Paul Kearney - Kings of Morning

‘From the kitchen to the Court. You are going up in the world, boy. One day you may even think the price was worth paying.’ His face twisted, something like self-mockery flitting across it.

‘One day.’

Across the ziggurats of the city the sunrise poured down, catching the golden plated Fane of Bel and setting it alight in a gleam of yellow flame. Those in the teeming streets below looked up at the sight and touched their foreheads in salute to the sun, to Bel the life-giver.

The world had been given another morning.

Along the Huruma the priests went in procession with their long-handled snuffers, putting out the street-torches and welcoming the dawn with ancient sonorous songs whose words they no longer understood, but whose melodies were woven into the very fabric of Ashur itself.

The traffic was already moving in long lines through every gate in the fabled walls, and in the irrigated fields beyond, farmers walked waist-deep in the last of the night’s mist. The air about them was alive with the croaking of frogs and the white egrets rose like flocks of ghosts from the palm trees.

Even at this early hour, there was a promise of heat behind the moist cool of the air, and shimmers of insects rose out of the damp ground to hang in clouds overhead. Summer was growing, and the season was turning towards the white blinding days of heat and dust that marked the zenith of the year.

Summer was growing, and the snows in the mountains were retreating up into the peaks, widening the passes. The good grass was thickening underfoot and the soil was hardening. This was the beginning of true campaigning weather.

It was the time for the fighting of wars.

The Lady Orsana rose well before dawn, even now that the mornings came earlier. She bathed in the mosaic pool with her maids all about her, and picked out what to wear from a procession of living models, who stood in front of the fragrant steaming water one by one. A fingertip lifted slightly, and Charys, the Queen’s Eunuch, clapped his white hands to confirm the choice.

After she was dried, Orsana sat naked as a trio of artists who had been brought from all over the empire went to work on her face. They lengthened the lashes of her eyes with kohl, painted the lids malachite green, blushed her cheeks with Tanean vermilion and powdered her skin white with crushed chalk. She rose, and her clothing was draped around her as though on a statue. Her mane of heavy black hair was combed out until sparks crackled in it, then it was coiled simply down one collar-bone. In candle-light, the regime took twenty years off her age.

Lastly, the thin white-gold circlet that signified high royalty was placed carefully on her forehead. Slaves had lost their hands at this point for smearing her cosmetics.

A mirror of silvered glass was produced, and she studied herself in it. Her lips pursed ever so slightly. She lowered her eyelids, adopted the aloof, guarded pose which was her way of looking at the world, and raised one white, long-nailed hand to brush the attending slaves away.

Then Orsana strolled out of the dressing-suite, sipped some watered wine, and was ready to do battle with the day. She took up her accustomed position on a divan of midnight silk. Her maids arranged her robes artfully about her, and a bowl of fruit and a cup of wine were placed within easy reach. She sat, a silken spider, at the very centre of the harem, in a vast circular chamber which was dotted with fountains and hung with tapestries. Incense idled through the air in blue skeins, and petal-stuffed cushions were scattered everywhere on the tessellated floor. In this chamber, only the Queen had furniture to sit upon. Everyone else reclined on the cushions or stood. Beautiful young women kept station around the walls, giggling and gossiping behind pillars of Kandassian marble. These were the King’s concubines, and he had not chosen one of them himself.

A long-haired eunuch with a hip-desk padded from behind the hangings and went to one knee. He bowed his head, as pretty as any of the women around him. He lacked a finger on his left hand, his only imperfection.

Orsana nodded minutely at him. He opened the hip-desk bound to his body and produced a number of papers one by one.

‘Lady, lord Merach of Gansakr presents his respects, and would be grateful if you would receive him ere he leaves for the west.’

Orsana smiled, raised a hand and swung it in dismissal.

‘The Road-Stewards would like an audience today to discuss arrangements for the move to Hamadan.’

Orsana blinked. The white hand moved again.

‘The caravans are in from both Kosan and Ishtar. The merchant lords Amur and Peshtos send their greetings and beg to attend you as soon as they have made a suitable selection for your approval.’

‘They rode in ahead of their trains two days ago, to be with their mistresses,’ Orsana said with a smile. ‘That delay will cost them. Go on, Nurakz.’

‘The Prince Kouros, your son, desires an audience at once. My lady, he waits at the door.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes, lady.’

‘Send in my son, and then clear the chamber. And Nurakz, draw up a letter of credit on the House of Arkanesh, and have it ready here before noon.’

‘Yes, lady. For how much?’

Orsana stared at him. Nurakz went white, bowed his head, and withdrew.

‘Charys, you will stay, of course,’ Orsana said as the concubines within the chamber rose like a cloud of butterflies taking flight.

The tall eunuch bowed. He had a face like that of a totem fashioned out of white clay and left in the rain. Although he had the eyes of the high caste, his features were broad and strong as a soldier’s. He was bald save for a topknot of hair dyed cornflower blue and gathered up with a silver ring. A scar ran like an errant worm down one side of his neck, and his pale, hairless hands looked strong enough to strangle a camel.

The doors of hollow bronze clanged wide, and Kouros strode into the room in a billow of linen that was as blue as his mother’s robes. The doorkeepers hauled shut their charges behind him with rather more care.

‘It is to be done, mother; he’s going. Ashurnan will take the field. He leaves within the week.’ Kouros began biting his nails.

Orsana did not seem surprised. She nodded wisely, but within she was genuinely startled.

‘Merach,’ she said.

‘Yes. He talked to him all evening. I tried to have an ear on it, but failed. Rakhsar — ’

‘Rakhsar?’

‘He knew no more than I. I made sure of it. He has made this decision on his own, mother.’

Orsana raised one eyebrow, plucked at her robe. Chalk dust fell from her face in minute avalanches.

‘You must go with him, then. And our plans must be brought forward. That is all. This is no great disaster, Kouros.’

Her son was gnawing his thumbnail, stripping back the horn to bring blood. ‘Darios assured me it would be of no moment, this — this invasion.’

‘I do not think he lied. I think only he has been overtaken by events. Darios is a loyal agent.’ Orsana stirred, moved up the divan and sipped at her wine. ‘Son, you must remember that some happenings have no author — they simply happen. There is not always a conspiracy afoot.’

‘Yes — yes, of course — don’t preach, mother. I am not a fool. I know these things — I have ears and eyes everywhere.’

Everywhere I bade you plant them, she thought. She was torn between love and exasperation. The lot of all mothers.

‘We have some warning, at least. How sure are you of Dyarnes?’

Kouros looked away, savaging another finger.

‘It is hard to tempt a man who can go no higher. Commanding the Honai is the summit of his ambition.’