Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1)

by Michael Joseph Murano

  “My dear Habael, what is your wish?” asked the King.

  Habael bowed deeply. “Perhaps the King would consider the advice of the King’s servant. By sitting with the royal assembly, Ahiram has fulfilled the requirements for the winner. If the King were to order him outside, he would satisfy the requirements for a slave.”

  The King looked at Habael, impressed and relieved. “Indeed so, my dear Habael. Slave, go eat outside.”

  Ahiram bowed before the King, picked up his plate and made his way to the terrace without incident. He was grateful for Habael and relieved to be on his own. The tension had been diffused. The King and his guests were relieved to see Ahiram leave, and he was even happier to be out of sight. For once, he thought, I will eat a warm dish in peace.

  “An etching on the Bridge of Silver depicts a man holding a libre over his head before an altar of Tanniin. As I prepared for the long journey home, I saw in a vision, an altar of the flying god. On this altar, a libre lurks, waiting for a man of greed to find it, and fall prey to the madness within.”

  –Introduction to the Book of Knowledge, Ussamiah the Togofalkian, 123rd Guardian of the Empty Seat of the Librarian

  “An ancient malice lurks deep within the Pit, thirsting for man’s soul. The Temple’s mission is to keep the Dark Abyss locked. If we neglect this imperative, we doom our children to the darkness of the Pit.”

  –Teachings of Oreg, High Priest of Baal

  His dinner finished, Ahiram climbed up the crenated wall of the prison’s tower to the castle rooftop, where he lay on his back, gazing at the star-studded, heavenly cupola. Wafts of laughter reached him from the castle below like a fading memory. He lay there, still as a stone, letting the vastness of the heavens wash away his sadness. Even though he refused to admit it, the past six years had become an integral part of his life. He had forged strong and enduring friendships with Noraldeen and with two other Silent—Jedarc and Banimelek—who had become his best friends. Commander Tanios had sent the men on a mission two months ago, and Ahiram did not know when they would return. He feared having to leave without saying good-bye and hated the thought of losing them. Yet, his duty and his great affection for his family called him back. He knew he had to go, no matter the cost.

  To battle I leave, my love, in sorrow unsurpassed

  Our flag flies atop twelve hundred vessels’ masts;

  Proud ships set sail for seas of promised spoil,

  Yet war is a flowing river of blood, sweat and toil.

  My battle-filled travels will forever remain

  The shortest road back to you; through blood, toil, and pain.

  My beloved, my sweet hope, do please understand,

  For you I go to war, for freedom, for our land.

  Alas, my heart cannot contain the beauty of your eyes,

  Where light shines and shimmers in the splendor of the skies.

  I am but a silent man before the raging sea,

  I leave to fight for you, for to stay is to flee.

  If only I could hide you in the silence of my heart,

  Safe from this raging madness that tears us apart.

  Alone, I take my leave in sorrow unsurpassed,

  So do remain my love, my shining love, my first and my last.

  Ahiram got up, stretched, and hid his muddled feelings behind a contrived yawn. Commander Tanios had them memorize poetry, “…because it jogs your brain and will keep you from turning into a frozen turnip when in royal courts,” he had told them. “A Silent fights with words then with darts. You cannot be a Silent if you have the vocabulary of a slug negotiating with the chicken about to swallow it. Learn poetry.”

  This poem belonged to the Dirge of Layaleen, El-Windiir’s wife, and allegedly, the great founder declaimed it extemporaneously before he left for the war against Baal. It came to Ahiram, unbidden. He sighed and wished all these feelings would go away.

  He firmly repressed his sadness and Noraldeen’s haunting smile by performing six batteries of strenuous exercises, as he jumped from one part of the vast rooftop to another, until he reached the slaves’ wing. He knew that the Silent on night duty had seen him and was grateful that they had turned a blind eye to his nocturnal regimen. He washed and fell asleep. Midway through the first watch, two Silent woke him up.

  “Banimelek, Jedarc, you’re back.” he exclaimed. “Praise El. I was just thinking how sad it would be to leave without saying good-bye. I thought you were still on your mission.” Realizing what time it was, he eyed his friends. “What are you doing in the slaves’ wing in the middle of the night? Isn’t it a little early for breakfast?”

  “We will talk later, Ahiram. Commander Tanios wants you in the Silent’s wing,” replied Banimelek in his customary taciturn style.

  “What’s going on?” asked Ahiram, rising from bed.

  “The commander will explain,” replied Jedarc. Ahiram had never seen him so serious before. “We must hurry.”

  Ahiram dressed quickly and followed his friends. Is it about last evening’s incident? What is the high priestess up to? he thought, Did she find something else to accuse me of? The commander would never ask me to leave the slaves’ wing unless the King’s life, or mine, were in danger.

  The slaves’ quarters were located on the second level of the castle. This peculiar feature of Taniir-The-Strong was the result of a tragic accident. Originally, the slaves lived on the first level and the servants on the second. King Dilandiir IV swapped the two wings after a diplomatic incident that nearly started a war. He had hosted a series of talks with representatives of the Empyreans, the dwarfs, and the Temple, to reach a long-lasting peace agreement. Midnight tolled, waking the head of the dwarfish delegation. His throat was parched from much ale and salted chicken cooked in garlic sauce, so he yanked the service rope and waited for a slave to show up. No one did. He yanked it again with equal results. Impatient, he sent his personal adviser to fetch the water. The dwarf lost his way, took a wrong turn, and entered the Empyrean quarters, where he was mistaken for an assassin. There, blood and water mingled on the marble floor. The King barely managed to avert a war. A subsequent investigation found several broken ropes that failed to reach the slaves’ wing. The King restructured the first and second levels, moving the slaves to the second floor, closer to the guests, and the servants to the first floor, closer to the kitchen.

  Ahiram, Banimelek, and Jedarc left the slaves’ wing, crossed the main hallway, and walked into the Silent’s training wing. A moment later, they reached their sleeping quarters. They led him to a room adjoining the main door.

  “This will be your room,” said Jedarc.

  “It’s a bit smaller, but it’s all yours,” added Banimelek.

  “No one has the honor of a private room, save his Grand Lordship Beardless I,” added Jedarc.

  “Beardless the First?” asked Ahiram, puzzled.

  Banimelek pointed with his thumb at Jedarc. “Prince Jedarc over here insists I grow a beard.”

  Ahiram chuckled and pointed at Jedarc, “The day this prince braids his hair,” he said, then pointing at Banimelek, he added, “that caveman will grow a beard.”

  Banimelek slapped his forehead. “Ahiram,” he said reproachfully, “do you think he needs any more ideas?”

  “Hmm?” replied Jedarc. “Braided hair. Yes, I could walk around with a harp singing ‘I am a lonesome bard, lonely atop my donkey—’ ”

  “Don’t sing.” shouted Ahiram and Banimelek, in unison. They looked at Jedarc, their hands pleading their eyes wide open, as in fear.

  “You look like you have seen a ghost,” said Jedarc, glancing behind him. “What’s wrong?”

  “It is late,” said Banimelek, “and we need some rest.”

  “Good idea,” added Ahiram quickly. “I need silence, peace, and quiet. Lots of it, especially silence… and quiet.”

  “Hey, is there something wrong with my singing?” asked Jedarc.

  “Not at all. Your singing is… unique…” said Banimelek. />
  “As the ultimate weapon to decimate an invading army,” continued Ahiram. “Even the High Riders will die of fright hearing you sing, ‘I am a bard, atop my lonely donkey that is still with me because he is deaf’.”

  “Fine,” grumbled Jedarc, “I’ll keep my singing for noble folks with refined taste.”

  “Great,” chorused his friends.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot, Ahiram,” said Jedarc, “the commander wants you to leave before the first bell,” he added in his customary, gentle smile. “He does not want you, I mean, us to—”

  “To break protocol. Yes, I know,” completed Ahiram. The law forbade a slave from breaking bread with free men. “Don’t worry, Jedarc,” he said smiling. “I much prefer the servants’ kitchen.”

  “We will see you back here after the Game,” said Banimelek. “You are not to return to your room.”

  “Why?” asked Ahiram. “What happened?”

  Banimelek shook his head. “The commander’s order.”

  “No, Your Majesty,” replied the commander. “We cannot acquiesce to the prince’s demands. His accusations are groundless.”

  The prince, Commander Tanios, and Lady Bahiya stood before the King’s throne in the Hall of Judgment, located behind the Great Hall where they had dined a few hours ago. It was a long, marble room with twelve obsidian columns jutting out of its southern wall. Each column boasted a bronze statue of Tanniin bearing down with gleaming red eyes to strike terror in the hearts of the guilty.

  “Groundless?” The prince winced, feeling acute pain in his shoulder and neck. His face, where Ahiram’s kick had left its mark, was swollen and red. “A poisonous dart of yours killed one of my men, and you tell me that my accusations are groundless? Your slave is guilty of murder.”

  “Your Highness,” replied the commander calmly. “Will you swear under oath that you saw, with your own eyes, Ahiram kill your teammate?”

  The prince felt uneasy. “Commander Tanios,” he said with a low, threatening voice, “are you telling me you put as much faith in the word of a slave as you do the word of a prince?”

  “No, but yours against mine.”

  “My dear friends,” intervened the King, “let us consider this case calmly, shall we?” He looked at the prince and the high priestess before continuing. “Olothe, you have convoked this noble assembly in the middle of the night after your ghastly discovery. I understand your feelings, and I share them. However, my dear Olothe, accusing a Silent of murder, even if he is a slave, is a grave offense against the Corps.”

  The King raised his hand to stave off a reply from the prince before continuing, “As you know, the Silent are the elite guard of Taniir-The-Strong Castle, trained to protect the royal family. Each Silent swears an oath never to commit murder. As bizarre as this may seem, even a slave swears this oath and his word is binding. This should tell you, my dear prince, how serious this oath is. Many candidates, fearing this oath’s curse, balk at the last moment and forgo their entry into this prestigious group.” The King looked down briefly and smiled, “I was one of them.” He looked Olothe squarely in the eyes while rising from his throne. “My dear prince, the family of a Silent who commits murder is outcast, even by lepers. They are driven to the desert to die and the curse prevents anyone—even a stranger—from burying them.”

  “But Your Majesty, this slave is an orphan.”

  “Ah yes, yes,” said the King smiling, “we forgot this small detail. Commander Tanios?”

  “The Silent unanimously voted for Ahiram to become a Solitary,” explained the commander. “The Solitary’s peers, those enrolled with him, bind themselves to him as family. If Ahiram, or any other Solitary, commit murder, he curses all his peers, every single one of them.”

  “The exalted Temple of Baal is aware of this rule and does not believe that the Silent Corps is dangerous. It grants the Corps, even in these troubled times, the privilege of guarding the castle; they do not commit murder. You see, my dear prince, the sensible course of action is to stay our accusations until someone produces supporting evidence.”

  All who were present considered very carefully the implications of the King’s words.

  “If not a Silent, then who?” asked the prince. “Who is the killer?”

  “This, we shall find out, my dear prince,” said the King. “I assure you, the commander is far more eager to uncover the truth than any one of us. Now, if you do not mind, it is time to retire for the night.” With this, the King descended from his throne.

  All present bowed and waited for him to leave. Prince Olothe looked at Commander Tanios for a moment, wanting to say something, but instead, dashed out of the room.

  Bahiya eyed Tanios quizzically. “A Solitary. My dear Tanios, I see you have pampered this slave of yours.”

  “Do you believe the prince?”

  “The King has spoken. What else is there to say?”

  “Spare me your sarcasm, Priestess, I have a murderer to catch.” Without waiting for a reply, Tanios left the Hall of Judgment. Bahiya remained alone. Her composure changed. She looked weary and tired. She stood in the room for a moment, and whispered in a sad voice, “Tanios,” before leaving.

  Directly below the Hall of Judgment, a short distance away from the Silent’s wing, Ramany stood in the common area shared by the judges. While lying in bed, a thought mushroomed in his mind and would not leave him. He tried to ignored it, but it gnawed at him, keeping him up. One thought led to another, and the mushroom mushroomed. He tossed and turned for a couple of hours before admitting defeat. He got up, coughed a dry cough, filled his large mug with fresh water, and sat comfortably in a chair to think the matter over. Soon, his throat was parched again, something that happened only at night. He felt queasy and flustered, wondering if he had angered a god who plagued him with a nightly parched throat, and if so, which god could it be?

  He leaned forward to grab his mug and knocked it over instead. It tumbled loudly onto the marble floor, splashing water on his sandals, but oddly, did not break. Relieved, he picked it up.

  “This must be a good omen,” he grumbled softly.

  Ibromaliöm, who the judge Hylâz had nicknamed “the Scarecrow,” opened the main door to their quarters and walked in. Ibromaliöm was still wearing his ceremonial toga, even though the Game of Bronze had ended several hours ago. How odd, thought Ramany, but then again, Ibromaliöm is rather odd.

  “Up, I see,” said Ibromaliöm jovially. “Something the matter?”

  He smiled and Ramany shivered. The tall judge’s white teeth flashed like two rows of fangs, and his black eyes were watching Ramany, the way a spider eyes a fly caught in its web.

  “This slave…he is becoming a real headache, you know,” he grumbled looking away.

  “Why?”

  Hylâz walked in from his bedroom and plopped himself onto a chair opposite Ramany. He struggled for a while, trying to pull his tunic from behind his back, stretching it over his expansive belly.

  “Hylâz,” protested Ramany waving his hand, “Could you please comb what little hair you have left? You look like a peacock.”

  “Look who’s talking,” grumbled Hylâz, combing his hair with his hand. “Your hair is pressed down on one side like moss, and standing up on the other like a prickly cactus.”

  “Gentlemen,” sighed Ibromaliöm, “could we please focus on the matter that keeps our good friend Ramany awake.”

  “Yes Ramany, what is keeping you up?” added Hylâz.

  “I see you are still awake,” said Garu, walking in from the main door. Hylâz and Ramany were surprised to see him up this late. They knew the lead judge was an early riser, unaccustomed to late nights.

  Involuntarily, Ramany glanced at Ibromaliöm, who stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed and eyes closed. He glanced at Garu and felt uncomfortable for no apparent reason.

  “You came just in time, Master Garu,” said Hylâz. “Our good friend, Ramany, was about to tell us what we must consider.”

 
“Indeed,” added Ramany. “Who is first tomorrow?”

  “Well,” explained Garu, patiently, “the rule is clear: the winner of the previous Game goes first.”

  “And who won the first Game?” asked Ramany.

  “The slave—”

  “Who, according to said rules, should go last,” continued Ramany.

  Garu shook his head. “Judge Bayrul did not make up these rules with winning slaves in mind.”

  “Precisely,” said Ramany.

  “In your opinions, my dear colleagues,” said Ibromaliöm, “what is more significant? A winner, or a slave? Clearly, a winner must go first. A slave would go last, but a slave that won the Game of Bronze symbolizes most closely our illustrious El-Windiir. We should consider this resemblance very, very carefully.”

  Placing his hands behind his back, he started pacing. “The rules apply for a winner who is not a slave, and for a slave who is not a winner. Combining them yields either a winning slave, or a slave who is a winner. You can elevate the slave, or demean the winner. Tanniin holds these Games to honor El-Windiir, so it seems fitting that we should raise the slave, rather than degrade the winner. I rest my case.”

  The remaining three men were speechless. Garu stood up and said, “Just what I was thinking. My dear Ibromaliöm, I congratulate you on your well-thought-out argument, and I charge you in repeating all of this to the King tomorrow morning. Good night.” Ibromaliöm bowed and retired. The two remaining judges looked at each other.

  “He is a smart one,” said Ramany.

  “Smarter than you think,” answered Hylâz. “I have known him since he was four years old. If he puts his mind to it, he can convince a king to sell his kingdom for a cow on the verge of dying. Anyway, have a good night, Ramany; tomorrow will be a long day, a very long day indeed.”

  Ramany spent most of the night reflecting on Ibromaliöm’s words. The argument was brilliant, but Ibromaliöm bent the rules, which forbade the judges from playing favorites, even in an exceptional case such as this one.