I felt delicate fingers at the back of my neck and a soft cloth rubbing my skin. I turned slowly and saw the black hair, the girl’s curvy lips, and her tall neck. She looked so much like her, except for the eyes—they were brown. The dream of Kar-Tioo blossomed and died quickly in that room. The girl had a silent harmony in her movements. Like the Ouna-Mas. She rubbed me again and again, first hard and then gently, removing the dead dust of Apelo and the gray salt of the sea from my skin. She managed to get deep under my skin, but not deep enough to wash off the blood of Varazam or the memory of Zeria. They would haunt me till the end of my days and even further. She finished and disappeared the same way she had come, as a graceful, silent swallow.
They had laid out new clothes on the triclinium next to me. Some were plain but made of the best material, and others were colorful and dazzling. If I wore them, I’d look like a bazaar stall. I tried them on because my clothes stank like the corpse of a dog, but took them off before I made ten steps. Those colors were swaddling me with ridicule. I couldn’t speak to another man with these clothes on me. I chose the simplest sand pants and milk-colored tunic they had brought and put them on, for their scent of cinnamon and myrrh that I would never find again. The eunuch boy and a pair of guards led me to another room full of windows that overlooked gardens with apricot trees and rosebushes. I saw and heard the bell tower of a church at the edge of the garden. Gold and purple curtains rose to hide most of the afternoon sun as it warmed the carved ledges.
Set out in front of us on a long cedar table was the greatest feast I had ever seen in my life. Before me was more food than I had eaten throughout the entire campaign of five summers and winters. Whole pigs and sheep, roasted and glistening in their own fat in oval trays, pheasants and chickens swimming in sauce-filled pots, fruits dipped in the juices of glowing honeycombs, sweet breads, and enough wine ewers to throw two Packs into stupor. Baagh and the Reghen joined the dining hall a little after I did. They had kept their clothing, as I would expect from both of them, but they had dreamy, lost expressions in their eyes, as if they had just returned from a long journey into the depths of their souls and desires.
The slaves would announce each silver tray as they laid it on the table.
“Gazelle, roasted in pig’s fat, stuffed with garlic, onions, and apples.”
“Pork boiled with dried figs, pears, and cherries.”
Baagh would translate the names, and it entertained him immensely to see the wonder on my face. A silver spoon and little knives sat next to my empty tray, and Baagh said my blood-red cup was a sardonyx chalice. It was studded with gemstones. Girls wearing sleeveless sand-colored robes and golden-laced sandals, all as beautiful as the Goddess, brought in yellow-blue ewers and filled our cups with strong red wine.
“Don’t look at the tables that way, because Carpus won’t take you seriously,” said Baagh.
“Do you know why I stare? It’s not the roasted pigs.”
“What then? The girls?”
“No. The spoons. Their ends are carved with drakon tails and lions’ heads. Someone asked them to be carved that way, and someone spent his whole life doing this. But—”
“But what?”
“Their warriors out there in the battlefields don’t have double-curved bows or stirrups. They can’t shoot an arrow in midgallop, so they get slaughtered by the thousands in battle.”
“They don’t think stirrups are important. When they do, they’ll buy all your stirrups along with your Craftsmen,” said Baagh, raising more questions in my mind.
Carpus entered the room alone, and with a subtle flick of his hand motioned for all the guards to leave except for two who remained by the door at a distance behind him. The girls came and went carrying more trays and filling our cups with wine—especially mine, which emptied as if there were a hole in the bottom.
“The servants are better dressed than our Khun,” said the Reghen.
Carpus ate hardly anything, just some fruit that he peeled with a small knife. He asked few things of no importance about our journey, Apelo, and Malan. My answers were short, and even shorter when it came to Malan. I let the Reghen sing our Khun’s praises and interrupted him whenever he became fanatical. Baagh acted as our interpreter. I said little, and Baagh added more. A girl with wavy, straw-colored hair and brown-green eyes was serving me. Her naked arm rubbed against mine as she leaned over to pour wine, awakening memories long forgotten. My gaze followed the curve of her back and then traveled further down as she walked away.
“Carpus asks if you would like one of these girls for the night.”
I did, but I didn’t want Carpus to offer her to me like a pig on a tray. It had been a long time. I hadn’t had a woman since the battle of Apelo, the Ouna-Ma of the desert stars.
“You tell him that I don’t plan on spending the night in here.”
Silence fell for a few breaths. I grabbed a pheasant leg that was swimming in melted cheese, butter, and onions. It made me gag. How could someone fight a battle after eating this every day?
“He asks if you would prefer a boy,” Baagh said.
Carpus’s eyes annoyed me. I didn’t answer.
“He insists. Would you prefer a virgin? They brought them fresh from the southern provinces.”
“I am a barbarian. Tell him that I prefer a warm, hairy goat. Or did he roast them all?”
Baagh must have translated something else because Carpus raised both of his hands in a cordial gesture of surrender and didn’t ask again.
“Baagh, ask him why they call us barbarians.”
“But obviously, you destroyed—”
“I don’t want you to tell me, but him.”
“It would be better if you just kept your mouth shut, young envoy Firstblade. Their wine is too sweet.”
It was sweet as a young witch’s kiss. It had flooded and swelled my temples, turning them into surging bloody rivers.
“You will ask what I tell you. Or he’ll understand that I am not the important person here!” I raised my voice to Baagh and banged the metal base of the chalice on the table.
Baagh’s expression changed, as Carpus jittered in his chair with surprise. The Sorcerer relayed my question and paused to laugh with the answer he received before turning to me to translate.
“He says that your tongue, as with all the tribes from the North, resembles wild animals growling. The only thing they hear coming out of your mouths is a long, drawn-out groan. Bar, bar, bar, bar. Barbari.”
I emptied the chalice down my throat and motioned to the girl to refill it.
“Ha! And all I hear coming out of his mouth is a constant aus, aus, aus, like the moans of a bitch when a mauler rides her. How should I call him?”
“I won’t say that.”
My head was close to bursting.
“By the golden balls of Pelor, you’re right, Baagh. This is some wine. It will be hard to drink that milk-piss of Sirol again.”
I stared drunkenly at the table, the carcasses of the animals opened and chopped up, and I thought of my men who were being held hostage in the military harbor. It was time for me to shut up.
Baagh asked Carpus for a favor. “We would very much like to pray at the Holy Church of Wisdom.”
“I don’t want to pray to anyone,” I said.
“Yes, you do,” answered Baagh. “Everybody does.”
We were outside again, and the late-afternoon breeze stirred me from my stupor. We walked on different streets, passed buildings that Baagh called the baths and the macellarum, where they were chopping meats and fish. We reached an endless square that opened up like a milk-white valley paved with large marble slabs. In the middle of it rose a giant domed building.
“The Church of Wisdom!” Baagh said, crossing himself.
The square was filled with common folk, guards, and Cross Sorcerers who caught my attention. They were dressed in gold or black robes, and most of them had long white beards, each one looking as if he had lived at least two hundred winters.<
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As we were walking toward the church gates, Baagh pointed to two white-haired old men. Each was standing motionless above a high platform. The platforms were mounted on huge vertical pillars about eight paces tall. Their faces were emaciated and empty of all life, and they reminded me of the oldest Guides of the Sieve. Many faithful had gathered around the base of each pillar, almost silent, whispering between their teeth, kneeling, and raising their hands to the sky.
“What are these two doing up there?” I asked Baagh, and he asked the young eunuch who was escorting us with the guards.
“They are stylites monks, the pillar dwellers, and they have been up there, by choice, for many summers and winters. They never come down, no matter what hardship may befall them, through wind and rain, snow and scorching sun. They eat and drink very little and pray all day, never talking to anyone. The one on the left has been up there for twelve winters now.”
“And he still hasn’t prevailed?” I asked.
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s like the Sieve, a trial, right?”
I had spoken to Baagh about the Sieve when I told him my Story. There was no way I could have avoided it.
“A trial without a winner. That monk is up there because he has renounced this world and the sins of man; his only mission is to ascend to God and triumph over death.”
“He looks pretty close to death to me,” I said.
The foolery ended abruptly when we entered the church. The eunuch led us through a side door to avoid the hundreds of faces that would fall upon us at the main gate. We were infidels; he reminded us. I took a few careful steps trying to adjust to the different light, and then lifted my head up. My knees trembled at that moment, and I nearly became a believer of the Cross. From the outside, it looked as if I would be entering yet another palace with thousands of rooms. But once inside, I realized that it was just one room. It felt bigger than the entire outside world, its size, weight, and light crashing down and making me smaller and smaller. As small as an ant in the Endless Forest. My head was permanently tilted back; my eyes fixed on the dome that seemed to float in the Sky. It was more than twenty men tall and wide. Curved windows lined the lower part, allowing abundant light to flow in around its base as if it were suspended in the air like a golden sun.
Their god and our goddess both believed they were destined to dominate the sky. But the men who built this church had been to the sky and seen its wonders. Their god seemed invincible painted up there, and I wanted to fall to my knees and cry. Baagh did just that. He knelt and brought three fingers to his forehead, his belly, and his chest, making the sign of the cross. Beams of sunlight streamed in through the west windows, and the waters of the marble-covered floor sparkled alive.
The walls were decorated with elaborate mosaics made with multicolored pebbles, glass pieces, and gold speckles. Thick red and purple curtains with designs embroidered in gold fell lavishly in folds from above, separating smaller rooms. That is what eternal life is like, I thought, warriors swimming in golden rivers, green-eyed virgins filling their cups with wine, and a feast of a hundred dishes. The priests who dragged their feet slowly and crossed their chests in the church wore towering hats and I imagined that they, too, hid their stretched heads like the Ouna-Mas. This is what I still remember. The redundant details of Thalassopolis.
“I have been here before,” I said to Baagh.
“You most certainly have not.”
“But it is the same.”
It was. I was in the Forest of Kar-Tioo, and the sun had slipped in myriad golden rays from the west, illuminating the green of the beech trees in early spring. I entered the church as I had entered the belly of the green beast, huge and terrible, untrodden and sanctified, like my first time in the Forest. Its magnitude melted my soul and, at the same time, filled me with jubilation for the wonders of this world and the next. The oak trunks and the fir trees of Kar-Tioo had become multicolored pillars that rose proud and tall toward the sky. The flowers, the fern, and the birds of the Forest had become elaborate mosaics on the walls. Each marble had taken on a different color, one for each forest flower: rose, red, yellow, and blue. The mosaics were made of tiny glass and stone pieces that Baagh called tesserae. The green of the moss, the blue of the lake water, and the white rose of the almond flowers were the colors that dominated the mosaics. Bright gold pieces made the figures shine. Crimson pieces stood out and breathed life into the mosaics. Crimson like the blood of Rouba, Er-Ren, the fallow deer I hunted, and all the other innocents who left their dying breath in the Forest.
Baagh walked to a burnished-gold candelabra that stood on a tripod, each leg ending in a carved lion’s head. He lit a candle and placed it in the sand-filled tray. Its edges were carved with elaborate shapes: crosses, angel wings, stars, and moons.
“Is this thing solid gold?” I asked.
All my men lived, suffered, and died on the campaign for less gold than what these candle stands around me weighed.
“This thing is to pray for the dead to receive forgiveness,” he said, clearly annoyed that I interrupted his invocation. “For the dead of Varazam,” he whispered. His candle rested among numerous others to weep its final burning tears.
“I can light one too?” I asked.
“If your soul is as pure as the beeswax of that candle,” he said.
It wasn’t. It was black, like the caked blood of the unburned.
“Guess I’ll have to light two then,” I mumbled.
I took two candles, lit them, and buried them together in the sand like two crossed blades.
“For the dead of Apelo,” I whispered.
Their painted god looked down from the dome all powerful and grave-faced, but he did not strike me with lightning. Maybe he feared my ninestar mark. Maybe he, too, mourned for the dead Blades of Apelo.
I walked further inside, to observe the painted wooden icons.
“This, I don’t understand,” I said, talking to myself.
The splendor of the church did not shine upon formidable emperors and invincible gods. The icons portrayed scrawny faces of unarmed men, humble and hunchbacked, with rings of light around their heads. The whole church was beaming with pride and luxury, yet their icons were the faces of hardship and humility.
And they were whispering to me:
“Look at us, you barbarian. We can build wonders that you cannot even imagine; we have wealth and craftsmanship you’ll never achieve. Even when you conquer our cities, the charred skeletons of our decrepit churches will remain your most awe-inspiring temples. But we, the greatest of men, are so humble before God that we lower our heads, not even daring to look at him.”
I asked Baagh about it.
“Humble, yes. Humility. Maybe the greatest lesson this god has taught me. You will learn it too. Everyone does; even the infidels like you learn humility, but usually when it’s too late.”
This god?
“Here, if you are looking for a sword-carrying saint. An icon of the bravest warrior of God,” said Baagh.
He pointed to a painted horse rider with a gray-white stallion and a bright-red mantle slaying a drakon with a long spear. Under the rib. The fate that will not turn. The drakon’s eyes at death were open and fearless, while the rider’s eyes were almost weeping, as if his own deed brought him sorrow.
I kept walking around until a different icon caught my attention and I stopped.
“Who is this?” I asked Baagh.
“The Archangel. God’s Firstblade.”
I stared at the sand-colored face of the Archangel, the brown locks of his long hair, his silver blade raised high. A blue cloth band covered his heart above his armor, tied tightly. I had seen his brown-skinned face, fierce and solemn, in the lake of Kar-Tioo, in the Blackvein of Sirol, in the Uruat River of the East, looking back at me every time I looked at their crystal waters. My face. His wings rose enormous and strong behind his shoulders, but he stood on the earth motionless, painted in wood. Could he fly, or we
re those wings a curse of iron, that held him chained, waiting in vain? Waiting for two blue eyes to erase his sadness forever.
Holy Church of Thalassopolis. The Endless Forest.
The burning incense choked my throat and filled my eyes with tears. I heard the ceremonial chanting from the upper levels of the church, long and drawn-out, male, lyrical, nasal songs of mourning. The eunuch approached Baagh and whispered something, and the old man told me it was time to leave.
“It is time for the hesperian service,” he said. “Infidels are not allowed to be present, not even the envoys of other kings.”
I walked out with the lamentations of the Cross worshippers coiling tightly around my neck. Their chanting voices were so similar to the songs of the Ouna-Mas. What was it that made me infidel or faithful, Drakon or Archangel, different and the same from them? What was it that made me a barbarian?
The moment I exited the temple, I wanted to scream in despair like a newborn child thrown into the world naked, cold, and unfed. The guards closed around us once we were outside, and for the first time, it crossed my mind that they were there to protect us and not because we were their prisoners. Their spears thudded once on the marble stones, and we took the road back to the Grand Palace. Despite the evening autumn breeze, I was still intoxicated by the experience, the oliban, and the wine.
We were escorted back to another room with walls made of brick and wooden shelves heavy with codices and scrolls. Carpus was waiting for us there, and he spent a long time looking at a sand-colored codex with Baagh. He cut his eyes in my direction a few times, and I suspected that they were discussing more than the codex. The servants brought fresh green and black figs and grapes. And more wine, even sweeter than the last. Carpus took a small knife and a spoon. With the first, he peeled the fruit and picked his teeth. With the second, he cleaned his ears. I didn’t know what to do with them, other than admire the silver handles, which were carved in the shapes of animal tails.
The half-moon night wrapped the palace gardens in a deafening silence. A young woman wearing a blue dress and a golden belt entered the room, sat across from us, and leaned with her shoulder against an instrument of wood and string. It looked like a double-curved golden bow, made for a giant with many strings. When her fingers ran over the strings, the bow’s sound fell like sweet rain inside my ears.
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