Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1)

by Michael Joseph Murano

  “Celebrations are in order,” yelled one of them.

  They had been celebrating rather loudly for the past hour. Sitting alone at a dimly lit table was Frajil, eating a whole chicken. He was trying to think, and the noise these men were making was not helping. It reminded him of The Ballad of the Tajéruun, a song Soloron loved to hum. “Bom, bom, bom, the Tajéruun.” Frajil muttered the last part of the song’s chorus absent-mindedly, then shook his head. He needed to concentrate. Somehow, he was not sure that eating a chicken in a tavern was what Soloron meant when he said, “Tonight we roast the chicken.” It did not occur to him that he should rejoin his brother’s camp and ask him. Once Frajil focused on a problem, he did not know how to stop until it was resolved; whether the resolution made any sense was an altogether different matter.

  So there he was, convinced he had roasted a chicken. The cook did the roasting, but this was not a detail that would stop Frajil, for he had no concept of cooking, or payment for that matter. Thankfully, Soloron arranged to pay Tika, a Togofalkian with a shady past and the owner of the Shining Tavern, for whatever Frajil ordered. To Tika’s relief, this giant of a man had been a well-behaved customer, who drank mostly water, ate whole chickens, and said “please” and “thank you.” Soloron had been true to his word, paying for Frajil’s meals regularly.

  The men from Baal laughed loudly, and one of them threw his goblet overhead. It bounced off a table where two farmers sat and crashed to the floor. No one complained or much less glanced at them. If they did, a swift death would be their lot.

  Some wine had splashed Frajil and jolted him, breaking his concentration. He was nowhere near solving the riddle of the roasted chicken. He wiped his face and tried one more time. Tonight we roast the chicken. What chicken? There are many chickens, thought Frajil. He gazed at the pile of bones left from his poultry. Frajil eating roasted chicken but there are more, so… An idea, vague and wordless, began to form when another goblet came crashing down, splashing Frajil in the eye. This was more than the giant could bear. He yelled at the men. “Little ones, stop talking. Frajil trying to think about roasted chicken.”

  The entire tavern froze. Tika hid his face with his hands and cowered under the counter. Frajil smiled blissfully, for the tavern was now completely quiet. He could think now. “If there are many chickens,” he said for all to hear, “then which one Frajil goes after?”

  The men of Baal drew near his table.

  “What is it that you said?” asked the one closest to the table. Had he been sober he may have kept his distance from the giant, but tonight he felt he could conquer the world. Frajil was so busy concentrating that he did not hear what the man said, nor did he see him standing next to him. This strenuous effort gave him a headache; something Frajil rarely had.

  The man of Baal took Frajil’s goblet, poured its contents onto the giant’s head, and laughed loudly. His companions laughed with him. Frajil felt the cool liquid go down his face and looked up to see three men laughing. He thought the situation funny and started laughing as well. They thought he was laughing at them and did not think the situation funny anymore; instead, they felt insulted.

  The man closest to Frajil drew a dagger.

  Now this was a gesture Frajil fully understood. He was relieved because he did not have to worry about the roasted chicken anymore. He had only to act. In a matter of seconds, the three trained High Riders lay on the floor amid shards of broken wood, smashed goblets, and strewn chicken bones.

  “Tika, another table, please. Frajil need to think again.”

  The customers could scarcely believe their eyes. Most of them had been following the Games and knew of the slave trying to win his freedom. The news of Ahiram’s death dealt a crushing blow to their dreams of freedom. Unwittingly, Frajil, by his action, had rekindled their dying hope.

  “This Tanniinite,” whispered one of them, “he wasn’t afraid of the white owls.”

  “He’s a giant,” explained a second.

  “Yeah, but they’re three,” chimed in a third.

  “He’d done ’em in all by himself,” said a fourth. “He did.”

  The giant gazed at the scattered mess on the floor. This reminded him of something…Yes, a conversation here with Soloron…He could see himself pointing at a smashed goblet and yelling, “The King.” The chicken, the King…the chicken, the King…In a flash, Frajil concluded, “roasting the chicken” meant storming the castle. He was not supposed to eat the chicken here but be at the castle with Soloron and his men.

  “King has best chicken,” he concluded with a wide grin. “Soloron deserves best chicken.” Oblivious of his surroundings and the men watching his every move, he stood up and yelled, mostly to rouse himself, “To the castle!”

  His war cry ignited a fire. It crystallized the repressed anger and resentment of those who had hoped the slave would win the Games. True, his victory would not have changed their daily lives—Baal would still tax them, and his High Riders would steal and murder unfettered—but it would have let the world know that hope endured in their hearts. These soldiers mercilessly had dashed that hope when they killed Ahiram. But now, the murderers lay on the floor, and this giant man gave them a goal to reach, an action to channel their pent-up frustrations. The King was a traitor; he should not be allowed to live.

  “To the castle,” they shouted back.

  Their voices startled Frajil. He looked at them and yelled “Tonight we roast the chicken.”

  “We roast the chicken,” they shouted back.

  Frajil smiled, trying to mimic Soloron when he gave orders. Even though the giant was not sure why he was giving orders, these men looked like they were waiting for one, so he gave it to them.

  “To the castle,” he shouted louder, unsheathing his two double-blade swords as he stormed through the door. “We roast the chicken.”

  The men ran after him shouting, “To the castle.” The war rally fanned like wildfire throughout the city of Taniir-The-Strong, igniting the hearts of its citizens and propelling them into action. Without any warning, the peaceful city of Taniir-The-Strong saw this small group turn into a mob. Frajil reached the castle’s perimeter with an armed multitude rushing behind him. The insurrection had begun.

  The servants were making ready for the ceremony of the Games. The Royal Hall was being festooned with the colors of Baal. Clusters of slaves busily moved through the open doors carrying all the necessities for the feast. The musicians were rehearsing in a corner, and the banquet tables were readied.

  King Jamiir III was in a mixed mood. He was relieved that the Games had ended and satisfied that the slave has been disposed of quietly and swiftly. Nonetheless, his wife’s absence annoyed him, and the commander, who had searched for her discreetly, had not found her. To make matters worse, the master of the Silent Corps had asked to be excused from the ball tonight, as did Master Habael, Garu, and Ibromaliöm. To top it off, the high priestess, who should be celebrating the victory of Baal, sent word informing the King she would not attend due to a sudden illness.

  If I did not know better, I would think I am facing a mutiny, thought the King. He looked around him and saw the sullen face of Hiyam, who was slumped in her chair. What is the matter with her? he wondered, irritated. After all we have gone through to assure her victory, the least she could do is be grateful. He closed his eyes trying to think of something pleasant, but could not.

  The Silent were devastated, though none were more crushed than Banimelek and Jedarc. After disposing of the men of Baal with the help of Elio and Thurun, they searched for Ahiram in vain. They could not bring themselves to say what they were both thinking. Ahiram may not have survived. The sequestering of the Silent in their quarters while the King feasted with Baal did not help matters. The High Riders were now in charge of the castle.

  Banimelek’s thoughts went back to his friend. He imagined Ahiram dying alone in the mines, killed treacherously by Baal. He lifted his eyes and looked at Jedarc, almost pleading for an answer
. His friend looked at him with eyes filled with sadness. He had nothing to say. Banimelek spoke out loud what they were thinking in their hearts: “We should have protected him. We could have saved him.”

  Ahiram was tossed and turned in utter darkness by the furious maelstrom. His head hit the ceiling of the siphon he was rushed through. The water jerked him closer to the ceiling. Instinctively, he raised his left arm and felt his wrist rap against something spongy, yet so sharp it seemed to draw blood. He yanked his hand away and slammed it against the rough edge of an opening. Frantically, he searched for something to hold on to, and somehow, his fingers landed on a hard surface. He gripped and pulled. The object did not budge. His right hand found the other end of the opening, and he managed to haul himself up. To his surprise, he broke through the water. There was air. He could breathe. His right hand slid and he nearly fell into the raging current once more, but he steadied himself with his legs and rolled onto a wet, flat rock, panting in the dark. He nearly drowned again when a gush of water filled the space for a short moment before receding. He coughed, spitting water out, as he thought of the two men of Baal dying in the dark. This was a death he would not wish on his worst enemy.

  Ahiram tried to stand but hit his head against a low ceiling. He crawled on all fours in the dark, trying to find his way, not knowing where to go. He placed one hand on the walls searching for a path, but there was none. Eventually, he reached a dead end and went back to the hole he had climbed through. The roar of the powerful rush beneath him was deafening. He continued moving forward, feeling the wet, cold walls around him, searching for another exit, but it was in vain. He reached a second dead end and panicked. What if there is no exit? What if the water is the only exit?

  Walls surrounded him on all sides, and the water filled the cave regularly before receding. He sat down, leaning his back against the wall, not knowing what to do. The darkness was so complete that he could not even see his hands. He was drenched and began to shiver in the cold draft. The habits gained from years of training took over, staying his fears. Ahiram quoted from the Book of Siril, chapter 4, verse 12: ‘Trials renew the Silent. He never gives up.’ He heard a loud popping sound and the cold draft suddenly became even colder. Not now, he thought, I could do without the cold air. He jolted up but remembered the low ceiling in time to avert bruising his skull yet again.

  His heart was pounding.

  “A draft.” If there is a draft, then there must be a passage somewhere. Drafts do not occur in enclosed spaces. He tried to follow it back to its source, moving at a snail’s pace and forcing his hands to examine every nook, however small. His persistence paid off and he found it, right above the water; a hole, barely large enough to let him through.

  No wonder I had a difficult time finding it, thought the Silent. It’s directly above the hole through which the water comes in.

  Ahiram felt the borders of the opening to create a mental image. The water filled the hole once more, and he waited until it receded. When the water came back, he started counting slowly until it receded again, doing his best to ignore the mind-numbing cold jabbing at him. He repeated this little exercise until he was certain that he knew when the water came, and when it left. He squatted at the edge of the hole, and just when the water came rushing in, Ahiram stepped forward and let it carry him. He clasped the ragged edge of the gap and pushed up. His upper body was now inside the hole and he managed to hold on by the tips of his fingers. He waited for the water to come back, and when it did, he kicked his legs and thrust himself up. When the third surge came, he managed to slide completely inside the narrow passage. He rested precariously against the walls and then inched his way up, not knowing whether this gap would lead him to freedom, or to another dead end.

  “He did what?” Soloron could not believe his ears. “That oaf is storming the castle on his own?” Frajil had thrown away Soloron’s carefully crafted plan and was forcing him into action. “Wait until I lay my hands on him; I will teach him a lesson he will never forget.”

  He looked at the messenger who was standing before him.

  “Are you absolutely sure that Frajil is storming the castle? This is very important. Are you absolutely sure?”

  The messenger took a step back. “Yes, master, I am sure. I saw Frajil going up Royal Road followed by a large band of men with sticks, swords and torches. Many of them were yelling, ‘Death to the King. Death to the traitor.’ Frajil was shouting, ‘To the castle, tonight we roast the chicken,’ which I personally found odd, but many of Frajil’s utterances are mysteries. This is when I ran to inform you.”

  “Mysterious, indeed. Fine. Frajil wants to roast the chicken. We shall join him. Sound the alarm. We move now.”

  King Jamiir surveyed the hall where they were supping. It was half empty. Outside, a brooding storm was giving signs of imminent rain. Lightning, increasing in frequency, filled the night. When the black sun appeared today, almost all the participating teams had asked to take an early leave to return home. Hiyam and her surviving teammates—now a team of five—were the only ones that stayed. The royal court was present, but the King could feel they were here mostly out of duty. The black sun was a bad omen. Tanios was sitting at the royal table but had hardly touched his food. The King had changed his mind and requested his presence, even though Tanios had asked to be excused. The commander obliged. Suddenly, they heard a commotion outside the halls, followed by screams and tumbled dishes. A man came running into the hall holding an empty bowl, the content of which was now dripping onto his clothes. “An insurrection! An insurrection, Your Majesty. Men are storming the castle. We are being attacked.” Tanios stood up, but the King prevented him from taking another step.

  “Tanios, do not worry about this. I will personally take care of it. To you and your Silent, I entrust the safety of the high priestess and her daughter. If anything happens to them, there is no telling what Babylon will do. Take them to the port of Mitriil and do not leave them until they are safely on a boat sailing toward Baalbeck. This is an order. Go.”

  Tanios looked at the King as though wanting to say something. Then he turned abruptly and went over to Hiyam. “You and your men, follow me. Now.” They got up and followed him out of the hall, walking quickly until they reached Bahiya’s quarters. Tanios was surprised to see her dressed in black with a sullen face and tired features. He could have sworn she had been crying. With women such as these, one cannot tell where the truth ends and the deception begins, he thought.

  “The castle is besieged. By order of His Majesty the King, I am to escort you, your suite, your daughter and her men to the port of Mitriil. I ask that you follow me at once.”

  Bahiya nodded imperceptibly and left the room, her silver box in hand. Tanios saw that she was ready for travel. Her maidservants had already packed. He wanted to ask her how she knew but refrained from doing so. At this point, he was executing the King’s order. He escorted them down the Lone Tower to the second floor and into his quarters.

  “Master Habael, you are here. I was getting worried.”

  “I came up to check on the Silent. What is the cause of your worry, my friend?”

  “The castle is besieged; we are facing an insurrection.”

  “What is she doing here?” Tanios had barely the time to stop a raging Banimelek from laying his hands on Hiyam. “Have you betrayed us also, Commander Tanios, that you bring these vipers to laugh at our sorrow?”

  Jedarc tried to stop his friend by saying, “She was following orders,” but Banimelek shoved him away and ran toward Hiyam and met his commander, who sent him tumbling through the air. Quick as a cat, he adjusted his posture, landing gracefully on his feet. Tanios drew near the Silent, raised his hand to slap him, but stopped at the last minute. Lightning filled the air and powerful thunder shattered the night. The rain came pouring down.

  “By order of the King,” he said, looking at the Silent, “we are to escort the high priestess, her daughter, and their suite to Mitriil. We must guarantee th
eir safety. Is this clear?” No one answered. “Master Habael, you are coming with us. Banimelek, Jedarc, Sondra, and Thurun, you will scout ahead via the Garden Tower, then through the soldiers’ garden into the stable. Everyone else, take as many horses as you can, go down into the horses’ run, then walk your steed to the narrow gate. You are the Silent. The insurgents are our people. If they are manning the gate, they will listen to you. We ride through the night and take shelter beyond the great pass. Have I made myself clear? Move, we have not a moment to lose.”

  How long had Ahiram been climbing? He could not remember. He had lost track of time. Only his stamina and his will to live prodded him, forcing him to continue his arduous ascent. He blindfolded himself to stop his weary eyes from straining to see in the complete darkness. The passage was still narrow, and at times, had threatened to close in on him. There were moments when he thought he was trapped underground, left there to die slowly as though buried alive. Yet, by patiently applying all that he had learned from Commander Tanios, he escaped the stony grip and kept moving with the stubborn assurance that this serpentine passage would eventually lead back to the mine. The passage turned and twisted so many times that he could no longer tell if he was traveling up or down. Dragging himself into this narrow space was difficult regardless of the direction. Could it be that this crack in the depths of the earth would lead him back to the river? No, thought Ahiram, air is coming through this passage. It must lead somewhere. I’m going up…I’m going up…These last words became a litany that he repeated regularly to give himself courage.

  Suddenly, a shadow leaped before him. He recoiled. What was that? the Silent thought. How is it that I can see? What happened to my blindfold? Ahiram felt his face and did not feel the cloth. It must have fallen off and I didn’t even notice. Am I losing my mind? Was that a shadow?