These projectiles were made of loosely joined shards of naphtha-soaked wood which were set ablaze. They would burst into pieces when they struck, scattering fragments of fire in all directions. The rude dwellings of Zidneppa, walled with wood, hide, or cloth, went up quickly in flames.
Jehan stood on the rise overlooking the city spread out at his feet. Everywhere were flames; no section had been spared by the diabolic fire balls. Clearly, no defense was possible against the ships. Zidneppa, Jehan’s first glorious conquest, was lost, being pounded into a graveyard of ashes before his eyes.
For a long minute he stared, contemplating the disaster in silence. Then he summoned Kirdahi and Kawaras, and dispatched them down into the city, directing them to immediately organize a complete evacuation. There was nothing else to be done.
Pelted by the hail of fire, the people of Zidneppa left their homes forever, while Jehan’s army—their own army of liberation—looked on, impotent. The only thing the Urhemmedhin soldiers could do was to coax the people along. Those not already burned out had quickly thrown together their possessions into sacks and carts; many fled with little more than the clothes on their backs.
Jehan remained on the bluff, standing to watch the refugees stream out of their city. He knew what they must be thinking.
These people had persevered through centuries of poverty and oppression. Then, for a few brief months, they had glimpsed the promise of a better life, a moment in the sun. Now they were paying dearly for that one precious moment. The night would descend on them again, and forever.
How they must wonder at their shaken faith—and at the power of the Emperor-god, to punish them so swiftly for their impudence! And the punishment was as harsh as it was speedy. Zidneppa would be razed, never to be rebuilt, nor could these people ever rebuild their shattered lives. They were going forth now into a wilderness where terror, bloodshed, and starvation reigned.
They snorted grimly, some of them, thinking that only fools had expected the moment in the sun to last. Life isn’t like that, they knew. Did anyone really imagine that their savior had come? Fools! Did they suppose this mutilated cutthroat was the Ur-Rasvadhi? There would never be one; there would never be a promised land. Life promised nothing except misery.
All day it continued, the stream of people out of Zidneppa, trudging with their belongings and slatternly children, tears streaking their sooty faces. As night fell, the refugees huddled on the windy bluffs above the city to watch the spectacle of its burning. By now, Zidneppa was in the throes of a single all-consuming fire. They watched it lighting up the sky, and they mourned the loss of everything, of all their hopes, all they’d held dear. And there were many, many lives to mourn as well: their sons and husbands slaughtered on the battlefield, their people cut down by fire bombs. Horrible pictures were seared into their memories, of friends or brothers staggering enswathed with flames, screaming as they died in agony.
They mourned too for the thousands left behind, who had refused to quit their homes. Mostly aged people, poor and ignorant, they had lived in one spot all their lives, and would not budge. Despite the hopelessness of their situation, the fire falling from the sky, they refused to be dragged out. There was nothing to be done for them. Clinging bitterly to their homes or hovels, they were swallowed by the flames.
At sunrise, the bombardment stopped. Coming in close to shore, the Tnemghadi ships disgorged their cargoes of fresh imperial troops.
They spent the early morning in cumbrous disembarcation. Since Zidneppa was still a fire pit, they were forced to circle the long way around it, in order to launch their attack upon the people who had escaped from the city. This gave the Urhemmedhins ample warning, and time to - develop a strategy. The refugees remained camped on the hilltops, giving every appearance of being a helpless civilian target. But meanwhile, Jehan’s soldiers hid out of sight behind the hills.
The Tnemghadi never reached the refugee bait. In a well-executed maneuver, the insurgent troops swooped down from the crests of the hills. The imperial forces had the burning city at their backs, and their lines of retreat around it had been cut off by Jehan’s men. Thusly trapped, none escaped; they were massacred. It was Jehan’s second victory in as many days, and this time, he knew the victory would stick.
There was nothing now for the battleships to do, save pull up their anchors and return back up the coast.
Swelled with triumph, Jehan Henghmani watched the four ships sail away. Then, he looked one last time at the smoking ruins of Zidneppa.
He would not forget this city. Nevertheless, he was bigger than Zidneppa now, and much remained ahead of him. And so, the victor of the Battle of Zidneppa did not waste time in mourning for the city that had given him that victory.
He turned and marched his army westward.
Book Three
Arbadakhar
1
IN THE SIXTEENTH year of the reign of Tnem Al-Khoum Satanichadh, there was born a child at Arbadakhar, to a man named Giradi Resseh.
This Giradi Resseh had come there years before, from the Province of Rashid, as a foot-soldier in the Bergharran army. Unsatisfied with the mean life of a common infantryman, he had managed to learn reading and writing, and became a scribe at the Vraddagoon, the viceregal palace. In time, through perspicacity and prudence, Giradi Resseh had risen to a position of some small authority: he was deputy to the Provincial Tax Assessor, with a private office in the Vraddagoon.
Resseh married a young woman named Zeni, the daughter of a fellow government functionary; and when, in the sixteenth year of Tnem Al-Khoum, his wife grew large with child, he prayed that his firstborn would be a son.
Day after day he went into the temple, prostrating himself before the idol of the Emperor, begging to receive the blessing of a son, who might grow into a man of eminence. Resseh dreamed of spending his later years basking in the glow of a successful son, perhaps a viceroy or a minister of state. The boy’s name had already been settled: he would be called Golan, which meant “wise ruler.”
But the Emperor-god ignored Resseh’s prayers, and the child was a girl. Resseh was bitterly disappointed, even indignant, after all the veneration he had lavished upon the ruler! And despite the seeming absurdity of a female being a “wise ruler,” Resseh nevertheless bestowed the selected name upon his daughter: Golana.
In due course, Zeni Resseh again became pregnant, and her husband felt confident that this time his prayers would finally be rewarded. In a grand flourish of piety, Resseh visited the temple every morning and every evening, and half impoverished himself with offerings. Yet this time, his disappointment was even more bitter: Not only was his wife delivered of another girl, but she herself did not survive the rigors of childbirth.
Giradi Resseh reeled from this dual blow. He cried aloud that the Emperor was mocking him, and that his life was cursed.
Saddled with two small daughters and no wife, he was forced to hire a nursemaid, and his finances were severely pinched. Moreover, he could not spare away from his home as many hours as his post at the Vraddagoon demanded. Giradi found his work deteriorating, his position slipping. Life was all sour.
Its only bright spot was Golana, fortunately a robust, clever child who quickly grew tall. When she was eight, there were no more nursemaids, and the entire management of the household fell upon the girl. She had to do all the chores herself, all the shopping, mending, sewing, cleaning, and cooking, and minding her little sister, Tama. But she did all this without visible strain.
Golana was a handsome girl. Her hair was abundant and black, a pure blue-black made all the more striking by her complexion, which was peach-pink instead of the familiar brown. Presumably there was some foreign blood in her mother’s lineage. Perhaps the only flaw in her looks was the single Tnemghadi eyebrow line bisecting her face. It made her appear humorless and stern.
She grew tall, outstripping her father while still a child. Her long body
was slender and supple like a racing hound’s, even as she passed into the beginnings of womanhood. Her limbs were finely hewn, and one always noticed her fingers, deft and delicate.
Much as Giradi Resseh loved this fine daughter, the lack of a son still rankled. Such great things he had envisioned for that son! But he realized that he might have them yet, albeit once removed. When Golana commenced to flower, her father began to think of marriage for her.
It was not unusual for a Tnemghadi girl to be married off at an early age, and often such marriages would be contracted while the bride and groom were still in their cribs. In seeking a husband for Golana, Resseh hoped that her exceptional attributes would offset his lack of station. He was determined to arrange a match that would enhance his status at the Vraddagoon, and his little wealth. Perhaps he could then afford servants and slaves, perhaps even a pretty young girl or two, whom he could take to bed.
It came to Giradi Resseh’s ears that a certain Eshom Mutsukh was interested in marriage. Now this was a man of substance: Of good family, owning rich lands, Mutsukh was a poet, scholar, and historian. Most important, Eshom Mutsukh had recently been appointed Magistrate of Arbadakhar, the chief judicial officer of the province. A stout, slightly hunchbacked man of forty, he had lost his wife to cholera some years before.
It took considerable courage on Resseh’s part to approach such a man, but he did go to Mutsukh’s house. There he bluntly broached his proposal. Although the Magistrate was hardly impressed with Resseh, he did recall hearing somewhere that the man’s daughter was quite a girl. Accordingly, he agreed to come to Resseh’s home for dinner several evenings hence.
Her father did not tell Golana why the Magistrate was coming, only that she must prepare the finest meal she had ever cooked. Then, before the distingushed guest arrived, the girl was bathed and perfumed, her hair carefully arranged; and she was decked out in a sparkling new white gown, low-necked and armless to display her radiant pink skin, and tight-fitting to manifest her sleek figure.
The Magistrate was instantly captivated by this tall young girl, especially by the firm intelligence of her eyes. Immediately after dinner, taken aside by Resseh, Mutsukh agreed to marry Golana, and agreed to Resseh’s marriage- price as well. Resseh had the contract already prepared, and it was signed that very night, with Mutsukh’s personal seal impressed in red wax by his ring.
Golana had already gone off to bed; her father roused her to explain everything. The girl was aghast. At fourteen years of age, she had never thought of marriage, and had only a vague conception of what it would entail. But she understood enough to know it would be a radical change in her life. Up to now she had been confident and secure, taking quiet joy in running the house. Now that was all swept away, and she faced a great unknown.
The girl remonstrated with her father for an hour to revoke the marriage contract, but he refused. It couldn’t be done. At last he said that he would hear no more, that she must obey her father. Left alone, Golana sobbed until dawn.
In the next few weeks, she was the bewildered center of a whirlwind of preparations. All at Mutsukh’s expense, dressmakers besieged her with measurements and fittings, hairdressers fussed over her head, and manicurists pounced upon her fingers. A woman-servant was sent to instruct her on how to be a lady. She was taught the proper table etiquette, how to walk and how to speak in refined company, and a hundred other things she’d never thought about.
Not until the morning of her wedding day was Golana first brought to her bridegroom’s house. It was one of the grand houses of Arbadakhar, a two-storied structure with an open central courtyard, ornamented with trees and flower beds and stately live peacocks. It was all so beautiful that it flooded over the banks of her imagination.
A servant gave her a rapid tour through all the rooms, and then she was told to wait in the garden the final hour before the wedding. But she disobeyed, and returned to the room in the house which she had found to be the most curious. It was the library, in fact the finest in Taroloweh, but Golana had no idea of that. She didn’t know what a book was, had never seen one before. It was their strangeness that had drawn her back to the library. Now, alone there, she handled Mutsukh’s books and scrolls, passing her hands over them in reverent awe. She knew only that their writing contained mysteries far beyond her; and the illustrated texts were maddeningly tantalizing.
Then came the marriage ceremony, a brief one performed by one of the chief priests of the temple. It was dull and sober, and Golana went through it feeling like an object manipulated by her elders. But the feast that followed was more pleasant. It lasted from early in the afternoon through well into the night, and Golana tasted many unfamiliar delicacies. Festooned with Mutsukh’s jewels in her elaborate marriage dress, she was a center of fond attention, with all the guests generous in their compliments. Between such flattery and the delicious food, the young girl’s aversion to the marriage softened.
At the wedding, too, Golana met her husband’s children, a fifteen-year-old boy named Eshom after his father, and a girl of twelve named Mara. They exchanged shy smiles with her, and she hoped these children could become her friends in the big house. Golana didn’t grasp that she was to be their mother; and she didn’t yet comprehend what it would mean for her to be the wife of the old and ugly man who was their father.
But her initiation was not to be delayed. When the feast was finally over, and the last sodden guest had departed, Eshom Mutsukh took his bride by the hand and led her to the bedchamber. Entranced by all the glitter, all the food and wine she’d had, Golana was aglow, and avowed that she would be happy here.
“I’m very glad,” her husband answered. “I want you to be happy.”
In the bedchamber, Mutsukh lit a dim yellow lamp. He drew slowly close to Golana, and taking her face in his hands, he gently kissed her on the forehead and then on the lips. The touch of his hands was hot, and she did not like his face so close to hers, but she tried to smile and please him.
Then his fingers went to the front of her marriage gown, and he began undoing its buttons. Golana’s eyes suddenly enlarged with distress—this old man was trying to unclothe her!
She pushed Mutsukh away; she was taller and stronger than her squat, hunchbacked husband. But he only laughed lightly at this rebuff, and looked at her with bovine eyes.
“Don’t be shy,” he whispered. “Don’t you understand? You are my wife now.”
Golana stared blankly at him.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle. But you must take off your dress, Golana.”
Her heart gripped with ice, the girl’s mind spun. Her father had given her no instructions save one: that she must obey her husband in all things. And so, her eyes stinging with silent tears, Golana undid her wedding dress, and then the shift beneath it.
Quivering with shame, she stood naked.
Mutsukh came forward and took her in his arms. She felt dizzy with loathing at the touch of this ugly creature, yet she was stricken stiff by her father’s firm instruction. Her muscles were locked rigid as Mutsukh kissed her face and neck.
The Magistrate was gentle, as promised, when he laid her down upon the bed, caressing her hair and face and body lightly, whispering again that she need not be afraid. But she was startled by the liberty with which his hands explored her body, stroking her breasts and private parts, and her horror was not alleviated by the pleasurable tingles it gave her. They were grossly incongruous with what she was feeling, and thus made her ordeal all the more frightening. For all Mutsukh’s gentle whispers, it might just as soon have been some enormous slimy worm that was pressing down upon her. Eyes pinched shut, Golana forced herself to submit.
When he spread her legs and squeezed his organ into her, she did not even realize what it was, only that it hurt her. After everything that had already happened, this ripping pain scalded her with its awful prospect. Where would this end, how far would he torment her?
&
nbsp; At last his fat misshapen body rolled off. He lay panting for a moment, and then blew out the light. Golana did not move, she couldn’t. She waited with a pounding heart for what travesty might happen next, in the dark.
But there were only some more soft words from her husband, and then his snoring, and she surmised her ordeal was over for the nonce. Still shivering with misery, she crawled under the covers, pulled them over her head and drew her knees up into a foetal ball. She was in pain and her legs were damp with blood, but it was the repulsive vision that assaulted her, and she spit forth coughing sobs. How could such monstrosities have happened to her? She wished furiously that she were back in her own bed in her father’s house.
When Golana awoke, late the next morning, Mutsukh was gone. She felt stiff, her joints were aching. Worse, though, she was still full of the night’s horror, and she huddled a long time beneath the covers. At last, wrapping herself in a blanket, she went to the door and opened it a crack.
“Good morning, Madame,” came the voice of a servant woman. She had been waiting dutifully outside the door, probably for hours.
Golana, saying nothing, opened the door and surrendered into the custody of this woman. The servant led her to a bath in perfumed water, scrubbed off the blood from her thighs, and then dressed her in a fresh silk robe. Finally, Golana was served a breakfast on a tray, but she ate very little.
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