointed that way.”
“And Minos is dead,” I say. My mind is beginning to churn.
Rishwa and Apsara continue to look at me, and they say nothing—as if to expect me to have a divine insight.
“So?” I ask again, and Apsara shakes her head.
Frustrated, I take a few steps to clear my mind. I kneel on the dark-gray and matted grass ground and rub my hands on the dust. And that is when it dawns on me.
If the King is invalid or dead, and his son is invalid or dead, and he has no daughter, and his wife is dead, and if his appointed governor is dead, then who becomes King? It all falls into place with breathtaking clarity, and the audacity stuns me. I turn to Rishwa. “Does the Oracle take the throne under any circumstance?” I ask.
“It seems you have come to
the same conclusion as we have, General,” says Rishwa, approvingly. Apsara, her face still white as a sheet from the pain and exertion, still manages a smile. “The constitution bestows the throne on the Oracle when the King is invalid or dead, and his issues, Queen, or King of Kaftu are unable to take possession.”
Even as the stunning betrayal and deception sinks in, the ground rumbles and shakes us. I turn to my men who are waiting for patiently, even as the landscape around us shifts. “We are running out of time. The gods are not angry because of what we were supposed to do, but for what we did!” I shout. “Come with me. We must find Hannuruk and Khaia.”
We jog towards the Palace, making steady progress, and I make sure Apsara can follow. Her eyes burn with fierce determination.
CHAPTER 57.
KALLISTU
Pressure builds deep within the bowels of the earth. Large cliff sections collapse, taking homes and places of worship down to the churning sea which now swells and shakes as if it is within a bowl. The priests and commoners have long abandoned the central temple complex where the ground has turned black.
Many vents spew toxic vapors.
But now those vents grow larger.
The great temple of the gods, damaged long ago, now tries to withstand the quakes and powerful waves beating against it.
Slowly, in pieces and blocks, the stones shift and collapse.
The grand colonnade topples like a stack of sticks. The beautiful statues of the Goddess Mother of Earth and the God of the Seas, adorned in jewelry and chiseled to be life-like, break to a thousand pieces. After an hour of violence upon this complex, with all its structure in ruins, the central mound of black rock opens up like the jaws of a hungry hippopotamus.
Just as the sun tips his toes into the western waters, the central mound explodes. Dark red liquid rock springs like a glorious fountain. The vent also ejects fine gray and yellow ash, darkening the vista and hiding the sun in bands of gray and black. If a man could fly, the view would seem like not of this world—a glowing stream of red, like bloody tears of an angry god, flows from the wound in the middle of a circular gray and black island. Dark blue waters churn within the inner confines of the ring.
The molten rock flows into the lukewarm waters and causes a roaring hiss of steam. The half-submerged causeway is now a river of fire surrounded by blankets of ash and vapor.
Deep in the subterranean caverns, there are more than a hundred Council members hiding in quake-proof chambers.
They sit in a large dark room lit up by fish oil lamps.
The comfort has long vanished. It is suffocating now. The pits are just a hundred feet in front of them, and a bright glow emanates from the edge.
“I cannot breathe,” an elder complains. “Should we not go back to the surface?”
“It is poisonous near the pits, and we have no way to go up. Besides, we do not know the situation outside. These structures are built to withstand the tremors,” says another man. But his voice shakes, betraying the lack of confidence in his own words.
“Our gods will protect us. The Oracle maintains that this is just a display of their displeasure in stronger terms. They love us,” rasps a woman, as she wipes her face and makes signs of supplication.
“Calm down, Goddess Mother, show us your mercy and love. We have always sought to do what you please!” says another man, as he gasps for air. All that is now visible in the darkness is the mesmerizing glow from the pit.
“Sacred Khaia, where are you? Save us!” someone shouts, and a chorus of implores dissolves in the hot and smoky air.
They watch the orange hues from the pit turn yellow. There is an audible gasp as suddenly an immensely bright blob of molten rock bubbles from the pit onto the floor. They scream in panic as the liquid rock advances towards them—spreading and filling up the chamber.
The molten mass pulsates as the earth vomits increasingly onto the chamber with brute force.
There is no time for them to react.
With nowhere to run some fall to their knees to pray. It takes barely a minute before their skin singes, and the screams of terror dies in their throats as their molten lips glue together. Death fills the room, burning every man and woman, and liquefying their flesh and bones.
And just like that, most of the Divine Council, one blessed by the gods themselves, a vast body of knowledge, wisdom, and brilliance of the Atalanni, vanishes from this earth.
Outside, in Enniru, the South-Eastern town of the craftsmen and traders, an elderly man runs along the street exhorting his fellow residents to get out of their houses. The pavements are cracked, many homes have collapsed, but so far, no one has died. A small part of the population had managed to evacuate before the embargo on evacuations. But the rest are now streaming into the streets as fine ash descends on them from the skies. They have hunkered in their quake-resistant clay and plaster dwellings for days, hoping for the air to clear, but it appears everything has gotten worse. A woman hides her precious gold ibex statue under her floorboards and rushes out to the street to join her people. An artist looks longingly one more time at the beautiful painting of girls picking saffron—a ritual of entry into womanhood. This stately home he has loved since his childhood for his father bestowed it upon him. Then he joins the others.
Another nobleman looks at the masterful painting on his wall. It shows a procession of boats traveling between towns as people watch from the terrace. His nephew was the artist behind this lovely work of art. He wonders if things will ever return to normalcy again.
Someone is leading them from the front as they all head north to a tunnel entrance—one dug hundreds of summers ago, they say, by their wise forefathers who knew of the rages of gods. The tunnel leads down deep into the bowels of the inner-southern edge of the island.
“Are these tunnels not too close to the erupting fountain of fire in the middle of the inner sea?” asks a teenager, his face covered by the fine grains descending from the skies. He blows some of the ash off and spits to clear his tongue.
“The fire is in the middle. We are far away, don’t scare the others,” scolds his father. An expert tradesman of tables, chairs, and fine pottery. He has not evacuated because he believed that war would help expand his trade into the conquered lands.
Most have already surrendered their treasures for transportation to a secret enclave they have only heard about, so they have little to leave behind. With their meager belongings and leather-skins of water and food, they jog through the gentle undulations of the ground, abandoning their comfortable and wealthy homes in search of safety. Two hours later, they come upon the entrance to the tunnel. Only a few feet ahead the land ends in a cliff. Beyond the cliff, in the inlet, is a raging and angry center that still spews tall columns of bright red along with copious amounts of smoke, ash, and the steam from the seas. To the last man and woman, they watch this scene in awe and take tentative first steps into the dark tunnel. There is a frightened silence in the crowd as they descend into the unknown, praying, hoping, desiring safety, and praying for an end to these terrible times.
CHAPTER 58.
KALLISTU
The Palace is ruined. The frescos are shattered. The statues cry silently on the floor.
There are even signs of looting in some of the rooms—their treasures stripped, pulled, ripped in a frenzy of greed and desperation. We have rested for a day before pursuing Hannuruk, knowing that the situation in the water and around us would prevent him from escaping anywhere. But since morning, we have been systematically searching the Palace and its hidden rooms and tunnels. We came upon resistance thrice, but in short and violent skirmishes we had killed the King’s Guard, a sign that the King was somewhere though no one knew where.
We have to proceed cautiously for the walls are shaken, and the roof is fragile in many places. We avoid particularly delicate areas—I need to find Hannuruk, alive or dead. Apsara is much better, and she refuses to stay behind and rest. She travels with us, resolute in her opinion that she will
accompany me everywhere.
By now, Rishwa knows my affair with Apsara.
He has admonished me and also wished us well. Finally, late into the afternoon, we come to an administrative office at the backside of the palace. The King sometimes spent his time here to discuss mundane administrative matters. We come upon a large shut cedar door and surprise the armed guards. The leader is a stout, hairy man with a heavy bronze helmet and gauze armor.
“Halt,” he says, “Proceed no further.”
I move slowly to the wall, showing the mass of armed soldiers behind me. Apsara steps forward. “Let us go ahead,” she says, calmly.
The man is confused. “Your Highness, you are no longer, I mean, you must not—” he stutters, unsure how to act on the Queen’s authority or whether to even treat her as a Queen.
“Do not fight us, Captain. Look behind me. You and your men will die in vain,” I say. “Tell your men to lay down your arms and leave. Find safety.”
“Why are you here,” he asks. Still pretending to be brave. But his men seem unsure—two of them quietly lay down their swords.
“Our purpose is not for you to know or decide. I ask you one last time, Captain, step aside.”
“We are the King’s Guard, and we have the authority—”
I flick my finger.
The twang of a bowstring rings in my ear.
The Captain clutches his throat and collapses. His men quickly drop their weapons and stand with their sides to the wall. I tell them all to come forward carefully and walk through the parting in our lines. They take tentative steps, fearfully, and I assure them no harm come to them. They file in a one-person line, and once they pass us, they run like they never have before.
It is now us and the door.
Two men open it with some effort. My shoulder throbs due to my wounds. We take careful steps inside, knowing there is a risk of ambush.
