M. Scott: The Coming of the King

The pool of Siloam on the edge of David’s city was fed by an underground stream, so that when all about lay under dust, its surface shimmered under the sun.

On the morning of the king’s coronation, the early light tinted it green. A faint scum gathered on the limpid surface, studded with petals of small white flowers, shining as shreds of moonlight under the not-quite-present sun.

The air above it hung heavy with the smell of still water and frankincense and the gathered thousands; all gone now. Where they had been, palm branches lay thick on the ground, frond upon frond, woven by their falling into a mat thick as a man’s wrist.

Pantera stooped to lift one smaller than the others; a child’s frond, cut for a small fist to wave for the new king and cast before his humble donkey. It served now to distract the flies that fell frenzied on Pantera and his four companions, having no one else left to feast on.

Hypatia was with him, and Mergus, and Estaph, who had shown no sign of hastening to Syria and his family, and Kleopatra, who sometime since the night in Yusaf’s house had ceased to be a girl and become instead a young woman; and that young woman bonded to Hypatia. Iksahra was not there; she had gone hunting with her birds and her cat, loping off before dawn, to escape the gathering thousands.

Without her, Pantera stood now at the pool, famous in prophecy, in portent, which was the oldest part of David’s city, itself the oldest part of Jerusalem, and watched the ragged end of the crowds as they surged up past Herod’s hippodrome to the Temple.

Somewhere at their head, beneath the banners, surrounded by his armoured men, Menachem rode his donkey in fulfilment of every prophecy in the sacred texts.

His people had seen him anointed in the pool most sacred to their god, they had seen him bend his head before Gideon, newly named High Priest of Israel, had seen him declared as the true king, second only to God, who would lead his people to their peace, where no one was put before their god, neither Caesar nor an empire.

They had seen him mount the donkey that Iksahra and Hypatia had found: a colt, newly broken, as tall as any Pantera had ever seen, and piebald, with one black ear and one white, with its broad brow black as jet and its muzzle white as chalk and its flanks patterned in smooth asymmetry, like a map etched in black ink on perfect papyrus, so that Pantera’s eyes had been drawn to it through the ceremony.

His mind was still lost there, now, wandering in new lands, seeking out new coves among the headlands, new islands lost in the star-white ocean.

To Hypatia, thoughtfully, he said, ‘If he has time, Menachem will make of Jerusalem a city fit to match Alexandria.’

‘If he has time.’ Hypatia’s gaze was fixed on the hills outwith the city walls, on the grazed grasslands and the citrus groves, on the herds, and their herding boys; few of those today when most were in the city, greeting Menachem.

She said, ‘Iksahra is coming,’ and it sounded like a portent of doom.

He looked and saw nothing, but did not disbelieve. ‘We could go to meet her?’ he asked.

Hypatia’s face was closed. ‘I think we should.’

They walked together to the small gate through which Iksahra had left the city. Outside, the air was brighter, less clogged with breath and waiting, and the birds sang, when they had been too shocked to do so in the city, silenced by the voices of the crowd.

Presently, Iksahra was there, a shimmer in the morning’s haze, black limbs stark against her flowing white shift, with the cheetah lithe at her heels and the hunting birds flying freely above her, not tethered to her fist.

Even as they watched, the falcon swung up, gaining height until she was a fading scrawl against the harsh sky, and turned in her own length came down again, tight as an arrow, and flung out her wings to land lightly, and bent her head to feed on some small, dead thing on Iksahra’s glove. Plucked feathers danced around them, caught on the hillside wind.

‘It’s a dove,’ Mergus said; his distant vision was always better than anyone’s. ‘She’s caught a message-dove.’

They ran then, and met her at the place where the land flattened out towards the city.

Hypatia reached her first, and they stood apart, but close.

Pantera said, ‘Bad news?’ She couldn’t read; he had forgotten and remembered too late to take it back. He held out his hand.

She dropped the message cylinder into his palm. ‘The dove is red roan, with amber eyes. Seneca bred them; the Poet uses them still.’

A blob of wax sealed the cap shut, bright as blood. He cracked it open and took out the onion skin of paper, so thin they could see his fingers through it. The writing was fine and neat and familiar.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘This is from the Poet; a new code, never used in Seneca’s network… Wait a moment, this is not easy.’ Latin letters lay in lines across the page, but not in words. Pantera took the first three, and made them numbers, and used those numbers to transpose the letters to make sense of them.

The others waited. Iksahra moved closer to Hypatia. She smelled of horse-sweat and wild wind and wonder. Their hands brushed, back to back, sending lightning across Hypatia’s eyes.

Pantera completed his translation. ‘My dove has reached the Poet, who in turn sends this to me and to Menachem. Listen, I will read it.’ His voice was strained. It echoed in his own ears.

From the Poet to the Leopard and to Israel’s new king, greetings. You must know that the Twelfth legion marched yesterday from Antioch under command of Cestius Gallus, governor of Syria, with orders to retake the city of Jerusalem, and the nation of Israel. Those who have the emperor’s ear have tried and failed to divert them: Nero will not call them back. Defend yourselves immediately, lest your peace and prosperity wither on the vine.

He felt the press of their waiting. The light was gone from Hypatia’s eyes. She was gathering herself, becoming sober again, taking on a weight that was not yet hers.

She said, ‘Menachem must be told.’

‘I’ll do it.’ As his gift, Pantera took the weight from her. It settled about his shoulders like chain mail, and was not unbearable. ‘He will have reached the heights by now and have formally named Gideon as his High Priest and Yusaf as his counsellor. When he comes down, I will tell him and we will plan the defence of Jerusalem. We have arms and men who listen. All is not lost and we may yet negotiate with Nero. You…’ His gaze held first Hypatia, then Iksahra, and after them the others. ‘You have a day and a night to do whatever you choose. Use it, and then come back to me in the palace and we will see what needs to be done.’

He waited to see them go before he moved. Mergus, Estaph, Kleopatra; those three turned back towards the city, to the baths, and the markets and the clamour of celebration.

Hypatia turned away from the city and Iksahra with her in a swirl of white linen, her cat a smear of gold-black pelt and muscle at her heels; they three, two women and their beast, with the hunting birds soaring above, walked back across the grasslands towards the hills.

Pantera stayed a while, watching them go, before he turned back to the city, to a man who must be both king and commander, and lead his army onward into war.