“Surely Golana, of all people, you’re the one who understands this. You understand power. What we seek is a great prize. Nothing comes for free; and a great prize carries a great price.”
Golana lowered her eyes, reluctantly nodded, and sighed.
“Aren’t we fortunate,” she sighed, “that the price is being paid in the currency of other people’s children?”
As the Urhemmedhin army neared Naddeghomra, its commanders became embroiled in a crucial debate over strategy.
Thus far they had swept easily from victory to victory, taking estates and towns as one would pluck peaches from a tree. But Naddeghomra, the ripest fruit of all, would be a different story. Indeed, the rebels had fared so well in the countryside largely because the Tnemghadi were concentrating their forces for a showdown at Naddeghomra. According to reliable intelligence, the city was being transformed into a mighty fortress. Moreover, the Tnemghadi had learned the lesson of Arbadakhar, where they’d been defeated more by forces within the walls than without. That would not be countenanced again.
So why not simply bypass Naddeghomra? Jehan could continue mopping up the countryside, conserving his forces, and letting the Tnemghadi rot inside their Naddeghomra bastion. Occupying a lone enclave in the midst of hostile territory, they would be in a virtual state of siege even with Jehan nowhere near. Sooner or later, Naddeghomra would open to Jehan.
For a final resolution of the issue, he convened his generals in his tent. Jehan himself sat like a sphinx, listening carefully but revealing no hint of his own views.
The case for bypassing Naddeghomra had its most vocal advocate in Kamil Kawaras; for half an hour he held forth on its advantages. But Golana argued that Kawaras’ plan would amount to a confession of weakness.
“And to fail at Naddeghomra,” Kawaras answered, “would be a demonstration of weakness.”
“That’s right,” added Kirdahi, “there’s no assurance we can crack this nut. We could break ourselves trying.”
“One must venture in order to gain,” the woman replied. Then she looked straight at Jehan with a confident smile. “What we seek is a great prize. Nothing comes for free; and a great prize carries a great price.”
“But this prize,” said Kawaras doggedly, “might in time be ours for free. Why get bogged down and sap our strength in a siege, when our present strategy is succeeding so well?”
“We are succeeding, yes, but every mile we march is a mile farther from our home base. We are really just wandering in the wilderness. But capture Naddeghomra, and that will be our capital, and everything else will fall naturally into our hands, as the planets revolve around the sun.”
Kawaras pulled his unkempt hair in exasperation, and began to frame a reply. But at that moment Jehan spoke up at last, to end the conference. “Your points are all well taken. We will go to bed and think on them.”
He stood up; the others nodded, and departed wearily to their tents to await Jehan’s decision.
“Are you really considering their plan?” Golana asked.
“No, I am merely humoring them. We came south for Naddeghomra, that is our destiny. And we cannot disappoint destiny.”
Jehan Henghmani looked out upon the City of Naddeghomra.
There was a glitter in his eye.
The River Amajap was a muddy brown, surrounding Naddeghomra on three sides. Further protection was afforded by the steep bluffs rising from the river banks, the plateau upon which the city was built. As a continuation of the walls of the natural table was Naddeghomra’s man-made wall, a muddy yellow color too.
Behind the wall one could glimpse the tips of the largest buildings, of yellow-white stucco, and here and there a dome, a taller tower or a narrow copper spire, all contained by the walls like fruit in a basket. And then, towering over everything else, looming godlike over the city, was The Maal.
The rest of Naddeghomra seemed to cling like humble moss at the feet of The Maal. Its immense size was staggering. And perfect in their clean, simple lines were the four pairs of towers, sweeping skyward, their white brilliance bouncing back the sunlight. The final tower, a shimmering crystal black, dominated with a serene and sinister arrogance.
This temple, thrusting up out of all the muddy colors, was what glittered in Jehan Henghmani’s eye; he could not pull his gaze away from it. For all his life he had heard of this monument, and its renown was one of infamy. Now, standing before it at last, he was astounded by its beauty, unlike anything he’d ever seen or imagined. This was a work of art, a majestic sculpture astride the horizon. Built centuries before, it did not appear ancient at all, but rather like an apparition that had come down from a thousand years into the future.
Golana’s eyes too were arrested by The Maal. “It’s grand, isn’t it?” she said.
Jehan agreed. “It accomplishes its purpose: to overwhelm us, to impress upon us the power and greatness of the Tnemghadi who built it.”
“The Tnemghadi are a great people, Jehan. They are a people of vision and daring, to have conceived and built this temple. We must not begrudge them that.”
“Yes. But nor must we be intimidated.”
With her eyes still fixed on the brilliant white towers, Golana nodded her head.
“So take a good look at it while you can, dear wife. For we must destroy The Maal.”
The siege of Naddeghomra began as did the one at Arbadakhar. The Urhemmedhin army was arrayed in a ring around the city, half of it on the lower bank of the Amajap, and the other half concentreatd to face the one wall unprotected by the river. There they pitched camp and set to waiting.
Naddeghomra waited too, for a sudden night attack. But unlike at Arbadakhar, this time the besiegers refused to attack at all. Days stretched into weeks, and still they sat doing nothing. This quiescent siege was quite unnerving to the Tnemghadi, for they realized the elegant simplicity of Jehan’s strategy: starvation.
He had placed his lines too far away to be vulnerable to arrows. However, the Tnemghadi had the walls bristling with catapult towers, colossal wooden contraptions capable of hurling their deadly loads far across the sky. Day and night, Jehan’s troops were pelted with fire bombs.
Yet this was a choice of weapons much to his liking. Gamely, he rigged up catapults of his own, knowing that the defenders confined within the city would sooner run out of ammunition than would the attackers. Moreover, a fire bomb could be far more devastating in a crowded city than on an open plain. Jehan’s men might scatter as a projectile screamed toward them, but Naddeghomra’s buildings could not be moved out of the line of fire. Every night would be illuminated by tongues of flame leaping above the city’s walls.
Jehan spent the long daylight hours riding his horse around his circular encampment, from the line confronting the city’s gates, across the Amajap by barge to the shadow of the bluffs, then across the river again at the other end of its twist, and around to where he’d started. Every day he made this circuit, sweltering beneath the pounding southern sun, to chat with the officers and troops, to bolster their morale as the siege dragged uneventfully on.
Each day, as he circled Naddeghomra, his eye moved irresistibly to the one landmark that remained always visible. And every time he looked at it, he swore The Maal would fall. The Tnemghadi had built it to symbolize their coming; and Jehan Henghmani would destroy it, to herald their fall.
At the end of each day’s circuit, well after sunset, he would return, weary and sweat-grimed, to his tents. Maiya would have his supper ready, and often she would bathe his face and feet, and then take his soiled clothing to be scrubbed. But never would she speak with him.
“Why do you burden my heart so?” he’d beg her with palms outspread. “You are my only child, I love you and I crave your love. There were years I thought you lost to me, but it seems I have not really gotten you back.”
Maiya’s eyes bore the icy fire of crystal and she sa
id, “I am not your only child.”
Jehan would finally close the flaps of his tent, to be alone with Golana. But the day’s labors were not over yet, for there still remained his lesson. Just as her first husband had taught language to Golana, now she was teaching her second husband.
Not until near midnight would they finally go to bed, naked in the baking southern heat. She would rub and knead his neck and arms and shoulders, massaging the pain that never left him—the enduring souvenir of Ksiritsa. They would make love. Then she would sleep with her arms encircling him, her head upon his chest and her thick hair bunched against his cheek. Jehan would often lie long awake, thinking, and holding close her warm, soft body. Only now might the pain in his own huge body subside, to give him a measure of peace.
“I have news to tell you,” she whispered one night, cradled in his arms.
“Yes?”
“I am with child.”
Jehan sat up abruptly, and hugged her.
“Are you glad?”
“I am very glad. I am delighted. This is wonderful news.”
In the dark, Golana could see the light of his smiling teeth. But then the light suddenly dimmed.
“What’s the matter, Jehan?”
“Nothing.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing.”
But he was thinking about Maiya.
BERGHARRA—Naddeghomra, Obsidional or Siege Piece, the dies for a ten-tayel gold coin struck onto a crude, oversized copper planchet. Year 1184. Obverse: portrait of Emperor Sarbat Satanichadh. Reverse: Imperial dragon with Naddeghomra mintmark. Breitenbach 2008, 41 mm. As in the case of most necessity issues, these were used to pay the troops after silver had run out. Very fine or better for wear, but poorly struck and corroded. (Hauchschild Collection Catalog)
3
IT WAS NEITHER Jehan’s army nor the Tnemghadi who were suffering most the horrors of the siege. The real victims were the Urhemmedhin citizens of Naddeghomra.
Khrasanna’s Viceroy, Hassim Alimansour, imposed a desperately rigorous regime. He regarded every inhabitant as a potential saboteur, and treated them accordingly. Platoons patrolled through the streets day and night, ruthlessly enforcing order. Not the slightest crooked word or look was tolerated. Offenders were hustled off without trial. The punishment now for even minor crimes was death, and there were daily public executions to instill terror into the citizens, lest they entertain any notion of aiding the besiegers.
Hassim Alimansour was determined to prevail, no matter what the cost. He would hold Naddeghomra for the Emperor, even if he had to sacrifice all its people to do it.
In anticipation of the siege, Alimansour had long been working to make Naddeghomra a self-contained world. New wells had been dug, and tanks erected to catch and store rainwater. Food supplies were hoarded up; many in Khrasanna went hungry in order to provision Naddeghomra against the siege. To supplement the hoarding, rooftop gardens were set up, and livestock was brought in to be housed in cramped street-pens.
Of course, any Naddeghomran able to flee the city had done so before Jehan’s arrival. The only laggards were those too poor to move, and the Tnemghadi, who had no place else to go. Even with Jehan snarling at its gates, Naddeghomra was the safest place for the Tnemghadi. Outside, they would not escape the peasant mobs.
Despite the husbanding of food and trimming the population, Alimansour knew he could not hold out forever. His only hope was to wear Jehan down and make the rebel relent out of sheer frustration. But Jehan knew this too, and was determined to stick it out.
Patiently he waited, never attacking, only trading fire bombs. The war was one of nerves, a contest of wills. Both sides wondered how it could ever reach a conclusion.
But as the siege dragged into its second year, Viceroy Alimansour found himself staring at depleted larders. All supplies were dwindling. Prices had soared to outrageous heights, spurred not only by scarcity but also by the Viceroy’s emergency coinage of larger denomination copper to pay his troops. This was to ensure that available provisions went to the soldiers and not to the civilians. Few could afford to buy food now, but there was very little left to buy in any case.
Meanwhile, Jehan’s unremitting bombardment had taken its toll. Not only fire bombs, but heavy boulders had been thrown at the city, to smash down what could not be burned. Naddeghomra had become a shambles, every street bearing the scars of war, many whole blocks leveled. Little could be done to rebuild under such conditions. Thousands of people were left homeless, forced to wander in the open. These uprooted hordes posed a direct threat to order; and Alimansour commanded that they be rounded up and put to death.
And these poor homeless citizens were not the only victims of the Viceroy. Hassim Alimansour was indeed prepared to exterminate the entire population of Naddeghomra in order to sustain his soldiery. To this end, he promulgated a most incredible decree: It was declared a crime punishable by death for any Urhemmedhin to possess or to eat any food.
To enforce this monstrous decree, the soldiers were given free rein to enter any dwelling, confiscate all food discovered, and summarily execute the culprits on the spot. Since this was actually their own last resort before starvation, the troops did not quail from full enforcement of the decree.
The streets of Naddeghomra became a jungle of guerrilla combat between the troops and the people, fighting over the few scraps of food that remained. Alimansour’s decree was an absurdity; in fact, all law had disintegrated by now, and naked force was the universal arbiter. Better armed and better fed, the soldiers had the upper hand. Now they began the systematic murder of all civilians in the city.
The people ate the cats and dogs and rats; they bloated their bellies with water and clay; they chewed on hide and leather; ate their shoes and ate their belts; and many of them, half delirious with hunger, even sucked rocks and gnawed on wood. They prayed for the deaths of their neighbors and children, because the dead were unhesitatingly eaten. The corpses would be fought over; and frequently, a desperately hungry man would not wait for a friend to die.
Jehan looked out at Naddeghomra, its fires flickering in his eye. He could only guess at the horrors taking place behind the walls, but it was obvious the Urhemmedhins were suffering prodigiously.
He had come to liberate them; instead, he was their angel of death. But there was no turning back. He was as much the prisoner of the forces he’d unleashed as were the Naddeghomrans. He had locked the city in a hold that he was powerless to relax.
And he did not lament it. He wanted Naddeghomra, regardless of what suffering it caused. Had he not suffered too? Hadn’t he been tortured? In the dungeon, he had dared to dream, and now he was so close, no remorse would hold him back.
Jehan armored himself too with the knowledge that he was liberating these people—even as they died like trapped rats, he was liberating them. They were dying so that their children could be free.
And then, in the fifteenth month of the siege— Endrashah, 1184—a breathless runner reached Jehan’s encampment. He brought an urgent message from the North, from Arbadakhar:
A city besieged by the army of Bergharra.
Out over the ramparts of Arbadakhar, Nattahnam Ubuvasakh scanned the horizon with fretful eyes.
The Leopard’s fine-hewn good looks and vicious cunning had brought him a long way in the world. Jehan’s march across the Qurwa had left Ubuvasakh as Governor of Taroloweh, and he was exultant at this undreamed-of power. For a year he played at rulership, exploiting to the hilt his newly acquired station. The Vraddagoon was expanded, furnished in luxurious style. There he hosted lavish banquets entertained by lovely girls dancing nude. Around him, he cultivated a new, crude high society, but his true forte was debauchery. For his private use, he assembled a harem of concubines, all paid prostitutes, both male and female. Little real attention was paid to the affairs of the province which, outside t
he Vraddagoon, was starving.
Then Nattahnam Ubuvasakh’s bubble burst.
Dug in around him was a Tnemghadi army six times larger than his own. It was true that the city’s fortifications were sturdy, and the boiling pitch and arrows rained down on the attackers were holding them at bay. But the people of Arbadakhar had grown to despise their negligent and profligate governor. Moreover, the city was not really up to weathering another siege so soon after its last one. Thus Ubuvasakh’s position was, to say the least, precarious.
Jehan Henghmani was in fact his only hope. Without massive aid from the outside, Arbadakhar was doomed. This was the desperate message entrusted to runners, sent out to try to breach the Tnemghadi cordon. Ubuvasakh assumed that at least one of his dozen messengers would reach Jehan. But he could by no means assume help would come.
After all, Jehan was himself mired in a bitter siege— of a city far more crucial than Arbadakhar. For Jehan to rush northward on a rescue mission would be nothing other than a supreme act of loyalty to Leopard Ubuvasakh.
And the Leopard wondered: What suspicions did Jehan harbor regarding his family’s betrayal, eight years before?
That was why Nattahnam Ubuvasakh was looking out over the ramparts with worried eyes.
Jehan castigated himself. This disaster should have been foreseen!
The Tnemghadi were plagued by ever-increasing Akfakh depredations in the north and gripped in a deathlock at their southern underbelly. Sarbat had seen the chance to strike a blow in the middle. The attack upon Arbadakhar was an eminently sensible commitment of available resources. This way, even if Jehan took Naddeghomra, Sarbat would at least reclaim the northern Urhemmedhin lands, quarantining Jehan far to the south.
This placed Jehan on the horns of a cruel dilemma.
One alternative was simply to stay put at Naddeghomra. Under siege for more than fourteen months, its fall could only be a matter of time. Naturally Jehan was loath to let those fourteen months go in vain, to let this gem slip through his fingers. Naddeghomra was a far greater prize than Arbadakhar. He could burn his bridges, leave Taroloweh to the Tnemghadi, and establish himself in greater glory at the City of Urhem.
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