Master Garu continued, “And in the great tradition of our venerable Games, we have this year, a daring, new participant. This young man wishes to stand where El-Windiir once stood and repeat his victory, so to speak. One who wants to win, not only the Games, but his freedom: the slave, Ahiram. Let us therefore salute his courage—”
Someone shouted, “His stupidity,” and the crowd guffawed. Master Garu waited until the cackle subsided before continuing, “…and wish him the best of luck.” An awkward silence followed, and the two teams from Quibanxe applauded. Ahiram looked at them, startled. Their applause died quickly when the crowd began to boo Ahiram once more.
The King and the high priestess sat down and the Queen, holding a white handkerchief, stood up. Eleven arbitrators ran to the posts and lowered the banners. The drums started beating, first slowly, then faster and faster, until at last, the Queen dropped the handkerchief. The twelve trumpets blared to the cheer of the crowd. The teams rushed into the mine, except for Ahiram, who had to wait half an hour.
Since the Games took place inside the mines and out of sight of the spectators, jesters, actors, acrobats, musicians, and singers would soon invade the plaza to entertain the crowd. Arbitrators, strategically posted in the mines, kept the spectators abreast of the players’ progress. As each team neared the exit, the arbitrators would raise that team’s banner.
Ahiram surveyed the crowd, trying to recognize any friendly face. The sun was in his eyes, and he recognized no one. He stared at the dark, gaping hole leading into the mine and shuddered. Now that the goal was so close, he felt afraid. This half hour seemed the longest of his life.
Prince Olothe and his team entered the mines last. This, Olothe did on purpose. He let the other teams take the lead, while he and his men lingered behind. When he was sure that only his men could hear him, he gave three of them a simple and stern order:
“Get rid of this slave, understand? Do what you must.”
With the rest of his team, he took off running. The men left behind decided to wait for Ahiram around the first bend, in a hidden alcove where the daylight, seeping from shafts high above, could not reach. The Silent would have to be as thin as a shadow to avoid their blades.
Ahiram looked at the hourglass on the judges’ table; the half hour had elapsed a moment ago. Hylâz, one of the four judges, took notice and at last, gave the signal. His fear and anguish instantly forgotten, Ahiram leaped into action. However, instead of going into the mine through the main entrance, he continued along the western path. Someone shouted, “Lo, the slave is running away!” Promptly, the crowd stood up. Many ran after him, nearly trampling the performing mimes who scrambled to higher ground. Ahiram glanced back and saw the crowd surging like an angry wave. He winced and sped up, following the bend in the road. He sprinted toward a boulder and leaped, grabbing a rope lodged there. He climbed quickly. By the time the crowd reached the boulder, he was already halfway up. One man tried to pull on the rope, but luckily, the trumpets sounded. The crowd quieted and made way for the judges. Ahiram was now two hundred feet high, near the top of the rock face, and the judges caught only a glimpse of him.
“Climbing up, I see. Rather original,” said Hylâz. He adjusted thin spectacles over his prominent nose and squinted in the light, trying to see Ahiram. The Silent had fully disappeared from view. Hylâz inspected his velvet, light-brown coat, struggling to cover his wide girth with it, and was relieved that it had not been sullied in the excitement.
“Is this action against the regulations?” asked Ramany, a second judge. He scratched his bald head, shaped like an elongated egg gleaming under the sun, and tensed his neck muscles, as if he was having difficulty swallowing. His deep-blue, velvet coat floated around his tall, thin frame, like a ghost hovering over a pole.
“I do not believe so,” replied Master Garu, standing nearby in his white, velvet coat. “We must check the exact wording of the rules. If memory serves me right, the regulations stipulate that the judges shall declare as a winner the first team to come out of the mines with a validated pair of bronze shoes. Nowhere does it say that the participants have to enter the mines, let alone enter through the main doorway.”
“Hmm… this is awkward, we must amend the rules,” mumbled Ibromaliöm, the fourth judge. He was tall, perhaps not as tall as Ramany, but with a stronger build. Unlike the three other judges, Ibromaliöm’s pepper-black beard seemed perennially unkempt, hardly able to cover cheeks so hollow they looked emaciated. A pair of thick, dark eyebrows loomed like two vultures over tiny, black eyes. The judge’s bony frame gave him the appearance of a scarecrow, and whenever he flashed a smile, his white, sharp teeth startled those standing nearby. He looked like a predator about to devour his prey.
“Most certainly,” replied Garu, “but amendments will do us no good in the present circumstances; they can apply only to next year’s Games. Meanwhile, we had better return to the plaza and let these poor mimes resume their show. Let us see what this action portends. My friends, something tells me these Games shall be keeping us very busy.”
With these words, Garu started walking back. He walked impatiently, and the three other judges had difficulty keeping up with him. When they arrived in the open space, he immediately reported the events diligently to the King and Queen. The crowd lingered, inspecting the rope that hung lifeless against the mountainside. Some touched it, others yanked it. One by one, they went back to the plaza, wondering what the slave hoped to achieve by climbing that rope.
Ahiram peered inside the dark, gaping hole. The long rope, neatly wrapped on a short ledge, was still there. Tied sturdily to an iron ring by one end, it was ready to be lowered. He closed his eyes and listened for the slightest movement below, but heard nothing. He removed his white coat, appearing in the shimmering green and gray uniform of the Silent. When Olothe drew attention to Ahiram earlier, every player saw him in white. “Your best disguise is the strong impression your enemy has of you,” Commander Tanios had said. “Strong… and dead wrong.”
He dropped the rope down the hole and waited for it to unfurl quietly before starting his descent. It swayed in the cold draft circulating in the upper parts of the mine. He suspended his descent for a moment to allow his eyes time to adjust to the dimmed light, and then resumed. He lowered himself soundlessly. No one was around when he reached the sandy ground. He stayed motionless for a moment, surveying the surroundings until he was certain that no one had spotted him. Quickly, he hid the rope by rolling it up and wedging it between two rocks, then he began walking toward the exit. He moved rapidly from cave to cave, the sand muffling his footsteps.
Whether these caves were related to the mines—where El-Windiir slaved under the bane of the Lords of the Pit—was a favorite topic of debate for the judges of the Games. What was certain is that over time, treasure hunters—questing for the tomb where the weapons of the founder allegedly resided—expanded the subterranean complex, turning it into a huge labyrinth of hallways and rooms which included the circuit that Ahiram was presently following. Some even say an entire community of Undergrounders hid in large caves below, waiting for the day of liberation. Others whispered of hidden temples and dark magic in secret chambers deep within the belly of the mountain. Ahiram did not care much for these folktales. Instead, he spent two years crisscrossing the upper levels of the mines where the Games took place until he knew his way around them like the back of his hand.
The idea of participating in the Games was not his. It was old Habael who planted this seed and helped him to organize his plan of action: study, train, and win. The old man was a mystery. Some say Habael entered Magdala, the forbidden forest, and came back changed. Although he was a gardener, he seemed at times to wield more power than the King himself. In fact, the King, on more than one occasion, had asked Habael to interpret a few of his disturbing dreams. The King wanted to make Habael a personal adviser, but the old man stubbornly refused, stating that his place was in the garden. Ahiram would have been surprised had he kn
own that Habael refused the advisory position in order to stay close to the one he affectionately called “the lad”. Ahiram would have been very surprised, indeed, if he had known what Habael thought of him.
The caves where the Games took place were huge. It would have taken anyone several days to cross them from one end to the other, assuming that the traveler knew his way. Often, arbitrators rescued a team that had wandered too deep into the mines. When not mediating, they earned their keep by leading pilgrims into the safest section of the caves, where the ground was clean and the walls safely smoothed. They made most of their earnings during the busiest two weeks of the year; the end of the month of Ayyâr, which signaled the close of the harvest. At that time, thousands of pilgrims came for the festival of El-Windiir and thronged the mines.
Traditionally, the head arbitrator hid the bronze shoes two-thirds of the way into the Hall of Rippling Pillars. The players in the Game of Bronze raced to the hall, frantically searched for the shoes, and made a mad dash to the exit. The last stretch wound its way through a real maze of honeycombed caves, where teams were bound to get lost. Frequently, laggard teams would catch up, steal the shoes, and reach the exit before their victims could manage to stop them.
As far as the arbitrators were concerned, the Game had been too easy if the players’ clothes were clean when they reached the exit.
Nearing the Hall of Meetings, Ahiram heard an arbitrator speak clearly, as if he were standing next to him. He stopped, leaned against the nearby wall, and listened. In this peculiar cave, one could hear a whisper as clearly as a shout. Allegedly, El-Windiir met with his men here before the last onslaught of the Lords of the Pit.
“How many teams so far?”
“Only one.”
“Bahiya’s?”
“Yes. Her team is fast, traveling like it had a map of the place. You should have seen them zipping by here and taking the right turn without hesitation. I tell you, they know what they are doing.”
“I suppose…”
“What do you mean, ‘I suppose’? You suppose what?”
“Oh, come on. Are you so naïve? Don’t you know the lead arbitrator has rigged the Game?”
“Rigged?” exclaimed the first arbitrator.
“Not so loud. Do you want us hanged?” cut in the second, in a hushed voice. “Of course. It is political. They want the team of Baal to win. Imagine if a local team won these Games over Baal.” The tone was now conspiratorial. “Some might just take this victory to be the signal…”
“Signal? For what?”
“I was having a couple of ales with Arif a few nights back—”
“Oh, where did you go?”
“Well, you were on your night shift, so that’s why we didn’t tell you. We went to the Flying Tankard—”
“The Flying Tankard? Are you out of your mind? That tavern is for cutthroats. We’re not supposed to go there.”
“Arif has connections, and besides, that’s where you’ll find the best ale. Anyway, while there, I heard that liberation will soon be at hand. The underground movement is ready to free us from Baal. All they need is a signal to rouse the people. The Baalites have increased their patrols. They do not feel as comfortable in our streets as they used to. Even the King wants Baal to win.”
“The King?” The first arbitrator was shocked.
“Of course. Where have you been these last few years?”
“Well, you know me, when I am not arbitrating or serving as a guide, I am up there with the shepherds.”
“Oh yes, I forgot, you are one of them.”
“What do you mean? Oh, never mind, tell me about the King.”
“Without the Baalites, I tell you, he would be as much of a King as a dead fish. Baal maintains him in power and he knows it. In fact, he sacrifices also to… you know… the foreign god.”
“He does?”
“Yes, why do you think he is childless?”
“No. That would be taking it too far.”
Ahiram sighed. The arbitrators were known for their gullibility. They were ready to believe anything and everything. That the King had sympathy toward Baal was obvious, but that he sacrificed his newborn children to Baal was simply not true. The Silent were guardians of the castle; they knew more than people thought they did. Arbitrators liked to mistake goats for children.
“Tell me then,” continued the first arbitrator, “Why did the King give the team of Baal a map revealing where the shoes are hidden in the Hall of Rippling Pillars?”
Ahiram froze. If the team of Baal knew where every pair was, they may have picked up all the bronze shoes. He would already have lost. Before the second arbitrator had a chance to speak, Ahiram leaped and stood between them.
“Is this true?” he asked, as if he had been part the conversation
The startled men jumped from fright, seeing Ahiram appear out of nowhere.
“Is what true?” asked the second arbitrator in a shaky voice.
“What you said about the map and the location of the shoes?”
The chubby man opened his eyes wide. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Ahiram pinned him against the wall while keeping an eye on the first. “Is this true?” He relaxed his hold and continued quietly, almost on a friendly note: “If you do not want Baal to win, you had better help me, if I win, then the team from Baalbeck will lose.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” repeated the man, glancing quickly behind the Silent’s back.
In one swift movement, Ahiram lifted the man, pivoted sideways and threw him on top of the three attackers who were creeping up behind him. “Prince Olothe,” said Ahiram, anger flaring in his eyes, “I should have guessed.”
The prince was moving slowly, quiet as a cat, sword in hand, when the arbitrator crashed into him and his men. By the time the prince managed to get the screaming arbitrator off of him, Ahiram had disappeared.
“O my soul, fear the poison of envy, for it will burn your heart and tear you apart. Envy is, and will always be, your worst enemy.”
–Book of Lamentation, chapter 9, verse 7
“Fools, idiots, incompetents!” Olothe exclaimed, as he brushed the sand off his clothes. He looked at his team. “Wait until I get my hands on those three monkeys I stationed by the entrance. I enjoined them to kill him, and look, the slave is ahead of us. Well, what are you waiting for? After him.”
His men looked at him and then looked at all the pathways that sprang out of the Hall of Meetings.
“Which way?” asked one of them hesitantly. “He could be anywhere.”
“He went this way,” said the second arbitrator, pointing out one of the pathways.
Immediately, the three men bolted down the path. The prince picked up his sword and looked at the two arbitrators. “Say a word about what happened here and your ears are gone.” He whipped the air with his sword a hair’s breadth away from their ears. “Understood?”
“Yes, Your Highness, yes,” stammered the second arbitrator. The first was trying to control the clattering of his teeth.
“Very well, then. You said this way?”
“Yes, Your Highness, this way.”
“I hope for your sakes that you are not lying.”
Presently, Ahiram was in the Hall of Rippling Pillars, a large triangular space where a stack of smooth, round slabs stood in all three corners. A shaft of light flooded the area around each stack, and the combined reflection of the three sources on the glittering ceiling lit the hall with a soft-amber light. The stacks were sixteen feet high, and of unknown origin and purpose. The Silent was crouching on top of the northeastern pile. Having finished surveying the room, he stood up. The shoes of bronze were nowhere to be found.
Most likely, the team of Baal grabbed all of them, thought Ahiram. Right before they leave the mine, they’ll keep one pair and drop the rest.
Carrying more than one pair while in the mine was licit, but leaving the mine with more than one meant instant disqualification.
I have to reach them before they get out, thought Ahiram. He was about to jump when Olothe and his men entered the room. One of them inspected the ground.
“So?” asked Olothe, exasperated. “Where is he?”
Ahiram was lying on the flat rock. What madness possesses this man? he wondered. Why is he so hell-bent on stopping me? I am beginning to think his mission is to kill me, but why? What does he have to gain?
“Not too far, Your Highness,” replied his teammate.
Ahiram preferred not to confront the prince, but Olothe, it seemed, did not leave him any choice.
This one knows how to read tracks. Better get rid of him first, thought the Silent.
Olothe’s acolyte was still inspecting the ground, while the prince and the two others were watching him. He drew closer to the pile of rocks, where Ahiram was perched. After hesitating for a second, he lifted his head to inspect the rock. At that moment, Ahiram jumped and landed a few feet away from him. The Silent’s opponent reacted swiftly, faster than Ahiram had anticipated, so his kick landed on the shoulder rather than the head. Nonetheless, it was strong enough. The prince’s teammate fell, moaning with pain.
The two others charged Ahiram, with the one on his right being slightly faster than the one on his left. He waited for the first attacker to come within reach and pivoted quickly, grabbing his opponent by his shirt and propelling him against the rock. The man slammed hard on the surface and crumpled to the ground. Ahiram reversed his pivot, shifting his body so that his back was purposely turned to the prince. He treated the second man like the first, with good results.
Olothe took advantage of the situation and charged Ahiram with his sword over his head. This is what Ahiram was hoping for. He bent backward, letting the blade whiz over him harmlessly. Then, as the prince’s arm moved away from Ahiram, exposing Olathe’s side and back, he kicked the prince in the side, throwing him onto the floor. He followed through with three powerful blows that caused Olothe to reel in pain. Ahiram kicked the sword away, and as the prince tried to lift himself up, Ahiram kicked him in the face. The prince fell flat on his back, unconscious. Ahiram heard a rustle behind him and crouched down. The first attacker slung a jagged rock at him, which ripped into his shoulder, sending a shock of pain deep into his joint. He turned around, ignoring the pain, and delivered a powerful blow that knocked his opponent down. Ahiram took off running, but the pain in his sliced shoulder was acute and he knew it would hinder him from reaching Hiyam and her team before the exit. Reluctantly, he stopped in a secluded alcove to dress the wound—the gash was deep. He opened the pouch that Master Habael had given him, and gently applied the pungent, dark red paste. His shoulder burned, but he knew the medicine would have its effect soon. He secured the pouch back in his belt and resumed his sprint.
Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1) Page 14