New Civilizations [IC | Closed]

[Arlye Austros]

Gardubba, South Bank of the Rérkhes,
2950 B.C.
Early Autumn.

It was an elevation on the southern meander of the Rérkhes. Diego sat under one of three oaks that grew on the upper part of the hill. The bushes were low and offered little cover, so his group was gathered under the shadow. It’d been two days since the meeting at the grove, and eyes turned to the settlement past the river every now and then with increasing anxiety.
“We should go hunting. Our supply is running out.” Golzal commented. He’d already taken a javelin and walked up to Diego.
“Not near the settlement. Not while the priestess is making a decision.” He replied, his eyes still fixed on the small smoke plumes and movements that were visible between huts and primitive buildings.
“You do realize they could be making time. She could take weeks and in the meantime messages could go to our foes.”
Diego turned and grinned. “Our foes are far in the north. They won’t come.”
“What of your foes here?” Golzal waved his javelin into the air, pointing to the distance. “I understand the groups of your League wouldn’t be too hasty to come under your command. Surely you trampled over some of them in your past life.”
“I know. I expect the priestess to have us deal with that. We will convince them, in time.”
“Provided she does give you that chance. She could simply kick you out. Or let us rot on this hill.” He waved his arm now, frustrated.
“Calm down, old friend. This is just like that time we set an ambush for the Torauzu. Remember?”

That reminiscence seemed to be enough for Golzal. He nodded. “I will send Lagana and Kaizul foraging, then.”

They followed him because he offered them hope away from the ruins of their home. Diego feared that was a folly’s hope in the end. A week passed and no news came form the town.

The northerner’s supplies dwindled and then vanished. They had their last paste at night, and woke up in the morning with the prospect of hunger. More eyes turned to the town.
Diego grew impatient too.
“Somebody comes!” Lagana warned them, pointing down the slope she’d been keeping a close watch of the settlement. The babe on her back, Golzal’s cried out as well, though not of surprise or warning.

Orumbár’s figure was distinguishable from a distance. The man was corpulent and wore the same pale-green tunic from the day they arrived. With him came Belzedan. The boy carried the pierced shield on his back, and when he turned to gaze down it shone with a red flare.

They carried bags on both hands, and climbed the hill carefuly.

“Greetings, all!” The large man said with a smile. “I’ve been told by the Priestess to bring you food. It might be a while until you are allowed back into the town.”
The news broke with a mixture of frustration and relief. Some quickly worked through the contents of the bags; honeyed bread in two and a sweet paste in another, which Belzedan explained came from Orumbár’s craft.
“The man harried bees like a shepherd. He makes this paste with wild nuts and honey.”
“My grandfather established the tradition. It’s been perfected ever since and we have some beehives built to the west of the settlement, besides some natural ones on the nearby woods.”
“Impressive. I’ve never seen that before.” Diego granted. The rest of the group, those who were frustrated about the news, enjoyed the meal alongside the others. “I thank you for bringing this here. We will ration it until the priestess gives us any word.”
“In the meantime. The boy came here to collect his debt.”

Belzedan smiled and showed his teeth. “You promised to fix it.” He sentenced, taking off the shield from his back and handling it to Diego.
“Yes. I did. Though I am no coppersmith. I do remember the technique to craft the copper disks and attach them to the shield. If we can find a coppersmith I will see he fixes it properly.”
Belzedan’s grin evolved into a disappointed frown.

“I will have it fix, Belzedan. And I do have…” Diego went towards the nearest oak and searched within the begs on its roots. “These.”
He showed them two small copper ingots who’d brought from the north. “We can make the two or three disks we need to replace with these, and the damaged ones could be used to pay the smith for the work.”
“There is a coppersworker downriver. A Tudre. He could do the job, I think.” Orumbár suggested. Diego smiled and looked back at the teenager.
“See? Things do work out. How is your father?”
“Intrigued to see where this will lead to. I believe he is excited even.”
“I am glad to hear it.”

When the pair went down the hill, Orumbár turned to Diego. “Sostibesh wants to see you tomorrow at night. She will see you in the Grove and says you should come alone.” He whispered. “You should come unarmed.”
Diego nodded. “Then tell her I will see her there.”

The two figures vanished and the northerners went back to kill time as best as they could, at least not having to worry about food for a bit longer. Diego wondered what would come now. His gaze landed on the Rerkhés. The Guadalquivir, as it would be called one day. He asked himself if the flow of time hadn’t been changed too far already to lead to the same outcomes. Then again, he didn’t plan to sit by and let things happen.

[Saxony-Brandenburg]

Muhtanbu Alu Nibbur
The Growing City of Nippur
2958 BCE
Tabeli ibn Iqisalil

It was mid-day. The sun burned bright atop the clear-blue sky. A gentle breeze came through the windows of the house, it was cool and comfortable despite the hour. Tabeli turned to the other two men across the room from him. He lowered the clay tablets down to the floor. He frowned. Inscribed in the scribe-script of the black-heads, were reports from the granaries of Nippur’s villages. Their prospects did not look good.

“The village at Babbar-Hursag produced half the amount of grain this year as the last.” Tabeli muttered, shaking his head. “Their granary will surely be empty by the flood season.”

Iturea, a black-headed man with a shaved beard and head, nodded along with him. “So too is it for the village at Nisig-gi”

“What are we to make of this then?” asked Abdilat, the third of their group. She stood and raised a finger to her lips, thinking, scouring over a group of tablets until she found the correct one. “The Ensi’s granary will be short.”

“More than that!” Replied Tabeli with the wave of his hand, “They will surely starve!”

“But Nippur will have nothing to give them, should the Ensi even have enough to pay his officials, it would be a miracle.” Said Abdilat dryly. “And now with the lady Narwa asking for grain to feed the day laborers, there is simply not enough food around to honor her request.

“In such a crisis, a black-headed Ensi would put his city first.” Spoke Iturea. “The farmers would have to fend for themselves.”

“Unacceptable!” said Tabeli. “Yassib is a Sharii, it is against our custom and law to let our kinsmen starve.”

“We are going to need a lot more grain then.” Abdilat said, picking up a wet clay tablet and stylus, beginning to furiously stamp numbers into it.

“We will have to purchase more.” Tabeli suggested. “Uruk will have a surplus from the royal granaries we can buy.”

“No. It just won’t do.” Abdilat looked up from her tablet. “Have you seen this?” She picked up one of her sundry tablets stacked to either side of her. “The city year after year grows, but her grain taxes do not. There will not be enough food produced, period. This is not merely a temporary problem that can be patched over by purchasing grain. It will only get worse year over year.”

“What can we do then? Can we establish new villages? New fields? New orchards?”

“With who? The Lugal has declared another campaign. More men to be sent north - less men to plough fields. You wish to establish villages and fields, when we do not have the hands to build them.” Abdilat shook her head, thinking.

“Then - the villages which are producing enough grain - we could ask them for more of it.”

“You risk starving them too, to supplement the others? Men’s generosity dries up in difficult times. They would likely stone you if you tried. You would need to loot it with armed men.” Iturea put up his hands. “But I doubt your people believe in looting their own kinsmen.”

Tabeli rubbed his face, feeling a tidal wave of despair wash over him. “What are we to do then?! Al-lil have mercy upon us. I do not know what to do!”

Abdilat tapped her lip. “We will have to try and bolster the output of the villages which already exist. It was tried when the Lugal established the Shakkanaks. They compelled their bondsmen to work additional fields to produce excess grain to be sent or sold to the city. But with a lack of hands, and even more labor needed… it seems to have netted us little.”

Iturea raised an eyebrow. “You say the Lugal has declared a campaign. Against who?”

“The Hivite Barbarians in the north. He means to subjugate their strongmen and stop their raids into the lands of Kish.” Tabeli sighed. “But with Yassib’s promise to be a borderguard for the Lugal… who knows how many men, and for how long, they will be gone.”

“You know, under the reign of Ur they had a solution for this…”

Both Tabeli and Abdilat looked up, there was a look of concern on Tabeli’s face, but Abdilat seemed to know what he was getting at.

“If you wage war against barbarians, perhaps the taking of slaves would solve our crisis of labor. Surely, they would aid your Shakkanak’s problems. To plough the new fields. To dig and fix irrigation channels… anything a farmer should do, but we can spread them out across the villages at will.”

Tabeli took a shuddering breath. “Did not the Prophet condemn slavery, back in Yanbu?”
Abdilat raised her palms. “She condemned the slave-ships, which terrorized our people.”

Iturea smirked. “Perhaps you ought to ask her, then. If it is permitted, then our long-term problem might be only a short-term one after all.”

Tabeli did indeed send a message to the prophet, who was inaccessible to all following her return. Instead, he gave her servant a tablet inscribed with their plight, and asked for a ruling on the matter, and if such a premise conflicted with Sharia. Soon enough, he would receive it’s reply. On a long ream of papyrus, which was worth a cow in value, was written in the prophet’s tongue with charcoal-black ink.

”A mother pains to see her children suffer. She will do anything to see them fed. I have asked the people to go to the black-heads, the low and the high, and share with them their bread. But for lack of bread, men’s hearts grow cold.

I have told you that all men, be he Hivitte or Black-Head, Gishimmari or Philistine, is your brother. I do not recall that commandment.

I have told you that slavery is violence, and a violence was imposed upon our people, when the slave ships of Ur came to our shores. I do not recall that commandment.

In times of hunger, men turn to methods of violence to survive. Immorality and indiscretions abound. Violence, to prohibit a greater violence, may be granted.

Thereby I revoke the taboo of enslavement.

Yet even still, as violence delt, it must be delt justly and with moderation. Violence done is ever just in response to violence. Slavery must not be imposed upon the innocent. This is a mortal transgression worthy of death.

When the men of Kengir came to our shores, we had not aggressed against them. We knew them not, and never waged war upon their people. Yet they came upon us, and clasped us in stockades. This was a truly mortal sin.

Therefore, let only he who has broken the law and as punishment for crime be enslaved from within they who are your kin and neighbors. And amongst your enemy people, take not those who would not raise a sword against you to be your bondsmen. Take not woman or child, the old or infirm to be slaves. For it is custom for most outsiders that all warriors should be men.

And for who you do take, be they criminal or enemy, they are still man, and entitled to the rights which men are afforded for possessing part of divinity within them. For a bondsmen is entitled to be fed, to be clothed, sheltered, and provided with reed shoes. He is entitled to the medical treatment available and as custom to his master. He may not be beaten in excess, even to drive him to work harder. If he has family when he is taken, a wife or child, he has the right to take them with him to where is is sold. Though they are freed, they are expected to be provided for.

If he be a field slave, he ought not to be made to work when the sun is at its hottest. He must be given time to rest in the mid-day. If he be a quarry or mine slave, he ought not to be worked where he risks injury or death, be it from falling boulders or collapsing tunnels. And all the other appropriate provisions depending on his labor."

So it seemed, the option was open to solve their crisis by means of whips and chains. “All men are brothers” they say, but look to the north for tithes of flesh and blood.

Bleak.

---

Ilyas ibn Yasr

The Lugal had put out his call to arms three moons before we finally met his forces in the city of Kish. We left Nippur but two weeks prior, having arrived in the city before the Lugal had. He, for his success, was neither timely or organized, and for all my complaints about him I could give, I could voice none. The man held a big axe, and more importantly, a big ego. I dare not spit on it. Anyone dare not mention his father. He was since sidelined, and recently declared gone without fanfare.

The dry ground crunched underneath my sandals. A brittle, cracked earth which was parched waiting for the first rainstorm of the late season. The Black-Heads called the day Zagmuk when the year passes at the end of this season. The sky-god An is celebrated for it. The rivers are thinned, their banks retreated to reveal dry clay and crumbling earth. The land yearns for water. It will soon, but violently come. The good and calm river water, I am told, will come the season after Zagmuk. North of even the lands of the Hivites, great hills crumble and drain their water inside. Strange, I think, for I had never seen so much as a mountain. The Ziggurats of Ur provided a visual example. Mountains of earth. Mountains, I am told, of wealth.

The camp of the black-heads is loud. It is disorganized. Shelters of bundled reeds and cloth are strewn about across a barren field. Pieces of straw stick up from the ground. Clumps of dry earth are idly kicked by men. There must be a thousand of them here. I look around and hear their rough tongue. My translator told me there were men of every city which has sworn fealty to great gilgamesh here. Larsa, Lagash, Ur, Eridu, Kish… It was such a long walk to arrive in the northern city. I pray it will be a shorter walk back.

The Lugal had not pitched a tent, as was not befitting of a king in lands he controlled. He had taken residence in the palace of the Ensi of Kish, who was the entire reason we were dragged up here. We were but a few moons ago at war with them. Killing them. They were killing us. Now I saw Gishimmari and Kishite gathered around the same fire, baking bread for their later evening meal. Ironically, though we be from so far away, our tongues are closer with the Kishites than the more southern Black-Heads. Particularly those from the city of Agade. Why that was, I couldn’t tell. Yet it boded well for our cooperation.

Gilgamesh had gone down from the city, though, to his encamped men. He wished to speak to his Shakkanaks, and his many servants had pitched a canopy under for him to sit. He was a loud man. I heard his voice before I saw him. I stepped in between the few rows of noble black-heads surrounding him. A few nodded towards me, a few turned their heads from my gaze.

Gilgamesh had gotten fatter. He had a large and hairy stomach which he did not cover. Yet he was still built like an oxe. I have no doubt he could throw a man half a cable.

“Alright, alright! Are all of you here? I have waited long enough! The Ensi of this fine city has provided me with fine food and fine women, and I want not to keep either waiting, and so I will make this as quick as I can.” He stood from his stool and looked over his nobles. He sneered a little, then raised his hands. “These barbarians have planted a dagger into us civilized men for far too long. The Ensi of Kish has requested of me to defend him, as he is obliged. I, of course, have answered him. I am Gilgamesh, I will not be cowed by barbarians who know not the concept of peace. They have continued to raid his lands, even after he has sworn fealty to me, meaning that they have begun to raid MY lands. Eh?! UNACCEPTABLE! They have broken any bonds of friendship, and what is more, they have begun killing our merchants where once we could at least bargain with them. No trade, I am told, means no metal. And that means no weapons! Thus, we are going there to teach them a lesson they will NOT forget. Ur showed mercy on them, attempting to civilize them. NO MORE! We will go to their towns, and those who do not surrender will be PUT TO THE TORCH. Those who do, will become my subjects. And it is THEY who will pay tribute to ME! HAH! And together, we will surpass the extent of even great UR! We will rise where they failed. Understood? Alright, good then. We’re leaving tomorrow morning, so pack your things, and your women, and whoever else you brought along tonight. Got it? Alright then. I’m off. Gišur! Come join me! Revelries await us, who will soon become conquerors! Once we finish this campaign I may even give you a fine set of Hivite slaves, if you’re into barbarian women…”
I found him, and his crassness, utterly repugnant. A man who takes barbarian women into his bed not only dishonors his wife, but her father too. How little is his bed worth? They call the Hivites barbarians, I think Gilgamesh is of the same ilk. Yet, I have no time for such things. I am to burden my camel tonight, and my men’s camels. There are still supplies to purchase. There is still things to be done.

As the mistress Olifia swore to his father that our people will be his border guards, so too do we represent a larger share of the army. Two hundred of our tribes have followed me here. We have sworn two oaths: one to Gilgamesh, that we will fight under him, and one to Allat, that we will behave rightly. Fifty others; wives, priestesses, healers, follow us. They are now under my care. I must protect them, both from the Hivites, and my master’s recklessness.

As the saying goes, “Arrogance will get you killed.”

---

Seven days later.

The lands of the Hivites grow rougher, cooler, and quite beautiful as we approach. The hills do indeed seem as though they stretch up to the sky, though I am told those even more northward are even taller. I have seen for the first time groves of Allanu and Ashuhu trees in this land. They smell sweet, their wood is Solid to the touch. It does not fray like palms do. Yet for much of the landscape, short grasses and shrubs cover the hill. Long did I see as we crossed the peak of one, and could glimpse for the first time a village of these northern people. Simple, crude, not unlike those of the black-heads. Of natural earthen color squares. Perhaps ten or so families among them.

When we encountered them, Lord Gilgamesh stopped the march. He entered the collection of huts like a conquering king, and with his axe smashed it into a table in the middle of the village.

“I AM GILGAMESH!” He exclaimed, as those inside looked on to him in fear. They likely knew not what he said, for he only knew the language of the Black-Heads. “I AM YOUR NEW MASTER. GIVE ME THE TRIBUTE WHICH IS OWED TO ME!”

And as he yelled at them, an old man spoke in their crude tongue to an older woman, who barked inside their house. From inside, a young man carried a bowl and a jug. Looking down at the ground, he stepped towards Gilgamesh, falling to his knees, and holding the bowl and jug up to him.

“YES!” He exclaimed, and raised the jug to his lips. He gulped and gulped until he could no more, and sprayed out the liquid into the air.
“Your beer is for the poor, but it will do.”

He then took a fistfull of what I assumed was grain in the bowl, shoved it in his mouth, and then took the bowl into his hands.

“This will do for me. But my men need more!”

“Go take a cow or two!”

And from his retinue, a huddle of men ran out into the field beside these hovels, and dragged two cows from it, a rope tied to their horns. The villagers dared not object.

“See? These people make fine subjects! If only you show your dominance first! Alrighty then, enough of this, let us move on people!”

And, dragging their petty spoils inside, we continued forwards. I wondered how long our fortune would last, until we met real resistance.

Eight days later.

The army encountered ten more Hivite villages along its winding path through the countryside that week. Each surrendered with little resistance. There were two killings of locals, unclean blood shed by black-heads. I muttered a prayer for Allat’s forgiveness. It was not I who broke my oath however. One of the priestesses read the sky and assured me Allah’s disfavor wasn’t yet bestowed. We were ordered to scout for the army, but what they came back with was concerning. The next village along our path, it seemed, was totally abandoned. No cows or sheep in the fields. No persons at home. Nothing. What was more - the well stank like a rubbish heap. What was inside was clearly unfit to be drunk.

But, informing Gilgamesh of this, we were shrugged off.

“So they have run away! We have free reign over their belongings then. More supplies for the army.”

But when the main army did arrive, all they found were things the locals did not carry out into the hills. Empty pots. Buckets. Straw. The straw at least could be used for the animals. The rest wasn’t bothered to be taken.

So it was for village after village, and as concern grew amongst the camp, so too did the sky bring misfortune.

Dark, stormy clouds come from the north. Heavy, thick clouds. Rolling pitch across the sky. Heavy rain will come, the dry earth will turn to mud. I ride up the columns, I come beside the Lugal to tell him of what was spotted. I tell him we ought to make camp. He shrugs me off.

“We are but two days march from their fort, and you wish for us to camp? I see no clouds, and even then! Should we encamp here, and it does rain, then it will be even harder to march in the mud! I will not be delayed, come to me when you spot Hivites, not clouds.”

Two days later, the enemy hillfort was indeed insight. A short, squatty structure with a wooden and stone palisade surrounding it. Nothing like a city of Kengir. Yet so too was the storm. Not simply on the horizon - but covering the sky. Turning day to night. Not soon after did the rain begin to fall.

And fall it did.

The CRACK of the lightning scared all the bests of the column into panic. Men jumped and stared in awe. Another CRACK, and a blinding white light. Magic, the striking of heaven’s arrow down upon us. I heard a hundred screams, stoic men shaking in their boots. My ears rang. Right beside us, on the hillside, a great black smoldering crater now stood. Then came the rain. In sheets. Great giant balls of water pelting the earth. Yet the Lugal did not order us to make camp. We marched, as the earth below our feet turned to mud. Dragging our beasts, who had more sense than any of us. Their instincts tell them to stop and hide. We did not. Slipping, falling on our faces. I saw an oxe tumble off the path and down the hill - braying wildly as it snapped its legs like twigs under its weight and the force of the fall. Men slipped and tumbled themselves down to reach it. They had no choice but to stop and kill it, cut it up, and take it with us. But by the time they were finished we had finally made camp at the base of the hillside.

When we tried to make camp it became clear that this was a mistake. The Hivites had chosen this hill among others in the area, in that it stood alone among several valleys. The closest hill was quite a hard walk, especially in the mud. Camping at the base of a hill, of course, presented another challenge: water flows downhill.

The other lieutenants of Gilgamesh begged him to reconsider, yet he ordered the men to begin making camp anyway. By the time he had relented, half the grain had been soaked through, or swept away by sheets of water which ran down the hillside. It would surely rot in a matter of days, not weeks.

Yet, for their better judgment, the black-headed lieutenant Dinili did have them pick back up their belongings, and took the army to higher ground. It was a long walk from the base of the hill, yet on dryer land our success was now possible. We pitched our tents and shelters, those black-heads without such things rolled out reed mats, huddled beneath gaunt trees of Allanu and Ashuhu in attempt to stay dry. Their prospects of staying dry, much like our prospects of lighting any cookfires, seemed slim to none.

That was when one of the Lugal’s lieutenants approached me, dripping wet, having dropped his breastplate and helmet. He was humbled by the weather, as were we all. He spoke to me in the Kishite tongue, which I could recognize many words from our own native tongue. “You have brought tents in abundance, good for you, your men can sleep dry.”

“Al-lilat willing, our grain will stay dry too.” I responded, looking over to see ten men desperately trying to place our pots of grain beneath a curtain of hides. One among them barks to the other. “Put them on a board! Off the ground! Off the ground!” I turn back to the Kishite nobleman, who smirked.

“You have prepared better than many.”

I shrugged. “In my home-village, all men lived in shelters of hide and sticks and bone, for want of wood or good clay to build good homes.”

“Is that so? Perhaps you will have some mercy on me, friend, for my men have want of shelter. We have not enough tents, not enough hides, to cover my men and supplies. I pray that you would show them hospitality, for I swore to their families I would keep them safe.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You call me friend, but I know not your name, or where your men are from.”

He frowned. “Excuse me then, for I have learned yours, I must have forgotten to say my own. I am Sams-Gamil, of the city of Assur. My men come from the same.”

“Sams-Gamil, I am obligated to accept your hospitality. Discipline your men, however, to not abuse it.”

I walked over to the cluster of tents which had begun to be pitched. Men and their wives struck stakes into the ground for shelters to be raised, laden with pelts, which offered decent protection from the downpour. “Hey! Make room in your shelters! You all have guests!”

And from below the trees Sams-Gamil waved twenty men over to us, who each bowed their heads as they found room with their Gishimmari neighbors. The rest of his men, who did bring tents, pitched theirs next to our own. Even if we did not share a roof, it seemed we would get to know the Kishites very well.

---

The rain continued for three days before it seemed Gilgamesh had become fed up with the affair. The grain, as expected, had begun to rot in less protected vessels. There was a stink to it which was identifiable, it would become inedible in maybe four days more. The prospects of our campaign looked to be in doubt. Gilgamesh, I am sure, felt that he needed to accomplish something before we ran out of food, and would have to return home humiliated.

“We’re taking the mound, dammit!” He declared, slamming his fist down upon the ground. “There’s hardly fifty men in there, I bet. We have a thousand! What do we wait for?”

Clearly, we were waiting for the rain to stop. It had relented, to be sure, much of its fierceness. Yet a steady drizzle continued to pond on the ground. Everywhere down hill, it was sure, was turned to mud.

But great gilgamesh did not care, and soon the horns were sounded for men to ready themselves. Armor was dawned, weapons ready, wives kissed their husbands goodbye as they left the camp. A small guard was left behind, for any tricks which might be pulled by the barbarians. Yet even still, the force comparison was overwhelming. I wondered what the barbarian warlord upon the hill must have thought as he looked down upon us. He probably laughed. For we could hardly make it down to the base of the hill due to the mud. It took us twice as long to return to the base of the hillfort as it had done previously, yet to our surprise, and perhaps good fortune, the rain had totally ceased. Yet even still, a dark sky covered us like a blanket.

“Alrighty then men! We have ladders! We have a ram! Over the walls, break the doors! They’ll throw arrows and stones, so keep your shields up! If we take this in one go, we’ll have enough campaigning for more glory! Alrighty then, upwards!”

Just as great gilgamesh bounded upwards, his foot slipped. A mound of grass below his sandals gave way, and he, the great fat beast he was, plummeted face-first downwards. He didn’t even catch himself, and wholly smeared himself in the mud. I had to stifle a laugh, as when he stood, he was covered in it. He was as angry as a spurned bull. He spat grass and dirt, and wiped his eyes. “To Kur with it!” He cursed, and pulled himself up, before once again, the first among his men to bound up the hill. And following him, a great roar echoed across the valley. One thousand men yelled in four different tongues. The armies of Kengir followed their king, as rocks and arrows flew over their heads.

I, too, followed suit. We two hundred gishimmari, with wicker shields and daggers, hauled twenty rickety wooden ladders up the hill. The greatest bulk of the missiles soared towards Gilgamesh and his retinue, who rushed the doors of the wooden palisade with a ram that was more of a giant tree trunk which had all its branches cut away. Still, the arrows did pass our way, and struck helmet, shield, and breastplate. Blood was cut from my brethren’s flesh, but I didn’t see a single struck mortally wounded. I imagined for many of the defenders, they were not aiming for anyone. Purely luck was it that it landed a blow, though I did not envy those struck in the helmet with such force, and fell to their knees in a daze.

By the time we had gotten to the walls to raise the ladders, I heard the slamming of the gates to our left. Gilgamesh and his companion Enkidu bashed the gates with such force that we had hardly begun to climb over before the gates burst forth, and the men of Uruk poured inside. I was not the first to jump over the palisade, but when I did, I found the small force of Hivites already engaging the foes at the gate. I spat towards the men, “Half of you have at them, the others with me into the greathouse!”

And so quickly did their defeat unfold, as charged into their backs, the defenders fell. Yet while they were dispatched, we kicked down the wooden doors of the greathouse, a long structure with mud-brick walls and a thatch roof, the palace of a Hivite warlord. Bursting inside, we found but women and children and an empty throne. Their warlord was either in the midst of the outside frenzy, or had split from the scene. The screams of those inside the house made me feel a pang of guilt, I shook my head. The twenty or so men who streamed inside the greathouse behind me turned their eyes to the valuables - pelts, chests, weapons and pottery - which strung about the hall. “Don’t lay a finger on them.” I pointed towards those huddled in the corner of the hall. “By Al-ilat I will strangle you myself should you do so. I will not have my oath broken and curses come from the goddess.”

I sheathed my dagger, and approached the group, they spoke in their guttural tongue I could not quite decipher. I waved my hand towards them, and had ten of the men guard them, while the others dragged spoils out of the great hall, and into the center of the fort.

Great Gilgamesh was covered in a mixture of blood and mud. Bodies were strung everywhere, blood turned the puddles of rainwater red. It was a massacre. Though I saw black-head and even a gishimmari man among the fallen, it was by far mostly Hivites. “Are these the men who sacked the subjects of Ur?! HAH! I bring them to their knees. I, Gilgamesh, am surely greater than any who came before me!”

Those who took the spoils from the greathouse, I had dragged them before Gilgamesh, who smiled greatly.

“Ah, and to the victor come the spoils. Crude things, their destruction is my reward. But where are the women? I wish to take the bride of this petty king into my tent tonight! It is my right as the killer of her husband!”

I raised an eyebrow to him. “Do you know yet that you have killed her husband?”

He scowled at me. Any pushback, it seemed, was an offense.

“Surely I do- his corpse is… Eh.”

He looked around, but it was apparent that none of the corpses truly looked like even a king of these barbaric peoples.

“Perhaps, Lugal, you ought to not rape the most beautiful of your victims. For even by your own justification, you have not the right until you find her husband’s crown.”

He spat, sneered, even growled towards me. Yet he did not answer, instead he trudged into the greathouse, and returned with a massive jug of wine. With his bare hands he cupped and drank from it.

“I will drink his wine then, and wear his pelts. If Ilyas the weak does not believe in taking slaves from his victims.”

I hated that man more than Gabri’il himself.

And our luck, it seems, was not as sure as we once thought. For, because we were so far from the camp, it was only upon our return that we heard screams and cries from within. To our shock, we saw bodies and blood strewn about the camp. Bodies of women, bodies of men too. One Black-Head stumbled towards us, covered in cuts and blood. He coughed, and there spat up blood to the ground. He still had his spear and shield in his hands. He kneeled, leaning down on his spear, as he approached us.

“The Hivities attacked the camp while you were away, Lord Gilgamesh. They fought hard, they killed many innocent and warrior alike. They took our grain in their retreat, they killed or took our cattle and camels too. It was only with the favor of Inanna that we fought them back. And too, did we do it nobly master. We have the head of their warchief, Hulgi, with his shield and sword. I give it to you, Lugal, as tribute.”

As he finished speaking, he shook, and soon collapsed on the ground. An arrow stuck out from his back. “Fetch a priestess!” I called, and when going through the camp, found six of them dead. Curse Gilgamesh, if we only had brought less men, we would not have needed such a great retinue. I wondered if the prophet would curse me for having six of her priestesses killed. At least none were of her personal school. The rest, I found, kneeling next to the bodies of wounded men. At first I thought they only allies, yet some I found were Hivites.

“Why do you attempt to save the Hivite, sister?” I asked one of them.

“The spirit of Wahd within him. He bleeds, and thus I stop the bleeding. Bi-La Kaifa. No more can be said.”

At least, perhaps, we would get a few slaves out of this tragedy. Yet Gilgamesh became furious when he learned the prostitute he had brought with him had been killed, and his belongings scattered. What was worse was when he was informed we would not have enough food to campaign any longer. This finally broke him.

Just like an angry bull, he began to lash out. He struck the Shakkanak who told him of the food, the nobleman fell, clutching at his right eye. “Damn you Inanna! Damn you Anu! Curse the gods, curse their cruelty! What have I to show for this campaign against HIVITE BARBARIANS, if not a few dead cattle and hides! I am GILGAMESH! I am LUGAL! And you reward a pious Lugal with such things! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid fools!”

The defending man who had collapsed with an arrow in his back was being carried by two sisters to a simple stretcher. Yet the Lugal stepped over towards him, and struck the man in the stomach, who writhed and shook - the stretcher falling to the ground. “YOU FOOL! You say you fought hard, LIAR! You let my tent be ravaged, I’ll kill you!”

And thus he began to kick and beat the man - the shaft of the arrow snapping as he pushed it further into him. Blood poured around him. Enkidu rushed behind him, trying to pull Gilgamesh off of him, but by the time he had done so, the man was clearly dead.


“Damn this campaign!” He screamed, looking towards his men. “I AM A VICTOR! I SUBDUED THE HIVITES! ALL GLORY IS TO ME! NOW I AM DONE WITH THIS DISGUSTING LAND!” He ripped off his breastplate and helmet, and threw them both into the bushes. “If they say we must return, then FINE! I will return! Gišur! When we return to Kish, I expect a feast in my honor, for my victory.”

---

The march back to Kish was one of relief, yet it was soured by the ineffectiveness all knew came of the whole events. Five months, miles of walking, blood shed, and for what? The army passed first through Sippar for food, and then to Kish where it was dispersed. Dispersed for the Black-Heads, that was, for while Gilgamesh feasted, a messenger came to our camp bringing black news.

The frontier was left to us, the Gishimmari, and the Kishites, to deal with. While Gilgamesh returned to Uruk, supposedly having pacified the region, the actual work, it seemed, was up to us.

Gilgamesh, will you crumble to dust on the plains of Kur. May you know not Wahd in death. May you choke on the mutton you gorge yourself with. May you vomit all the wine you drink. You hairy, brutish, crass, stupid man. The Black-Heads deserve better. I deserve better than to serve you. Your father was a better man, your father’s father was a better man. You are not but muscle and glory. One day the glory will be given to better men.

Yet for now, it seems, we must obey. I have to tell the men that they will not be going home. Two hundred Gishimmari left Nippur for the border the year before. Now, it is cool. The earth is soaked with water and blood. The one hundred and ninety who survived the first excursion now are sent back to the border. There is much work to be done if we are to survive, let alone achieve anything.

Yet a glimmer of hope was shown to me, as Sams-Gamil cane unto my tent with a smile. “Well met friend. It seems we too will not be returning to Assur. We have decided to stay with you, for your hospitality, to ease the burden of your task. My Lord, the Sarrum of Assur, has decided to help fund your next expedition. For hate of the Hivites and the havoc they bring upon his land. It seems that you are not without allies.”

Our brother Kishites, it seems, will not be as fickle as the black-heads.

[Hanajima]

Ness Armstrong

“I have a tall, white, blond beloved.
Have you seen the moon at night? Well, he shines brighter.
The traitor left me and then he came to see me and to know my news:
he stopped my mouth, he shut my tongue,
he was like a file to my suspicions”

I muttered the poem under my breath in a mix of broken slurred Arabic and English, my angry eyes darting around as I crossed the street. Walking home at night alone usually made me very nervous, but an angry mood and not a little drunkenness may have made me bolder than I normally was. “Stupid blockhead, bloody twit,” I growled to myself as my hand fumbled around my coat pocket for the keys. It was good that the street was abandoned because I said way worse, more obscene things, much more audibly as I dug around my pockets.

You're a bit too clingy for me, I don't think we're really that close, I just don't think I could have a relationship with another man, the words just kept ringing in my head.

“Argh just shut up, shut up,” I practically shouted, trying to block out the memories. I looked behind me and thankfully the street was still empty, and I saw my keys a few yards away. Oh thank God, I ran to pick them up, almost falling over in the process, and placed the wet metal in my pockets, my hand firmly wrapped around to avoid a repeat of dropping them. I wasn't sure if I was so flustered because of the rejection or the fact that my colleagues may have seen me darting out the door in a huff. The last thing I wanted to hear at work the next few days was hushed whispers about why I'd left so suddenly.

After a few more miles walking, I finally reached my townhouse and fumbled a couple of times getting the correct key out before finally opening the door. Saying a thank you to the powers that be, whoever they were, I placed my shoes down and carefully walked up the stairs and entered my bedroom. As I finally sat down on my bed, everything that happened suddenly came over me and I started sobbing.

Why? Why couldn't things have worked out? It seemed so easily like they would. He had had no objections before when we talked, but this time, he was so distant and impersonal when he rejected me. That made it hurt worse than the rejection itself. I didn't want to seem entitled to his affection, but why did he have to make it hurt more by acting receptive and then changing his mind with no explanation? Nothing had made me this upset before, which made the whole situation that much more ridiculous.

I thought being drunk made you more likely to be asleep, but as I calmed down, I just stared up at the ceiling bemusedly, hours passing. Finally my eyelids started to become heavier and heavier and the last thing I heard before falling unconscious was my hand accidentally knocking my copy of the Quran off my nightstand.

---

Goryachy Klyuch

I don't know when I woke up, but it was a sudden start, with cold winds blowing on me and rough dirt beneath me and in my mouth. I pushed myself over and looked all around me. Where, what, how. Something dripped down my head and I wiped it away only to see that it was blood. The rest of my body ached as though I'd fallen from some height, but otherwise, I was fine. Undressed and freezing, teeth chattering, but in one piece. A noise in the trees shuffled around and in my panicking state, I ran.

The little that I could reason, I could tell this was nowhere near where I lived, nor was it even in America. There was no way this was a dream, no way it could be. My torn feet and legs from running through the woods unshielded burnt too much for this to be a mere dream or phantasm. There were animals around, lots and lots, and in such an untouched place by humans, with so many prey animals, there had to be predators. Every fern became a wolf, every shrub became a bear, and I must have run several miles without stopping until I accidentally ran across a number of women who were washing their clothes in a stream.

We stared at each other for a moment, neither party saying anything, before we simultaneously blinked and all hell broke loose.

Three of the women ran, screaming. “A wild wind spirit has turned into a blonde monster!” one of them screamed in a language I could somehow understand. I didn't have too much time to think about it though because one of the women, about as tall and strong as me, ran up to suckerpunch me straight in the face and everything went black.

[Arlye Austros]

Gardubba, South Bank of the Rérkhes,
2950 B.C.
The following night.

It was extremely dark. Darker than the other night in which Diego met the inhabitants of Gardubba. He noticed the torchlights by the buildings closer to the river were darkened and dead, only the dim shine of the town’s farther side framing about the small clay and reed huts and buildings. And it was barely useful to him, only giving him a hint of his own location. Not even the moon gave him any sign of life. The satellite was hidden.
Only the stars were showing him a general path. A small and neglectable light that barely let him know he was still on this earth. His feet felt the mud and gentle flows f water running between small islets of bushes and reeds. He looked into the outline of the buildings and tried to guess his place.
This was the grove.
He was surrounded by the sound of the Guadalquivir, the frogs and the dragonflies.

“You are a loud one.” The voice said joyfully. Diego turned to the dark figure.
Sostibesh’s silhouette stood in the open. She seemed taller than Diego could remember, and the traits of her face were erased by the moonless night. It was a combination of visual queues that made Diego’s heart buzz with a sudden surge of fear. She’d appeared out of nowhere.
“You wanted to meet me.” He said flatly after stepping over his initial shock.
“Where did you find your companions?”
Diego took a minute to reply. There was a curved object hanging over her chest. The Horn.

“They joined me at many points in my journey. The people of the north are different from the southerners. And amongst them they are also very different. They all flee war, though.”
“It seems was follows you wherever you go, Unwithered. We didn’t know of it before you came. Not in the scale you unleashed.”
She chuckled and kneeled over a small stream running near her feet.
“War was already in the heart of my former master. Had I known what I was giving him, I would have…”
He would have what?
“What do you want now?” Sostibesh made a cup with her hands and carried some water from the stream, walking towards the post of Etagina. “Become a ruler of men once more?” She poured the water on the wood.
“I do.” He admitted. “I am called to it by. I don’t know. Fate, I suppose.” He started. “I swore to destroy Ors-Lakosshkan the day I took the horn with me. And I haven’t forgotten it.”
“But why would we have to help you fulfil your oath? We had nothing to do with it.” Sostibesh walked towards him and face Diego from a palm’s length. Her eyes tingled with the distant torchlight.
“I will leave that oath behind if it means protecting this city.”
“City… now that is a word I have only heard about in old stories.”
“I only used it to talk of what Gardubba could be. A system of power that extends beyond her walls. The League was a mean to it.”
“Ambition, then.” She caressed his face with a mocking grin on her.
“Yes.”

Diego returned at sunrise to the encampment. His northmen were awake, and it seemed they hadn’t slept a bit while he was gone. He struggled to erase that smile from his face as soon as they could hear him.
“We have a task from the priestess.” He announced once standing under the largest oak on the hilltop. “A group of Soezzhkan have descended on the river and are known to harass settlements. We are to be joined by some volunteers from the town and march.”
Some grunts of excitement replied. Diego broke a smile again. “Make ready. We are going to fight once more.”
Golzal took a spear and raised it into the air. “Time to show the south what we can do, my friends!”

By noon they left from Gardubba’s southern entrance and followed the river’s left margin. Thirteen northern warriors, another twelve from Gardubba armed with spears and slings. And news went forth to the Agarmasshkan and to the Bargasshkan. The Unwithering marched again.

[Tesserach]

Schroedinger's Child

---

We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men and women are created equal, that they are endowed with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

The Way of Law upholds that it is the responsibility of every individual to uphold these rights both as individuals, and as shareholders in our common humanity. For the child that is not embraced by their village, will burn it down just to feel it's warmth.
-The Way of Great Peace, Foundations of Practice

---

Like an evil twin, feel it scratching within,
Like an insane sovereign ranger,
And his beautiful face with his leathery lace,
So can't you see the play he's staging?

Ever the light casts a shadow,
Ever the night springs from the light.

In the end, it's never just the light you need,
When balance slays the demon, you'll find peace.
In the end, it's never just the dark you seek,
When balance slays the demon, you'll find peace.
Find the peace.

Screaming, new darkness descends on this frail frame,
I drown in fathomless black space, will I never scratch the depths of this domain?
I see not, yet nothing could be worse than the shades my mind calls herein,
Alone, in my own wake, the unraveling of reasons schemed.
-Balance Slays the Demon

---

Javish, The Khusabi

Mehrgarh,
August 17th, 2950BCE

The Darshana warrior stood nearby leaning on his spear, watching him with bored, impatient eyes. "Bathe Khusab."

Javish, standing knee deep in the waters of the Bolan, shivered. There were still snows in the highlands this year, and the waters were uncommonly cold. His garments lay by the riverbank, he bent forward, cupping the water in his shivering hands.

"Recite the rites."

"To the sacred Bolan..." He began, his voice quivering from the cold as he began reciting the Three Tribes' cleansing right. Facing the east, where the sun was not fully above the horizon, he raised the water, dousing his head as the cold water ran trickling down his naked body. Again he bent low, continuing the rite, cupping water - his chest, shoulders and back. Then both legs, then his arms and legs until the cleansing rite was completed.

Finishing, Javish was still blinking and wiping away the water from around his eyes when his minder threw his sash and loincloth over to him without word or warning. The delayed reaction barely caught them before they hit the running waters.

"Be prepared." His guard told him.

Clothed again, they wandered back towards the structures of Mehrgarh, passing the laundry lagoon where women watched him, paraded behind the warrior with his hair cut short. People could see him, yet it was almost bearable until he saw Ishanya looking up from her laundry, their eyes briefly meeting. Casting his gaze low, Javish felt the burning shame suddenly and acutely. Cheeks burning. Pins and needles in his neck and running down his back.

He didn't know what was more infuriating, being forced to make this walk in front of people, or his own stupid reaction. Ishanya was several years older, the high priestess' own apprentice and it was common knowledge, the most beautiful girl in all Mehrgarh. So far as she knew there was no reason she would care, it would be stupid of her. Just as it was stupid of him to react as he did to her seeing him.

If things were different, perhaps, but they weren't.

Travelling the narrow, dirt path and the little ditches that drained raw sewage from the newly constructed housing area, down towards the new sewage treatment lagoons, they wound their way between the saplings, past the Temple of the Great Earth Mother Spirit, towards the newly paved central square.

Javish's minder bid him sit outside the hall. The totem of the Earth-River Society rested outside the Elder's Hall, signifying the council was in session inside. He wasn't the only matter they were attending to today.

Sitting cross-legged in the dirt, Javish had little to do but ruminate as people passed by him, casting eyes upon him while he, occasionally, worked up the temerity to glare back at them.

Let them look

The thought tasted bitter even in his own thoughts. He watched his minder wander a little, falling into discussion with the sentries, maintaining vigil outside the hall. Talking variously about nothing, their families - and Javish, as though he were not sitting only a few feet away. People went about their business. People, laying out their mats and wares, setting out lean-tos, tents and screens to protect from the sun.

Porters, wagons, wheelbarrows and handcarts moving things this way and that. Paying him no mind.

It was the porter, Parjupta, who paused with his hand-cart, laden with water pots he was collecting and refilling from the water-wagon parked nearby.

Parjupta was a strange man. Another Khusab, though Javish got the impression from the way the other Khusabi avoided and spoke about the man that he was considered unsavoury. That only made Javish's discomfort more pronounced as he felt the older man's attentions upon him; he sat straighter, more rigid, his shoulders and back muscles clenching. Despite his unsavoury reputation, Javish always thought the man had the bearing of a warrior.

Not many Khusab warriors had survived to reach Mehrgarh. Old men, children. Cravens mostly. But Parjupta had never struck Javish as a craven. If anything, despite his hunched posture, the man felt... dangerous.

Javish wanted to slink awway, tried to avoid his gaze, but the man lingered over him. As though waiting for something. It lasted until Javish's minder noticed and called out. "Move along."

Javish briefly glanced up to see if the man was leaving, but he made no move. Instead their eyes met.

"Never forget who you are." And with that Parjupta left before the Darshana took offence.

As though that were possible Javish mused, but he did take a breath, calming himself as the strange man returned to his work.

They waited for Earth-River Society's previous business to finish but eventually Javish was ushered within. He was cleansed with smoking incense upon entering, where the elders and chiefs were already arranged in a circle, open at one end to the eastern door. Two spaces, with cushions set out, lingered empty.

Javish felt eyes following him as he entered the circle. The greetings were said as he did. The Three Tribes would follow the circle always to the right until they found their place. The Khusab had the same tradition, the storytellers said this was because of their common history. Supposedly there was a story where Khusab, the founder of their clan, had a falling out with the chief of the Reiman Dheiri and refused to follow his footsteps. For that reason, Khusab always walked to the left instead.

Inside the circle Javish paused, his eyes lingering briefly on the empty cushion that would remain unoccupied. The seat reserved for members o fthe dead, whom any there might wish to remember. Javish stood there a time, remembering the rainy day his father had left him for the plains of Taxila. He'd only been three at the time, but he remembered it. Remembered his mother telling him that his father would never be coming back. Being captured by the Three Tribes, facing slavery or swearing to the very same 'great peace' that had presided over the death of his father and destruction of the Khusab.

Looking around the circle he made the decision then and there and circled to his left. No one said anything to him. But they knew.

They sipped tea, and passed around the customary gift to the Earth-River Society. In a sign of the changing times, two years before someone had opened a stall selling gift bundles for petitioners. The society hadn't liked that so they'd passed a law so that people had to collect the plants themselves. Then someone had bought rights to a fenced plot next to the square, and planted all the herbs and items there.

"Jayesh, is of no family and no clan. He has no standing here yet he must answer to the law, as must we all. The son of a Darshana chief has been attacked. Struck in the face, having offered no insult nor provocation." The lawspeaker continued reciting the circumstances of why he was here. "There is little discuss. Outsiders that violate our laws are to be marked and Outcast."

It was stupid. Daya wasn't even that upset and after they'd wrestled and Bharat had pulled them off each other they'd laughed about it. Just a stupid fight for no reason.

"The Circle recognizes the Sasaan Anthaathi. Javish is practitioner of The way, and should be counted among The People." It was Aradin who spoke. Himself an outsider, now somehow sitting on the Earth-River Society. Javish had been scarcely able to talk when that decision had been made. There was a brief pause as someone made precisely this point, and then someone pointed out that no one chose the circumstances of their birth or family.

Eventually they decide it counts, that the Sasaan Anthaathi can stand in for a tribe in such cases. This leads to an entertaining outburst by the Darshana chief who brought the grievance before them in the first place. "So, the Sasaan Anthaathi are their own tribe now? Does this mean Aradin is what, a priest, a chief, an elder? Does anyone even know?"

It was a loss of face for Chief Jayesh to be sure. Even his supporters on the council looked embarassed for him, though even Javish could see where the frustration came from. Javish felt it too. Things being decided for him, being dragged out here for something that had nothing to do with him. Young nomad warriors got into fights all the time, even with the new laws, as long as no one died, no one cared.

This was about one of the Darshana chiefs looking to ensure former Khusab, who were disproportionately attending and graduating from the Mehrgarh Institute, couldn't fill important official posts.

They argued some more, lectured him some. Javish was never given the opportunity to speak. By the end it was all and he was handed over to Aradin to be disciplined in the way tribes were expected to administer their own laws. Then the whole council said its farewells and he was allowed to leave with Aradin.

"That was a waste of time." Javish complained as the two of them wandered back towards the Khusab District.

"It was silly." Aradin admitted as they walked. "You still shouldn't be going around punching Daya. He's your friend isn't he?"

Javish shrugged, feeling bitter about the whole thing. Shamed really. "It just... pissed me off. The way he was talking about me. The girls."

"It's not your first time. You broke laws, you can't just go around punching people. There's going to have to be a correction."

"You keep saying everyone's supposed to be treated decent - but they hate us. And all you say is that we're supposed to turn the other cheek. You're not Khusab, you don't understand." The words tasted bitter even in Javish's own tongue but they came out regardless.

"I can't pretend I do. But frustration at people and the world? I do know a thing or two about that." Aradin admitted. "You need to be able to control this anger of yours. We correct now, because it will hold you back later."

"Punishment you mean." Javish complained. "And we're supposed to take it. For a better world, for the Way of Peace. Fine. Let it be so. I don't even care. But... we go through all this, because my people answered your call to the way of peace... and we were stabbed in the back. And you lecture us about justice, but you let the ones who did it walk free."

Aradin paused and was silent a time. "I won't tell you it's fair - but you don't even know what your 'punishment' is yet." He took the time, choosing his words carefully. Javish recognized the way the man worked now. "It's also a different matter. You admit you punched Daya."

"You know who did 'it'." Javish says.

"Suspecting and knowing are two different things."

"You know. Everyone knows." The Harappan King, Nerudan. Arjan. They both did it or they knew. Everyone said it, but no one would do anything.

Aradin took a long breath, calming himself. Javish could tell he was annoying the man, aware that he was being talked down to. It was Aradin's way. "It's natural to feel as you do. When we wrestle, why do we train escapes?"

Javish hesitated sensing one of Aradin's verbal traps.

"Because they don't come naturally. If you act only on instinct, you will fail. We train those instincts out of you, so that when it matters: instead of instinct, you react correctly."

"So what? We do nothing. You suck up to Arjan at the festivals. We have to pretend he's this great guy."

Aradin took Javish then forcefully by the arm, and for a terrified moment Javish was reminded that though he'd passed his ceremony, he was very far from having come into the full power of his manhood as Aradin forced him off the road. "Keep your voice down." The older man's voice was ice, as he loomed now over Javish. "Listen to me. We do not know what role, if any, Arjan played. We may never know."

"Everyone..."

"Says a lot of stupid things. This is a lesson I do not give many people Javish." Javish fell silent. He'd never seen the nominally jovial Aradin like this. "You do not, ever, approach men like Arjan with loose words and comments. He has eyes and ears in this town. You know this."

"I'm not afraid of him." Javish said, trying to pull away. To his irritation Aradin's grasp held firm.

"You're no longer a child anymore Javish. An adult wields their words with intent, and answers to the consequences."

Javish took a deep breath. "Fine."

Aradin released his grip on Javish's arm, which felt sore from the force of his grip. Javish ignored it. "You're not wrong though Javish. I told you that anger and frustration are natural. Instinctual. There's a reason we feel these things. They're there to keep us alive. To tell us there's something about our circumstances we need to change.

"If it's something simple. We fix it. But sometimes it's deeper. Not obvious. Something needs to change, but if we don't know what, the feelings just build inside us. Until something needs to give. The world, ourselves, other people - something needs to give. And if it gets too much, something breaks. Ourselves, like Ara. Other people, the way you lash out. Or the world, if you're an Arjan or a Torrez."

"I'm not going to break." Javish insisted wondering if that was really what Aradin thought of him.

"Good." Aradin says, turning and walking away. "And we aren't doing nothing. Come with me."

"Where are we going?"

"Your punishment. You want to be a warrior? It's time to learn discipline."

---

Azahad, Commander of the Guard

Mehrgarh

Azahad raised an eyebrow at the young man accompanying Aradin into the tent at the edge of town. Outside the camels were being grazed and watered while several Indus Guards stood watch. Aradin simply waived away the querying glance. "He's with me."

Azahad sat himself upon a straw matt, lowering himself gingerly. The man was beginning to show his age even from Javish first joined the warriors during their morning exercises. He looked tired. "We averted the crisis I think. The old chief was managed it. The lad wasn't happy. I during the ride south he had time to make his peace with it, though he didn't seem fond of the mine."

"We've all done work rotations in the mines. I'll talk to him next time I'm out at Mach. He did kill a man, but in either case, we can use more contacts among the Sherikhan." Aradin lowered himself to a mat opposite Azahad, then gestured for Javesh to sit next to him and observe.

"You should see what Arjan has going on up there. He's calling it Pallawi. It's a whole town. He's got Parvesh, Sandaj and Thavin working for him. He's got camels, carts, fields, warehouses, a granary. It's not exactly Mehrgarh, but he'd give Nausharo a run for its money. From the ground up in ten years. Out of nothing."

"Bronzeworks?"

"I saw stacks. He's even got practice fields, and guys practicing pike ranks. You should be wary who you take as students from the Vadabhaat."

Javish leans forward, listening to all of this but saying nothing as the two men spoke.

"So he's scalping my students?" Aradin seemed to find that amusing. "What was your impression of the Sherikhan warriors?"

"Some of the ones in the borderlands understood. Felt bad for them." There was a measure of sympathy in Azahad's tone. Caught in the middle between the Vadabhaat and their hot-headed cousins. "They were trying to trade for arms. Train to fight in formation. Many of them are close with the Vadabhaat. They feared their lowland cousins being foolish though, they still respond to every provocation. The Vadabhaat were open about their intentions. They did not like our interference."

"Well we did scoop their cassus belli and dump it down a mine shaft." Aradin commented. "Looks like Arjan is feeling one last push before he goes..."

"I do not think he's going to stop."

Aradin's lips persed and nodded. "We did well stringing him along this long. I think we're approaching time to cut him loose. This is Javish by the way, I thought he might enjoy this little chat."

"One of the young Khusab." Azahad's eyes fell upon the boy who, suddenly, felt very much a boy.

"He's done his basics. Passed his ceremony. He is a bit too... fightey. He needs discipline." Aradin says. "And it sounds like we may need to increase guard numbers. I know you need more riders who can read and write."

Azahad looked the young man over.

"Is this my punishment?" His voice and face are incredulous as he looks at Aradin. "Being inducted as a rider in the Guard?" This was a coveted position among the young men looking to become warriors.

"I told you before. It's a correction, Javesh." He chided gently. "Unless you want to work the mines."

"No. Of course. I won't let you down. Either of you." Javesh promised.

[Saxony-Brandenburg]

“When the prophet had led us to the mountaintop, she stopped me, and there reached down and grasped a clump of earth from the ground. “This is al-Ilahat.” She stated, and let the sandy earth flow from her hands. Then she stood and pointed to the sky, whereupon she remarked “And that, is al-Ilah.” Then she moved her hand downwards and outwards, towards the horizon. “And where the two meet, that is Wahd.”

“All under heaven. Man and Beast. Mountain and Sea. That is what belongs to, and is of Wahd.”

-Excerpt from The Sayings of Umm Kharuf

The Rugged Lands of the Hivites
2957 BCE
Ilyas ibn Yasr

It was cold here in the north, far from Ilyas’s home. He found the conditions loathsome, especially the mud. It had been just three months since Gilgamesh’s last campaign into the northern reaches. Three months was not long enough for everything, but it would have to do. Another raid into the lands of the Kishites. Another three villages gone. Gilgamesh did little to stop this. If anything, his actions only antagonized them. Ilyas doubted mercy would be shown to the black-heads by the Hivites. Black-Heads spared those who surrendered, but massacred those who resisted. Hivites, seeing the massacres at their face, massacre everyone. Even the ones who surrender. Repulsive. And yet the Prophet ordered him to show them the mercy they show not to others. Inscrutable. Yet he had no choice in the matter. A superstitious man, he did not break oaths.

When he left the city of Kishite city of Assur, there were two hundred and sixty men in his warband. An expedition, more than an army. A fraction of the size which kings lead. Yet he was their leader, he was their warchief. He was, in many ways, the Lugal of his own moving city. Two hundred Gishimmari and one hundred and forty Kishites from Assur followed him from their city. Among both races were not merely warriors but doctors, masons, carpenters - craftsmen and even five priestesses. All five of whom had studied under the prophet herself. There were forty wives and children following the army. Many who had survived the first campaign, and would not be convinced to go home. So it seemed that if they were to die, they would all die together.

As they left Assur for the North west, the further they came from the city, the more evident the Hivite scourge became on the land. Ilyas passed through villages and hamlets - desolate, filled with dried blood and vultures. What remained of their inhabitants was often too gruesome to describe. Bodies of men and women lay where they stood. So far from the city, the Ensi could do little. So it seemed the Hivites had repaid the blood of their kin with more blood. The fields lay desolate, the pastures were quiet and empty. All the grain, all the sheep, all gone. They passed through this border country - and despaired to think of how they too may face a similar fate.

Ilyas did what he could to keep the party’s nerves at-ease. After all, desertion was common, and by the third night fifteen had already fled. Mostly black-headed laborers, but some Gishimmari too. He posted watches at night. He did not let foraging parties or scouts leave alone. Always in groups of five or more. They followed their water sources all the way north - from the river to her tributary streams, until at last they were among the rolling hills of Hivite country.

Indeed, though it was not the exact same path the army had taken, they had passed through the same village the army had three months prior. The Hivite inhabitants looked on to this lesser army with the same fear they’d given gilgamesh. Yet Ilyas was more careful than his master, and among his party he had brought a Kishite merchant who often traded with these people, and, at least crudely, knew their tongue.

“Tell them we mean them no harm. Ask where the closest water sources are, what settlements neighbor theirs, and who their master is.”

And so he sent the Kishite towards the group, who muttered a few questions in their foreign tongue, to the native’s surprise. Ilyas had no clue what they were saying, it wasn’t similar in the slightest to the Kishite tongue, which he could vaguely understand. When the merchant returned however, he seemed pleased enough.

“There are three villages to the north of here, but they do not have place names as you may think of them.”

Ilyas rolled his eyes. “What are they then?”

“They refer to them as their cousins, but specify them with different terms. The sheep cousins live in the valley across the ridgeline over there. The bow cousins live on top of that ridgeline the opposite direction - and the sickle cousins live in the field between the two groves on the other side of this plain.”

Ilyas rubbed his forehead. He was already annoyed with this game of telephone. “And what are THESE people called then?”

The merchant shrugged, before running back to the village. A minute later he came back to Ilyas. “These people are The People.”

Ilyas sighed. It seems he would have to ask the other people what they called this village, as “The People” was clearly what they called themselves, but not what others called them.

“Well what of their master?” He asked. “Is that the warlord we murdered three months ago?”
The merchant nodded. “Just so. Except - his uncle, Albho, has taken the lead of his clan. Re-occupying his hillfort, and demanding the same tribute as before.”

He nodded. It was likely that this would occur, after all, what had Gilgamesh done? He had walked into these lands, took some cows, and killed their local warlord: only to immediately leave thereafter. Surely another would simply step into his place.

They passed the village heading further north, where they soon passed and saw the three villages the first had described. From them, they had learned that the first village was called “the low cousins”, they presumed because they lived further south and therefore slightly lower in elevation to the rest of their neighbors.

As they passed through these lands, it became clear to Ilyas that going further north would not be a wise decision. They were already several days’ walk from friendly settlements, and what was more, with the rise of a new warlord paired with the horrible attacks on the black-heads, they would face resistance going any further into Hivite territory.

They would make their base camp here, among the four villages. Yet where, would be a challenge.

What was necessary for a site was three-fold. It must be at an elevation, for defensive purposes. It must be near good water, so they could survive. And uniquely, it would need to be near a good source of wood. This, Ilyas had not before considered - yet in these lands, the people built their defenses out of wooden palisades. He would do well to copy their tactics. Thus he and his scouts scoured the ridgeline which marked the border of this area - with the sheep people on one side, the sickle and low people on the other, and the bow people alongside them, as they tried to decide on a specific hilltop on which to settle their camp. Yet, as he came across multiple that seemed acceptable - he felt that arbitrary choosing one would bring ill-luck. So he consulted one of the five priestesses, named Zarriqum.

“Fortune, great Ilyas, is not as some believe unknowable. Just as you can read the outcomes of battles in the entrails of a sacrifice - so too can you observe the world, to see which hilltop will be your providence.”

Thus did she bring her four sisters with her, and they walked off into the distance - and there watched the ridge for what must have been an hour - before it was that Zarriqum exclaimed, pointing at the sky. “Aha! Our messenger! Our messenger arrives!”

Ilyas, confused, came towards them. Zarriqum grasped his shoulder, and pointed to where, atop one such hill along the ridgeline, two hawks circled in the air.
“That is where nature tells you to settle Ilyas.”

“And what do circling hawks have to do with my camp?”

“Ah, you are a man of practical means. You cannot see the significance. But Wahd is present in all things under heaven. Its signs come not only from comets and stars - but the behaviors of the beasts and the wind. The birds, in a sense, carry meaning on their wings. They circle above that hill, and thus fortune would favor you, should you settle atop it.”

Finding a satisfying reason for choosing one, or at least, a reason which wasn’t wholly at-random, he heeded their advice, and brought the army to finally rest as they threw down their belongings and collapsed there atop the hill. It was not a tall hill, nor was it particularly rocky. Yet it was elevated above the land around them - if anyone were to attack, they would surely see it coming long before they arrived at their doorstep. A stream arced its way down at the base of the hill. Fresh water which fed a pond and eventually a creek the further downstream you went. All along the ridgeline were those famous pine trees which were beautiful in their own way. Green and brown, they smelled sweet and crisp, and filled the air around them with their aroma. But, of course, there was no time for admiring the landscape. For all the idyllic views and passive neighbors, Ilyas could not forget that they were in hostile territory. They were outsiders, invaders. It may not be today, but soon enough, they would have to kill or be killed to survive.

They pitched their sixty tents atop the hill, and began the tedious process of bringing water up from the stream to fuel a dozen cookfires among them. Meanwhile, he brought those dozen men who would make for his lieutenants around him so that he may discuss their strategy moving forwards:

“Let me be clear to you this: the Lugal’s campaign was an utter failure. It achieved nothing but to ignite the anger of our foes. This land will not be pacified until it is tamed. If we do not tame it, the raids will continue, more will die, and many more will starve. It is clear that the strategy of Uruk has no promise of success. Merely cleaving heads and taking tribute will only cause newer, stronger, and more vicious foes to rise against us. We will have to establish ourselves here, permanently, if we wish to dominate the Hivite, and stop the raids once and for all. To fight the Hivite, we will have to act like the Hivites. To defeat these warlords, we will have to become warlords, and the strongest warlords in the region - lest they slaughter us just the same as the villages we saw on the way here.”

The Ensi of Kish had agreed to send them grain and supplies to furnish their settlement. And their Gishimmari brethren in far-away Nippur had as well. Yet they could not rely on them for everything, for who knew how reliable, or how often, such assistance would come. As for the locals - though they could try and take some tribute from them, excessive plundering would likely undermine any chances they had at cooperation. That was to say that it was clear they would need to provide for themselves. Be it hunting, herding, or even farming - whatever it took to keep themselves fed. This would no longer be simply an army, this would be a settlement.

Yet their greatest concern was clearly the defenses. They were in hostile territory, and among the shadows of the trees on the horizon, who knew who looked on over them. The Warcheif Albho would no doubt attempt to evict them from his dominion. They were a direct challenge to him, which could not go unanswered. They would need to erect walls, ditches, and anything else to protect themselves from attack. But this was all to forestall the inevitable. All the palisades in the world would not do anything if they did not face the Hivite warchiefs head-on. Soon enough, some of them may decide to come together to face their foreign foes, and then they would be a grave threat. They would need to be both careful and decisive to have any hope of victory whilst surrounded by enemies on all sides…

---

Fifty hands strike the earth near the base of the hill. Forty hands carry wicker baskets as forty feet trudge up and down the hillside a thousand times. The hands, some with spades, some without, pull clay and wet earth, sand, and mud up to the camp. Their efforts carve a ditch at the base of the hill. A ditch which will later be useful to them.

Sixy more hands hold axes and rough blades of crude stone and fine bronze. They are led by a carpenter of Kish, who marks good and sturdy trees of pine and oak to be felled. They chip away at the timber, they cut its branches down and toss it in a pile for the night’s kindling. The logs are tied to their pack oxen and camels, and dragged up towards the camp.

Sixty hands are led by a stonemason. He takes spikes of copper and bronze, and a hammer, and finds boulders for which to break. He has his companions observe his direction, and drive the spikes down. It is a simple process, they easily crack in two upon their faultlines. Yet dragging these cracked and useable boulders, takes the greatest effort. Packed on crude sleds of wood and dragged by man and beast, to take it up the hill exhausts even the strongest among them.

And what do these materials manifest into? Ilyas watches them, carefully, as they sharpen the treetrunks to a point, and drive them into the earth around the camp. It will take dozens upon dozens of trees. Yet these are groves of thin trees, not forests of great ones. Their abundance is simply not enough to build the wall. They are posts to hold the rest. They must use them sparingly.

Behind the posts are stacked the quarried boulders, a mixture of clay and wet sand between them. Some are strong, some are quite brittle. They are stacked as best they can with the hardest rocks facing the outside. A stonemason barks orders of which to place where. It will take hundreds of boulders to fill the wall. They will need more hands devoted to the project before they can but hope the wall will be done.

Atop and among the boulders is piled high the earth. Packed down and pressed until it is as solid as the hillside. Eventually, it will be as high as the trees they fell to make their posts. Eventually, it will be some protection. For now, they dig, they carry, they pile. Inch by sweat-soaked inch, they drag more earth, more stone, more timber to build such a modest fortress.

Everything is hard in these lands. Everything has a price in sweat and blood. Yet labor is a worthy sacrifice for some protection from the wolves which stalk them.

Ilyas surveys them well, and knows how necessary this project is. Yet every day he realizes it does not go quick enough. He needs more hands, everyone’s is not enough. Too many of his people’s attention is devoted to building shelters amidst the camp. Collecting firewood. Hunting. Drawing water… It all does not go quick enough. He tells his lieutenants to bring the locals among the neighboring villages to aid the construction. By barter or by force. This needs be done in a matter of weeks, or soon they will all perish.

---

Olivia Ingels

The Gishimmari Capital of “Alu Qasdu”
Nippur, Royal Kengir

Umm Kharuf lives in a shack. The queen of the Gishimmari, the Mahdi, the speaker of Wahd, she who is divine incarnate. Lives in a hovel. It is one single room. It is made of mud brick. It is plastered with limestone or gypsum wash. I cannot be sure which- I was not there when they built the place. They offered me a room in the Ensi’s palace. I refused. They offered me a compound of a dozen houses. I refused. I refused anything and everything but a smaller home than that which I knew in Yanbu. The only thing I could not refuse were the guards which stand outside my doors. That is fine. I do not mind the company.


I would like to ask you, fellow blessed ones, this: Who among you live in a shack? Does the king of the Aksumites? Does Abu Sahara? Does the lady Isis? Does The Great Iron King upon his iron throne, far north past the white ocean. Does he live like his christ did?

I think not. I know not. They all live like Luther did. Like Ur-Surtur did. Before she became my drinking vessel. One could call my hovel a palace. I still keep a Queen’s skull sitting upon a shelf next to my desk. What remains of his time, is not evident in royalty. It is evident among the masses, among the people who are still blessed by that madmen. I owe everything to him. Our camels, our carts, our ploughs, our bronze. That bloody iron which we now kill for.

The iron. It is worth its weight in flesh and bone. How many lives will be taken to rip such a thing from the earth? I look down upon my hands, and with the flick of the candlelight, I catch a glance of all the blood which drips from it. I am not horrified, however. My heart sinks. I take a breath. In everything I do, I do because I must. I do for the people, my Gishimmari. I do for the good. I do because it is necessary.

Yet the guilt. The guilt weighs. I have lied to them. Is it possible to lie when you cannot help but believe that which you lie about? When I look upon the world, I do see divinity. When I look into hearts and souls, I do see its spark.

Perhaps this is why Umm Kharuf lives in a shack. Proof to myself that I do not exploit them for my personal gain. For my own luxury and enrichment. It is a form of self-flagellation. An act I only barely avoid, for hate to spill the divine-blood. To not anger al-Ilat.

Then I catch myself. I invented al Ilat. I invented the sacred blood. I look down at my hands, but I no longer see the blood upon them. They are clean, but I still feel the memory. Am I a deceiver? Have I deceived myself?

This is why I force myself to live in poverty. I always hated the palace in Uruk. It is why I left it as soon as my wifely duties to Jushur were done.

Jushur.

He was a good man. Yet he did not see the danger his son posed to him until it was far too late. Now, his soul resides in the waters of Abzu. So goes weak kings when right and law is enforced by blood and strength alone.

I have been given a responsibility, now. One which I must honor, despite how I question myself. These people have given me their faith, their hope, their lives. I cannot simply live as a commoner and ignore them. Though my heart aches, though my mind is plagued with doubt and pain and anger - I must put them aside for the time being.

It is ironic, but in these moments I must seek refuge in the very thing my mind tells me I falsely profess. I blow out the candles upon my desk. I must clear my mind. It is a very important day tomorrow. I must set my soul at ease.

In the center of my home there is a carpet. It was a gift from an old widow who sought comfort in me before her death. She willed it to me with her passing. A tithe to the prophet. One of her few belongings. I could not refuse. I cross my legs, and breathe in deeply. I bow my head, and rock back and forth. With every breath I take, with every motion over and over again, I clear my mind. I seek refuge in Wahd. I allow its abyss to take hold of my consciousness. I find peace in its darkness.

---

The hall is filled with smoke and sweat. The smell of bodies. The smell of life. Seated amongst the rows of heads are fifty-two delegates of the twelve tribes of the Northern Gishimmari. At the front of the hall sits Yassib. Ensi of Nippur. Mukharrib of the Northern Gishimmari. My most noble follower.

The sound of stomping feat silences the room. The many heads fix their gaze upon Yassib, who struggles to stand. He uses a staff, which he leans upon. His legs shake.

“By the guidance of the prophet, and by the will of Al-Ilah do we come here today.”

“Bi-La-Kaifa.” Repeats the crowd.

“We are assembled at the request of Umm Kharuf in an abnormal session of the tribal council. A member of each house of our people is present, not merely the Tribal headmen. We have called each of you here for a purpose, to write what has been unwritten. For, but not long ago we departed from our dry, desolate home - guided by the light of a star, yes… We found, by the guidance of our Prophet, a green heaven. Where food grows in abundance. Where we are surrounded by friends. Where we must no longer steal from our neighbors to eat. Yes… But our ways were made in that life. Our values, our way of being came from that struggle. Now, I fear, and I have heard many among you fear, that such a lifestyle may be replaced by the ways of our neighbor black-heads… I understand your fear well. That is why we are here. To write a document which will enshrine our people’s ways and social structure into being. That is what I understand from what Umm Kharuf has told me. Her daughter and heir - Narwa bint Olifia, will be recording what we have decided on paper, clay, and stone. Is that right? Yes. But let us first pray. Umm Kharuf, would you please give us a prayer?”

I step from behind him. My gaze of the hall is hazy through the thin veil I wear over my face. I kneel beside Yassib, and bow my head. I prostrate towards the east, and rise, saying aloud:

“Praise be to The Father of Heaven. My he give wisdom to our words. Praise be to The Mother of the earth. My she bless our lands and peoples for our righteousness. Praise be to Wahd, the Wahd in all things. Praise be the Wahd in man. Bi-La Kaifa.”

“Bi-La Kaifa.” The room echoes, and I push myself to stand, and recoil back behind the throne.

“Then let us begin with the proposals. As Mukharrib I preside over the order. Let who I chose speak uninterrupted, and when they are done you may voice your approval and disapproval. You. State your name and clan, and give your proposal.”

Yassib pointed to a man in long, dark-green robes and dark jet-black hair which ran down to his shoulders, and covered his face in a bushy beard. He raised his hand, and spoke: “I am Ilat-Nasir. Of the Sullumu Clan. I am honored to first propose for the great law of our people this law, worthy of being first among them. That all Tribes and all Houses be seen as equals in dignity, rights, and favor under the law. That we may not favor one over another, and that, unlike the black-heads, one house may not be called “noble”, and given privilege over another by his bloodline.”

A resounding chant of agreement filled the air. There were dozens of lesser houses, only a few great and exceedingly wealthy houses among them. Most were farmers, shepherds, common veteran warriors… A few were renowned warlords, such as the house of Yasr, who had pride and prestige from their spoils of war. And who owned many compounds inside and outside Nippur, and counted many members among them. Yet they did not boo, nor protest. Perhaps because they knew such disapproval may ostracize them from the rest of the body. In response, Narwa nodded to Yassib, and he raised his hand. “The proposal, unanimously, is approved.”

He motioned to another man, who raised his hand. I knew him, he was Yassib’s nephew - though now in his thirties. A testament to Yassib’s own age and legacy. He had been taught to be just as pious as his uncle. A glimmer of pride crossed Yassib’s face as he spoke. “I am Belanum, of the House of Danel. As we are Gishimmari, we are distinctly Sharii. Therefore, I suggest that we codify the Sharia, and the legal rulings of the Rasulah, to be the highest jurisprudence of our people.”
Another undeniable suggestion. In this climate? The zealots may have stoned any who jeered or objected. Narwa and Yassib looked at each other knowingly, and recorded it without a word to one another. “Also approved without dissent.”

A third speaker. A woman who worked as Yassib’s scribe. “I am Abdilat of clan Appatu. I am a scribe. I know of how cities must work, and if our people are to exist as a moving city, then it must be able to function as one. Thereby must we tax every clan and enter it into the Mukharrib’s treasury for the purpose of serving the people.”

This was not an agreeable proposal. Immediately objections and hands were raised. Taxes, paid both to the Lugal in Uruk and to Yassib the Ensi, as well as Yasib the Mukharrib would simply be too much for some. And for others, who did not live in Nippur, paying their own Ensi or Shakkanak, aswell as the Mukharrib, posed a similar expense. The lesser tribes demanded to pay less than the greater tribes. The greater tribes demanded more rights if they must pay more in tribute. Who would decide what each tribe would pay. When would it be paid. In what form would tribute be paid. How would it be accounted.

This took multiple hours to argue and dispute, overwhich time I had retired to drink a coffee, and step in to offer a word of input from time to time. This was their law, however, and I would not write it for them. I would not even allow the subject to be proposed.

Finally, an agreement had been reached. Taxes would be paid not at the tribal level, in which there were twelve, but on the clan level, in which there were fifty-two. Each clan would pay a minimum of one hundred pounds of grain per year to the Mukharrib, with an additional hundred added for every ten members of that clan. There were more clans among the larger tribes, and therefore they would raise and contribute a higher amount total, yet not per person. Yet, as the wealthier clans tended to be larger, this would in-turn have contributed largely to scale with wealth and prominence. This also accounted for the fact that the Mukharrib would be elected not by the tribal assembly, but by the clan assembly. This meant that although tribes with more clans in their number would have more votes for the next Mukharrib, they would pay for such in yearly contributions. The form of these contributions would be any good which was less perishable than dry grain, which could include shekel coins equaling the value in grain, leather, cloth, raw wool, or any other commodity assessed by the tax collector to be of equal value to the pounds of grain required.

However, though they trusted Yassib, the assembly did not necessarily trust future Mukharribs to spend their contributions wisely. And thus, did they in no uncertain terms, demand to be put into this law, that the contributions given to the Mukharrib in this fashion could not be used for his personal enrichment, but instead on the good of the people, their culture, and religion. Failure to do so, would be a violation of the great law. Which the tribal assembly had the right to demand a redress of.

And speaking of religion - in this debate was another raised. Would tithes to the Sharii faith be similarly mandated as contributions to the Mukharrib would be. The Prophet, and her disciples, had this far relied entirely on donations from competing tribes vying for influence upon them. Yet if the faith was meant to serve all of the people, and if it was to truly spread, and with it their way of life spread, it would need a stable form of funding.

Thus did they agree that one third of the Mukharrib’s contribution would be given to the prophet - or if not her directly, then a temple which they demanded be raised, if not physically, then in the sense that it may receive and dispense the tithes in a similar way to the temples the black-heads employed for administration.

I didn’t ask for this. I reviled the idea of being given these people’s wealth. Yet I knew if I was to do anything meaningful. Anything but a few charity kitchens and a handful of students, I needed to take from them. They had given their lives for me, yet why did I feel so bad to now take their wealth? It was only at the separation of my wealth, and a church’s wealth, that made me not protest.

I would become a real prophet. Wealth and influence is the heart of leadership. I would become one, be it my will or not.

Yet even still, I bit my cheek. I flagelated myself in my mind, demanding I humble myself. Umm Kharuf would still live in a shack, I made myself repeat. Even if she were given the wealth of a nation in her hands.

---

“Everything I do, I do for them. Everything I do, I do for them…” I repeat to myself, over and over again. My mouth tastes vile. It feels as though my teeth are rotting out of my jaw.

In my hands I hold a thin piece of bronze. On my desk, I have several pieces of cloth, and several bowls of compounds I’d been mixing all afternoon. I’d been trying to come up with anything to help polish the metal. I needed them to understand that everything I spoke of wasn’t just about me- it was about them! How could they not see that?

I had a temple now, apparently. A temple not which I served, like that of Inanna in Uruk. But one of my own creation. A temple to my ego. A temple to my lies.

But Wahd is beautiful, Wahd is everywhere. Wahd is light and beauty and godliness in spirit everywhere, in everyone! A sight which I saw so beautiful it brings tears to my eyes recounting. I have to, I must, get them to understand that. To feel that. They must see themselves in Wahd. Then it struck me- a mirror.

What was the image of Wahd - it was everything, and it was nothing. It was the source and the reflector of the light which we bathe within and are of. It couldn’t be captured by mere images. Hell, Al-Ilat and Al-Ilah couldn’t either. But Wahd… Wahd was a mirror into man’s own soul. An understanding that he is not separate from god, not separate from nature, not separate from the world. Wahd is the recognition that all such things are utterly inseparable.

If they can understand that: They do not need me. They can save themselves.

I mixed animal fat, strained until clear, with various abrasives until they formed a kind of paste. I knew not anything of the science behind it. I only knew that, like sandpaper, enough fine abrasion would eventually polish metal to a mirror shine. I just didn’t know which. They didn’t sell wax in the stores in this world, after all.

Sand - sand is course, sand is rough. Scrubbing the plate with a towel smeared with sand-paste, i could feel it scratching at the surface of the plate. I scrubbed in monotonous circles, over and over again. It was no sandpaper, and yet… I could see the dull surface become somewhat cleaner.

I flipped it upon the other, untouched side. The metal was rough, uneven. This was no clean square. It had imperfections, it was rough. It hid its beauty well. I folded the cloth over on itself, smeared it in a gray-black paste of charcoal and animal fat. I tried again, this time, the results were remarkable. Wiping in circles, over and over again, when I wiped off the smeared paste - what emerged was a shining bronze metal beneath which, while not a mirror… glimmered in the light. I was amazed. I kept scrubbing, I kept wiping over and over again meticulously. It must have been an hour. Yet, what eventually emerged shimmered in the candlelight. I could not believe my eyes. I wiped it once more, and stuck my face up to it. Like one’s face over glossy, but choppy water - the fuzzy reflection of my shape looked back at me. It was beautiful. I wondered if it would look better on silver, or gold. Perhaps I ought to experiment with that. Yet also, the charcoal compound fascinated me.

I licked my teeth. They felt wretched underneath my tongue. I wondered how long it had been since I had brushed them. I had truly lived like a savage for so long. Even while I bathed. Even while I slept in a bed. Even while I washed my hands. I had become used to my mouth tasting utterly disgusting. Yet this, metal polishing compound. It wasn’t toxic, was it? I took a clean towel of rough wool, and smeared the paste across it. Then I opened my jaw, and began to furiously rub aross my teeth. They ached, the grit shent shivers down my spine. Like soft sandpaper, I could feel the charcoal rub down on my teeth. Yet it felt so, so good. I kept going, back and forth, back and forth, until the burnt taste of the paste filled my mouth completely. It immediately made me gag. I had to rush to a bucket of water, and there slurped generously from it, before spitting it out.

I felt genuine relief, the kind of which I did not know I needed, for the first time in a very long time. That nagging pain in my mouth had stopped. I ran my tongue across my teeth. They felt… clean. I let out a sigh of relief. I felt, strangely, more human than I had in a very long time. Human.

I had been brought to this world by Wahd’s grace in flesh and blood to live among flesh and blood, and I had been reborn within Wahd and returned back to this body of flesh and blood. I, of all people, have had a people choose to give me wealth and power over their lives, because I had promised them to give them a better life. How long would I lock myself in my home, riddled with guilt? How long would I let this consume me? Would not the greatest betrayal of the trust these people had given to me, would be to let it go in vain?

No, I cannot let that trust be in vain. I must lead them. I must lead them well. It is no longer a goal, it is an obligation. I must steward these people well. I must guide them towards the right path, towards the greater good. To be good men and women. To love eachother. To love goodness. To see beauty and wonder in this world and crucially, see themselves as a part of it, not apart from it. I invented Al-Ilat and Al-Ilah for this purpose. I invented Wahd for this purpose. A purpose which is not cynical, a purpose which is real and self-evident. This beautiful, wretched world. Where violence, sickness, and starvation abound. I must help them build a better one. There is no utopia on the horizon. What there is, is endless work, and endless sacrifice. I must be willing to shoulder the burden, to take responsibility for this sacrifice, no matter the cost. I understand now my reluctance was only a matter of self-pity. No longer!

This world is wicked, and this world is beautiful. This world is pain and it is ecstasy. This world is terror and it is hope. This world is darkness and it is light. This world is life and it is death. I must embrace it. I cannot deny it. I have seen it firsthand. I cannot shun it. I cannot reject it for hand wringing morals. Everything I do, I do for them. I will do what I must, so that they may enjoy a better life. That they may suffer less. That the children may eat. Who am I to sanction this? I am Human. I am one of them. I am a beast. I am an animal. The wolves will use their teeth and claws and kill if it means their cubs will be fed. This is not wrong. This is just. I will use the sword if I must. I will be a slavedriver if I must. I will be a prophet and a pope and a warlord if I must. This is not wrong. This is just. Because I will not do it for me. I will do it for them. Everything I do will be for my children now. I will feed the hungry. I will heal the sick. I will deliver my promises of salvation to them, not in a future world but this one! Because though I am touched by God I am and always will be man. Because I am one of them. Because I feel their pain. Because they are my family. Humility and poverty are not enough. It is not enough that Umm Kharuf lives in a shack. There must be meaning in her sacrifice. They will be my meaning. My deeds will not be carved in stone. They will be written in blood. They will be remembered with terror and love. They will be felt in the heart and in the soul. Bi-La-Kaifa. It will be done.

[Tesserach]

Chapter 3: Meditations on Earthly Desires
and Other Ruminations

---

Now this, is the noble truth of suffering: birth is suffering, aging is suffering, illness is suffering, death is suffering; union with what is displeasing is suffering; separation from what is pleasing is suffering; not to get what one wants is suffering; in brief, the five aggregates subject to clinging are suffering.

Now this, is the noble truth of the origin of suffering: it is this craving which leads to re-becoming, accompanied by delight and lust, seeking delight here and there; that is, craving for sensual pleasures, craving for becoming, craving for disbecoming.

Now this, is the noble truth of the cessation of suffering: it is the remainderless fading away and cessation of that same craving, the giving up and relinquishing of it, freedom from it, non-reliance on it.

Now this, is the noble truth of the way leading to the cessation of suffering: it is this Noble Eightfold path; that is, right view, right intention, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness, right concentration. Which is to say, The Way of Great Peace.
-"The Four Noble Truths", from The Way of Great Peace

---

I dove into the dark,
And I swear I almost drowned,
But I could see the stars,
Looking up,
As I was slowly sinking down.

Now, I've landed in the light,
And my eyes could finally see,
The darkness in my mind,
Was the path to set my spirit free.

It's the smoke, it's the flame,
It's the ash and it's the rain,
It's the burn and wash away,
It's the changе and...
It's the same.

All is well
All is wеll
Heaven, Hell, wherever I go
All is well
Time will tell and I will know
All is well in my soul
All is well
-Hymns of the Sasaan Anthaathi, All is Well

---

Yogitha, The Physician

Mehrgarh,
Temple Day, October 14, 2950BCE

Yogitha slid off of the camel, handing the makeshift bridle over to the young man whose turn it was to care for the animals. The same Khusab boy, she realized, her son Sarujan had complained had been selected for training as a camel warrior over him.

"How did it go?" He took the rope of the beast and began leading it towards food and water. There was concern in his voice. He'd been told she had a camel out, and why, it seemed.

It annoyed Yogitha. She didn't want to talk about it right now. Not with this boy. Her legs were stiff, her ass hurt, her back throbbed. Riding these creatures never felt entirely natural to hurt. They were enormous. Sometimes they frightened her, already she'd seen terrible injuries by those thrown from the beasts yet she was forced to watch, helplessly, on as her young boys took to them like ducklings to water.

Distances were different. When she'd been a girl, living in the hills, with their goats, to travel to Mehrgarh took a week. It was closer to go to Damb Sadaat, though most people there spoke the Mundigak tongue, which Yogitha always felt clumsy speaking. On camel, if one was determined, enough food and water could be carried to do so in a day or two. Couriers who changed their camels regularly at waystations along the Bolan, could do it in hours.

Turning away back to her home the sun was still a distant whisper beneath the peaks of the Hindu Kush to the north and east. Yogitha's eyes were heavy, tired from the ride, and the birthing process itself had lasted 8 hours through the night. It had been a near thing but mother and son both had survived the birth. The rest remained to be seen, out of her hands.

"It went well enough." Yogitha pushed aside her irritation. Like, returning from a ride on a strange beast, speaking with a Khusabi who seemed genuinely concerned over the fate of a Vadabhaat mother and child he'd never met. Somehow the world had changed around her and despite it all happening right in front of her it'd somehow passed her by.

Still, it'd have been nice if her council had been heeded and set their camp closer to town, at least until the baby had been born.

Aradin and Sarujan were already down by the river, with the other men and boys. She saw them as she passed. It was Temple Day, and after their daily exercises, rather than work the fields and crafts, they'd be busy with practicing their drills.

Then people would begin to gather, those that followed The Way, members of the Sasaan Anthaathi at least. They would gather around the temple to celebrate life, to affirm the Great Work, to hear the sermons and revelations of the spirits. Afterward they would crowd outside, the young would head to their lessons, or play their ball games.

It was a day of rest, of community, of sharing what was to be shared. In the new calendar it was taking stock of the week that was and preparing to make the week yet to come a better one.

It was strange to think she was one of them. Sometimes she felt like a stranger in her own land. But then she saw people gathered together, those who recognized themselves as members of the One Tribe, as one little branch of the Earth Mother Spirit, herself; Guarang peoples - the fisheaters, stone dwellers, forest peoples, the goat-heads, gazelle chasers and all the other lesser tribes she'd learned about growing up.

Next to them were Vadabhaat and Darshana, Khusab, Sargahodha and others who'd been taken or fled from the war. There were others too. Those who'd travelled far to study The Way of Great Peace. They were not many, but they were there, members of the Mundigak, Alipur, Reiman Dheiri, Peshawar, Harappa, from the southern peoples of Chanhudaro.

In all of this the strangeness discomfiture of it all rested somewhere in her thoughts alongside the notion that perhaps things were... better this way.

Children still died, and Yogitha had never had time to sit in on the Temple Day lessons to really understand this 'probability and statistics' that Aradin and some of his acolytes now taught. But she reported which children and mothers lived and which did not to Lily. Yogitha had seen the reports Lily and her assistants produced, and knew enough numbers to see deaths were going down.
Already the evidence, pointed to water and cleanliness. But there'd been a push recently for expectant and recently delivered mothers and young children to be given priority access to to more varied diets of fresh fruit, vegetables, and 'protein' rich diets.

These types of things and more would be discussed in society meetings throughout the day. Yogitha herself was a member of the Sasaan Anthaathi's senior healers' circle, discussing their works, what they might need. There were actually several of these circles Yogitha was party to now. There was a circle discussing Velipatu - 'Revelations' of the workings of Earth-Mother - from their Satra - the sacred dissections and experiments by which the True Spirit of things could be divined.

Besides those there were now circles to discuss matters of administration, and ones to discuss with other practitioners of related disciplines how their respective Velipatu might be worked into new satra to better effect Samarasan - reconciliation or harmonization of life, or lives, with the whole.

Even thinking about it made Yogitha tired. Things were better, but more demanding.

"Effective labour is sacred. It is sacrifice to the spirits. It is sacrifice to our future selves, our children, and The One Tribe." Had become a common mantra at temple. There people gathered amidst the beautiful groves and gardens the Green Priestesses tended, while the Black Pusari expounded their sermons.

Yogitha startled Rajan and Kamikan with a sudden cough as she approached the house. Her two boys with Aradin were still too young to join the men in the mornings, so they played outside with several other young children who kicked around a makeshift ball of goatskin wrapped in straw.

Inside she discovered that either Aradin or Rajan, the elder of the two young boys, had boiled water. Rajan was responsible enough to keep the fire going in the hearth, and had buried the pot in their little garden to cool it for drinking later.

Across the dirt lane, their elderly neighbour Amsana kept watch on the children - some of whom were her grandchildren - while she wove together threads of rough cotton. On the other side Carunya, showing signs of pregnancy, swept the entrance to the new home she and her husband had just moved into.

To Yogitha's chagrine, Aradin forbid their household make use of servants though between the two of them, their status might have justified one. With no daughters, other than Lithiya who wasn't yet weened, gathering water, preparing food, were Yogitha's responsibilities.

"I saw Aradin fetching water this morning, while those children of yours run wild!" Amsana called from across the lane as Yogitha trudged, bow-legged towards the threshold to her home. "Don't worry, I kept an eye on them."

"Thank you." Yogitha forced the thanks and tried, but failed, to effect a smile.

Yogitha wasn't sure which of her neighbours she liked or disliked more. On the one hand, she was grateful for Amsana's help. She'd watch the children, help her find someone while she was busy and Lithiya was nursing; but never without comment. Amsana was an old Guarang woman who kept the old ways, didn't trust The Way, and thought Yogitha spent too much time away from her home and family.

Carunya by contrast, seemed of a more generous spirit. She and her husband both went to temple, but the husband seemed more interested in his warrior pursuits than being devout. Though Carunya was pregnant, the husband did seem to prefer spending his time with Sudhanshu and the other warriors. Leaving the poor woman to her own devices for periods of time.

Carunya was one of the new, educated young women, who'd learned to read, write, do arithmetic and had studied The Way and its Revelations. Yet she seemed to struggle to find her place in the world, and seemed unhappy in general.

The Way encouraged people to help one another. Yogitha often had the woman over for tea, invited her to society gatherings, but while the Carunya seemed inclined for society her talk usually turned towards negative things even when things were well. The girl just liked to complain.

In a way, Yogitha sympathized. Carunya reminded her of herself, in the dark times. Yet Carunya had never grown up in the harsh highlands. Her parents and siblings all yet lived, and seemed amicable enough. She'd never lost a child, or husband, never sawed a man's legs off or heard the screams of dead men at night.

To top it all off the young woman was uncommonly pretty, sang beautifully, was a fine dancer and in many ways reminded Yogitha of all the things she'd never possessed, or had faded as she'd grown older. And of course, then the conversation would turn to how her husband neglected her and how wonderful and heaping fawning praise on Aradin; at which point Yogitha would find herself making excuses to be rid of the girl.

Then she'd feel bad about it.

Already exhausted, such thoughts did Yogitha no favours as she say and ladled heated broth of barley, vegetable, and animal fat into a bowl. There was no bread at hand and she had no energy for anything else. After a moment's respite holding the earthen bowl and sipping from it inside the heated confines of their home, she stepped out.

"Where's Lithiya?" She called from the threshold towards the boys in the street.

"Vrittika's." Rajan called back, echoed shortly thereafter by his little brother Kamikan in an halting falsetto.

It made sense. Yakta, Vrittika's eldest, was nursing one of her own. The old Dequan farmstead wasn't far either, this whole side of Mehrgarh had grown out, swallowing up the old 'undesirables' with newly arrived Khusab, and other followers of The Way either from the Three Tribes or elsewhere.

'Suburban sprawl' Aradin called it.

Yogitha had been awake now for entirely too long but her day was not yet over. Yogitha went to Vrittika's. It was light out now and Yakta and Vrittika were both seated outside, Yakta nursing her own son, while Vrittika worked bread while Lithiya rested peacefully on the older woman's lap while the men and pigs could be heard taking their morning meals.

Bleary-eyed as she was, Yogitha was still struck with wonder gazing upon Lithiya, her first and only daughter. The way her little eyes were closed, her little hands scrunched against her chest, balled into tiny fists. The way the morning sunlight caught her face. Exhausted, in need of sleep herself, mindful that Lithiya needed her rest herself, Yogitha still couldn't resist going over to take the babe into her arms.

Not quite a baby anymore, she was well past her first year - Yogitha had Sarujan. Missed too many little moments like this, peaceful moments like this were not to be wasted. Moreover though she had some years left, more than ever she was convinced Lithiya would be her last child.

Vrittika, looking frail but kindly as ever, offered tea. Yakta looked up from her nursing, and smiled asking after the birth. None of them stood on ceremony. Yogitha spent a good amount of time with Vrittika and Yakta these days. Carunya sometimes joined them as well, but today Yogitha had been too tired to deal with her and she knew Yakta found the girl as tedious as she herself did.

Yakta though had been one of Yogitha's first students studying medicine and though Yakta had turned to studying animal healthcare, it wasn't uncommon that Yogitha ended up tending animals while Yakta was occupied or vice versa. Yogitha got on with both mother and daughter.

Though Vrittika was older than Yogitha still, still both grown up in a different time. Before wagons and camels and Temple Days,or the school and The Way of Great Peace. Vrittika too had been raised outside Mehrgarh, carrying water every morning, tending goats that ran loose in the hills. She knew the moving from lowlands to highlands chasing water, fleeing from extreme's of heat wherever the grass was greener.

It was sometimes entertaining listening to Vrittika ruminate on the strangeness of the new world unfolding before her. It was a judgement tinged in equal parts with nostalgia for youth, and the past, but also wonder and bemusement at where all of this was heading. She didn't mind the temple or it's pretty gardens. Then there'd be a communal feast, singing, dancing and a little drinking at the new community hall. "What strange times." Vrittika smiled.

Vrittika had reason to smile.

The Dequan farm had experienced its share of tragedy, and hard years when Yogitha had - reluctantly if she was honest - first followed Aradin down from the familiar environs of the hills to make a life with him here in Mehrgarh.

When Yogitha first met them, she hadn't been fond of Vrittika. Being older now, having heard Revelations on the subject, she recognized an element of unreasonable jealousy in herself. It had just been Vrittika and her two young daughters running the whole farm. Pigs were temperamental creatures for a slight woman like Vrittika and two girls to manage. Aradin had helped them some and for a time Yogitha felt his attentions unseemly.

Now Vrittika and her daughter were perhaps her closest friends, but then she couldn't help but think her own stand-offishness had distanced the pair from one of their few supports during hard times. Even so, they'd somehow made it work. Yakta, the eldest, had done a lot of it.

Now Yakta had a husband, who'd brought brothers in to help manage and expand the farm. The men were familiar with caring for animals but there were still many situations in which Yakta's services were sought after both her and throughout the countryside.

Even now, with Yogitha trying to keep her eyes upon, nursing Lithiya against her breast, the two of them chatted about talked. Yakta had just read about a new revelation, establishing salt content in blood, and musings that it was possible to test treatments for dehydration by administration of saline solution by intravenous means. Drifting off the pair mused how it might be done. Aradin would have ideas no doubt.

Indeed, it wouldn't surprise Yogitha to learn this was one of those idea's he'd planted and then left to his students to figure out.

Drifting off mid conversation Yakta and Vrittika offered to bring her in, and let her rest with them. "We'll see you after temple." They said, leaving her and Lilithiya to rest.

She roused briefly. How much time had passed she couldn't say, nursing Lilithiya again before dozing off again. Dimly she was aware Yakta had returned and led off Lilithiya, who seemed inclined to adventure about and rouse her sleeping mother.

Yogitha awoke sometime in the afternoon, staring up at the ceiling feeling refreshed, though her legs were still sore.

Heading out she found Vrittika mending some clothing while watching over the little ones crawling around the yard outside under a bunyan tree.

Yogitha collected Lilithiya, who fussed over being robbed of her playtime, said her goodbyes to Vrittika and waved to Yakta, who was now stripped down to little more than a loincloth, and covered in dirt as she helped the men in the pig pens with some thing or another.

It was hot in the afternoons, but down by the fields by the river some of the young men were still playing their football after most everyone else had quit for the heat. Aradin and several of the men lounged nearby, gathered in small groups discussing this or that.

Yogitha smiled as she caught sight of Sarujan in the distance. Her young man was drenched in sweat, but smiling as he ran down the field, calling something out that couldn't be heard over the rest of the boys yelling.

Closer in Yogitha caught wind of some discussion Aradin was having, talking about some message that had come from Alipur. One of the other men was talking. Attacks on both river and overland trade along the east-bank of the Indus. More trouble with the Kalibangan tribes.

Under the tree they were seated under, Aradin's dark hood was lowered as he spotted her, standing up and coming over to approach her and their daughter even as he continued speaking to the others. "I don't doubt the Harappans started it, but there's no question the Kalibangan are out of line." He was saying as he smiled and reached out for their daughter, bouncing her up and down and making silly faces even as he continued talking seriously with the men. "I say we give them one shot to change course. Arjan is going to attack someone. It might even be us."

The other men started talking. Recruiting more warriors. Logistics. It sounded like a campaign east.

Yogitha took a deep breath. Her eyes settled on Aradin, holding their daughter in his arms even as Sarujan happened to pause from his game just behind them. Sarujan who'd been badgering her about wanting to join the warriors. Looking around at the men present, there was Sudhanshu, and two other men present who'd actually accompanied them during the Northern War.

This fighting was something they thought they'd finally put behind them.

Aradin seemed to read the soured expression on her face, approaching her, offering a sympathetic frown. Like he understood in that moment precisely what she was thinking. "I'll take care of Lilithiya for the afternoon." He whispered, leaning close against her as they shared a look which they both understood to mean they'd talk about this later.

"It'll be okay." He whispered again to her. Yogitha stifled a cough against the inside of her arm and nodded along with him. Yogitha, though, couldn't help the intrusive thought that there was no possible way he could know that it was true.

They'd come so far to get to a moment like this. Come through so much together. She'd seen these dark clouds before. Watched people around her being carried off. Yogitha wasn't like Ara, the most broken among them, who somehow came through everything unscathed by it all.

It was like childbirth. She'd gone north years ago having no idea what she was getting herself into. Similarly, when Yogitha had given birth to Sarujan she'd known nothing. After everything, she'd imagined knowing something washing hands and sterilizing things that she'd somehow conquered danger. She'd been foolishly overconfident.

Now, having attended she'd attended so many births, she knew the terrifying truth. She knew virtually everything that could go wrong. A wrapped umbilical cord. A poor turn. Even in the easiest of them, the stretching and tearing of birth was unavoidable. One little infection. Was all it took. And there was nothing. Nothing anyone could do.

Yogitha had never told Aradin how terrified she'd been with Lilithiya. Hadn't told him she didn't think she had the stomach for another child. She'd told him she'd never go on another campaign, and he'd agreed. But that was a long time ago.

And now Sarujan was a man-grown, or so they said. Wanting to be a warrior.

Would Aradin really stand to take their son into all that? Then again, Sarujan was only really his son by adoption.

Yogitha didn't like where her thoughts led her. This was something they talked about. Being aware. Managing one's own mind. They said that 'self' was illusion. To let go. But some things were easier to let go than others.

Yogitha leaned her head against Aradin's chest as the men prattled on. "I'm going to my meeting." She tried to calm herself, take deep breaths as she felt his free hand running gently through her hair.

Then she turned and left.

---

Eluti - The Scholar

Mundigak, near modern Kandahar Afghanistan
Moon Day, October 20, 2950BCE

Eluti, standing at the head of their wagons, frowned at the dusty Mundigak streets overrun with naked children, goats, cattle and little else. Dogs ran wild, barking excitedly at the newcomers. Beyond was a collection of mud brick huts, dusty fields and a handful of trees that grew slightly more numerous as they stretched off towards the banks of the Helmand river.

Eluti thought to himself, not for the first time, that he'd made a terrible, terrible mistake.

There was nothing here. This whole misadventure had taken them further and further from civilization, however barbaric that civilization might've been, into this dusty, barren nothingness. People clinging to the fringes of life. And for what? Some thin veil of hope? Vague hints of... something.

The others had been right. They should've stayed in Elam. Or Shahr-e Sukhteh. Even slavery would be better than this. They were going to die out here, yes, of this he was quite certain. The sun out here hung in the sky like death itself. Water was life. And other than this thin trickle of it that ran through the desert lands there was nothing.

Here, even the tribal guide they'd managed to secure seemed out of his element. He was busy waiving his hands at the locals. Trying to communicate in, what Eluti recognized, as the tongue they'd spoken in Shahr-e Sukhteh but it was quite apparent to Eluti neither of them were fluent in it.

A fluent speaker of the Shahr-e Sukhteh's language might have pieced together the essence of what they were trying to convey to each other. Perhaps if they had some knowledge of a second tongue the other spoke, however incomplete, but it was clear neither of them understood Shahr-e dialect well enough.

It was times like this Eluti reflected on the utility of the written word, of an alphabet. Holding the letter in his hand aloft, he tried to join in, talking over their guide at the local chief - or whatever he was - that was directing their caravan. They were yelling now, but Eluti was determined to make himself heard. The local Mundigak chief, or whatever he was, seemed to understand they were foreigners looking for something at least.

"Mehgarh. We're looking for Mehrgarh. A person, named Scholar Aprus, wrote us." Eluti held up the letter for the man to see. Repeating the names again. Annunciating them. Slowly.

Several repetitions before the chief seemed to notice he was talking at all then looked at Eluti, and pointed. "Meh-garh?" The man finally, after about the fourth try repeated. He said some other things and then started saying 'Mehrgarh' over and over again, looking back at him as though looking for confirmation.

"Yes!" Eluti shouted excitedly. "Mehrgarh!"

"Mehrgarh!" The local man confirmed, smiling, seeming to share his excitement. He said more things. Annunciating them, as though this would help him understand their foreign tongue. Then 'Mehrgarh' again. The chief started walking away, waiving for them to follow him.

"I think he wants us to follow him." The translator explained to Eluti.

The translator was lucky Eluti didn't strangle the man on the spot.

They followed the Mundigak man a short distance up the wagon rutted path, until he pointed at a compound in the distance surrounded by modest, mud-brick wall. The gates were open, stalls surrounded it and people were coming and going.

"Mehrgarh!" He said, pointing again. With emphasis. "Mehrgarh!" He said something else unintelligible.

"Mehrgarh?" Eluti offered following the man's direct.

The man nodded waiving them on before saying "Mehrgarh" again, this time in a tone that suggested he was getting exasperated dealing with them and was about to leave.

Eluti started walking towards this little structure. Surely, this mud-brick structure could not be Mehrgarh? There was, perhaps some misunderstanding? Perhaps these people knew how to get them to Mehrgarh. Even so he could feel his heart pounding in his chest with the dawning realization that whatever he found within these walls would seal their fates - for better or worse.

He looked back over his shoulder at what remained of their caravan. Faces variously, gaunt or bloated with emaciation stared forlornly after him, covered in sand and dirt. The animals that remained hung beside them. The ones that survived this far, beasts barely clinging to life, their skin stretched between ribs like the wings of some enormous bat creature amidst tufts of whatever fur remains to the poor, doomed creatures.

Near the gates to this compound a man approached Eluti saying all sorts of things he didn't understand. The man tried to annunciate, but none of it meant a damn thing to him. Finally he picked something out, the word "Mehrgarh" though it sounded different on this man's lips such that Eluti didn't at first recognize it.

"Yes." Eluti said, feeling frustrated with all this. Maybe they were close. Maybe Mehrgarh was just over the next set of hills, and not a single person here could explain it to them and they'd all die here or be enslaved never knowing their destination was so near at hand. "Mehrgarh."

The man's eyes narrowed, looking at the paper in his hand and gesturing towards it. "Mehrgarh?"

"Can you read?" Eluti raised an eyebrow. They hadn't met another literate traveller on the road since Elam. He held up the letter. "It's a letter, from Scholar Aprus about a place named Mehrgarh."

"Scholar Aprus?" The man said other things, but began gesturing towards the letter, then pantomining reading. Asking for the letter. To read.

The man accepted the letter, furrowing his brow, and Scholar Eluti watched as the man fumbled through sounding out the words. Eluti could tell the man didn't understand the language, but the words, though tortured on his tongue, were faithful to the text. "Scholar Aprus. Mehgarh." He said something but waived off in the distance. The gesture and voice though were emphatic though. Like a person who understood something.

"Aprus, and Mehrgarh are... over there?" Eluti asked, mimicking the gesture and the man seemed to confirm this.

"You know Mehrgarh? You know Scholar Aprus?" Eluti asked again, searching for confirmation.

The man nodded. "Scholar Aprus." Tapping the paper. Making a gesture for writing.

"You recognize Scholar Aprus' writing?" Eluti ventured.

"Scholar Aprus!" The man said again excitedly before engaging in an extended bout of pantomime, trying to explain something about Scholar Aprus.

Scholar Aprus...

Gesticulated wildly.

Scholar Aprus...

Tapped the piece of paper. Wrote something.

Scholar Aprus...

Recited the alphabet. Formed words. Traced letters.

Scholar Aprus...

Tapped her chest? Spoke an alien dialect. No. It was a name.

Vikram. The man's name is Vikram.

The man's name is Vikram and Scholar Aprus... taught him.

"Scholar Aprus - taught - you Vikram." Eluti continued taking the letter back. "To read?" He began reading the letter in the same manner Vikram had stumbled through for emphasis.

Vikram nodded. There was something. Aprus. Another simple word. Then another word that he said pointing at the letter. That word, Eluti gathered, meant 'read'.

That painful episode out of the way the two of them did the only thing that made sense, and that was to laugh at the absurdity of the whole episode. Vikram waived him inside.

Inside the compound Eluti noted there were locals trading. But many of the people here dressed differently. One of them watched from the far end of the compound, dressed head-to-toe in a black robe. People greeted him warmly enough, though he understood nothing of what they said. Their language, when they spoke amongst themselves, was definitely a different language than the locals though.

Eventually, having difficulty explaining their situation, the man hurried inside what appeared to be a mud-brick warehouse structure within the compound and came out with a letter which was handed to Eluti.

Eluti didn't recognize the language, but the letters he recognized easily enough, stumbling through them as Vikram had stumbled through Aprus' letter.

And then he realized, it was written in the same hand. Sure enough, at the bottom, was Aprus' signature.

The man set out a pen, ink and paper on a small table set out in the compound and said something. For once Eluti didn't need to know any of the words to understand what he was saying. "Write a letter to Aprus, and we'll deliver it."

"Yes, absolutely." Eluti nodded emphatically before running back out of the compound, much to Vikram's momentary consernation. "Come! Bring the wagons! Come quickly!" He shouted back to the others.

For the first time in ages, Eluti and his caravan were welcomed not as foreign strangers needing to pay passage, not as charity cases, or who needed to prove themselves by fighting off waves of raids before the locals would even deign to speak with them. Rather, they were welcomed as guests.

They didn't understand each other, but they were given places to sleep. Food. Water, plentifully which was a mercy in this intermnible heat.

These people knew Aprus and were going to help them. It'd been nearly two years since they'd left Sharh-e Sukhteh. More than three since Elam. Neither Eluti nor anyone in their party had had enough to eat in ages. They ate like ravenous dogs the first night, to the seeming bemusement of their hosts.

Their animals needed rest and water before they would be fit to travel again, if they survived at all.

But for the first time in years, there was hope that this endless wandering of misery, loss and despair might finally be at an end.

The first real confirmation their journey was indeed nearing its end arrived six days after their arrival in Mundigak. There, much to Eluti's surprise, he was handed a letter by one of their hosts. For the first time in years he read something new in the same language he'd grown up with in the House of Wisdom, in Scholar Aprus' own hand.

It laid out everything.

That she'd feared no one had gotten her letter, and she feared nothing left had remained of the House of Wisdom, or it's great works, and had long since given up hope that any Scholars yet remained to respond to her call.

The people they were staying with, she explained, were members of the Mehrgarh Trade Company as well a priestess who was married to one of the Mundigak chiefs. She'd even thought to include a phrasebook guide she'd written some time ago that would help them communicate in the meantime. She explained that couriers travelled back and forth at some speed, but that the journey from Mundigak from Mehrgarh would still be 2-3 weeks at a standard traveller's pace, especially if they were laden with wagons.

Sitting over the letter, Urian and Kakaria caught him looking at it. "What's the matter?" Kakaria asked, looming over him. She looked at the letter, eager to read it herself. "Is something wrong?"

Eluti was momentarily confused, but then realized he was openly weeping over the letter. "No. Nothing's wrong I just... I think I'd given up hope this day would ever come."

---

https://www.google.com/maps/d/u/0/edit?mid=1o_XLLt92RX6Q0vYe0ut0br6V3NHngPI&ll=30.739676563938193%2C13.263582178918512&z=4

[Saxony-Brandenburg]

“This world is beautiful and terrible. This world is pain and it is ecstasy. This world is terror and it is hope. This world is darkness and it is light. This world is life and it is death.”

“Let he who sheds his brother’s blood take solace in that his cause is just, that he shall spare more pain than he has caused.
Or else let heaven reject him, and cast his soul into oblivion.”

-The sayings of Umm Kharuf

…

The caravan had come to a stop that evening, just before the sun set across the horizon. They had just made it halfway from Assur to the lands of the Hivites. They were nervous, not only of the enemies who live among these lands, but the earth itself. It seemed to resist them as unwelcome. The weary travelers stepped off their beasts, and began to make camp. The women among them, wives, daughters, scribes, doctors - longed to join the men on the frontier. They had made a settlement at Til-Surdu, it was said. They would have a wall to protect them, and they would build homes to protect them and their beloveds. The thirty guards, men and women warriors with bow and spear, looked anxiously to the horizon. Darkness settled, shadows rested over their eyes.

It was quiet. The wind softly shrieked across the land. A chill came, it shook even the most battle-hardened. Yet they heard nothing, they saw nothing. It lingered for several moments. A lingering feeling of dead.

Then it came horribly, crashing down.

The blare of a horn. The sounds of hundreds of screams from all directions, echoing through the hills, a roar which instilled primal terror and screams of panic among the camp. They came from the shadows, the sounds of thunder as hundreds of trampling feet broke into the camp. All at once, chaos engulfed them. Hell was unleashed upon earth, and they fell upon the camp like devils at a feast.

Spear pierced flesh, it drove through women’s shawls - spraying a mist of red as they exerted out their backs. Axes cut through women’s breasts, they shattered bones and left them hacking and coughing upon the ground. Those who did raise a sword to fight back were struck from both sides, hacked into pieces unrecognizable as man. The screams lasted for but a moment. Maddening death wails. They called out to Al-Ilat. They called out to Al-Ilah. Both were silent.

Then that same silence of Heaven blanketed the land. The death-wails stopped. Their voices smothered in blood. They go to oblivion, their souls burned on the Pyre of Wahd.

Then the laughter began. Chanting, hooting, dancing, clapping. Those same cook-fires of the dead were brought to life, as the Hivites began to drink of their victim’s wine, and feast upon their dinner.

By morning-time the Hivites had left but mangled corpses of seventy men, women, child and beast. The earth itself was soaked red. Underneath the oppressive sky they baked, and soon their flesh would be set upon by jackals and vultures. None among them survived.

The Rugged Lands of the Hivites
“Til-Surdu”
Mid 2957 BCE
Ilyas ibn Yasr

It had been a month since the first caravan from Assur was set to arrive. The grain we had brought with us was long since eaten. We’d slaughtered our cows, we’d slaughtered our neighbors cows. Hunting and the gathering of wild crops- fields of spelt-grian which grew like reeds amidst the valleys kept is fed. Yet I worried hunger would soon grip us, should we fail to receive our promised aid soon. I became concerned early on its delay. After a week I sent a band of scouts to search for them. Finally, they had returned. My stomach turned to lead to see them come alone. I peered over the earthen ramparts of our home, and I knew their fate before I was even told. They were dead. The caravan had been attacked. All that remained were the bodies, which lay pecked clean by scavenging wildlife. Innocent people. Many were expecting their friends and kin to join them here. Now they're gone, and we are none the wiser as to who died on the trek and who stayed back in Kengir. Who could have done this? Albho? Some other warlord? It was impossible to know. Yet we would receive no help for at least a month more.

We’d have to send someone back to Assur. They could not go alone. Some thirty warriors were guarding that caravan. If the Hivite killed them… they would need even more. Yet every man they sent away, was one less to defend the settlement. I could not help but feel resigned to a dark fate. Ought I to stay, or should I go? If I leave, i can protect the caravan better. Yet there are women and children now with us. What if they are attacked while I am away? I cannot allow a massacre, and it seems our enemy is far more daring and competent than he first let on.

It is clear that I must send away at least sixty men with the caravan, if not more. Sixty good men who will not flee. If the next one doesn't make it in, at most two months… I do not know that we will survive. Let alone accomplish our mission. Yet I must remain here, to protect the rest. My lieutenant, Awililah, will lead the caravan. I have given them strict instructions to return as soon as possible. To dispatch messages to Nippur about our progress, and about our need for more men. I watch them leave, and as they cross the horizon and out of sight, I fear more for us who stay than them.

Yet we could not wait like idle sheep, waiting to be slaughtered. I had less than a hundred men and women fighters who were capable of bearing arms. I had just as many innocents who now looked at me in terror of what may befall them. I heard whispers of despair. That they were fated to die, just as those of the caravan had. I heard whispers of desertion. I tried to tell them, that same night in which the messengers left, that any who fled would surely die, to the hostile land or to Hivite raiding parties. Alas, some did not heed my words.

Four among our fighting men had disappeared by the morning. I sighed with resignation, knowing that they would inspire others to copy them. To die alone upon the trail south, or enable their brothers and sisters who stay to die the same. They must be taken care of.

I personally mounted my camel, and with ten other riders departed from the hillfort. It did not take long to find them. On foot, they could not have gone far. Indeed, we found them just as expected. Standing among the trees, on the side of the caravan trail headed towards Assur. We bade them come down, and allow us to bind their arms and legs so we could take them back to the camp. Yet Al-Ilah help me, they did not go quietly. Yet we outnumbered them, and as they tried to flee we rode them down, beat them with our riding whips, and bruised and battered them into submission. Then they, with tears and purple flesh, were dragged back to the fort.

It was simply unacceptable to flee. Understandable, but unacceptable. They must be made an example of, as we couldn’t afford to lose a single man more. The enemy were out there. With every man we lose, our chances of survival fall.

I bade all the work for the day stop for the moment. Once all those who labored on homes and ditches had found their way to the center of our camp, I had those deserting men bound by wrist and foot to two poles spaced apart - that they stretched their limbs outward like a star. With my knife I cut their robes from their bodies, I tore them naked from behind. Then, one at a time, I took my riding whip and struck them in the back. Again and again, leather bit flesh - leaving their skin flayed and bleeding. Their screams were horrible, and kept striking, over and over again, one after another for what felt like an eternity - until their cries turned from mercy-begging to gasps and sobs. That is when I lowered by whip. I flicked the blood which coated the tassels. I returned it back beneath my belt. I am not a cruel man. I have a conscience. These are my brothers in blood and faith. I understand this when I hurt them. Yet I have my principles, and I understand what must be done. No selfish act may go unpunished. Not in this world. Not when we live and die by a knife’s edge.
Then the work continued. Day after day for the following week. I had them fill barrels with arrows made from knapped stone and the feathers of the birds we hunt for game. I had them dig more trench at the base of the hill, and plant stakes at the base of the wall. Every night, at least twenty men stood watch looking down upon all sides of the hill. The camels and sheep were kept inside the walls. They were fed with scythed grass and hay from the spelt-fields. We couldn’t risk letting them graze outside our purview.

And we were right to- on the eighth day since we’d learned of the caravan’s massacre, we found the body of a woman floating in the stream. They were cut, their clothes torn, their bodies defiled. She’d gone to collect water. I heard the weeping of her sister all night long. The Hivite was out there, now, we could feel their eyes stalking us. We did not let anyone leave the fort alone again.

Then we saw them. Bodies with shields and swords, axes and spears running between the trees, up and down the hill, they did not care to keep their presence unknown. Terror is what they desired, and terror is what they brought. At random times, at random hours, they would rush from the bushes and threes and loose an arrow or two at us. Even at larger parties of five or more, beckoning us to give chase. The ones who did, and got lost… never came back. We can guess what became of them. We lost five men that day. That is when I halted all work outside the fort’s walls. Too dangerous, for too little gains now. No more defenses could be raised. What we prepared would have to stand.

On the morning of the following day, dawn rose for us to see smoke in the valley. The spelt field, which we had thankfully harvested the lion’s share of, had been set alight. It smoldered, it did not spread - for account of how damp the soil was in this land. Still, the dark cloud rose up towards the sky, and it was clear they wished to deny us any right to live upon their lands bounty, even if their hands did not put us in the grave.

By the time the sun had reached its apex in the sky, another cloud of smoke had begun to rise in the distance. Across the ridgeline on which their fortress sat, it became apparent that it came from “The Sheep People”, one of the few Hivite villages in the area which bent the knee and gave to us tribute in food and labor.

I sent a scout to confirm it, and fortunately he did return to affirm our assumptions. It had wholly been burned to the ground, and a few bodies had been found thrown into their well. Not enough for all of them however, only four or five. Yet they were totally gone. Taken or killed elsewhere we did not know.

Immediately questions began to be thrown. Why would they do this? Are they not also Hivites? It was clear to me that this was punishment for their compliance with us. That they had bent the knee to we their enemy, and for that they would pay the price. My mind began to wander to what may be done with the other settlements, and an answer soon came to us, as we saw the trailing of smoke from another settlement, this time from the village of “the sickle people”.

I did not need more confirmation than this. They were going to slaughter all of them. In whole or in part, Albho regarded them with just as much consideration as he did for our caravan. I could not bare to see it. Be they Hivite or not, they were men, and men who did not raise their swords against me.

“Go to the Low people, and the Bow people, and bring them back to the fortress with whatever livestock and supplies they can carry with them.”

They looked at me like I was crazy. “But they are Hivites!” “They will surely stab us in the back!” “They will open the gates for Albho and we shall all be killed!”

I would have none of it. “It is my word, and I am warchief. That is final. Bring them in, and do not delay! I will not allow my apprehension to let another village burn!”

When I was a boy, my father, Yasr, of which our house is named, was a great warchief in his own right. When he learned how to fight, there were no camels to ride, and there were no horn-bows to shoot. Many might have considered him a “barbarian”. He fought with spears and knives. He led raids on his rival clans. He stole cattle and goats, and took blood prices as vengeance for his fallen kin. Yet when I was old enough to accompany him, he told me this: “Friends in the desert are hard to come by. When one finds them, they ought to protect them as if they were his blood.” He was killed on one such raid I joined him on. Bludgeoned to death by a woman with a rock. His skull broken open like a melon.

But more than witty desert sayings and wisdom, these people had fed us. They had lived in these valleys for generations. If we had any hope of properly settling here, they needed to survive. We needed them.

The gates opened that evening as the sun began its long descent, the sky turning the color of fire in its blazing glory. Two long lines of men, women, and children streamed inside. I saw them out there, the enemy, gathered in their hundreds upon the opposite ridge. They knew we could see them. We heard their chants, their stomps, their clanging of their weapons. They beat their fists upon their shields, and soon such a galloping, banging noise echoed for miles. I had to still myself, for even I could feel the fear.

Nearly a hundred Hivite souls rested among our camp now. Women, children, and the elderly were most of them. Adult men only accounted for thirty of their number. When I asked them why they had so few men of age, they only told me that it was their misfortune that so many of their men die. Yet those who could string a bow or hold a spear, which included five women of the “bow people”, offered to join our defense. Uneasy eyes gazed upon them with suspicion, but I demanded they be allowed. We will fight together, or we will die together. Now with just as many who cannot fight as those who can, their lives were too important to fall into bigotries now.

And tonight, we knew that they would come.

The priestesses attempted to keep the nerves down with constant prayer and blessings. It seemed as if every man from among our ranks, both Hivite and Gishimmari, fell to the feet of these holy women and begged them to intercede on their behalf. They slaughtered a ewe and dedicated its soul to rise up to Al-Ilah, and dedicated its sacred blood to al-Ilat. They drained the blood, and painted their faces red with it. They screamed and cried to her, the goddess of war, the goddess of blood, to protect her children, the righteous ones. The Sharii. They paraded the bowl of sanctified blood around, and smeared it on the foreheads of any man or woman with a weapon in-hand, as if it was anointed oil. I too took the blessing. Better to be safe with matters of the divine, even if I did not understand it.

Among our number, I began to hear cries of desperate devotion among the warriors. “Glory to God! Glory to The Goddess!” They screamed it out from atop the ramparts, they screamed it out into the night. None could sleep. Their moment to live or die was imminent. All they could do is wait, and pray, and scream at the darkness. Soon enough, their calls would receive a reply.

From the shadows, a roar erupts from all around. Bursting forth from the brush, between the trees, piercing the veil of darkness - hundreds of shadows charge towards the hill. A horn is blared, we rush to the walls. From the grip of tension in an instant the chaos of battle erupts. Arrows and rocks, sling bullets and spears rain down upon us, as we in-turn loose our own arrows down at them. Immediately I hear the screams of pain and wounded men. Yet they must be left to the weak and the priestesses. I take up my horn-bow. It is shaped like a serpent, it is tipped on both ends with caps of golden bronze. I run to join them upon the ramparts, beside the gate.

I climb up upon the earthen rampart, two men stand beside me. Each holds stones which they throw with all their might down at the men ascending the hill. They dodge the stakes, and climb over the shallow trenches upon the slope. I have no time to think. In the shallow light of the full moon they are shadow demons, clawing their way upwards with the barbarous and hellish screams. I noch an arrow and loose it. The crack of the sinew as the horn snaps with all its weight. Then I loose another, and another - and I see a shadow crumple.

Yet they come closer, sprinting upwards towards us. More than you can shoot down. I loose another two arrows and see another beast fall. It is too late. They have begun to climb the walls. I too pick up a stone - and in my periphery see one of them pulling himself up over the rough stone walls. I do not think. I run to him, I raise the rock, and with all my force bring it down upon his skull. It breaks like an egg. Spilling its yolk down and cross the crumpled form of a head. I strike again, and it is far more wet than it should be. I throw the rock down, and turn to see them banging on the gates. The weak timber rattles and violently sways. Soon they will break. I scream at those around me, and point to the gates. Those who are free from physical combat join be behind them, waiting for the foe to burst forth. Beside me I see a priestess and a Hivite woman, both with faces painted red, carrying a pot of steaming liquid. They push past us, and climb up to the rampart - and with spitting rage throw the pot down upon them. I hear their pain the moment it falls, and the priestess screams with joy at the sound.

Yet it does not last. Immediately the slamming continues. I draw my blade from my belt. I hold it out, and turn to the dozens men beside me. The hundred or so others around the fort battle for their lives upon the ramparts. Yet here we make a desperate stand, or else be flooded and overwhelmed. With one, final splintering strike - they burst open with horrible force. Splinters spit across the ground, as they scream and cry and sprint towards. us. This is where I die, I think. A warrior’s death. Father would be proud. This is where Ilyas ibn Yasr falls.

It happens in seconds. A man with an axe and shield in-hand sets upon me. He swings down towards me. I raise my hand and grab his arm as it swings down with immense force. My arm buckles but snatches it. I raise my right hand, and strike down with the blade, over and over and over again into his shoulder. The tooth of a lion. It bites down into him hitting bone twice, he thrashes like a boar as he tries to push me a way. Yet the third time it finds flesh, and I feel the sharp metal sink into his skin. My head throbbing, pounding, I am breathing like a bull. As soon as he feels the true bite he shivers and his arm becomes weak. I pull it out and with one final strike pierce fully through his neck. The man crumples to his knees.

He is not the last. Striking, biting, stabbing, slashing, killing, dying. A maddening frenzy of red mist takes over. I cannot think, I am a cornered lion, my only response is rage. A rage which, only when silence comes, do I emerge from. I look around me. Bodies, dozens of them, litter the ramparts and the gateway. I am covered in blood, my brown robes are stained crimpson from head to toe. I feel dried blood in my beard. I see my hands, they are covered in cuts - but the blood which smears across it I do not think is mine. I hear the wind whistle, I shiver. Somehow, I was alive. I scratch the crusted bristles across my face. My eye twitches. How was this possible? Was this a miracle? Ferocious savagery? I did not feel myself just moments ago. It feels like a blur. I crumple down to my knees, and drop the dragger to the ground. I feel hands reaching for my shoulders, echoing voices around me. I just shake my head. My ears ring. How was this possible? I was so sure this would be my end.

And yet, it was not. With shaking hands I stood, and brushed aside those who stood to console me. To ask if I was okay. I couldn’t stand, I couldn’t think, I… I had to be a Man. A Man, covered in blood. Capable of putting aside his shock to do what has to be done. They had already begun to collect the bodies. Women and children crept from their tents with cautious fear, and crowded around crying and shivering men with bloody wounds across them. Those who could stand began to drag the bodies which lay sprawled across the ramparts. Dawn reared its head, her crimson mane flowing across the darkness. In the light, we could make out faces. We could begin to count the dead. It was only once we could see none of them stalking us, that we left the gate to collect the bodies which had fallen or tumbled over the walls.

Among our fighters, fourteen had shaken off their mortal coil. Eighteen more were so wounded that it was likely that they would die too. The priestesses wrapped them both the same in blankets, and let them rest like the dead. Six of them were Hivite locals. Four of them were Gishimmari women. Not one among our number who did not pick up arms died. I couldn’t believe it. None of them had reached the tents and shacks within the walls. Yet greater still, once counted, were the number of Hivite corpses. Tumbled down, falling from the crude stone walls as they climbed. Forty bodies of their number were cold as stone. Another sixteen were found so wounded that they could not drag themselves away. Their friends who fled, having abandoned them. As for what to do with them, the solution was obvious. There was no cruelty in the order, I expected no cruelty in its delivery. Kill them. There was no room to take captives. And so they did. Coldly. Just as rhythmic as shoveling earth. They placed their sandals upon their chests, upon their backs, and slashed their throats. Then they left them, the men and boys, gurgling, choking on their own blood. When they were silent, they dragged them to the pile of Hivites.

We stripped them of everything they had. Weapons. Shields. Shoes. Armor. These people were far better equipped than one would imagine they’d be. Such a pastoral, rural society. Yet they wore large plates of copper and iron, some sewn atop leather vests. Upon one man’s chest I found, cut open and broken, a sort of set of metal scales or small plates which were woven together with string to form a chestpiece I had never seen before. These people were clearly rich in metal, and be it plundered or reaped from the earth, they used the metal very effectively.

We passed around the weapons and belongings of our own dead. Our Hivite friends insisted they bury their dead beside our own. We watched our backs with spears and weapons ready while half of us dug individual graves for the twenty-nine bodies which needed burial by the time they were dug. More would need to be dug soon enough. Their infections a slower killer than blood loss or broken bones.

The priestesses chanted and praised Wahd, and promised us that they felt no pain now, as they joined the chorus of innumerable souls in Wahd’s embrace. Men and women alike wept, but most were silent. Still shocked we were, miraculously, alive.

One large pit was dug for the Hivites. They were laid with as much respect as we could muster for them. The priestesses insisted on it. We stacked them in rows and covered them in earth just the same. The spot was unmarked. Enough respect to placate the demands of the Wahd within them as living men. Nothing approaching any respect we had for them as people. No tears were shed. None said goodbye to them. Buried and forgotten, except for the bloody handprints they left upon us.

When we returned to the fort we didn’t celebrate. The feeling was… grim. We’d survived, miraculously, for sure. But how long could we survive like this? The priestesses told us to pray. They dragged mats of cloth and reed bundles out into the open, and many among the men hastily joined them for some begging sense of control and closure. They prostrated to the east. They chanted the names of Wahd, of Al-Ilah and Al-Ilat. They praised them over and over again. In my heart I felt a twinge of understanding them. Yet I did not share such same comforts. Not while my mind was consumed with what ifs. Staring out into the distance, wondering when the next attack would come.

And to be sure, it would come. That very same night, they set upon us with the same ferocity as before. More blood. More corpses. Our number fell from just over a hundred to fifty in two days. The weeping. The burials. The blood. But always more Hivite bodies than allies. The third night they came, and again we bloodied ourselves. They lashed at us with all they had - yet they were just as drained and bloodied and exhausted as we were. Each time they climbed Hawk Hill, they were repulsed back down it. Each time they climbed it they suffered more dead than they inflicted. Each time their numbers grew smaller. Until after the third time, when they had suffered so greatly that they attacked no more. Yet so had we. By the third day of endless suffering, endless violence, endless assault. We were down to just forty four among us who were alive. My mind was filled with their faces of pain. Over sixty graves of men and women I had come to know by name now scattered across the field so far, far from their homes. Their place of birth was on a coast in a land they would never venture to again. All the misery, all the suffering. And yet it was paid. Duty? Honor? Obligation? What was this triumph?

Yet I was a man. A warchief. This was expected of me. My Father knew this, and so do I. This is the price we pay for our friends. For the black-heads who suffer under their raids. For those women and children who were put to the sword so cruelly. Our debt to them was to protect others, because we so failed them.

---

The men Ilyas sent to reach Assur did indeed make it there. And the Ensi, so shocked by the ability of the Hivites, sent a new caravan, alongside forty of his footmen, to assist them. Yet so important, and now dire their situation became, that news needed to be brought to their Mukharrib and Prophet about what had befallen them. To their families and lovers in Alu Qasdu who would never see them again.

It took but one night for reply once the news of the massacre had reached the city of Alu Qasdu. The shock, the disgust, the anger could be felt through the streets. The tribes demanded their Mukharrib respond. They raised their daggers into the air, and demanded be sent to avenge the fallen. Yassib, ever the Hierophant, begged his beloved Prophet for advice. The Prophet spoke her reply the next day, and her words echoed through the words of her disciples in their villages, in the squares, and in their homes.

“To the righteous among our people,

I have heard of the tragedy which has befallen our brothers and sisters in the Hivite lands. I have heard of their slaughter, I have heard of our enemy’s depravity. I weep for the loss, I weep for their pain. The Hivite cares not for humanity. These are not men, rather, they are beasts. They cannot be counted among fellow men as brothers. They are truly infidels.

I can no longer countenance inaction, or passive acknowledgements of the evident truth, which drips with blood and screams with pain.

The response must be as swift, as it is decisive.

By this massacre is a blood-debt created. One which must be avenged upon every man who holds a blade among them, and must be paid in their blood. They must die for such a crime. This war is no longer acceptable, it is evident to all the righteous now that it is Just. It is Righteous. It is Holy. To the savage Albho, I give this sentence: Let he neither know the sky above, nor the earth below. Let his soul find no rest. Let him find no refuge in death’s oblivion. Break his bones, break his ribs. String him up, and nail him to a FUCKING tree!

By this pronouncement do I declare this Jihad. The righteous struggle, which he who embarks in is the most admirable among men. He who takes up arms in such a struggle is numbed among the Fedayeen, those who risk martyrdom for the cause. To risk their own lives for the lives of others.

I tell you, O righteous ones. O brave ones. You who will head this call, and join your brothers in the north. You are to whom all praise belongs to. If this be your destiny, let it be the greatest of rewards to embark upon it. Your names will be remembered. Your deeds will never be undone. Glory to the Martyrs! Death to the Infidels!”

The first Sharii Jihad has begun. Hundreds of daggers were raised as they flocked to the banners. Blood would flow like rivers through the land. On their lips, they repeated their prophet’s words. “Glory to the Martyrs! Death to the Infidels!” Their faith, and their anger commingled into a deadly poison. A fanatical army, driven by revenge, soon began its march northwards.

[Tesserach]

Chapter 3: Dinner, Song and Dialectics... Oh My!

Mehrgarh, November, 2950BCE

---

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...
[s] = {0,1,0,0,0,1,0...} =/ s1,s2,s3,s4,s5,s6,s7...

So it is that no non-trivial set of sets can be complete. Every such set of sets, even if continued unto infinity, contains within them a unique, unstated set. Any attempt to rectify this by adding a new non-trivial set necessarily introduces yet another unstated set.
-From "Incompleteness Theorem and the Principle of Emergent Properties" in Spirits within Spirits: Deeper Secrets of The Way of Great Peace

---

So white, so still, so bright,
It's almost too painful now,
I'm ready to fight,
To run from the light.

And here now comes the sweet,
Corrupting reality,
While now I'm free,
Will I once cease to be?
Will I awake?
Will I get a ride with you?
In this race of two?

We are momentary masters,
We're false kings and bastards.

Without names we're fantasising,
Dancing like flames, mesmerising,
My dark disquiet playing such eerie harmonies,
Making waves and diving under,
Lightning to the sound of thunder,
My dark disquiet singing such haunting melodies.

We are marionettes by strings animated,
Yet like lovers of strings liberated.
Without names, we're fantasising.
-"My Dark Disquiet" from Songs of the Mehrgarhi Vol. 2

---

Scholar Eluti observed the peoples assembled in their drinking hall from his table. It was more of an open air set of walls, tables and walkways circling outward from a raised platform at the center. The platform was modest in size, backed by a high mudbrick wall.

The seating and tables radiated out, rising up as they went on little terraces,supported by plastered brickwork. Several walkways cut through the tables and seating in neat, stepped rows, though a wide central one ran up towards a central serving area.

Hall was a bit of a misnomer. Even a cool day here was unbearably hot so the whole was open air. In daylight, great woven skins were draped over the assemblage on tented poles to protect from the sun, but with darkness settled they sat under the stars as fires glowed in the braziers and lanterns set out along the low walls.

There's a low chatter of conversation, the clatter of earthen mugs. People from the Three Tribes, Townspeople and nomads, locals and a few travellers, believers and unbelievers mingling. The stage isn't empty, a pair of musicians are setting up.

Large braziers burn up near the large serving area, casting it in light. Casks of wine and other things rest next to the counters, about which people gathered.

Behind the counters was a set of open firepits, a chimney at the center, with stone hewn hoods drew smoke from where unknown and unnamable meats spit and sizzled, next legumes and vegetables. Figures move up there, pouring drinks for those crowded around.

For a moment, Eluti thinks the performance is beginning, but it takes a moment for him to realize the musicians are ensuring the tuning of the instruments. The drums he recognizes but the large, long necked, four-stringed instrument he does not. The player sits, bracing the thing between his legs, its base on the floor. Stroking the string with a bow, it's tone deep and as he played through a set of cords, adjusting pegs near the top.

The fellow had large drums with skins set over them with what appeared to be a small hand drum on a stand next to them. Satisfied with his setup, the young man sat on the side of the platform, smiling and talking with a trio of youths gathered near the stage.

Around Scholar Eluti are his fellow travellers sat around the remains of their meal, along with many of the notables of this strange land. Scholar Aprus and the man, Aradin, sit nearby translating their tales for their guests who listened with varying degrees of eagerness.

They'd asked questions about Thrace and Ionia and Anatolia. About the lands between the Mediterranean and the Euphrates. About the peoples of the Levant and Sumer and Elam. About the House of Wisdom, and more until the hour had grown late and Eluti was feeling the wine.

"The House of Wisdom was the light of humanity." Eluti said forlornly leaning unsteadily over the table. reflecting on what it had been like. "Snuffed out. Lack that. Without reason. Without provocation. Nay, they could scarcely bear our presence."

Scholar Eludi's paused as Aprus and Aradin translated. Craning his neck he noticed a hush fell through the rest of the crowd, like shiver, as a young man and woman made their way to front, heads turned as they passed. The drummer was not longer chatting but sat diligently now at his post.

Passing between the open lanterns that glowed by the stage, the pair joined the two musicians on the stage. The young woman in particular was attractive, he thought, nearly missing the question Aprus was posing to him.

"Surely there was more to it than that?" Aprus translated the question, staring across the table from a mostly untouched glass of wine in front of herself. "Invasions usually don't happen for no reason."

"Of course they don't." Eluti raised the earthen cup of wine to his lips, tasting deeply of the rich tasting spiced essence within. It was in all ways superior to the blends they'd had back home. "They hate us for our way of life. They hated our freedoms. They hated that we stood next to them, a beacon of light next to their darkness, promising their people something more to life than servitude before a dead god. They hated that alone among the peoples of the word, the Naxos League had the knowledge and artifice to see through their false beliefs and oppose them. But like fools, we believed there could be peace between us."

The music began. A few testing notes from the instrument. The woman's voice, soft and quiet at first carried sweetly over the front rows, a fluttering high voice like a birdsong. It was so low and quiet, such that Scholar Eluti strained to hear.

You look like I need a drink," he winked,
As he slipped from my grasp to the bar, "And you are?"
He said, "Me?" (me), "Little me?" (little me)
He called (he called) from the brink of the day (from the brink of the day)
He said, "Hey, darling, hey, hey, darling, hey
I'm the hardest goodbye that you'll ever have to say."

It would've been fruitless had he heard the words, for Eluti understood none of the local dialect. He and his fellow travellers were entirely dependent upon their interpreters. Up on stage, the way the pair acted out their roles facing one another, the way the young man inserted his notes between hers and bled his voice and harmonies into hers, well, Eluti had never heard the like.

"I think we're heading out." Eluti felt a hand grip his shoulder. He nodded. Others were leaving too. The hour had grown late.

At the table, there were more questions that came then, from the warriors amongst them. Of the Imperium, their numbers, their equipment, their manner of warfare. Eluti began answering them as best he could. He'd never fought on the front lines himself, but he'd read enough, he'd seen first hand the Imperium soldiers and all their odious mechanisms of war on display near Troy.

As his answers were translated back his attention was drawn back as the stage, which had drawn completely silent only for the song to take a sudden, unexpected turn. The man stepped back down, leaving the woman, heading to the bar as her song carried on.

Understanding none of the words, Eluti watching their gesticulations, listening to the tone and tenor of the woman's voice understood intuitively that this was a love song. Albeit, from the discordant notes, he could already tell this was a different love song than the ones they sang back home.

You don't know it yet,
But I'm the keeper of things,
That you just didn't get,
That you struggled to say,
I'm the saint of the paint,
That was left in the pot,
I'm your deva ellipsis,
Your devil of dots!

The woman's sweetly melodic voice breaking, lilting into low, breathy growling tones. Was it anger? Ot hunger, like wolf baring its teeth, as she stalked back and forth across stage, staring holes into her partner's back as he smiled at the crowd, his back to her as he surmounted the steps towards the bar, seemingly oblivious to it all.

The words were gibberish. The harmonies broken and discordant in alien timings that defied all convention. Yet still, there was something universal about it. Even in the way the song built, the way the drums, hitherto completely silent, joined the song towards the end of the verse- falling heavy upon the inflection of her voice: lending her voice its power such that her words landed like a blow being struck.

It was Aradin speaking that drew his attention back to the conversation at hand. Evidently they were finished translating his response. "That's on brand for the Imperium of Man." He observed wryly. "Still, I'd think if they were truly that bad, no one would put up with it though."

Aprus began translating Aradin's comment to the others in their alien tongue.

"I tell you Aradin, the Imperium of Man isn't a kingdom, it's a plague upon mankind. Men reduced to their basest existence on tales of an idyllic afterlife forged spun tyrannical grifters. And they drink it up Aradin! The fools!" Eluti gesticulated expansively, spilling his wine from his cup upon the table, though he noticed it not. "It is as though they took everything from the House of Wisdom, all it's learning, all it's artifice, all it's genius, and squeezed from it every last bit of goodness, every last bit of humanity, until all that was left is one, singular purpose: violence, destruction, and the extinguishment of any spark of human creativity or freedom. The vital spark that make men men and not chattel beasts! Total domination of the human spirit!"

Every time that you fumble,
I'm the laugh from the back,
When you think about him,
My wings start to flap,
When you make a mistake,
My feet lift from the floor,
And when you lie there awake
Every night, love, I soar!

The woman's voice was no longer low or quiet. No one needed strain to hear now. It was an instrument she projected through the whole of the space as it wove, back and forth, between high sharp registers and a gravelly growl like something being ground into the dirt.

Until finally, like bird taking flight, it rose above all things, above the gentle hum of voices and clatter of drinks, above the strings and overpowered it seems even that drums that, it seemed, now struggled to keep up with this slight girl and her voice.

From the serving stand, unnoticed by man, the male singer empathitically set a cup down, staring back at the woman. As though she, finally, had his attention.

All part of the performance, Eluti realized.

The nomads and patrons seemed spellbound. Aradin and a few others were unusual in that they seemed unaffected - used to such performances it seemed - as he joined Aprus in translating Eluti's response to one half of the table. Scholar Eluti felt a prick of irritation as he perceived a note of amused incredulity in Aradin's tone; as though he found Eluti's words overwrought.

Eluti delved deeply into the earthen cup, finishing off the last of the wine before continuing. "Perhaps you've never stared into the face of True Evil Aradin. You've not seen the things we have these many years." He ventured darkly, staring into the empty bottom of the cup.

I promise you I'll be better!
I promise you I'll try!
But like rubbing wine stains into rugs, it's my curse,
To try and make it right,
But by trying make it worse,
I'm the heartbreak that aches far too much to be shunned,
All those letters unsent and that garden ungrown,
I'm the captain of courage that you've eternally lacked,
I'm the devil of wishing to hell he'll come back!

For a moment further speech was impossible and time stood still. The woman on stage and her voice pierced the night like knife, until it seemed the world itself had shrunk down until there was only this singer, and her voice, and nothing else. Even Aradin was obliged to remain silent. It would've been impossible to be heard anyway.

Finally on the falling of a drum the space settled again.

"If there's such a thing as true evil, Scholar Eluti, I've yet to see it." Aradin's indulgent smile glowed equally light and shadow in the faint firelight from across the table. "The Imperium of Man are just men and women, same as you and me. Nothing more."

Eluti shifted unsteadily upright to more fully face Aradin then. "You might argue the Imperium of Man, being men, are as imperfect in their evil as men are in all things. Though I might contend they are as close as anything man has yet concieved. But let's set that aside, men they may be, but not like you and I and if ever they were they traded their souls away long ago for the vile and insalubrious weapons and the armours they wear to protect their evil and hide the blackness that exists inside their vile hearts!"

Aradin laughed at this and harder. "But please, tell us how you truly feel Scholar Eluti."

"You may be incredulous on this, but you cannot, truly, deny the existence of evil itself, or the things they do. The evidence is plain to see."

Their voices fell into the quietude that accompanied the woman's voice as it fell back into exhausted, wavering notes. For no one could carry such a storm of emotions within themselves for long as the man made his way purposefully back to the stage - his eyes never leaving the woman.

Because farewell wanderlust,
You've been, oh, so kind,
You brought me to this party,
But you left me here behind,
So long to the person you begged me to be,
She's down,
She's dead,
Instead what is left but this old cotton dress,
And the mess that you left,
When you told me that I wasn't right in the head.

"Oh, but I would contend that what people call 'evil' is just a word... a shortcut, a signifyer, a simplification. People say 'evil' but what they truly mean is that they percieve a thing to be harmful, to the point all else about the thing ceases to be significant. It is easier to say 'evil' than to trace the myriad pathways a thing might help or do harm. It is the same way people discard things as 'useless'."

"You would contend utility itself does not exist now?"

The woman fell silent at the front of the stage. Her head and shoulders bowed, as though defeated, spent. It was the man's voice that picked up then, standing as he was now looking up at her, from the base of the stage.

His voice was soft, quiet, so low Scholar Eluti couldn't have made out the words even if he'd understood the language at all.

"You alright?," asked the boys from beyond,
You gave us such a fright,
We'd hate to see,
Your mascara drip into your pint.

"I contend such words and the thoughts that underly them are abstractions. They are corruptions, grotesqueries of reality: of the thing itself. We squeeze complexity from the world - and rightly so - because reality itself is the only thing vast enough to contend with itself. How do you fit something as vast and infinite as reality into the finite and limited recesses of our minds? You cannot. So our minds create illusions, say 'good enough', and we pretend they are the thing itself. But the good and the evils we imagine are just that. Imagination."

"A moment." Scholar Eluti protested, closing his eyes in thought, trying to wrap his thoughts around the mental acrobatics that Aradin had set at play here.

The woman's voice resumed now. The crowd was deathly quiet as she sang in low, spftly whispered notes, straining now to hear her words. The man, ascended the stage, watched her, circled her as she withdrew away from him.

Might you allow me to slip,
Into something more comfortable then?
Be our guest,
With a hoik of her bra,
She waved to the bar,
And slipped... into the night

Then she, with a flip of her hair, and a waive to the bar, cast a glance over her naked shoulder and disappeared, stepping down and behind the stage. Vanishing into the impenetrable darkness behind the flaming lanterns at either end of the stage.

"But yet we must contend." Eluti said after a time of gathering his thoughts "And even you cannot deny that some things are 'good' to us and other things are 'bad'. If it is 'good enough' can we not make a judgement and say a thing is good or a thing is evil?"

Aradin tipped his cup to Eluti as people around them began to whisper, thinking the performance over. Some of the men whistled and japed at young woman's exit, seeming to callfor her return. Someone yelled something out, a profession of love perhaps.

It was the man now who took the stage.

"Come, devil, come," she sang, "Call out my name"
Let's take this outside,
'Cause we're one and the same,
Our gods have abandoned us,
Left us instead!
Take up arms, take my hand,
Let us waltz for the dead!

The man's voice was crisp, cool, and measured to the tone of the strings, to the beat of the drum.

"We might. But, there is a saying where I come from: the devil is in the details. And the truth is, people prefer not to dwell over much on either detail nor truth. Nor, if we're honest, can they do so in all things - quibbling over this or that - and still live their lives. Which gives rise to a truth - or the approximation we call 'truth' - which people turn away from. Unless they are made to look upon it."

"And what truth is that?"

I'm the face that stares back,
When the screen goes to black,
When your mom says you look healthy,
But you know she means you got fat!

"That we tell ourselves stories of monsters hiding in the dark, and devils born in hell. And there are things we fear - plague, famine, disasters. But if one is being, truly, honest with ourselves, when the night is long and dark and we look upon Others, heaping extra portions of anger and outrage into our souls: it's for wont of acknowledging the darkness in ourselves."

"I understand your point. But I resent the implication that we are - or ever were - anything like the Imperium. We were scholars sir. Men of peace first, of conflict and war only by necessity."

I'm the tales that the guests will applaud and believe,
I'm the child that you just didn't have time to conceive!
I promise you I'm not broken!
I promise you there's more!
More to come! More to reach for,
More to hurl at the door!

The song felt oppressive now. This man, his voice piercing the night and sounding less like a man singing than a man compelled to sing. Like he no longer had any control - the song once began demanded to be dragged to its conclusion.

"Perhaps. But how many people? How many children would you see dead to ensure that your, and not the Imperium's way of life carries on?"

"None if we could avoid it."

"Of course, you're not monsters. But we live in reality, so how many? What is the number? At what point do you draw the line and say, 'this is too many'? At what point do you let the House of Wisdom slip forever beneath the pall of the Imperium of Man and say the cost was simply not worth it?"

Goodbye to all my darkness,
There's nothing here but light,
Adieu to all the faceless things,
That sleep with me at night,
This here is not makeup,
It's a porcelain tomb,
And this here is not singing,
I'm just screaming in tune!

Scholar Eluti tried to reply but was drowned out by the singer. His voice smothered everything, such that once again conversation became impossible - the man's voice ringing, his feet stomping across the stage to the pounding of drums.

Eluti irritably folded his hands on the table, waiting for the screaming to reach its crescendo before it was possible to respond.

"How can I, how can anyone answer this? We wouldn't be here if we thought like the Imperium."

"You're here because you lost. But were the situations reversed, if you could end the imperium and resurrect the House of Wisdom wholesale: would you not?"

"We would do what was necessary. All men possess that right."

"So how many children? How many lives? What is the number, or would no number be enough? Would you kill all?"

Because farewell wanderlust,
You've been ever so kind,
You brought me through this darkness,
But you left me here behind,
And so long to the person you begged me to be.
He's down,
He's dead,
Now take a good long look at what you've done to me!

Eluti waived his hands dismissively at Aradin. It was a loaded question, if ever there was one.

"And there's the truth of it Eluti." Across from him Aradin leaned back, his blue eyes gleaming, his face smiling a tight mirthless smile as his pale face shone in the firelight. "We are the devils. And we always have been. When we look upon others and see in them the face of evil - it's for wont of acknolwedging the darkness that lurks within ourselves. Waiting for the right excuse to be let out."

He's down,
He's dead,
He's gone,
Oh, he's lost,
He's flown, he's fled,
Now take a good long look at what you've all done to me!

Contemplating this, Eluti didn't at first notice when the woman appeared again on stage, lending her voice to her partners as they circled one another, stamping their feet the the sawing of strings and the pounding of drums.

"You paint a bleak picture for humanity, sir." Eluti said at last.

"Life is suffering. Whoever says otherwise is selling something." Aradin tapped his cup contemplatively. "But recognition is the first step to recovery. Do you rise to the challenge, or do you turn away?"

The song was winding down. Voices falling away.

"Who answers 'turn away'?"

"No one. But then they all do."

"Except for you?"

"Especially me." Aradin laughed. "Life has a way of turning us around. But we find ways to feel our way back."

[Hanajima]

Ness Armstrong

As I stirred from unconsciousness, four of the women at the river were looking down on me and speaking to each other in a language that I had never heard before, but could somehow understand.

“He's not a daiva, just a man... at least I think he's a man.”

“... I don't think you needed to hit him quite that hard Sarukê.”

“He looks like he's been wandering for days, poor fellow. Is he one of the neighboring tribesmen?”

“He seems... too foreign to be Mazatā, perhaps he's one of the cross-worshipers? Like Stranger Silas - ”

I stirred and rose up a little, causing three of them to pull back a little nervously while one, who I assumed was Sarukê, stood tall and unmoved. Her hair was dark but she had light grey eyes that somehow served to make her more terrifying, as though they were giant storm clouds which would strike me with lightning if I made one wrong move. And - why was I naked? I must look like some disgusting streaker what the - “I-I'm sorry,” I said with a stammer that hopefully conveyed my sincerity as I looked away from embarrassment. “I don't know what's going on, I have no idea where I am or how I got here.”

“Are you a cross-worshiper?” a red haired woman, who I think was the one chiding Sarukê for knocking me out, asked from the safe distance of behind Sarukê's striking arm.

“Not since I was twelve I think?” I replied as I held my hands up peacefully and rose from the stream bank. I was covered in so much grass and mud but I tried not to think about that. Another of the four, with dirty blonde hair, came and offered me a blanket which I accepted gratefully and wrapped around myself. It was at least some modesty and a stent for my dignity, I was beyond grateful. “Where... where are we?” I said as I looked around once again.

“Mazatāna, land of the Mazatā.”

“Who are the Mazatā?”

“Us.”

“Oh.”

“How do you speak our language but not know who we are?” one of the women asked, her tone curious not accusative.

“I... don't know.” I replied honestly, feeling more lost than when I woke up now.

“I think maybe some spirits are playing cruel tricks on you,” the redhaired woman said after a moment of confusion. She looked at Sarukê who was still glaring at me expectantly.

Finally after what felt like an eternity, Sarukê lowered her gaze and remarked that I could come with them to the village. I nodded my thanks as I started to follow them. “You can, uh, keep the blanket,” the smaller blonde woman said with an awkward smile, I murmured a quick thank you and nodded my head.

---

Brother Silas's cabin

He was called “Brother” among his fellow missionaries and believers, but amongst the tribes of Mazatā who were not accustomed to giving terms of familiarity to outsiders, he was “Stranger.” It was a nice alliteration which sounded pleasing to his ears, and he thanked God that these locals were more inclined to call him stranger than to cut his throat or to throw him out of their homes. They were generous if guarded with their formalities, and it was a refreshing honesty in comparison to those who told him what he wanted to hear while having none of it in their heart.

As he was gardening and singing a prayer on his lips, he heard a twig break behind him. “Stranger Silas.” a voice called out, and he turned around to see some of the girls from the village and a very confused looking young... man was it? Covered in a blanket and shivering from the cold. “This person needed your services. He's a stranger and we weren't sure whether we should bring him to the village healer or not.”

He was a bit surprised but quickly nodded. “This way miss... or sir...” Silas didn't allow himself to focus on it for too long, rather turning his attention to helping the poor confused soul before him. He invited them in and had them sit by the fire, to which they were extremely grateful, muttering thank you repeatedly. They looked at the crucifix hanging over the fireplace curiously but said nothing. He offered the androgynous figure mead which they drank but quickly spat out, coughing. Realizing what they'd done, they quickly apologized and started trying to clean the floor, but Silas stopped them. “It's fine, friend, it's fine. Let me get it.”

“He just showed up out of nowhere like a naked madman,” redhaired Hupaya explained, telling Silas the whole story. He listened as he dug through his traveling bags for anything that might fit the pitiful waif, but nothing seemed to turn up. “I can ask the weaver to make something for him tomorrow,” she volunteered, to which Silas nodded his head and thanked her, offering some gold which she turned down. “I feel sort of obligated to help him, it's on my account that Sarukê, uh...” she glanced at the waif's battered eye.

They all inevitably had to leave for home, with promises to return tomorrow, leaving the missionary with the silent boy sitting by the fire.

“You may sleep on the bed if you like, I can lay on the floor,” Silas said and he nodded. “What is your name?”

“Ness,” he replied, still staring at the fireplace.

“Ah, a Hibernian name! You're quite a way's from home.”

“Very far from home.”

[G-Tech Corporation]

Part 7, Chapter 12: A Form and a Shape

February 22nd, 50 AG

Expensive glass rattled in expensive lacquered frames as the winter wind howled about the guest house of the Kasr, and I glanced out into the swirling snow. My tongue ran along the top of my teeth. Providence send that the drifts didn't get too deep for a sleigh out to the northshore. It would do little good to have planned a short stopover in Sirmium if there was not an opportunity for the inspections and impressions I had plotted - staring at the walls of the Kasr, however opulent, would do little to ensure things ran smoothly beyond the ken of the overseers from Junction.

Still, there was no true help for it. More frivolous men might have prostrated themselves in prayer, seeking relief from tempest and storm and drifts of blowing snow, but I had no such delusions about my personal position in the cosmic order. Even as my Father saw fit to bless and curse the faithful and the iniquitous, His purposes for the passage of storms across the vast leagues of Europe had much more to do with the arc of history than a few small endeavors of commercial minutiae. Still, by the fabric of many appeals is the will of the Divine composed; my eyelids fluttered closed for a span, and a brief muttered petition to the Almighty passed invisibly under my breath.

The courses of men were ordained, though they thought they held the tiller. It was ours to recognize the purpose of the turns in the river, not to attempt to strive the ship through dry land uncaring of the bends. My eyes were swimming from drinking in ledgers and account books, and so I abandoned them not unhappily. It was good of the weather to remove me from my trance, for in feeling the ink on the page and reading the narratives of business I had always been able to see beyond the velum, to breathe men and hands into words and sit unseeing for hours where my attention had been fixed.

A quality I had from my father, my biological father. My memories of him in the green sitting chair of our family room, his nose delved into a new novel, or reading glasses perched on the end of his formidable British nose while devouring a magazine on flight, or new implants - and the entire time completely oblivious to my mother's increasingly strident pleas for his attention. He could hardly be blamed. That single-minded attention had seen him through medical school, and myself through higher education likewise, the ability to devour the written word at a pace few men could match.

It wasn't a skill that had been originally devilishly useful when standing upon this mortal shore. Those first years had been the province of the back, and the mind unmoored from the written word, given to the abstract imagining more than turning figures into concrete apparitions. By my actions, I had introduced the scourge? blessing? mediocrity? of writing to men, and set them adrift on a sea of paper filled from bottles of rough ink. The change had been incremental, so slow as to be almost imperceptible save when I took a moment to really look back at the past hard and sure, but now the handover was a true thing indeed.

Five hundred and thirty three missives about the function of a leatherworking compound, and that only from the last season. House Nemtsov employed accountants that looked after the other accountants, who themselves oversaw journeymen and tradespeople in numbers I couldn't really comprehend. Exactly what percentage of the Imperial economy held fingers from Mara, saw contracts drawn up with my family name on them - who could say? I couldn't say I had a firm grasp on even a tenth of it, between the varied interests of my sons, their kin, and their sons in turn. But I did my best to keep my feet in the water, to feel the changes of the current, and shepherd the whole organization as I could.

Standing, I stretched, eyes now focusing on the areas past the end of my hands in gratitude. The light in the primary guest quarters was good, a half dozen panes of mostly clear glass letting in the pale gray sun of winter, supplemented by the cheery incandescence of yellowed light coming from two large bulbs set in sconces recessed on the western wall. They liked to show off things from the capitol. I wouldn't be surprised if the Kasr was the only building with a non-industrial electrical system in a hundred leagues, but no doubt when the commander had in guests from the outlands it was an impressive thing indeed. Certainly the bed was soft enough to make even the most hardened tribal delegate reconsidered whether there might not be something to this civilization thing after all.

Just as I bent sideways, a deliberate assault on the knot that had been forming around my lower spine, a knock came at the door of the chamber. It had the heavy tattoo that was familiar to me, and so I crossed to the heavy oaken frame and pulled it open without any consideration. Past the two black-clad figures a familiar ruddy complexion beckoned, split nearly in twain by a smile.

"The cook sent me to tear you away from your books. They've got some excellently smoked venison sausages over the fire which I bet you can smell even from here, and most of the men have cleared out, so Marcus shouldn't have too many kittens."

The dour figure of my chief bodyguard scowled across the hallway, but his lack of a protest to the words from the sandy-haired youth meant there must be truth to them. I returned Petyor's smile with one of my own, and stepped out into the hall, drawing the doorway closed behind me. It was a close fit, for my son's firstborn was a great bear of a man, but the press of the space loosened up nearly immediately as the Blackguards made space, no longer needing to the job of lintels on my abode.

"You had excellent timing. Or, maybe I heard your footfalls on the staircase subconsciously. I just put down the ledgers for a break, and my belly is gnawing at my backbone. I make it, what, three o'clockish?"

My grandson huffed a laugh over his shoulder.

"More near four, by the light. The common has a tallman, so you'll get a better idea there. But you've been at it most of the day. Time and past to come out and remind yourself there is a world beyond dusty books and stodgy recitations of leather-stamping figures."

I shook my head slightly, but allowed Petyor the advantage of the last word. He was his mother's son, taking more after Delia than Vladimir, with the rogue of the frontier in his bones instead of the calculated bookworm that his father had been even when he was young. There was room for both in a prince, especially in a world with so much on her frontiers as ours. In many ways he was lucky in his birth - the precociously physical youth had been recognized as rough with his playmates at a young age, and allowed to train with spear and shield and wrestle with soldiers even when he had only ten and two winters to his account. In the world I had come from we might have called him overly energetic, medicated him, and left him to drool his way through boring reading and lamented his lack of educational ambition.

Here though? Here his tutors had worked him until he was glad of the rest that some reading and arithmetic had promised, and gradually come to enjoy the historical tales of battle, and settled into a productive youth. Energetic youth became tempered by physical skill, and though his aptitude in some more esoteric areas had lagged behind his younger brother and sisters, Petyor had flourished in time into quite the well-rounded man.

That was, of course, part of why he was here in Sirmium. I had asked Vladimir to send him south before the winter freeze, to see how he handled himself along the border with the League. There had been trouble in Nessus from the Firmians and the Allovans hailing from Green Ward, one of the old Scholar-towns, overtures of placing tariffs on goods coming down the Via Militaris, some sort of Victor's old nonsense about protectionism and domestic industrial development.

Nonsense which was, as might be imagined, entirely valid. And by dint of that validity, unacceptable for Imperial interests in the region. There might be ten thousand souls in the whole of Sofransa, but if they ended up building themselves a working metal industry to compete with the cheap goods coming out of Agranum and Vinceia that it could be a thorny issue for any ambitions of men of renown in the area. It was fortunate, perhaps, that the average man, even if well educated in mercantile affairs in a practical manner, had no concept of the interplay of economics across national spaces.

But we would have to see how Petyor handled the issue. The lad was old enough to be married, and that meant he was old enough for real responsibilities. On that matter Vladimir and I were in strong agreement.

A dozen dozen paces on nicely woven rugs, and the dingy halls of the guest house opened out into a small foyer. The warder nodded to me as we passed out into the chill climes of the inner regions of the Kasr, the frigid wind doing her level best to blow us all back into the domicile for our pains. I wound the scarf I had grabbed from my door tightly around my face - even with only a short walk to the mess, I had no desire to let my cheeks pick up a spell of frostbite. It could be quite the uncomfortable experience, feeling bits of flesh thawing in a morning shower with sharp needle-like pain, or the awkward shedding of dead skin from windburn when one was attempting to address an emissary. I had never been fortunate enough to have my beard migrate all the way up my face to fully protect my cheeks, and was at this point vanishingly unlikely to see a change in that state of affairs.

To their credit, the soldiers of Kasr Drak had kept the walkways between the various dour gray buildings of the fortress all but clear of snow drifts, despite the inclement conditions. Even as we walked I espied a variety of thickly bundled figures wielding shovels without any particular enthusiasm over toward the armory, and spared a thought for the miserable souls who had offended their sergeants enough to draw that duty in this weather. The wind was strong, even here behind the breakwalls of the fastness, and it was even odds that some of the men would have been drawn from more amicable climates and so quite dismayed by the winter storms.

All thought of their suffering vanished like the snowflakes melting in my eyelashes as Petyor shouldered open the door to the long low hall which served as the Great Company's mess. The warmth of the cookfires kept the facility an agreeable temperature during even the deepest winter nights, and today was no exception. Indeed, it felt even warmer than usual - a fact I attributed to showing up after the common mess, when soldiers would draw from their own wood doles to add to the main fireplaces to make the whole affair downright cozy.

It was an impressive hall, for the size of body of men it had to deal with feeding. You don't really appreciate the architecture involved in making a large internal space in a timber edifice until you've had to figure out how to find trees long enough for the beams, how to hold up the internal weight of thick snow-effacing shingles, how to cleverly buttress the flying columns with angular crossbars to prevent having to dump a new pole in every second stride without the whole construction sagging down on itself. Modern building materials let us accomplish wonders, compared to the first meetinghall I had roughly hammered together forty years ago. A half dozen soldiers with odd shifts were eating at one of the tables, but aside from that the large echoing space could have sat two hundred comfortably.

And it smelled very agreeably of venison and sizzling fat.

As a guest of the fortress commander, I could nominally ask that meals be prepared and brought to my quarters. That would have made Marcus happy, but I wasn't nearly worried about my safety as he was. And it was a lonely existence if you did such pre-eminently logical things all the time. I was firmly convinced, after too many years on the road with a theoretical crown on my brow, that the easiest way to become a paranoid dictator was to become divorced from the common man and his common joys - to isolate yourself within a palace of privilege and loneliness, from whence you could not stoop low enough to understand what it was like to really live within the lands you ruled.

It was a value I had tried hard to inculcate into Vladimir, and Petyor in his turn, alongside his brothers and Maria's sons. It was too easy by half to become a man divorced from reality, when given the suckling teat of privilege as your birth-milk. By that metric, I was a happy man indeed to see one of the soldiers look over at Petyor and shout a ribald joke about some authority figure or another - I didn't catch the name - provoking a laugh from my grandson. He had been here for two months while I was delayed beyond Illyria, and it was good to observe him having established a rapport with the men of the Third during that time.

Lunch was, frankly, as good as can be hoped in winter. Some stewed re-un-dessicated brassica cultiva and orange roots will not make a man whistle with glee, but they will ward off the worst of the winter diseases of malnutrition, and a thick porridge of oats and rye sweetened with honey and cream, set beside a bun and a length of venison sausage with fennel - ah, food is truly one of God's better gifts to men in His common grace. Sylvia might not have been strongly interested in a kiss if she should have happened upon me with my breath thick with meat and herbs, but she was a thousand leagues north of here, so I could eat without any strong concerns on that point.

As men are wont to do on cold days, we said very little while there was still food on our plates. The body recognizes, I think, that the demands that are placed upon it are greater than usual. For this reason it suppresses all but the most cursory conversation engines in working men when they have a deficit in their caloric requirements, until at the very least their stomachs are filled and can be filled no further. It is likely for this reason that the universal language of grunts, chuckles, and vague hand gestures has been adopted by a full half of humanity, and strikes that same populace as entirely satisfactory for most communication under similar circumstances.

But with bellies full and feet and hands warm near a roaring blaze, a mug of clear cool beer to hand, then that is when men are fond of talking. Conversations, it seems, are directly augmented by the hostility of the temperature beyond the immediate bounds of the discourse. With the frozen inclement all too audibly howling in the chimneys and plucking at the tightly-closed shutters, I don't doubt that most of the men might have been content to grumble into their beards until evening meal came again.

Petyor, to his credit, had a great wealth of stories from the North Sea to tell. I had forgotten that his father had sent him there to spend some time on the Terror, a sister ship to the Warrior, keeping an eye on the most powerful of the Icedonian Diadochi and discouraging them from any slaving raids into lands they might conveniently 'forget' had sworn the oaths. It sounded like things there were interesting, but not so interesting as to be concerning, which marched much with what I had heard last time a report came to me from Altamonte. Brigand-princes would pull at their leashes as a matter of human nature, but so long as they were quickly reproved, and that reproof did not cost lives under the Great Anchor, such eccentricities were a safety valve for their intercidal quarrels.

How long had it been since I had really been before the mast, done anything useful on a sailing ship? I shook my head as my grandson recounted working one of the quick-firing skorpions which were the stock and trade of the Imperial Greatship, a small pacification effort toward one of the old Morning Sea Company lodges. I was cargo these days, treasured cargo, yes, but far too valued to be allowed anywhere near weapons or armaments. It was an easy way to travel, but not exactly exciting. I did more painting than pillaging, not that I had ever been one for the implications of that word.

My mind several decades distant, recalling the sweet smell of the Danube when I had walked her foam with little more than a ramshackle knaar between my feet and her rapids, I did not immediately notice that Petyor now sat alone with me, his face pensive.

"He is getting old, really. I hate to say it, but you know the truth of it."

I was recalled to myself, and must have looked nonplussed for a moment, because the worried face of my grandson took a breath and clarified.

"My father, I mean. Vladimir. There's as much gray in his hair as there is black, and he always did have grandmother's taking."

A slow nod, and a drag at my beer, whose dregs I was nursing. I glanced over his shoulder to where a no-nonsense local barmaid had a fresh draught, and motioned her toward the table.

"Well, he is forty eight this year. Five decades is a good time for any man to be thinking of the measure of his life. You know what the Bible has to say on the topic - 'a hundred and twenty shall be his years' - and we're damnably lucky if we get those many."

The young man was silent, and his look pointed, somewhat pitying even. I shrugged, a bit uncomfortably.

"I know. I know. Your grandmother is blessed. I am blessed. Hell, you've grown a lot lad. I'd bet you three nobles that the men at that table over there think you're my older brother. Your beard has come in well since I last saw you over Easter, last spring. I've prayed. You know I have."

And I had. It was the uncomfortable truth with which I had not yet known how to reconcile myself. It had been a blessing of immeasurable worth - didn't I know it! - to see the years not weigh upon my beloved. When I had first seen the wash of time pass me by, suspected what I now knew had to be the truth, I had spent years with dread the foremost emotion in my mind. I should know joy, and happiness, and then see the bitter gift of men drained to the fullest by my wife, who I loved more than life itself. I had wept tears of rage then, begged and pleaded with the God who had placed me in this new life for the curse which He had placed upon me to be lifted.

Men are given one life. A purpose, which is fulfilled, and then they are judged and enter into their reward. Some are privileged to walk that life with another at their side, a help-mate with which to share that purpose, breath the air of different times, and one day grow old together. It had seemed to me the most cruel aspect of all my divorce from the life I had known before, to have found love, but then been condemned to linger, eternal, while that love passed onward into eternity.

For a time then I had seen my time as a blessing anew, when it became clear that my gifting had been bestowed upon my beloved. A mercy of magnitude unknown save for that of salvation. Would that I were a better poet, or that my gift had been known to another, for the love-ballads of the Bard and the agonies of the Illiad should be candle-flames against the blaze of such joy! But I took it in humble stride, of prayer answered, and yet another grace which was unmerited by any measure.

Now, however, and for the last years - what can I say? Darkness shadowed the light places of my heart again, as no doubt it played about that of my wife and even poor Vladimir. The Emperor was aging, and his eyes weaker, his hair thinner, his limbs less hale and fell-handed with every passing year. I had not really thought that mine should be, for some reason, a lineage imperishable. It had seemed a gift far too great merely to see the mercy given to my fair Sylvia. But for a time I had, perhaps, in the most innermost recesses of my heart and my most selfish of prayers begun to hope.

It was hope. I think that is what it should be called, though there are other baser emotions which war for the naming of that thought in my breast. We mean mortal things wish that we should be spared from the march of the Curse, of entropy's inveterate hand, of the wilting of all good things which was Adam's gift to his children in his blood. And so I had prayed, even though my heart misgave me, to seek such an extraordinary thing.

My prayers on this matter went unanswered. And though I could read the accusation in my grandson's eyes across the table, there was also a part of me that was glad that my plan for my son had not been my Father's plan for my progeny. A world with a gathering bloodline of immortals upon her face... what would such a strange and twisted story beget? It was surpassing strange even to think of a few select individuals, treading down the ages, so many filled with darkness and sent to test the strains of the light. But what would have really caused me to wonder at the purposes of my Father would have been this strange mercy, extended and increasing.

It was one thing to accept a sentence, for a set time, of preservation for an unworked purpose, of the stay of the eternal reward while work remained to be done. For the purpose set before me was the work of more than one lifetime - oh so much more - and thus it did not perturb me overmuch to contemplate the trial set before me. If such was ordained, I could endure. But if there seemed to be no more to the lengthening of days than to possess my blood in one's veins? Then the purpose becomes less clear, and more akin to biological action than divine manifestation.

"You need to talk to him, when you go home in the fall. He needs your counsel, perhaps more than anyone. And a legion of prayer."

I could only nod at the somber words of the young man who was now, I perceived, not so young across from me. He knew his father likely better than I did these days. I could not stand in those shoes, to know what it was like to always have to try and live up to the example of the man who came before you - oh, I knew a part of it, but most men have the ultimate satisfaction of one day becoming strong and hale when their fathers must in turn look to them as helper and provider. Vladimir had never seen that, never had the strains of his melody be the most salient music in the orchestra of House Nemtsov.

"I will. And I will pray. It is God alone who numbers our days and makes plain our path. I cannot walk that path for your father - he must seek it himself."

It was with a heart heavy, but determined, that I returned to my room to look over a few more files before the dim light of the winter day altogether failed. First, however, I committed myself to prayer. Not supplication for the changing of fates anymore, for I had ceased that years ago, but much the same as I had prayed a thousand times before, even when my son had been a boy of two, playing in his mother's garden in our house in Knieper.

A purpose for his life. Knowledge of the love of his Creator. Strength for the road ahead. Peace with the road behind. While I was at it, I prayed for the same for myself. No doubt the one above knew how much I needed all those very same things on that cold day in Sirmium, beneath the wash of the Iron Gates, in that warm guesthouse in the Kasr.

[Orostan]

THE EMPIRE OF CHINA - AARON DAWSON
2950 BC


POWER BASE

The question to ask the guards of a leader is "Why don't you kill him?" At any point they could draw their weapons and end their reign, but they don't. It can't be for fear of them as they hold the weapons and the leader usually doesn't. Even if the leader happens to be a good fighter he is just one person and is always outnumbered - the guards have to be loyal. But how is loyalty produced? How is a structure of people all vastly more directly connected to those that physically enforce the authority of the state not always taking power for itself? When viewed this way power is far from a physical thing. Loyalty is less of a chain held by the leader and more a rope of mutual dependency tied to both the leader and his state. Where one goes the other must follow. When this structure dissolves and every element is taking power for itself society itself dissolves. Ultimately the reason why the guard of the Emperor doesn't simply kill him aside from loyalty to him or personal reasons is because they would not know what to do without him. For at least the time being they are dependent.

For the same reason the guards would be killed to the man by everyone else for the crime of regicide and destabilizing the social system everyone relies on to survive the Emperor would be killed if he begins to undermine the social system he is entrusted with. However, those with no reliance on an advanced social system cannot be ruled efficiently or at all. It was for this reason that the expansion of Huaxia territory in East Asia was accompanied by massive campaigns to settle the nomadic and semi-nomadic hill peoples and those of southern China. The power of the Emperor was based on his ability to distribute the wealth produced by his increasingly complex empire and to continue to grow its wealth with the limited technology and skilled labor force he had available he needed to expand the empire. Rumors of tin sent expeditions directed towards what in the modern day was called Yunnan and fertile soil in the south was accompanied by organized forest burning campaigns where over the course of weeks segments of the forest would be isolated from each other and then set alight to make agricultural land available. As infrastructure projects in the north began to transition to a paid work force thousands of prisoners of war and regular criminals were made available to be forced to work on building agricultural terraces for the cultivation of rice and new towns for the (voluntarily or involuntarily) settled population to live in. The centralization of spread out villages of between thirty to at the largest one hundred people into agricultural towns of up to two or three thousand people allowed for vastly easier administration and robbed those who opposed the plans of the Emperor of easy sources of supply.

Tribes that agreed to join the growing Empire found themselves settled in the best land nearby and given easy access to education and the route upwards the social system of the Empire. While they would never be allowed to govern their own territory their sons would soon find themselves receiving appointments in the administration of far off provinces or in the armies sent to secure them. Their families back home would benefit enormously from the houses and pay that was delivered to them. The tribes that turned away diplomats and traders found it much more difficult to turn away soldiers who could usually cause them to reconsider their isolation or in extreme cases would organize the deportation of the tribe to another part of China. Over a decade these policies had essentially dissolved as cohesive groups large ethnic and tribal groups that opposed the Empire and could not migrate away from the Empire's advance.

While technically every part of China's economy was managed by the state the administration of an increasingly complex economy over a very large area was only growing in difficulty. Without the telegraph or any way of fast communication beyond the speed of the fastest horses of the Postal Service the relation of merchants to the state began to change. A number of them became integrated into the state's management of the "Three essentials" - iron, grain, and salt. Only those goods and the production process necessary for them would find themselves under firm state control as the economy diversified. While it was easy to keep track of the production of textiles by the use of spinning and weaving machines it was more difficult to centrally administrate the process. That required the division of the Ministry of the Public Stock into a series of organizations that acted a little like a modern state owned enterprise would act. Day to day operations were managed by local management and the Ministry only provided oversight as well as very general orders. The loosening of central control over the merchants also created two classes of them - those that were still working for the state and those that began to trade independently and operate workshops without direct state control. Essentially private business that further complicated the economy and necessitated a currency reform.

The old method of providing 'currency' in the form of vouchers issued to reward state service that would be destroyed when they were exchanged for a good in a store could no longer work at scale. Instead for the first time the government began striking coins from bronze and preparing to introduce them into the economy as a method of paying taxes and compensation for work or services. The currency relation would also increase the state's ability to collect tax revenue and allow the easier formation of a professional class of laborers for construction projects instead of using excess agricultural labor in the off-season. The amount of currency that should be issued was a contentious topic in the Imperial government especially after the Emperor explained the concept of inflation and fractional reserve banking. The formation of an independent class of merchants also necessitated a stricter enforcement of the laws against individuals providing loans with interest and an expansion of the state "banking" system to ensure that merchants would not provide loans to villages to cover bad harvests or other misfortunes. Much of this was simply making villages aware the option existed to seek aid from the government when crops failed but much of it also required expanding road systems and otherwise making it easy for grain to both be sent to those villages and also collected from them in the form of taxes.

The Inspection

To travel while being Emperor was dangerous. The abduction of provincial officials for ransom had become a popular tactic of bandits before they understood doing so would result in them returning home to villages burned down by local troops as retaliation for the attack, although it was still attempted by the better organized bandit groups that weren't simply gangs of farmers who opposed Aaron's empire or did not want to pay taxes. This was why it was always necessary for Aaron to travel with a group of veteran horsemen as guards. If that wasn't enough, he had two other identical carriages so he had a less chance of dying during an ambush. The guards were skilled fighters who had fought for their Emperor for a long time - some at this point for ten years or more. Aaron watched one of them out of the window and briefly wondered what they'd be doing if history had gone as it was supposed to. They would probably have been subsistence farmers but there was always the chance he had robbed history of some great craftsman or philosopher.

It was ultimately irrelevant, a man from this time period could only go so far. None of their names were recorded in the history Aaron knew and all of them were imprisoned by the time period they lived in. How ironic was it then that the only man who knew that that had been imprisoned in a sort of way with them. His sentence - Aaron had increasingly begun to think of his time travel as some sort of divine retribution for something - was not so bad. His daughter would soon be turning nineteen and although she constantly wanted to leave Luoyang and see the Empire she felt somewhat entitled to Aaron had denied almost all of her requests. While she was capable of defending herself thanks to being tutored by scholars and senior soldiers alike, Aaron felt extremely reluctant to let her travel as he did and let any risk to come to her. He did of course recognize that he could not keep her in the capitol forever - especially because she was the only surviving child Aaron had and had been told almost everything he knew.

The carriage shook slightly as it turned at a fork in the road. The vibrant forest around it not long after gave way to an empty strip of land - a firebreak - and then burned stumps and blackened ground. The lack of vegetation at least let the Emperor see farther down a gentle hill where the Yangtze river ran. The slope of the hill and the cleared ground allowed him to clearly see the teams of men working on erecting the town wall and finishing the covered market's roof at the town center. A military camp also existed a short distance from the town in a crude fortress that marked its limits with a low wall of sharpened wood tree trunks. The strong scent of burning wood was accompanied with a slight haze in the air and strips of smoke that ascended into the air above the trees a long distance away. Many of the workers, Aaron noticed, wore rags or masks around their faces. It must have been more difficult to work in this air for long periods of time, he thought.

The carriages turned and stopped alongside a finished part of the interior walls. The crowd of officials that had come to greet the Emperor wore their best robes for the occasion - the colors and patterns a strong contrast with the Emperor's simple black.

Aaron stepped out of the carriage and put his mind into a different space. The officials bowed their heads and the most prominent among them approached the Emperor with his attendants, bowing and taking the time to show his support of the Emperor. Aaron hated the ceremony and the waste of time, but allowed the official to make his show.

He stood back up and greeted his leader. "I am Gu Yahui, Regional Overseer for the Ministry of Works. We are honored by your presence at our project."

The Emperor nodded. "I hope you can prove that with your actions."

Gu smiled. "Indeed I will. Please, come this way." He gestured to a large building down the half finished settlement's main street Aaron recognized as being identical to other settlement administration buildings around his empire.

The Emperor and his guard followed Gu as the group that had assembled for the greeting dispersed and returned to work the moment the Emperor was out of sight.

He was considering the building quality of the granary near the administration building when a sudden commotion from behind and to the left took Aaron's attention away. One of the guards gave a shout and the sound of a crossbow bolt being released disturbed the air. Something passed by Aaron's body close and he glanced behind him to see a crossbow bolt impaled on a wall. When he looked back at the place the bolt had come from - a window in a residence by the look of it - a guard had already opened the door beside it and by the sound was subduing the would be assassin.

Aaron rested his hand on the hilt of his own sword as he prepared to leave. He noticed someone moving at his side - it was Gu. Gu had come closer than Aaron's guards to him, most likely because he thought the safest place was next to the best protected man in the country at the time. Aaron stepped away and towards the way back towards his carriage where his Captain of his guards had already shouted to take the Emperor to. Gu followed and reached into his robe.

Aaron saw the sunlight reflect off of the blade of Gu's dagger as he brought it out and lunged towards him. Gu missed - barely - and swung the blade around towards Aaron's chest as he withdrew his own sword and scrambled backwards. There was no shout from Gu and no declaration of his betrayal. His face was tense and he was totally focused on killing the Emperor. He stabbed at him, and Aaron felt the blade's edge slide along his side before the expression on Gu's face changed to pain and surprise as one of the guards ran him through the upper body with their own weapon.

It had all happened in moments. The guards were clustering around their Emperor now to defend him from further attack, and Gu had fallen to the ground. Aaron glanced at his own side - he was bleeding as well, but not nearly as much as Gu was.

"Why?' the Emperor asked.

Gu elevated his head and stared at him. Then the tension left his body and his head fell to the ground again. A moment later the Emperor left him where he lay.

[Melon Heads]

First Dynasty of Kemet
The Fourth Nome
Waset Village
Second Month of Peret
2959 BCE

Invocation to Montu

Hear me, Montu, if my time is short,
I should give thy testament before I go.

Wake, Buchis! Lord of gods and men, lord of the war cry,
Incarnation of Ra, Spirit of Nomads, thy who bring Truth.
And spill the blood of those who would act against it.

I don’t cast aside the speech of thou mouth;
I don’t ignore thou teachings.

Thous is the scorching of the sands,
the cracking of dirt in the desert heat;

Thous is the blood on the field of war that soaks into the soil.
Thous is the strength behind necessity, that helps us in our struggles;

Thous is the skill to live in harsh climes and barren lands;
Thous is the will to survive. Wielder of weapons:

Turn thy face to me, do mercy and hearken,
And when my time comes, let me go to the East on gentle waves.

________

Day 1679

It seems that Renenutet and her fortunes have smiled upon me in these recent days- at least in that my hardships are surmountable and less than that of others. The Medjay training- as does the normal training for any soldier within a certain distance- takes place in Thebes twice a month, about every fifteen days, the special training taking place in the days after infantry exercises. Though it is not a short journey, what with having to cross the Nile and pass to and through the city to reach the House of Amun, or where the Medjay refugees have been posted, it’s not as long for me as it is for many of my comrades, which my feet are thankful for. Though they have been accepted into Kemet by the Pharaoh and his council's decree, I can't help but feel for them as the welcome has been less than warm.

The neighborly kindness I was given when I arrived seems to be much less here. Maybe because I was just one person, and I picked up the language so quickly, when this is whole tribes that come into the Two Lands, unfamiliar with the local tongue and displaced from their homes by Aksumite expansionism. I can't help but be bitter towards the interloper, like myself, who must be in a position of prestige down there, for marking these people as savages while worshiping their infelicitous God. There is no overt cruelty being done here that I can see, which is a great relief. But they are given land far from the river, and talked down to. Kemetian children do not play with Medjay children. I am hoping that this will begin to resolve itself in time, as these people acclimate and, should fate be kind to Kemet, become welcomed after the invasion of the Biau. A large reason for that being how much of a help the Medjay have been and will be for the Kemetian military.

But I’m not intending to write only today about all of the minutiae of the socio-political tensions between my Kemetian neighbors and the southern immigrants who have come here. Even with the lack of ease with which our communities mesh it is apparent to everyone where these Medjay excel: the primary among these skills being hunting. Suppose part of that can be attributed to the agricultural focus of the Two Lands, hunting is as much recreation as it is a tool of sustenance, while the more nomadic Medjay people, well. Hard to maintain a farm when you’re always moving. Myself and a group of other men from within this Nome, though none of them from Waset (unfortunately as I wouldn’t say no to a travel buddy every time I go across the river, dangit Ptahmose!) convene there twice a month as I said earlier for our training. And befitting of the times, and the people it comes from, it is not to be taken lightly. Can’t say I enjoy being under the threat of the switch for not meeting my instructors standards but it does certainly work as motivation. Being fluent in Medja does help in our interpersonal communications though, many of these peoples we learn from haven’t yet achieved proficiency in the local tongue. But some of them have, among those being Amani, the woman who almost stabbed me a couple months back.

I wish I could say she has warmed up to me in this interim and we are now good friends, but frankly she’s really hard to read. I’m still not entirely certain she doesn’t think I’m some kind of rat sent by the Theban authorities to make sure that her people are staying in line. As if I’d be any good at subterfuge- it’s been 1,600 days since I landed here and the closest thing I’ve seen to another white person (for lack of a better term) was an Eblaite man who honestly may have had an anemia of some kind, from how pale he was. Not exactly easy to blend in. Still, she hasn’t tried to stab me since that first time. In fact…
________

A large circle, one of many in the well trampled dirt outside of the Theban House of Amun, past most of the city but not far enough for the earth to have melted fully into desert sand, was what passed as the training arena for those enlisted in service to the Pharaoh, platoon djed-was-montu. It was not the only structure of the training-grounds, of course, the areas behind and throughout the Temple filled with items of war- leathers, wood, elementary metals to be melted down and configured into copper and bronze apparati of victory. The air was frequently charged with the energy of first time soldiers- and even more often rank with the smell of exertion. Quickly constructed awnings protected metallic spears and daggers from Ra’s rays, shields stacked on top of one another taller by the day. And within the Temple were scrolls upon scrolls, missives from Men-Nefer, geographical maps of the surrounding land, inventories of supplies, beast and manpower alike, to say nothing of the items of worship, which had only increased in feverency towards the gods which presided over the domain of War and Health.

Of the villages around Thebes and of Thebes itself, was around two-hundred men who had signed on, and of that number most were present at the temple at this time, or at least nearby. A couple dozen stood or sat around the ring, and watched the training that was currently occurring. The morning drills were long completed, noon had already passed as well- and the last portion of this particular day was to be spent practicing Hemut ma-at tahtib.

Geordi had not been enthused to learn such a skill, to put it lightly. To have put in all that work in learning archery, only to be handed an assaya staff regardless and told there was only more to study. In retrospect, it was foolish to assume that having achieved advanced rank with the Medjay would excuse them from learning the other Kemetian disciplines of war.

Hemut ma-at tahtib could literally translate to ‘the art of honesty with a stick’, but for a more flexible interpretation, and for a more acerbic one, one could call it ‘brutal honesty.’ It reminded Geordi of kendo, vaguely, though definitely less regimented, more of a ‘here’s the rules, try not to get a concussion’ kind of sport. They didn’t use protective armor, real or otherwise, that was not typically used by Kemetian foot-soldiers regardless, to train with it would be folly. This did mean that even in practice, the stakes were high to defend oneself, most if not all of the enlisted were currently or had been bruised if not worse at one point by the wind-displacing rods.

This had led to Geordi getting some practice in with medical treatment for the various traumas that resulted from these ventures, both those contemporary and known to the Kemetian militia, and what they could recall from before. Contusions eased with herbal poultices, concussions monitored and headshots warned against, displaced digits and limbs shoved back into place and bound for several days and nights. But as of right now there were no wounds to be urgently treated.

Within the makeshift arena stood two men holding assaya staves, Tefibi of Naqada and a soldier named Tjaenhebu, as far apart as they could be while still being within the bounds, observing each other as they walked each in a large circle clockwise. Tjaenhebu made the first move, lunging forward with a shout, bringing his staff down at a diagonal towards Tefibi. Tefibi, with a speed that belied his age, brought his own staff up with a hand gripping either end and stopped Tjaenhebu with an audible thwack of the staves. Tjaenhebu continued to press down with much of his weight, only to be thrown off his balance as Tefibi shifted suddenly to the side, and while Tjaenhebu stumbled, Tefibi brought his own staff into a spin to build momentum and brought it to impact squarely on Tjaenhebu's back. The younger man bit back a yelp but couldn't stop himself from staggering forward until his knees hit the ground, right outside of the boundary of the arena.

After a moment, several of the enlisted began to clap, not a thunderous applause but a respectful one. Though several had had doubts about Tefibi when he was originally selected to train them, this was only the latest iteration of him showing his expertise in the matters of battle. Some of Tjaenhebu's friends helped him up from the ground as he swore and rubbed his back, which would surely bruise in the coming days, but he did take a moment to nod his deference to Tefibi, which was acknowledged with a nod of his own.

The rounds continued, some people facing off against Tefibi, the majority of which he won, and many people battling against their peers. Geordi cheered as Kawab sparred with a muscular man a few years his senior, their match ending with both men bruised and sore but not truly wounded, and though Simut did his best, they helped pick him up after he lost a match, the shorter man trying not to limp on the leg that had been swept out from underneath him. Some time during these rounds, a small assembly of Medjay combatants had joined them in observation, and as Ra began his journey back towards the horizon, Tefibi invited the Medjay to join in their sparring as well, to the disconcertment of his trainees.

“Why do the Medjay need to join in? It’s not like they’re going to be with us fighting, they’re going to be nice and safe behind us.” A few murmurs of agreement, someone with a raspy voice muttering loudly about how “They’re not even really supposed to be here.” “Why spend your time teaching them, when they have their weird bows? A real man knows glory is found in the fray, not hiding like a coward.”

Across the circle, Geordi could see Amani clench her jaw, and a few of her compatriots tense, even those not yet learned in the local tongue. But Tefibi spoke before the disquiet could grow more, and though he faced in the direction of the Medjay it was clear who was being addressed and chided. “It’s clear which of you have not seen true bloodshed before, to think that a battle will never go the way you don’t anticipate? Why should I teach you how to fight with a blunt weapon, when you believe you will always be using a knife? What if your dagger breaks, and you are left holding the dulled spear of an enemy to defend yourself? And why do I teach you the symbols of far off battalions, when it is not currently expected that you will ever meet in Biau? I don’t extend my hand because I am without sense, I do so because they give us their knowledge to expand our repertoire, and it is just to do the same in return. Do you understand me?”

The old man waited, but other than some coughing, no argument was made against him, so he continued. “I find myself tiring, dealing with you lot. These are not our enemies, were they as such we would not have allowed them reprieve here! The people of Aksum have gone against the natural order, their desire for power treading over Ma’at, and in time the Gods will punish them for such. But today, and tomorrow and moving forward, these are our allies and our neighbors. If you must raise your hand to them, it will be here in my ring, and it will be done with the same comradery that you extend to your brother. Unless you’re too much of a coward to do so?”

Tefibi motioned to one of the Medjay, a wide-eyed, dark skinned man still skinny with youth but with strong arms, bringing him into the ring, and speaking to him in halting Medja, to the surprise of many of the men. Geordi noted his words, though disjointed and faulty in grammar, were neither kind nor cruel; he was questioning the boy on his willing participation, and when he got an answer he approved of, handed over an assaya staff and beckoned to the other people around the circle, again speaking in Kemetian. “As one does with their kin, they learn from each other through words and actions. A fellowship between soldiers is made by blood spilt and then a hand extended. Which of you will extend your hand first?”

Geordi stood up, and then promptly froze, lambasting their own hasty actions in their mind. You idiot, you senseless dumbass- you will make a fool of yourself- most if not all of these men are superior to you in tahtib. But Kawab whistled, and snapped Geordi out of what was making to be a truly impressive mental bitch-fit. An assaya staff was tossed to them as well, and Tefibi patted their shoulder as he removed himself from the ring. Geordi only heard the latter half of what he said to them as he passed, “-Tetanu, move with conviction, not haste.” They nodded in assent, and with the eyes of their peers palpable around them, tried to narrow their focus down to the man on the other side of the ring.

He moved with the confidence of a hunter, though Geordi could see his hands shifting as he learned the balance of the stave he held. Breathing deeply, Geordi tuned out the voices around them both, Kemetian conscripts and Medjay both shouting out at the duelists, one group much louder than the other. Geordi began to move around the circle clockwise, making sure to stay at least a foot and a half away from the outer line, and their opponent swiftly followed, their steps inaudible among the noise.

The Medjay teenager made a sudden movement and Geordi started, but it quickly became obvious that it was a fake-out, some of the conscripts laughed at Geordi’s heightened nerves. They ground their teeth but tried to push aside the embarrassment, focused on the task ahead of them. Conviction, not haste. Don’t act like a fool just cause you’re out of your depth. A thought occurred, and they grabbed onto it.

“How old are you, kid?”

The teenager flinched, from the corner of their eye Geordi saw Amani’s eyes narrow as she scowled at them, but it gives Geordi a moment’s advantage, kicking dust back as they encroached onto the young Medjay, his eyes widening as he brought his assaya staff up, gripping it with both hands as he stopped Geordi’s staff from striking him in the ribs. Geordi heard cheering, they thought it may be Kawab again, but it stopped almost as soon as it began. With a hefty shove belying his narrow frame, the boy pushed Geordi back, their feet skidding in the dirt. Geordi continued, “Tefibi isn’t the only one who speaks your tongue, see.” An error, maybe, to reveal their fluency this way, but with Amani already being aware, it was likely only a matter of time. “But truly, I’m curious of your age.”

“Don’t mock me!” A verbal rebuttal combined with a physical one, Geordi veered sharply to the side as the boy’s staff swung through the air with an audible whoosh, the wind brushing through Geordi’s roughly shorn hair. One of their hands hit the ground and they pushed off of it, using the inertia to swing one-handed towards the teenager’s legs, which narrowly falls short as he backs away, heels only inches from the disqualifying outer circle.

“I’m not mocking you! But,” Twice did the assaya staves hit each other, the first an attack on Geordi’s part that the boy deflected, and then his response in kind. Geordi backed up, cautious of where the arena ended, taking a second to shake out their wrists. “I suppose I should’ve asked your name first. I’m Geordi-”

With a resounding thwack, the end of the younger man's staff collided with the side of Geordi’s head- maybe using a duel as time to make introductions wasn’t the best idea. Rattled as they were, it is far from the first time that they’ve been pummeled with a blunt object and they moved with the force as best they could rather than absorbing the whole shock. With a whoosh they fell to the ground, dust being thrown into the air, and it was only adrenaline that lets them use the momentum to continue rolling until they come to a stop on one knee, which they quickly pushed off of with both hands. But it’s only when Geordi has risen again that they notice their assaya staff left in the dirt. To their alarm, the teenager was standing almost directly over it. Well shit.

Shaking the dust out of their hair, which didn’t really help the quickly developing headache, Geordi tried to figure out their next move as their foe stepped closer. What now? He already knows I speak medja, and feinting probably won’t work either. Throw sand in his eyes? No, that’d be dickish, and I want these guys to like me, not think I’m a lousy cheat.

Think. Think! How is he grabbing the staff? How is he going to try and finish me off with it?

The boy held the staff close to his body, his hands either side of his stomach, both thumbs facing upwards towards the top of the weapon. As he stepped forward, he readjusted his grip, but the end of the staff remains pointed towards Geordi’s chest- if Geordi tried to block this attack, the force would still be concentrated in that one spot, compared to if he did another swinging motion which could be adequately parried with an arm, if Geordi moved quickly enough. Three steps between them. Blood pumped through Geordi’s ears, if their friends were shouting they didn’t hear it. Tefibi watches with a careful eye. Montu, guide my hand. Montu, guide my mind- conviction without haste, what the fuck does that mean? Two steps, one step. The boy stops, one foot a good bit behind the other. I bet if he was going to swing at me he’d put his feet further apart, for better balance. But this is going to be a jab. Just got to-

As expected, the upper end of the assaya staff came barreling towards Geordi’s face. Fighting the instinct to move back, they instead moved forwards and to the right, almost coming face to face with the younger man, to his wide eyed surprise. Planting their own right foot in the space between his own, Geordi grabbed the staff, thumbs pointing towards the bottom of it, hands bracketed outside of their assailants by a few inches. For a long moment they struggled against each other, pulling the assaya staff between themselves, but without room to build momentum the boy cannot strike, and to kick would be to lose his balance. But what if I pull it another way- jerk it out of his hands like a flagpole spinning too fast? With a large intake of breath, Geordi pulled the staff upwards in a counter-clockwise motion, wrestling it out of the boy's grip, to his great surprise. What happened next went quickly. Geordi skittered a couple feet back, almost tripping in their haste but keeping both hands on the staff. The teenager went to grab the previously dropped one, but as his hands went down to grab onto it, Geordi kicked at his side, sending him down onto his back in the dirt.

The medjay shouted in his indignation, even as hands came to help him up he batted them away- it was only when Tefibi placed a firm, calloused hand on the boy's shoulders that he paused and looked at the border of the arena, which he had landed just outside of.
________

The Medjay encampment, for lack of a better word, as the majority of dwellings were still either hide tents with circular bases made of mud brick and rock, or domed, circular huts also made of rock bases with mud brick extending upwards to a circular end. Due to their distance from the Nile, most of their varied pottery and waterproof containers that were not being used for other purposes had been given the task of keeping water handy and nearby. In a manner that was particularly strange to the locals- the Medjay people had a habit of decorating their homes and living spaces with the painted skulls of horned animals- something which Geordi had yet to be able to ask about. How unfortunate that most of the people of Kemet thought it unsightly- Geordi would have liked to have been able to make such a piece for their own dwelling- maybe using Ptashedu’s goat..

But like the Kemetian villages, the Medjay township still bustles with activity well into the evenings, children chase each other around by moonlight and families and friends relax around fires to combat the cool desert breeze. It was at one of the less central fires that Geordi found Amani, sat some distance off from a group of what appeared to be her peers, lost in their own conversation. They make sure she sees them as they approach, with a somewhat squished loaf of bread wrapped in linen, some shoddily carved spoons and a melon tucked under their arm.

“May I sit with you?”

Amani stares up incredulously for a moment, before evidently deciding that it likely doesn’t matter. “It is not my fire, sit where you like.”

Trying to ignore the feeling of Amani’s presumably clan-mates staring at the interloper, Geordi sits a polite distance away- or at least what they hope is a polite amount of distance. Leaving the bread wrapped for the time being, they split the small melon in half, handing one half and a wooden spoon over to Amani, who held it as one would a knife. “Are these local utensils?” She asked, spinning it between her fingers.

“Not particularly? I just use them because it keeps my hands cleaner,” Using the spoon to dig into the pale flesh of the melon, breaking it into crisp clumps and tossing the seeds out. “Some of my neighbors like to use them too, less of a mess when they’re weaning their kids I suppose? We used them more where I’m from.”

Amani, to her credit, does not react to this invasion of her time and space with much external affect other than a deep inhale, centering herself. She places the melon on the ground beside her, the spoon atop it.

“If it was disagreeable food I wouldn’t be eating it, if that’s what you’re worried about-”

“Apostate of Jehovah, why do you insist on speaking to me? On breaking bread? I have no information that you could not get from my peers. Indeed, many of them would likely be more eager to speak with you. But still you grace my presence, even now when I’m among my kin. Why is that?”

“...Well first of all I’m not an apostate ‘cause I never worshiped him, just some of my distant family did. But-” Pity, they only got a few bites of the melon before having to set it down as well, a hand moving to press to their temple as they carefully assembled their next words. But to their surprise, when they dug into their mind for it, they could not find a specific reason why they had specifically sought Amani out.

“Partially because I wanted to check on how that boy was, the one I sparred with earlier. He left quickly- I could not find him after.”

“Koloda is fine, you only injured his pride. He sits with his family this night, don’t seek them out. And don’t avoid my question, you could have asked any of the other soldiers who were there this.”

At this point, their few other companions are quiet, listening to Amani talk with the pale man in their own language. Geordi tries not to rankle at this, not like being stared at was unfamiliar, and they had after all walked into this situation willingly. Regardless, the scrutiny wasn’t comfortable. A long silence proceeded, only interrupted by the crackle of the fire, and the distant noise of other Medjay, and the Kemetian village of Thebes further off. If Geordi was to make it back to Waset before sleeping, instead of being relegated to what currently functioned as barracks, they would be traveling deep into the night. Amani speaks again before Geordi can respond.

“You learned to shoot proficiently in the months after the first time we met, when they had me prove my worth by shooting across your town’s plaza. Now you spar with my peers, speak to me in my language and supply me with food. Is this your attempt to court me?” Less of a question and more of an accusation, and one that would probably be correct if it was anyone else. But Geordi being Geordi, this was the first time that they considered the ramifications of their actions, how they could be perceived. They hope that the firelight is dim enough to conceal their face reddening. One of the women across the fire started chuckling; evidently it does not. This is better than being considered a risk to their safety, I suppose, Geordi thinks in the back of their mind, but only barely.

“...If I was, um. Looking to court you.” Geordi where the fuck are you going with this. “How would I go about it?”

It is then that one of the men across the fire speaks up. “If her father had good standing with us, you would ask him for her hand. But good luck with that- the bastard stayed down south and converted!”

If there had been any progress at all made in cracking Amani's façade it disintegrates in under a moment as her face hardens, standing without preamble and walking briskly away from the fire. Geordi can’t help but glare at the man sitting opposite of them, who laughs at their incredulous expression. If he says anything when Geordi stands up themselves, a moment later, and goes to follow Amani into the dark, it was nothing worth listening to.
________
It is only when Geordi spotted and began to encroach on Amani’s dwelling, a hide tent that’s rather out of the way even compared to her compatriots, that they begin to falter. Hey, idiot, don’t you think it’s kind of a bad look to follow a girl -alone- to her home at night after bringing up multiple subjects that make her uncomfortable?

Shit, now I’m pretty sure she lives alone now too. Is Amani some kind of social outcast? Because her dad decided to join up with the Aksumites? How does the Medjay family system work? I would assume it’s patriarchal due to that evidently being the standard in most places, except whatever the hell I heard off of the grapevine that was going on in Siwa some decades back.

No, focus on what a complete creep you’re probably being right now! Ugh, if pepper spray existed here she’d probably be grabbing it- that is if she doesn’t stab me for infringing even more so on her personal space or something. She literally said a few minutes ago that most of her peers would be more willing to give me the time of day than she is, but still I persist like a weirdo! Screw it, I’m going home, better to be confused until I can try and make another friend here than end up stabbed for being a suspected-

“You look like a fool just standing there, you know that right?”

What happens next is an embarrassing, and embarrassingly loud, deluge of words, one that in the future Geordi would only admit came out due to how suddenly Amani had surprised them.

“I’m not looking to bed you, I swear! I just want to be friends, you seem really cool and also like you could kill me- and I’m almost definitely going about all of this completely wrong but- I want to be friends!”

“...Friends.” Amani’s nose wrinkles, though she doesn’t look as if she’s about to start throwing sharp objects in their general direction.

“Yes, friends! Just friends! I don’t think I’m in a good place right now for a relationship anyway? Don’t get me wrong- you’re very pretty and that thing that guy said-”

“Tabid is his name.”

“That thing that Tabid said was really uncalled for, seriously, what was he trying to prove? But- but, really, I…”

“You…?”

“...At the fire you looked lonely the same way that I felt when I first came here. It would be a lie to say I didn’t want to seek you out for knowledge, but I wanted to talk to you also to let you know that it’s gonna be alright.”

“...”

“Yeah that sounds pretty dumb doesn’t it. What I mean is that you all are going to get integrated into Thebes eventually, it’s just going slowly right now. But once we’ve learned more of each other’s languages- well I suppose it’s more likely that your tribe will have to learn Kemetian compared to these people learning Medja but still, then communication will be easier. And during the invasion on Biau, like how Tefibi said, fellowship between soldiers is made by blood spilt, then a hand extended, we can build comradery that way as well.”

“And you expect that your people of the Two Lands, ever prideful as they are, will do as such?”

“I’ll be the conduit if I have to. But, Amani.” The realization dawns that that’s the first time Geordi can recall calling her by her name. “A hand extended doesn’t do anything if it isn’t grasped.”

It’s well and truly dark out now, Geordi will soon have to find their way to the barracks if they mean to get any decent sleep in this night, but in that moment, with the distant sounds of crickets chirping and the noises of human respite and leisure in the background, the shouts of Medjay and Kemetian children are almost indistinguishable from each other, similarly are the admonishing voices of their parents, further distant, telling them to quiet down and come home. Geordi puts a hand out, calloused by work and now almost permanently dusty around the nails, and waits to see what response they will get.

When Amani’s smaller, but equally calloused hand clasps their own, Geordi can’t help but to smile crookedly at her. “I don’t suppose we could talk further in the morning?”
________

“-must be swift as the coursing river,
With all the force of a great typhoon,
With all the strength of a raging fire,
Mysterious as the dark side of-”

“Tetanu! What is that nonsense you're mumbling?”

“…. Ah, don't worry about it, Tefibi, sir.”
________

Day 1700

Alright so, a lot of things have happened these past weeks, and while each of them deserves their own moment of note in my records I’m kind of running low on ink right now so it will be brief. I had a weird talk the other day with Ptahshedu, thankfully nothing about his evil goat. I’m glad they didn’t figure out I was the one who planted burr seeds in its pen. Serves the thing right for eating my fennel. Wait no this isn’t ‘complain about the goat time,’ damnit.

I had a talk with Ptahshedu. He asked me to look after Ptahmose while we’re up north fighting in the Pharaoh’s name. I said yes, of course, I love that kid. Him and Merytamun are like younger siblings to me. A thing I hadn’t learned about Ptahshedu previously, despite us being neighbors for several years. Him and Ipuy also served during the reign of Djet, back when they were young men. Ptahshedu and Duaemmeres are siblings. Another thing I did not know: they used to have another brother. I’m sure you can put together the pieces.

Truthfully, horrifyingly, I don’t know what I can feasibly do to protect Ptahmose, should we end up in physical combat, I am far from the strongest man in our company, and I know our paths will differ at times. That is unpreventable, and war is a volatile scene, he knows this. Ptahshedu, my oldest friend, why did you have to ask of me such a task? It’s not as if I could have refused it, but should I fail I will never be able to forgive myself. Ptahshedu, I will do my best, but know my hands are only human. Should I find myself between Ptahmose and death, I suppose I’ve sworn myself to the latter. But if Ptahmose finds himself in that same spot, and I cannot change it, I suppose I will have to bring his spirit home.

Speaking of family, though, a bit of a subject change. It’s from when Kawab and I were working the fields together earlier that I bring this next bit of news.
________

“Rewed is what?!”

“I already told you what, do you have water in your ears?”

I probably know more about how that works biologically than anyone in Kemet. “Yes, I know what that means! I just wasn’t expecting it!”

Roughly ninety days to go until their scheduled deployment, though they would be leaving some weeks earlier to account for the travel to Men-Nefer, the harvest season of Shemu had just begun and with it, and already excitement, among other emotions, was building in the minds and hearts of the people of Kemet.

Excitement, there hadn't been a proper invasion since the time of Djet, the time has long since passed for the Pharaoh to reach out his hand to the world, and to show the might of the Two Lands. Fear, of what casualties may occur during the incursion, expected as it is to last roughly three months, from the beginning to the end of the Flooding season. Religious fervor- Geordi wasn’t sure they had ever seen as much foot traffic through the House of Montu outside of religious holidays, though it made sense that a God who presided over the domain of War would be receiving additional contributions and prayer. Deliberation, much analytical thought had been put forward by those in power, the Pharaoh's Conclave working much throughout the past months to establish what routes to take and make sure they were secure for those that would be transporting ordnance: food, weapons and tools, medical supplies would be much of the bulk of what would be headed out of Kemet. With luck, the returning caravans would be more imbued with foreign goods and rarities, and not vast amounts if fallen soldiers. Slaves and captured livestock, should the occasion arise, were also a very real possibility, though Geordi was trying to put the former out of their mind, though trying to explain their aversion was difficult. Most likely, it would be a mix of all of those things.

“Had you two been… trying to start a family? Cause I wouldn’t think that now is…” the best time, we're about to be deployed, Kawab.

“Not exactly…. But you know how these things go…. To be honest, I had started to worry that she was barren, but apparently not. Just…” Kawab trails off, and Geordi can see the conflict in his face, a rarity for their usually confident and frankly bullheaded friend.

Maybe now is a good time to be blithe? He seems pretty stressed. “Do you think they'll be born with your massive eyebrows, or do those grow in later for your kin?”

It doesn't land the way Geordi wants it to, instead, Kawab sits down among the threshed emmer wheat, his sickle tossed down into the dirt, and puts his head in his hands.

Oops. Keeping their mouth firmly closed, Geordi decides to take a moment as well, and sits next to their friend, not sure what else to do. It's a minute before Kawab speaks again.

“What if something happens while we're gone? She could get sick, or lose the baby, or what if we aren't back when it's time? What if I don’t come back? There’s so many things that could go badly Geordi- and I cannot very well fix them, can I?!”

A pit opens in Geordi’s stomach, or at least that’s what it feels like. This whole time since they had enlisted, no, since Geordi had come to Kemet, Kawab had seemed stalwart and confident in himself, befitting his natural strength and exuberance. To see that reliable exterior crack, showing hints of the scared animal of prey that lurked behind every human’s persona, was foreboding as all hell- and with that Geordi reminded themselves that the two of them, and many of their peers had signed up for war.

“Are you considering deserting?”

Kawab barks out a dry laugh. “Are you kidding? I could not even try- it would bring scorn on my family- Rewed included. No one would respect me, and should I be caught having shirked my duty, there’s a very real chance that the Nomarch would have me working in a quarry for the rest of my days. So no, I’m not going to do that. I cannot be made a slave, so I must be made a soldier. But Gods I’m afraid, Geordi.”

Geordi nods along, it would be a lie to say they had never considered backing out, but in the back of their mind they knew that trying to dodge their military obligations would be a fool's quest- hard to blend in when you’re one of the few people in Kemet with hair of such a light shade anyway. They take a deep breath, and put a sweaty arm around Kawab’s shoulders, pulling him into a half hug and patting on his far shoulder.

“I think… Kawab, fent-hunu,” Kawab can’t help but snort at the old joke. Caterpillar boy. “You’re one of the strongest guys I know. And also, one of the most bull headed. We’re the conquerors here, going to Biau in the Pharaoh’s name, yes? It would be a lie to say there is no danger but we are not going to be fighting against impossible odds. Just use what sense you have and don’t go be a fool, and we will be home in no time at all.

“Besides, I’ll be watching your back.” I would rather bash my own head in with a rock than to hear Rewed scream in grief should you not return.

Kawab laughs, and it’s a wet sound but Geordi doesn’t comment on it as he sniffs and wipes his face with the back of his hand. “You’re lucky you’re so good with that bow, should a strong Bedouin find and grapple you, it would be like watching a lamb trying to escape the grasp of a crocodile.”

“Hey! If you say things like that, I will not want to shoot anyone who gets the upper hand on you.”

“As if, you’d hate to live without me, who else would pull you from your fits of misery?”

“It would be a great loss, indeed.”
________

Day 1745

“If your tribe is being unpleasant, you could come live in Waset.”

“And what, stay with you? That is not helping the… thoughts of people, that you want to court me, Tetanu.”

“I've told you before and I suspect I will be telling you again, my name is Geordi.”

“Then you should inform Tefibi of his error.”

Geordi grumbles, but otherwise doesn't rise to the bait. Amani's grasp of the Kemetian language had been steadily improving since they began their alliance, she had demanded early on that Geordi speak to her in the local tongue, so that she would become more practiced in it. Their suggestions that Amani branch out socially to other Kemetians, even Akhpet or Simut, had been met with aversion; it had been about the same when they had tried to introduce her to Khenwes and Rewed. For a woman who stood eye level around Geordi’s chin, she was surprisingly good at imitating a brick wall.

“Koloda has managed to make friends with the locals, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him and some of the other boys of your tribe trying to show up the Kemetians with how many paces they can shoot a duck from.”

“Is that friends, or is that men trying to prove to other men that they are the stronger beast? It looks the same to me.”

The sun is high in the sky, and though the temperature is far from the worst Geordi has ever experienced, they still find themselves continuously damp with sweat and prefer to stay in places obscured by shade during midday. They can only wonder how Amani and the other darker skinned people of the surrounding lands bear it- especially the pastoral nomads, which many Medjay had been before their forced migration. Geordi had yet to ask whether heatstroke was a common issue in her tribe, but to her credit, Geordi had never heard Amani complain of the weather- no, her ire was mostly focused at her fellow human.

The two of them sit a few feet apart, working on replenishing the barrack’s stock of arrows, cutting goose and duck feathers into fletching and gluing them onto arrow shafts with acacia gum. Once before, Geordi had tried to chew some of the gum, but found it underwhelming. This revelation had not been shared.

Amani does not smile often, in fact Geordi still has not seen one truly cross her face, but when she said something she thought clever, the side of her mouth would twitch, and it was doing as such now. Geordi had also learned these things about her: she is roughly nineteen years old, her favorite food is fava bean stew, and she has a younger sister and brother that her father had sired with his second wife. Though, Amani noted, she had not seen them since her father decided to join with the Aksumites, ‘Duwana took them with her back to her family. I was not invited. I did not ask to go.’

“You talk a lot of big talk for someone so tiny, I think I’ve carried bushels of wheat heavier than you.” Not entirely true, but she definitely doesn’t weigh as much as two of them.

“Look at the bow I wield, and the ways I have… held to wall?” “Subdued?” “Subdued you, and tell me I am not strong.”

“Ha! Fair point. I would not want to find myself at the other end of your bow.”

“The one good thing to come of Aksum, I would say. Not that we were poor hunters before.”

“What’s this about Aksum?” It’s around then that Tefibi walks by where the two are seated, a growing pile of arrows at Amani’s side. He holds in one hand a walking stick which he uses, though Geordi holds no doubt that it would be a considerable weapon in his learned hands as well. “You both are aware that we are going east, yes? Not upriver?”

It’s not said with incredulity, though Geordi knows that they would be scolded and corrected regardless should they answer incorrectly. “Yes sir, we are going to Biau and past that in the coming months, should the Gods watch us favorably. We were just talking about it.”

“May they watch us indeed. Carry on, then, and put those on the racks when you’re done.”

Tefibi walks away without further comment, towards the temple of Amun. Amani, whose brow had furrowed when they had mentioned the gods, watches him for a moment, before wordlessly looking back down and continuing her work assembling arrows. But, their curiosity piqued, Geordi can’t help but ask.

“What is the Medja religion like? If you want to talk about it, I mean.”

A barely perceptible pause as Amani’s knife slows its straightening of an arrows shaft. “You would find interest in it?”

“Other cultures are intriguing to learn about. And it would help me understand your people more.”

“How is it you speak the Medja language but do not know even one of our gods?”

“Should I ever find the answer for that, you’ll be the first one that I tell. Or, wait no, I would probably tell my neighbors and the House of Montu first. Unless you want to move closer?”

“Shut your face. I will tell you about the Ayaanle and the Nidar Ba Ku Heli, and you will not say anything about Jehovah for the rest of this day.”

“Sounds like a good deal to me.”

It’s the most that Amani has ever spoken at once, and Geordi resolves to get it recorded in their manuscripts as soon as they can.
________

Day 1787

Fifty candles are placed around the shrine of Montu, in the innermost sanctum of his House and Temple. None have yet been lit, indeed they will not be lit for several weeks. The hand-molded wax was imperfect in several places, some of them taller than others, and others still slightly slanted. But fifty candles circle around the statue of Montu, and it sits as still, and as devoutly as ever, unblinking eyes staring forward. A bit of incense burns in front of him, the smoke lazily pouring up into the air. Outside, cricket song is an incessant noise but not an especially disruptive one. The moon sits on the horizon beyond the other side of the Nile.

…Incarnation of Ra, Spirit of Nomads, thy who bring Truth…

Cheriheb Nebkaure kneels down with aching knees in front of Montu, and he stays there for a long moment. He doesn't speak, his reflection has no need to be spoken aloud if there are no other men listening to hear his words. Instead he prays within his mind, hands outstretched towards the God of Nomad, and the God of War.

…Thous is the strength behind necessity, that helps us in our struggles…

The creek of the wooden door pulls him from his introspection, and Nebkaure turns to see his fellow priest, Khun. He looked tired, not as if from lack of sleep, though. Moreso the fatigue of a man who's demons come and go from the forefront of his mind, sometimes quieting down but never leaving it entirely. Nebkaure nods, and shifts to allow Khun a place to sit as well in front of the idol, which he does after a moment. They sit in contemplation for some time, before Nebkaure speaks.

“The ghosts of your past haunt you again, I take it?” Khun nods. Of those of the current Priests of Montu that had done war before, Nebkaure knew Khun was one of the ones most affected by it. The details, Nebkaure did not know, as Khun never spoke of them in specifics. But during Djer's reign, they had both served, albeit in different battalions. Khun's had suffered many casualties in the Biau, and breakdowns in their network of supply caravans had led to outbreaks of disease and hunger for those troops. To say nothing of the violence of the Bedouins.

It had been more than twenty years since those hungry days, but Khun still carried the scars on his body and mind. They tended to flare up during times like this.

…Thous is the will to survive. Wielder of weapons…

“I pray that Montu will gaze with more leniency upon our men this time around.” There's nothing much more that needs to be said, aloud at least. The Cheriheb puts his hands up again in benediction, and finishes his silent prayer.

…Turn thy face to me, do mercy and hearken. And when our times come, let us go to the East on gentle waves.
________

Day 1788

It's time to head out now, I'm writing this as Ra is yet even to show his face upon the horizon, but I had trouble sleeping. I will be leaving my notes and scrolls here, no sense in bringing my recording equipment with me when the higher ups have scribes to do that- and I'm the one who would have to carry my own things and protect them from the elements.

Mery has agreed to look after my home while we're away, since her family lives so close it shouldn't be much of an issue. She's a good kid. I hope I can bring her brother back.

Horudja gave me a knife to bring with me, a lovely piece of repurposed copper alloy, better than anything I've yet forged. I already treasure it dearly. He said it was payment for the help I've given him over the years in the forge, and that I need to come back so I can pay him back in the future. I really hope that I can.

I'm going to go to the House of Montu before we assemble. Even if praying doesn't do anything, it might help my nerves.

If I don't come back, I hope my notes can help someone else one day. Five years I've been here, and still I don't think that I've written everything I knew down. Here's to hoping I got the important bits at least.

Nofer Seneb-ek, Farewell and Good Health
Geordi Hagar of Waset

[Melon Heads]

Time Lapsed: The War on Biau (Unofficial Record)

I

Soon will flood waters rise, and with that comes the call
Bring your life for the Pharaoh, join in his journey
With your shield at your side, be courageous, stand tall
Don't let any tears fall, don't let your family worry.

Our protagonist watches their compatriots part
With their loved ones, reassuring of prizes to be won.
Kawab pulls Rewed in, promises he'll be safe
And come back in one piece to help raise their son.

In the dim light of dawn, Ptahmose hugs his sister
His uncle, aunt, father, who pray for his safe return
Ptahshedu again asks, ‘Geordi, please protect him’
They respond, ‘Before Ammit finds him, I'll burn.’

Ptahshedu remembers the person he found
Corpselike in his fields, an unusual race
But through the years, he had found a new kinsman
To their surprise, Geordi too is embraced.

‘Montu, I ask you to hear me this day
Turn your face to hear me, you who spill blood on the stone
Lord of Nomads, I ask that you guide your extollers
Montu, I ask you to bring my boys home.’
________

II

And so the Waset men marched to Biau
Unknowing of the carnage ahead, and how
‘War never changes,’ whether sticks and stones
Or the nuclear coldwars of long lost homes.

But those were long vanished, and the road ahead,
Made of dirt and sand and rock well tred,
The feet of five hundred moved north 'side the water
Towards their Pharaoh, towards the slaughter.

It took fourteen days to get to Men-Nefer,
And during that time the men had their first skirmish,
A small band of Euneti, pillagers and marauders
Though they started surprised, the battle soon finished.

Two men were injured, left in Zawty to heal
And rejoined with another troop when one drew near.
They too passed through Giza, (and lest they forget,
Geordi noticed and confirmed: no pyramids yet.)

Ra emerged from the left and leaves to the right
To Men-Nefer they trekked on, resting only at night,
The White Walls were glorious, but just brief reprieve
With hundreds of miles yet to be seen.

The next goal was Tjaru, the Way of Horus beyond
Of the Two Land’s control, no countrymen’s bond
Would be found with the Bedouin or Canaanite stock.
(It would be far more likely to be pelted with rocks, yes?)

At the last place to stock up, they saw many habiru
The frontier town military and outlaw-made both.
Provisions stockpiled, ready to move out
The thousands of conscripts followed up on their oaths.
________

III

From Tjaru, Horus’ path spanned a tenday across
(Assuming no issues, raids, or supplies lost)
The Waset men faced few Bedouins walking their route
But a scene found half through showed a less lucky group.

Rot smell fills the air before the carnage is spotted
But it soon becomes clear that a battle was fought,
Much of a company, laid to a violent rest
By Bedouin vengeance for southern conquest.

The Pharaoh’s own jewels, turquoise, mallowstone,
Came from the mountains some Bedouins called home.
When the nomads and ranchers were enslaved as miners,
They wanted nothing more than their assailers gone.

This aggression would soon be paid back several times fold,
As hundreds of Kemetians flooded into the mountains, ahold
Of maces, and bows, and copper daggers made sharp
Kin would bury aggrieved kin, dead, torn and cold.

Still, the goal of retribution, though just one battle,
Left few people standing, men injured and rattled.
It had been a flurry of rage, taking them by surprise
Just seconds from calm to life leaving kin’s eyes.

The injured were helped to the best of cleric skill,
But for those beyond help, they gave prayers to instill
A blessing to ensure the departed made their way to the Duat
The surviving soldiers would continue on with a new plot.

What remained of the Biau people would come under control
Of overseers prior appointed, with force they would then
Use the Bedouins as slaves till their bodies gave out
But none of these jobs would go to Waset’s men.
________

IV

They continued on east, to reach the Hill of Ash,
And took a day of reprieve, before moving past
A Kemetian outpost looked upon territory to swell
(Geordi found they could talk to the folks here as well.)

From here the Kemetians split into four groups, as planned
To take on the Canaanites in separate warbands.
With carts already prepared to transport cargo,
There was hope that Pharaoh Den could reach Yericho.

He took Amen’s Army and they marched north with pride,
Hoped for conquest, to pillage, bring his name regionwide.
To show the outside world the Two Land’s fierce might,
To show the world: what happens when Kemetians fight.

General Baki, Den’s cousin, took on the eastern front,
Ra’s Army would take the trading town of import,
Known also as Kebny, a city on the wine-dark sea.
They’d take reign over Gabel, and gain much infamy.

But this was not just for bloodshed, or proving one’s power
As Gabel has many routes that allowed her
Provisions from Ebla, Ugarit, and the old Nestos League
And from further away, the Imperium’s vast creed.

Sutekh’s Army was tasked with Megiddo and its path
The main way to Kengir, and the broad Hivite swathe.
They encroached on the city, with plans of grandeur,
Their far temple of legend, they would pledge to Hathor.
________

V

Finally, Ptah’s Army would march to Urushalem on,
(Geordi thought this ironic, besides their friend Ptahmose)
General Rudjek led them, men’s moods far from morose
(Geordi tried to ignore that soon some would be gone.)

When they reached the city, it was a sight to behold
Upon a vast plateau, valleys on three of its sides.
Narrow, but enough for the city foretold
But it seemed that their incursion was prophesied.

A stone wall erected and several feet tall
Stood proud ‘round the city except for in spots
Where construction hadn't finished, they had other plans:
Boulders to crash down, and sling-ready rocks.

Constructed guard towers saw them from far away,
No element of surprise would be found on the day
Fast upcoming where Rudjek would commandeer his men
To upheave the city of its exotic affluence.

The General was not pleased at these acts of provision,
And had his men make camp on the mesa just east.
Between the two peoples the sole source of freshwater
The ‘Mayim Giha’ spring and ponds where it released.

The mood was electric in Rudjek’s settling troops
They would review their instructions, set in for the night,
And whilst there were songs sung about stalwart heroes
It was soon put to rest, as to wake at first light.

(They're warning us, they're warning us.
One boulder between the four of us.
Thank your lucky stars that your legs still work!
So one of us can dodge and ask for more…)
________

VI

The first battle began at dawn's first light,
With Ra at their backs, the Kemetian men
Have confidence in their own power and might.
But tides change and faces fall to despair when,

Shalem’s city was guarded by his brother as well.
Cries to the God of the Dawn, Shahar rang out
As the first Kemetian wave descended down the swell
To ascend and assail, there was quick turnabout.

Rudjek’s men had numbers but they had not high grounds,
And ranged Canaanite weapons made quick apprehends
With pebbles slewn from slings they brought many down
A frontline of Goliaths, concussed by Davids.

The boulders crushed more, those who couldn’t evade
Found themselves dead or with bones out on display.
Arrows with gravity’s help made their marks quick
The archers of Medja didn’t have such ease of way.

Kawab was a part of that initial foray,
Watched with bated breath as he steadily climbed
His peers from Montu’s house watched with fear and dismay
But he dodged every missile that came down his way.

With their bow Geordi shot from far out of the fray,
(And tried not to think of if they should strike true
What would likely next happen to whom they had struck)
Amani near their side, they both had jobs to do.

As the retaliation of Urushalem came pouring down,
Geordi searched for their peers in the torrent of men.
But the deluge of forces made for quite a quandary
How do you tell bloodied foe from bloodied friend?

In the ensuing skirmish, a great effort was made,
To take over the city, but the opposition displayed
Was much more than expected, and as numbers fell dead,
A ‘Withdraw!’ was called out, Ptah’s platoon quickly fled.

Chased with primitive weapons and with sharp rocks beat,
Rudjek’s army found itself in a hasty retreat.
Stopping only to help felled comrades limp away,
They knew that if captured the poor saps would pay.

The camp’s mood that evening was much more morose.
Simut was one of many tasked with treating injured,
Geordi worked at his side to attend their kin,
Worked deep into the night but few casualties endured.

With many of his front liners down for the count,
Rudjek fumed a great deal and with his war council schemed
Deep into the night in his large, private tent
While the troops patched their wounds and prayed for the deceased.

Geordi found with relief all their friends were still standing,
(May have cried as they held them, but who would say)
Akhpet was bruised and battered by Canaanite thugs
But he’d stand on his two feet to see the next day.

Kawab was whole and hale and maintained his opinion
That they could have succeeded if they’d not left the fray.
Akhpet and Simut both chastised him duly,
Amani rewrapped her hands, and sat out of the way.

Ptahmose was not selected for this first attack
(Something that had given Geordi much relief,
For Ptahmose to go home safe would a promise keep)
Still, he would be called upon soon to strike back.
________

VII

It was during the night the Canaanites took revenge,
With minimal warning from the exhausted guards,
A band of reprisers into the camp did descend,
With presumption that they would hold the winning cards.

And carnage they wrought for a terrible instant,
Screams echoed through camp as a horrid deterrent
But the Canaanites knew not of just how many of
The Two Land’s men slept armed when outside of Kemet.

Bedroll-side daggers found themselves lodged in new homes,
Struck in foreigner’s meat, next to foreigner’s bones,
Only to be ripped out and brandished at another,
The blood raged as both sides were forced to atone.

But quick as they came, the assailants fled in the night,
Leaving the Kemetians rustled and raw from the fight.
Cries of grief and agony both reached with the wind far
Geordi found gentle Simut, now a victim of war.

The priest-medic had found himself against a man’s spear,
What bare spar training he had just sufficed,
He had not yet bled out but Geordi much feared
The blood pouring from his arm would fast take his life.

It was only when Akhpet’s voice shook them aware
That Geordi fell into action, a tourniquet made
And tied round his shoulder, Simut whimpered prayer
As Geordi raised his arm, gave him needed first aid.

Simut pulled through, or at least hopefully would.
The possibility of infection still very well could
End his life, but that would be a later on test, so
Geordi grabbed a bow drill and made their way west.
________

IX

(Geordi would never share of this impulsive, fool’s act
Under cover of night they would go west and seek
Out through the darkened streets of Urushalem, sneak
Till they found the Shevet authorities main tract.)

(In a language they never had formerly learnt,
Geordi listened from shadows and devised a plan,
The Chief of Urushalem’s house would be burnt,
To the ground, end the lynchpin, his family damned.)

(Like in Kemet the windows are high and sparse both,
But unlike the Two Lands, a fortunate growth
Of trees good for building meant an option for flames
To bring down the estate and powerful name.)

(A bow drill equipped, but no fuel was abound,
It took some searching but kindling was quick found.
Straw and twigs and tree resin acquired,
Geordi set up for the outcome their rage yet desired.)

(A cart pushed front the door, then weighed down to stay,
To enter or exit would cause much dismay.
So Geordi moved quickly and used the bow drill,
Set the house up in flames, left with their task fulfilled.)

The bonfire lit could be seen from their tents.
Geordi only snuck back in with it’s dramatic scene,
Giving them options to return unseen, fire burning still
As Rudjek thanked the Gods for their show of intent.
________

X

That next morn Rudjek called for a second advance,
No point in allowing a pause that would grant
The Canaanite folks time to replace their munitions.
Indeed now was prime time to find their fruition.

What men were yet hale were called back to their arms,
Geordi watched with dread as Ptahmose volunteered on,
And while they had already chosen to cause harm
They would not allow it to destroy this young man.

With the Shevet now dead, the defenders were fractured,
Disorganized, mad and their actions haphazard.
Rudjek too had more knowledge of tricks now revealed,
Ordering all of his front men to equip a good shield.

The second onslaught went much better at first,
(From Geordi’s view at least, it seemed to go well)
Indeed with the wall breached they went and traversed
Across the valley, into Urushalem’s hell.

Inside of the stone walls was bleak, violent tumult,
Depositional madness, and a hundred intents
(The suffering of others is an acceptable price
To prove a king’s strength, to indulge in a vice)

Canaanite and Kemetian fell alike in combat,
But as far as they knew, all their friends were still well,
Kawab’s shouts of effort in this coup d'etat,
Akhpet’s heaving breath as at his spear men fell.

Amani’s location they did not for sure know,
She had gone to find higher ground some time ago.
Geordi stood at an egress, to prevent foe’s retreats
But when Ptahmose met their eyes, their heart skipped a beat.

A Canaanite behind them swiftly approached,
The boy none the wiser, his ending encroached
Geordi reached for an arrow, but their hand would not move
(They knew the pain well, only rest would it improve.)

(Our backs against the wall
We're surrounded and afraid
Our lives now in the hands
Of the soldiers taking aim)

The slayer behind Ptahmose came ever closer,
The pieces fell in Geordi’s mind, the goal was clear,
To keep Ptahmost safe was their highest of orders.
They took a deep breath and pushed back on the fear.

(Our questions ricochet
Like broken satellites
How our bodies, born to heal
Become so prone to die?)

The Canaanite man held an oblong stone mace,
He held it in such a way to strike the boy dead.
Barely, just barely, Geordi beat the race
To shove aside Ptahmose before it hit his head.

(If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.)
________

XI

Far away in Waset, a candle flame died out,
Khun sighed where he sat at the altar of his God,
And prayed for his student to travel to the Duat
With peace in his heart, far from anger or doubt.

(Oh often have I washed and dressed
And what’s to show for all my pain?
Let me lie abed and rest:
Ten thousand times I’ve done my best
And all’s to do again.)

In a vast, gray expanse Geordi stands all alone,
A clock towered above them, of bicolored stone,
Amethyst and gold, split identical sides
The fogs around muffles the ring of its tones.

(The story is not all mine, not told by me alone.
Indeed I am not sure whose story it is; you can judge better.
But it is all one, and if at moments the facts seem to alter with an altered voice,
why then you can choose the fact you like best;
yet none of them are false, and it is all one story.)

Two hands clasp their shoulders, two men at their back,
One the head of a Jackal, one an Ibis, wings lacked.
“Your fate has diverged, and your body goes cold, but
The book is lying open, there are tales yet to be told”

Geordi takes a deep breath, their lungs do not fill,
But the motion does help confidence instill,
Taking the blessing of a life’s reborn lease
They reach out and stop the cherubic timepiece.

(It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the Master of my Fate,
I am the Captain of my Soul.)

Later, the candle quietly flares back to life
Geordi woke in the valley of the shadow of death,
They dig their way out of the decedent's pile,
And from then their hands shake, even when at rest.
________

XII

Word came in soon, how their compatriots fared,
And with great rejoice, came news of Kemet’s success,
Of new lands controlled by the Two Land’s great power.
Den had passed, it seemed, an invisible test.

Ptahmose hugged them so tight when they came back to camp,
His words a muddled mess, but Geordi held on right back,
Even stinking of rot, they were received with warm arms
And told what exactly had afterwards lapsed.

Yericho fell to the King of Kings, Den,
He himself was at the forefront, directing his men.
Gabel had surrendered, but not for lack of skill,
Their foreign composite bows earned many kills.

Megiddo was captured by Sutekh’s Army, though
With a high casualty rate, their zeal was quite low.
Nevertheless, passage to Kengir was duly procured,
Though future events would rename it Šumer.

Of their closest friends, it seemed just Geordi had fallen,
Kawab as fit as the day they had arrived,
Amani, one eye bandaged but still standing tall(ish)
Simut and Akhpet both injured, but soon they would thrive.

Thirty-five of Waset’s men came back from the war.
Of the fifty that left, but compared to Khun’s days,
The number returned was a blessing, so great,
And Waset took time to wholly celebrate.

Though their heart beat like normal, there still was a rift,
(I needed to feel, touch, know I was alive)
To take up an offered hand for drunken revelry,
Geordi accepted that night, but was left with a gift.
________

XIII

This was far from the last of Pharaoh Den's conquests.
He would reign far and wide with his seizure and slaughter.
But Geordi would not serve in these future wars,
Time being, at least, they'd be raising their daughter.

(Let me die, let me drown, lay my bones in the ground
I will still come around when the time for sleep is through
Over hill, over dale, through the valley and vale
Do not weep, do not wail, I am coming home to you)
. . . . . . . .

[Saxony-Brandenburg]

“Blood is blood. And blood that ought not to be shed is blood that cannot be shed. I am of you, and you are of me. To you I have committed myself, and for you I would lay down my life.”
-Gishimmari Oath of Friendship

"The first law is this: Blood for blood. He who strikes another is to be struck by the lash. He who kills another recieves the rope. All other crimes may be negotiated for. But blood crimes demand blood."
-Olifia on Sharia Juristprudence

Olifia

The prayer hall is filled to the brim with bodies and souls. They kneel, shoulder to shoulder. The air is thick with the stench of commingling sweat and perfume. It is intoxicating. This is the smell of humanity. The beautiful and the profane. I hold my hand over the burning brazier below me. I open my palm and let fall the powder within it. Immediately the flame bursts forth in golden sparks, as the fire rushes up towards my hand. I let it. It does not burn it. I hold my hands up beside my head, and gaze into the great bronze mirror at the front of the hall. It glimmers gold and shimmers in the fire-light. Beside it are carved two great stone hands. Their palms face mine, we nearly touch. Into the shimmering bronze I see myself. Behind me, I see them all. A hundred of them. Their gazes turn up from the ground at the sight of the flame. The singer at the front ceases his droning recitation.

“Praise be to you, Fida’iyin, who gives your lives to the cause. Praise be to your ancestors, who have begotten and raised you. You honor them with your courage. Praise be to Wahd, who is the path and the light under which you may walk the path. The path ends in Martyrdom. Be you kill or be killed, you martyr yourself for the cause.”

“Bila Kayfa.” They respond, bowing their heads towards the mirror. Towards the east.

“You prostrate yourself towards the east. It is the horizon of the rising sun. At your back is the west. The land where light recedes into darkness. You surrender yourself towards the burning light. He rears his head, and dissolves the shadows beneath his gaze. Ilah-al-Rabbu, Praise be The Lord of Sky.”

“Samu-al-Enutu.” They repeat. “The Lord of Sky.”

“Your blood is holy. As holy as the great Abzu, the life-blood of Wahd. When you shed it, you sacrifice yourself to al-Ilat. Praise be al-Ilat. Lady of blood.

“Damu-al-Eresu.” They repeat. “The Lady of Blood.”

“We sacrifice for her, the animal’s blood is then holy. It is the Lady’s blood. Is it not?”

“Bila Kayfa.”

“So it is.”

My priestess next to me hands me a bowl of the blood. The ram’s neck had been slit open after slaughter. Drained of the holy contents. I raise the bowl to the mirror. “To you, O Ilat, this blood is your presence in all things. From your womb this spark of life is received. Blessed be who protects the sacred blood. Cursed be he who sheds without cause.”

I pour some out into the fire. It sizzles and stinks and bursts from the hot coals. Just a drizzle. Nothing more.

“This is more sacred than oils of Myrrh or Balsam. Take it, and be with Her in body. Pray, and be with Ilah in mind.”

I bowed down to the first kneeling figure, and dipping my thumb into the bowl, smeared it across his forehead. “This is the water of life.” I whisper, and move to the next man, and the next, and the next. A hundred times I whisper this, while behind me the singer begins his droning prayer:

“Unity is salvation. Unity is peace. I testify that all men are of one soul and one spirit. I testify that Olifia is the messenger of Wahd. I testify that Sharia is the way towards salvation. Come to the Lord our Father. Come to the Lady our Mother. Come to giving and sacrifice. Unity is salvation. Unity is peace. All are of my blood.”

---

One hundred souls sent to the fire. One hundred souls sent north. One hundred heads of men and women I painted with the blood of a Ram. One hundred Martyrs, propelled by faith and anger. Who do they die for? Who do they bleed for? Though the singer says my name, I know they do not do these things for me. They happily offer their lives, because sacrifice for justice, righteousness, and peace is just. It is beautiful. And yet, what will come will be terrible. One hundred souls depart this dawn. One hundred more the month after them. One hundred more the month after them. I shall go with the last. They do not go for me, but I shall go for them. I owe them this, even if I endanger my life. I have always joined my people, seen them off to war. Even at the cost of my life.

I do not even try to sleep. Neither did most of them, I think. The weight of it all bears heavy down upon me. This small army of three hundred will one day, I see, become a thousand. But not yet. They are not ready. But they will be. One day. They will burn like wildfire across the northern hills. They will secure for themselves a kingdom not over the Hivites, but with them. I have seen it in my dreams. It will surely come to pass.

One day they will wage war against the non-believers among the noble houses. They look towards us with jealousy. The Ensis cannot mobilize their people like we can. They do not have the words, the concepts, to do so. Only the whip and the rod. Only enough to kick them along. Not enough to make martyrs out of them.

One day they will count every race in the land among their number. Hivite and Black-Head, Canaanite, Elamite, Kemetian… They will fight together, and protect one another like they were kin.

One day they will banish all the nobles from the realm. All the cities of Kengir will render unto the Sharia. All will be equal under the law, and no man will be above punishment. Each will pay their equal share, and that wealth will not go towards the enrichment of kings in palaces, but the common wealth of all.

One last farewell to them as the sun rises. They ride camels laden with packs of grain and clean water. They carry bows and daggers. There is no blood, there is no fire or oil. I tell them this: “If you ride north while carrying this tapestry upon a spear: you will know victory.”

It is the admission of faith, in the script and language I have taught my priests to write in. “I testify that all men are of one soul and one spirit.” It says, in bold black letters on a milk-white field. It declares the mission of Jihad as I have explained it to them. To bring men together in peace by the knife.

“Go with it, and with your blades bring about Sulh-i-Kul. Bleed so others must not bleed. Kill so that others must not die. And to the unrighteous, who raise their blades against the weak and innocent? Send them back to the well of souls!”

“Death to the infidels!” They chant. “Glory to the Martyrs!”

So their words echo as they leave my sight.

---

Ilyas ibn Yasr
Late 2957 BCE

One year. One year since we had left our homes in Nippur. One year of danger, one year of bloodshed. One year in the north. Among the barbarians. The water from the great north had come and gone. The twin rivers swollen and contracted far away. I see the moon show his many faces twelve times. I see the sun rise and fall. Now, the dry season comes once more. The land is parched. My camel kicks dust when he walks, where once there was mud. Such is the cycle of life.

Hundreds of my people have come to join us in the south. Til-Surdu had swollen three times its size before. They are zealots, from what I can tell. Most of our people are. Those who weren’t stayed in our homeland, a world away. I had always found the religion of my countrymen… feminine. The priestesses seek to tie men’s hands. To dull our sharp blades. To force us into moderation. Unsurprising, given the prophet’s taste. Yet, I could not deny the fortune of luck and motivation which was given to me. To our tribes.

The newcomers tell me that a new great law was ratified. That Yassib’s heir would be elected among the tribes, and not given to his son. I think that is good, it is good to observe our traditions. Lest we become too alike the black-heads. They, who hand cities to their sons as inheritance. How easily can weak men be given the task?

Yassib is a good man. He is a strong man, even in his age. Yet his son is not special. Neither adept nor poor. He did not join us in the north. I think, once his father dies, he would make a poor Mukharrib anyway. Perhaps, in taming the north, the title will belong to me.

Yet politics must wait. Prestige and glory must be earned. Earned through righteous sacrifice, so the priestesses tell me. Rather, I think it is in conquest.

The Prophet, Umm Kharuf, has joined us. She came on the last caravan from the south. Now she administers group prayer for the zealots, who by far outnumber the other men in my command. I think she will not be too great a burden. She may inspire loyalty. It remains to be seen. Her students beat and discipline the men who do not boil their water or wash their feet and hands before prayer. They say it will prevent sickness in the camp. I am not sure if to believe it or not, but I won’t stop them. It cannot harm.

I sit in my tent, reflecting on tomorrow's action. We have had calm for several moons. The local Hivites have long since moved back to their villages to tend to their livestock and fields. The raids of Albho have stopped. Perhaps they will continue in the next year. We gave him a damn good beating. I am sure he was thoroughly bled dry.

I hear a hand slapping across the door to my tent. “Ilyas?” A woman’s voice calls. “I wish to speak with you.”

“Enter.” I shortly reply, and with the one oil-lamp which burns, I light the other three that I may see in the dim light inside.

Umm Kharuf shuffles her through the entrance. She raises her hands, and bows her head to me. Then she kneels in the middle of the tent. I sit up on the side of my bed. I raise my hands slightly and bob my head. It is a greeting the zealots are now doing. I think it has a religious meaning.

“Ilyas.” She does not divert her gaze from my eyes. “You will lead the men on Ghaziya tomorrow, is that correct?”

“It is so.” I cannot help but return her gaze. There is a reverent air about her which commands it. Dark circles painted around her eyes draw one’s attention. A combination of appearance and prestige. The only woman I have bowed to. None can deny such an authority over our people.

“You know, Ilyas, that I have made you sworn an oath to al-Ilat. Over a year ago when you left Nippur for these lands.”

“Yes, Lady, I remember.”

“You have done, from what I can tell, well to maintain it since you have came. Hivites enter and leave your camp bringing goods to trade with the soldiers. I saw a Hivite with one of the girls, blessed with the water of life.”

“The local tribes have their dead buried alongside our own. They respect us, and I respect them.”

“I pray you can restrain yourself when you deal with those who have raised spears against you.”

“And what do you mean? Our fight is just. Their deaths are just.”

“It is just to kill to protect yourself and others. Yet in their villages and homes there are the women, old, and children you have sworn to not harm.”

“I keep my oaths, Lady.”

“And there will also be men, who either wounded or surrendered, are no longer a threat. I am asking you to spare them.”

“So that they will raise arms against me tomorrow?”

She shook her head. “So we may bring them back to the south.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Is it not forbidden?”

She sighed. “It is necessary. We need hands in the fields. So many left to join in the north, Ilyas. When the situation around Nippur was tentative in the south to begin with. We need hands in the fields. Period.”

“And you would have us take those who surrender there? To sell?”

She shook her head. “Given. For free. To the Headmen. To the Shakkanaks. To my temple. To the City.”

“And of their women? Their families?”

“If they will follow their men, provide for them. Bring the locals as translators. Give them time to pack their belongings, if you can. We’ll settle them around the villages around Nippur. Not too many in one place. As bonded men. One man’s labor is worth more than an oxe in the quarries or wheatfields.”

I wipe my forehead with my hand. “This is a lot of work, Prophet… A lot to organize. A lot for seemingly little in return, if we cannot sell them…”

“The men which have come to join your command over the past three months have brought grain and supplies, have they not? These will run out eventually. We have promised to supply you, but this is a great expense. When the slaves are brought south, new supplies will be brought north. Yassib strains his treasury to aid you however he can. This is a fair trade.”

I sighed. If I was ever to become Mukharrib some day, I would need her cooperation. Yassib was elected among the tribes first based on her endorsement. I have no doubt I would fail without it. I would have to work with her plans. I bobbed my head. “It will be done then.”

She nodded with grim satisfaction. She looked down. There was a twinge of guilt on her face. “I will have two of my students join your raiding party to ensure compliance with the Sharia. No women slaves. No elderly. No children. They will help you discipline your soldiers. That they do not disparage your honor in their conduct, Ilyas.”

Of course. Always watching. Feminine. Always there to tamper our passions.

“That will be all then. I will see you in the morning, and when you return in the coming days… You seem to be a good man, Ilyas. Your name carries respect among the camp. You will do right by maintaining this. It will help you in your future ambitions, I am sure.”

Then she stands, bows her head again, and leaves. I am left with more burdens. More oaths. More mouths to feed. More hands to direct. Ilyas the slaver. It is not too different than Ilyas the warlord. We adapt to the conditions of this land.

---

“Get down! Get down!” I hiss to my left, as we peer through the trees towards the settlement below us. We’d circled around it, and now looked from the north. We crouched in the tree line between oaks and pine, having tied our camels behind the ridge to avoid detection. The village is very large, from what could be seen. There must have been a hundred or more who called it home. The Cheifdan Albho claimed ownership of it, and thereby was it an acceptable target. One hundred raiders. It would be enough to match the size of the villagers. The Hivites, for their adaptation to live in this land, did not wall their servile villages. Only their lords, sitting in halls atop the great hills, had such protection. Perhaps this was to keep them from resisting. The flow of tribute to their warlords was allowed by their weakness to stop him taking it by force. Our people secure such through oaths. The Black-Heads do it through laws carved in stone. The savages must enforce their rule with subjugation.

Yet for these “savage” people, they were quite prosperous. Perhaps the result of being the raiders, and not the raided. I can see cloth of many colors upon those who milled between the houses. Could the cloth they wear be torn from the bodies of our martyred dead? It was too gruesome to think about. Their pastures and pens between the mud houses have many goats, sheep, and cattle. It is the dry season. Their fields will have already been cut and brought to their homes. We had chosen this subject of Albho specifically because they were farmers, mostly. The settlements which mined iron veins were needed intact. We would have to have them surrender to us, and pay us the metal-tribute directly. These people, however, were adequate to raid and enslave.

From behind me, a rustling. I feel a hand on my shoulder. Zarriqum, the dark-skinned sage woman, crouched beside me. “Remember, Ilyas, the Prophet’s orders. Even if a woman comes at you with a sword. Even if a child runs at you with a spear. Unless your life is threatened, you must spare them. And the men too. You are not here to kill them. You are here to make them bend the knee, and take them from their master.

I rolled my eyes. These women, always seeking to control me. Always repeating the same things. I understood them just fine.

“Discipline your men. Do not spill their grain. Do not kill their animals. They must survive the month’s trek to the south. Do you understand? The Lady commands you are as disciplined as she requires.”

“I get it!” I spat back. “Now control your own zealots, priestess. I will control myself.”

“The Lady has been telling them these things since they left Nippur, Ilyas. They are martyrists, not animals. They will have the restraint.”

“They better.” I mutter, and wave to those around me. “Remount, tell the others to ready themselves.

We are split into three groups, two mounted, and one on foot. The mounted ones, I tell them, must circle the village and strike from the south-east and south-west, that they have nowhere to flee when the footmen come down the hill from the north. A simple horn should only be necessary, and, God willing, they would surrender without a fight.

I tell all three groups before they leave: “Do not strike or beat, unless they attempt to flee. Tackle them, tie them with ropes. Unless they hold a weapon. Then you may strike. But stay your hands, or I will beat you with my own riding crop. ORDER is necessary. Do you understand? Dont break anything, don’t take anything until we’ve taken them hostage.”

I don’t want Olifia or her pets to give me a hard time. If they do, I will have to punish the disobedient severely. God forbid I look like a weak man.

I return to the treeline. No changes made in the village. We remain undetected. To conquer the Hivites, we must be like Hivites, but better. More disciplined. More thorough. I dispatched a handful of scouts the hour before to look for any bands waiting to ambush us. They found nothing. And so, we took our positions and waited. The still before the chaos. I took a breath, and then nodded towards the hornsman, who stood. Holding the great tusk towards the sky- its deep bellow echoed through the valley, its cry repeated twice more by our allies. We stood, and broke the treeline. Those who picked up the pace in front of me I spat and screamed at. One man who began to run is tackled and thrown to the ground. “We march! Order! Order! You are not Hivites, damn you!”

I can already hear the screams from below, as from all sides we emerge. I curse to see the band from the south-east galloping into the center of town. Dozens scatter into the fields around. They disappear between the houses. My heart sinks. The bastard zealots better not be overly vengeful.

I point to those running towards us from the village, and bark for a few from our mass to chase after them. The rest follow me, as we calmly bring ourselves downhill.

To my disappointment, already in the streets I see blood. A rider on camelback charges a man in the street. His weapon’s point colliding with the man. He is thrown backwards and onto the ground, twitching, likely dead. I spit at those who come down the hill to secure the town, while I run towards the body. Sure enough, gored through the stomach, he will not survive. I look around to see chaos as women and children run through the streets crying. “Blood for blood!” A different “tame” zealot cries, as his camel runs over a woman, knocking her down, as she screams in terror and pain. “WHAT DID I SAY?!” I scream at him, and as the rider looks down at me, I approach him. “WHAT DID I SAY?!” He looks at me confused, stopping his beast as I come near. I grab his robe, and before he can push my arm away, pull him off his camel. He falls with a “thud” on the ground. He moans with pain. From behind my belt I take out my riding crop, and place a foot on his chest. “Loathsome infidel! Look what you've done! That man is dead! He held no weapon! That woman was hurt, she was running!”

With my other foot I kick off his helmet. His eyes are wide. If only he would have felt this fear before. Zealots. They are undisciplined. The chaos of the village around me fades away, as I raise the crop, and strike it down across his face. Once, twice, three times! I see blood dripping down his cheeks. He grips my foot, yet I hold him down. Three more lashes cut into his skin. One eye is throbbing red. I must have accidentally struck him there. I care not.

I look up from the man, a circle of riders comes around me. Zarriqum pushes through the group of them. “Ilyas!” She screams at me. “Discipline your men!”

I look back at her, who now sees the beaten man under my foot. “Ah. Good.”

“Go find the rider who speared the man there.” I point towards the now still body in the street. Tie him with the captives, and bring him to me when we’re at camp.

“Master?” One of my lieutenants asks.

“Everyone who disobeys me today is tasting my crop.” I reply, and leave the wounded man upon the ground, who sobs as he holds his bloody face.

In the center of the village began to corral everyone who did not flee. Dragging from their houses every Hivite among them, those who didn’t make a run for it, that was. I saw another man be slapped by a woman. He raised his fist to strike her, yet one of my lieutenants beside him grabbed him, and berated him before he could. I joined them in the center of the village, and pointed to my lieutenants. “Start tying the men’s hands together.” I ordered. “Then we’ll tell them of their fate.”

It was taking longer than expected. Much longer. To get every man subdued. Some of them were carrying knives, and lashed out towards those who sought to bind them. Others were more compliant. Holding their hands up and out to be tied.

My translator, a friendly Hivite, I bade address the crowd now, when some sense of order was taken over. I could not understand their tongue, but I told him to say this: “My lord Ilyas has demanded your submission. You will join his people in the south, to serve his master and farm his fields. Have your wives and children bring your belongings with them from your houses. We will not harm you if you do not flee.”

They seemed to get the message, as my men backed off them, and half the crowd dispersed into the surrounding houses, dragging sacks of grain, pots, blankets, and heaving them onto oxen and camels. Their husbands and sons only able to watch, humiliated, from their bound state.

Hours more pass. The sun begins its downward slide. We must begin our march south, before any of their allies attempt to stop us. We bring up the men in a column. Riders on each of their sides prodding them with the butts of their spears to keep in line. They begin to lead the captured masses out towards the south, back to Till-Surdu. Following behind them is the stream of families of the captured, crying, looking at us with fear and anger. Oh how we have harmed them. Yet, I could have done worse. I spared the most of them. They ought to count themselves lucky we do not live by their rules. If our roles were reversed, they would surely have slaughtered us.

As they begin their trek south, I have some of the party stay and loot whatever is left behind. Their animal flocks, unable to be carried, we tie leads to and corral towards our camp. Metal, too heavy to be carried instead of grain or water or clothes is heaped onto our camels. There is a village smithy with tools and plates of the grey-metal. I make a note to find out which among them is the smith. He will prove useful to Til-Surdu. I will have him stay, and not go with the rest to the south.

Whatever we cannot carry, must be destroyed. The purpose of our raid, not just to steal men, is to bleed Albho of the tribute he depends on. In the center of town, a bonfire is started. Anything of any use is cast into it. Chairs, tables, cloth, and wool. Anything which we do not want or have the strength to take with us goes. It is mostly things of little value, not worth it to sacrifice room for metal and livestock.

Thirty three men. Fifty eight women. Thirty children. Ten elders. Those are the numbers they tell me. Seven dead. Three are our own. Not a bad trade, it is a successful raid. Yet there are far more mouths to feed than slaves. Obviously. We had killed so many when they attacked Til-Surdu. I remain unsure if profit can be gained from such acts. A job for the bureaucrats and scribes, I imagine. Now, we must force them south. Let us hope this is worth it.

---

Olifia

Sweat, and tears, and fear, and pain. Life cannot be lived through beauty and charity alone. Violence is necessary on the path of progress. Ilyas has raided three villages of Hivites now, with ninety men gathered sufficient to start. I’ve had the girls work hard to feed them. Tonight, every man woman and child of our hostages receives a bowl of lentils cooked in bone broth. The hostages are kept within the walls of Til-Surdu. They have erected tents and shelters to sleep under. Mercy, now, is needed. Always a balance of mercy and terror.

I take it upon myself to feed the hostages, even the men. I carry the cauldron of porridge and a ladle with me from the cookfire, and drag it to the campfire beside their tents.

At one of such fires, huddled around them, are some twenty of their elders. They whisper between themselves, looking wearily out at their captors. I had them left unbound and free to roam about. They were allowed to ride our camels on their forced trek from their homes. I approach them, and in their own tongue speak to them. “Blessings, reverend elders.”

They look to me in shock. It is true, I look nothing like them. I dress nothing like them. In a dress and veil dyed dull-yellow, with a typical Gishimmari wool belt in red. Yet their own tongue rolls from my lips.

“Who are you, girl?” A old man among them, with drooping eyes, clad in ragged brown-gray robes, asks. “You are not one of The People.”

I place down the cauldron beside their fire, and offer the ladle towards them. “You must eat first, grandfather. Then I will tell you my name.”

He grumbles, yet the woman beside him holds out a wooden bowl towards me. I ladle in a generous portion of the gruel, and smile towards her. “Thank you grandmother.”

When each had gotten their portion, I knelt among these elder Hivites. “I am Olifia, the Reverend Mother of the Gishimmari people, your captors.”

They looked at me with increased suspicion. “How do you know our tongue Olifia?”

“I speak all tongues.” I replied simply.

“Are you a witch?” The woman beside him asked.

I shook my head. “I am a vessel. Not a witch.”

They did not seem to understand my turn of phrase. Yet, they seemed oddly interested.

“You are so young, child. How did you come to be reverend mother of your people?” The same woman asked.

I could not help but grin. “Truly, grandmother? I am forty-three years of age.”

That sent glances about the group. She raised her eyebrows. “Then you are surely a witch. I do not think you are older than eighteen, child.”

“Ah, it is only through the grace of Ilah that I have been spared. Yet, tell me Grandmother, are you well? Are you strong enough to travel?”

“Why do you keep calling me such names?” A tinge of anger in her voice. “You have dragged us from our homes, destroyed them probably! Why?”

The old man nodded in agreement. “A raider would take our food and sheep and leave us to starve with the children! A butcher would have slain us in our beds. Why force us to leave everything we know, our ancestors graves, our hearths, to your home here?”

“This is only the beginning, grandfather. You have a long trek further south. And I do not want you to die on the road.”

“But why?!” He asked. “If it is revenge, just stab me! Pay your blood-debt.”

“You know then, what your sons did to my children?”

“Yes, we made war on them, and won!”

“They slaughtered them, women and children, to a man.”

“Such is the way of things!”

I shook my head. “It is not the way of my people. We are not so quick to shed The Water of Life.”

“Then what will you have of us? To be slaves?! You know a man of my age cannot push a plough.”

“But your sons can.”

“Eh?”

“But your sons can.”

“What of my son? He’s dead. Likely buried somewhere outside this hillfort here. Fighting to defeat your people and protect his home.”

“It is not a matter of your kin, grandfather. It is a matter of your people. If we treat you with dignity and respect, and keep your people’s elders, women, and children alive… your menfolk will neither run away nor revolt against us. They will want to ensure your survival. To keep you alive.”

“So we are hostages then.”

“Yes. Grandfather. You are our hostages.”

“I would rather you just kill me.”

“Your life is worth preserving. Not only for its utility. Men’s lives aren’t to be cast away like sand. It’s sacred.”

“I do not need a lecture from you, who is as old as my dead child. Leave us girl, go back to your people.”

I didn’t bother to respond. They were right to hate me, which I had no doubt they did. I’d brought ruin to them. What mattered, was that they understood our intentions. Respect them, feed them, spare them. No other people in this world would do such a thing. The old always die with the children during conquest. Not so, so long as I was here. This would command their respect. This would keep them as good slaves. They would have something to lose.

For now, I would go to the other camps of slaves. I’d feed them, I’d talk to them. Then they would be sent south, to Nippur. I would remain here, to see their cousin tribes bend the knee. Such a balance of terror and mercy had to be enforced upon the villages we did not enslave and relocate. Enough terror to command their respect. Enough mercy to preserve their tribute. But the next step, before any of the locals could bend the knee was clear: Finally, Albho had to die.

---

Ilyas ibn Yasr
Early 2956 BCE

Harsh wind blew from the south when we departed Til Surdu, enough to knock a man to his feet. The two months since our campaign of raids were successful. We’d not just raided for slaves, but brought terror upon all the subjects of Albho, who could do nothing to stop us. We’d steal their cattle, loot their mining camps, their logging camps. Any man who fled would be one less the warlord could call upon. Surely he would lose credibility among his warriors. They’d not fight for a weak warchief. Minimal losses supplemented by reinforcements when the slave’s escorts returned with supplies and additional zealous volunteers. Now this was the big one. After all this time. It was time to cut off the snake’s head.

We left with three hundred men, the prophet, and ten of her girls. I insisted she stay behind, yet she refused. I could not stop her. Her word was law. Our local guides would take us a four day trek to the north. Cresting over hill after hill. These lands were densely populated with villages of the enemy. Yet those we raided did not attempt to resist us as we passed them. Instead, they watched from their houses in fear. With Albho’s death, I was sure they would now be willing to cooperate. I would be their rightful warlord. They would fear additional retaliation. Mutual benefit and respect would be a sought-after mercy.

Albho’s hillfort was on one edge of a long and rocky ridge with cedar trees which grew along the base. Many of them had been cut to build walls of wood, loose stone and earth, much like our own in Til Surdu. We made camp near a stream a good distance from the base of the hill. On a flat plain at its base, which was quite open, and one could see all around them for a great distance. For most attacks we’d have at least a few moment’s forewarning.

From our first siege of such a stronghold under Gilgamesh, I’d come to recognize the Hivite’s greatest defense was their offense. They would raid by night, never by day. They would watch our camp closely, and, if they acted with the same tactics that we had used before on our own enemies, they would attempt to raid the camp while we attacked the fort.

Yet we could use this to our advantage. A trap to be set, which would bring victory without needing to even scale her walls. All we had to do was survive to see it through.

When we unloaded our camels, I had the party organize the camp in a neat circle, their tents clustered close together for easy defense. All of our supplies, and the tents of the sisters, the prophet, and camp followers would be at the center of the circle. While the men were at the edge. Immediately upon settlement, we needed some basic barriers set up, for even this very first night the enemy lay waiting. Yet we had not enough time for walls or even trenches, not any which would be particularly effective. The next best thing would be a crude fence of logs.

Two strong takes hammered into the ground to form an X pattern, with the log of a cedar tree laid between them at thigh height. It wouldn’t stop anyone, yet they would have to at least climb over it, should they want to get to our tents. And, should anyone come under the darkness… they may just trip over it.

The sun retires beneath the horizon’s veil. I order half the camp to stay awake, waiting. I order the cookfires to all be quashed, else the men’s vision will not be adjusted for the darkness. I doubt any of them can sleep. The anticipation is simply too great.

The Lady Olifia joins me in staring into the distance. She holds out a cup towards me, a hot cup of the black luxurious elixir. “Drink.” She orders me. “If you wish to see the dawn.”

I take her cup, and drink. She stands there, watching me. Finally, I asked her a question which had been burning in my mind. “Why did you come? Are you not afraid to die again?”

She looked at me. Truly looked at me, with those eyes which seem to gaze into men’s souls and grip them in iron. “I have nothing to fear, Ilyas. My path is fated. Wahd refuses to cover me in death’s shroud.”

“You think it is fated for us to win then?” I replied. “You have foreseen our victory?”

She shook her head. “None can see the future, Ilyas. Only the many paths which may come from the present. Foresight is impossible. The future has yet to happen. Let me put it like this… I cannot see over the ridge. It is obscured from my view. Yet I do see the many ways we may cross it. None of them end in my death. Your death, yes. The death of everyone here, yes. But not mine…”

“That is grim.”

“Yet there is a path where you achieve total victory, Ilyas. That is the one I hope you follow.”

“Can you tell me simply which?”

She shook her head. “I see only aspects of it. That banner the men carry. That is part of it. The Jihad, the holy nature. That is part of it. Why do you believe you have suffered so few men to attrition? To flight and desertion. Because they fear damnation in abandoning the Jihad.”

I knew not what to believe about the woman. Mysterious as ever. I could never truly understand her nature. “And one of those aspects is your presence?”

“Not so… Yet I feel it an obligation to come. I burn men’s souls like kindling to light the fires of progress. At least, let me have the respect to look them in the eyes as they turn to ash.”

“Is that why you speak to me now?”

She nodded.

“You ought to go back to the center of camp. A stray arrow may come at any moment.”

“I will - I do not deny I am weaker than most here… yet.” She pulled a dagger out from her belt, the length of her forearm. “I am not as weak as I once was when I left the grave. If I am to die again, it will not be without resistance.” Then she smiled, and left me there to wait. And wait. And wait.

When I had waited until I had no thoughts to think, only the buzzing of the coffee elixir keeping me from slumber - that is when I saw it. In the dark, the shifting of the pools of shadows. I hissed to the men beside me, and pointed out into the dark. They grabbed their weapons, their spears and knives, and watched closely. Stillness. Total silence. My heartbeat drumming at my chest.

Suddenly, a great shout from all around. “Up! Up!” I yelled out, and drew my dagger. From the dark, the demons came upon us. They sprinted towards the camp, axes and shields held high. And yet we were prepared, springing up from our positions, ready. They came towards the fence, climbing, leaping over as best they could. Arrows flew blindly in the dark. We met them head-on. One shadow, great and lumbering, charged towards me. He held up a sword and swung down towards me. I ducked, and felt the air cut above my head. I grabbed at his shield and yanked, he stumbled forward but did not fall. He brought the pommel of his blade down towards my head, yet with my left hand did I grasp his arm and clench tight upon it. We pushed and pulled back and forth, until he broke free and stumbled backwards. I held my blade upwards as a guard. We looked at eachother, our chests heaving. Waiting. He stepped forth and snarled - and began to bound towards me until with a sudden, violent jolt forward fell to the ground. A spear stuck into his back from one of my allies. I gave him a nod. This was not a duel, after all.

Violence and screams came and went, and when we looked we could find but ten corpses. Half ours half theirs.

Yet there were more of us than them, and as we wrapped our own dead in clean blankets - wondered if this was a victory or a defeat for our foe. Likely a disappointment for Albho, out there somewhere in the night.

In the morning we formed up our lines at the base of the hill Just out of bowshot from above or below. We carried ladders, but not actually enough for all of us. There was only half of our forces standing there. Our camp, too, was completely emptied - the supplies and camp followers carried far away in the early hours. Even our crude fence had been dismantled - the logs tossed aside and out of the way. I had no intention of assaulting the fort. Indeed, instead I waited, and watched the ridgeline.

As we stood there, the prophet stood before the mass of warriors with two sisters behind her. They passed through their ranks, smearing the blood of a slaughtered ram upon their foreheads Behind her, the rising sun began to burn itself into the morning sky gold and red. She raised her hands up towards them, and as she began to melodically chant, the zealous fighters placed their weapons at their sides, and prostrated themselves towards her.

“Bless the Martyr and his sacrifice. Bless his birth and bless his death. May his giving cleanse the world. May we make a world in His image.

Bless the Giver and her sacrifice. Bless her giving blood and bless her giving sweat. May her giving cleanse the world. May we make a world in Her image.

O people of Righteousness, there is nothing in this world but Wahd. From within we came, and to him we will go. Bila kayfa.”

“Bila kayfa.” They repeated, and retrieved their weapons from the ground, returning to their feet.

Our stalling proved fruitful. There upon the ridge, I saw them. A group of men depart the hillfort, moving into the trees on the ridge beside it, winding across and towards our camp. Sounding the horn, they began to advance towards the treeline at the base of the fort. Holding shields and wearing all the armor we had. The feigned assault marched forward as stray rocks and arrows began to fly down towards them…

Yet I turned around. Riding like lightning back across the field. The enemy’s true intentions now clear, I was glad to return to the other half of our forces, who lay in wait. It was not long after we saw them. Sneaking through the brush of the plain towards our camp. At the front of them, was the man who had cursed us for so long. Albho. Tall and white in hair and complexion. He glimmered with a great coat of iron plates, and a great conical helmet of solid metal.

By the time they had noticed our army turning back and returning from the hillfort, it was far too late. Our mounted riders, who lay in wait on the opposite ridgeline, began the roar of hundreds of thundering hooves, as they raced down towards the enemy in the field. They came upon our camp only to find it devoid of anything but empty tents and cold fires. They turned about in a panic, our forces dashing towards them. Albho yelled at his men to organize themselves into a group within our camp, yet in their panic they were no formation, a round mass of perhaps a hundred. Well armored and shielded, yes. Yet utterly devoid of archers and slingers, who watched idly from their hilltop fort at their comrades ambushed across the field below.

Our camel-riders, swift and screaming “Death to the Infidels! Glory to the Martyrs!” Now could exact their vengeance upon their foes. Closer and closer we rode - until they were well within bowshot. With another long horn we came to a sudden halt, and raising my bow, notched an arrow, and loosed it towards them.

A shower of arrows flew towards the Hivites, trapped within our camp. Their armor bounced off several which landed across them, yet not all. Many began to hit their mark, and panic among them set in. Then, with no other option, they began to charge towards our riders. With my signal, we fled back across the plain, as they sprinted after us. We loosed arrows back towards them as they pursued us. Little by little individual men fell wounded by lucky shots. They chased us across the plain, but by that time had our forces returned from their feigned assault, and blocked any hope of retreat for the foe.

With our forces at their front and back, we now saw their utter collapse. Exhausted from the chase, bleeding, and surrounded, Albho could not control his men. They scattered in all directions, and that is when we were sure he was broken.

“Ride them down!” I screamed, and we threw down our bows, and took up our blades. The charge thundered across the plain, and this time did not stop! Closer and closer, until upon them the beasts hooves trampled. Men were crushed beneath the weight of the beast and rider. Those with spears gored their fleeing foe on spits. Tearing flesh and breaking bone, straight through their bodies. Breaking their spears inside of them. Those with javelins threw them, striking them in their backs. The Hivites who did stand and fight were swarmed. Between our footmen and our riders, each and every one of them was cut down.

Even Albho, the great warlord. His strings which held his metal armor snapped. His helmet knocked off, thrown somewhere out on the field. Two arrows protruded from his shoulder and thigh. A deep gash tore through his face. Yet even still, he trembled, attempting to stand. We beat him until he no longer resisted. Then, he was dragged from the field. I took his coat, his helmet, and pulled it over my body. The plates flexed, and moved easily over me. A small prize for my victory. Such a fine piece of craftsmanship, it will serve me well. Perhaps, I think, we ought to clad ourselves in the same manner?

---

Olifia

Justice is vengeance in the name of a higher principle. The first law of Kengir, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, makes this clear. Vengeance appeals to men not because it is a flaw, but because our sense of justice is wounded when the victim cannot protect itself from the criminal. There is something cosmically wrong with crimes which do not go unpunished. The community cannot survive if taboos are broken without reprimand. The race cannot survive if crimes against their fellow man are not avenged.

What then separates me from the vigilante? The brute, who desires to pay for blood with blood. Bloodshed for bloodshed. My title. My authority. Little else.

What of the brutality of my method of vengeance? Surely, those of the old world - squeamish of my methods, would call for a cleaner, more ‘civilized’ method of death’s dispensation.

But the brutality of my justice is half the point.

I tell you this, that when death is dispensed personally, the value of life is glorified. When it is dispensed coldly, one does not acknowledge the act of taking life with the appropriate measure. When it is done efficiently, ‘cleanly’, the significance of your act is not apparent. Electric chairs, lethal injections… all are technologies to take life in methods which are ‘hygienic’ for society. It drapes a curtain over death, to not offend our senses.

Killing, when done with guns or drones, missiles or bombs does not merely devalue life, it robs those who dispense them of the right to understand what they do. In effect, it is too easy for the killer.

This is a silver lining to our times. A glimmering nobility in our barbarity.

Thus, is there not something beautiful and honorable in crucifixion?

I see them there, kneeling before me. Thirty Hivites, Albho, the revolting warlord, chief among them. I raise my hands above their heads. I feel their fearful eyes upon me. I see them tremble before me. They are stripped naked. Their dignity just as defeated as their arms. Hah, the first time such brutes have trembled before a woman, I think.

“In the name of Al-Ilah, the almighty, Lord of Justice and Wisdom.”

The pious among the Gishimmari forces bob their head down in reverence to the Lord of Sky.

“He who lives by the sword, will die by the sword. You have bought your ends by the way you have lived. Justice is always dispensed at the end of time. Death comes for all men. When your body dies, your soul does as well. It is torn asunder, and those who live their lives in accordance to goodness are welcomed back to whence it came. To be a drop in The Well of Life.

Yet those of whom seek death and evil as their life’s vocation. Woe unto you. Outer darkness is all you will find. Your life’s dissipation is nothing but cold and emptiness. Not a choir of beautiful song, but a silence of oblivion.

Yet even that is a mercy unto you which I will not afford.

It is not for the pain which you have caused me, when you killed my children, innocent women and families, in their caravan to the north. It is not for the pain which you inflicted upon the black-heads, to whom you slaughtered and burned their houses. It is not for the lack of mercy to which you render to your captives. It is not for the trespass of peace, whence you came to bring war unto our people before we had brought war unto you. No. It is the lack of reverence for life which condemns you. The highest of violations have you inflicted. You spill the sacred blood like water. You dishonor the flame of divinity within man. In that charge I find you guilty.

May your sons live to be better men than you. May their hearts not be tainted by your memory. May you be forgotten to time. May your efforts be in vain. May your feet never touch the earth. May your soul, tied so down, never reach the heavens. May you never find peace or oblivion. May you never rest.

You, who reject the brotherhood of men. You wage war in the worst of ways. Let your deaths, equally, be of the worst of ways.

Suffer, now, a fraction of the suffering you’ve inflicted. May this be a lesson to all people, to not sin as you have sinned.”

“Bila Kaifa.” The surrounding congregation muttered, and with the flick of my hand, seized Albho first, He tried to pull himself away, yet they struck him, again and again, with wooden clubs. The cracking of wood against his limbs, with strikes strong enough to shatter bone, finally forced him to relent. Then did they drag him towards the tree. A great oak, with a wide base and strong limbs.

Against the oak they pushed him, and held his hands bound together above his head. There, into his palm they placed a thick nail. His eyes wide in terror, as he realized what their intention was. He was an awful man, of strength and cruelty. One which was naturally bred by his surroundings. He was an emblem of the barbaric ways I must root out. A lesson to my own people, as well as his. Yet he was a man, still. And all men have a primal drive to fear pain and death. He struggled, but three men are stronger than one who is broken, covered in blood and sweat. Barely alive.

They raised the mallet, and with the first strike he screamed with pain and terror. Then the second strike, and it was far more a whimper. The shock, the pain, eventually it would kill him. But not before they drove down the hammer a third time, and the flared base of the nail rested against his palms. Then they moved to his feet, and struck the nail through skin and bone and into the base of the tree. From once had been a strong and mighty man with great muscles and terrifying visage, came a trembling, shivering corpse. It finally goes limp, as the body, so pinned to the tree, finds not even the peace of the ground below.

Then I turn to his captured men. They, having watched with terror, now sob, and beg for my mercy in their native tongue. “What mercy did you show to my children, when you slaughtered them to a man? What mercy did you show to the black head villagers, who were guilty only of raising goats and cattle? You, who are just as guilty as your Warlord. I will spare your sons and daughters. I will spare your mothers, fathers, and wives. I will make them come to this place, to learn the lesson of your deaths.”

“A forest of retribution. A grove of examples.” I tell my followers, and I do not turn away, now, as I watch my orders carried through.

[Cybernetic Socialist Republics]

Annemie Verwey - The Aupkhoe
Chapter 1

In the beginning, there was debt, specifically, my debt, to the first people I met, even if they didn’t recognize it as such. It was, on the first day,of my arrival from the future, in which I sat, rather pathetically, on the coast of what I knew to be False Bay, crying about my predicament. I knew where I was, geographically, I was my home nation, but apperently, but somehow, by some means, not in my own time. I had tried numerous times, to 'wake up' from what I first assumed to be a dream, I even attempted to go back to sleep. But none of that worked. I'd have like to think that I would have, eventually, come to my senses & went about securing my own survival, somehow, but I won't ever know for sure that I would have.

Young man, much shorter and frailer than me, approached me. He said nothing, but he held help out his hand and opened it up in front of me. Inested amongst well worn hands was half a dozen berries, clearly recently picked, that he offered to me. I reached out my own hand & grabbed them. I ate them, one by one, small as they were, to show an apperciation for them.When I was done, he’d reach a hand out to me to get me to stand, then follow him. Without having anything better to do & feeling indebted to him for his generosity, I followed him. It wasn’t long for me to realize that I had reached a small encampment of fishermen & their families. When they began speaking to each other, their language being of khoe origin, I recognized some of the words & I attempted to say a few in an effort to introduce myself. They were, apparently, none too surprised that I could understand them, but they did appear to get more agitated. It wasn’t long before I understood what it was they were concerned about This assortment of fishers were, apparently, semi-regularly harassed by a tribe of nomads they had a none too peaceful history with. The nomads, tended to be bigger and stronger than them.

While there weren't explicit in saying it, I could tell they were concerned that I was of them. Apperently, the fact I hadn’t been violent toward the young man had convinced him that I wasn’t, but my apparent stumbling over my words as I tried to communicate put them back on alert. The hunters weren't quite as elegant as the fishers. It was with that realization, that my mind finally reached beyond a short term concern about my own sad case & thoughts started swirling about how I could make the best use of my circumstances. I was a woman from the future, whose horizons for what was possible were far greater than anyone I could ever expect to come into contact with. I may not know details of the technologies that lead to the modern world, but I certainly knew much about the conditions they emerged from. It was then, I resolved it within my self. I would do all that I could to mold this small fishing settlement into the core of a new civilization, that'd one day strech out int the horizon. But first, I needed to pay back the debt of seperating me from their trust.

So in the days & weeks that followed, I did my best to help them in any way I could. It was hard work, obviously. Ancient living was tougher than anything I had ever experienced before, but the advantage I had was 21st century physique & know how. I also came to realize that when sicness struck the settlement, I was always healthy. At first I considered it chance, but it always appeared that I simply wasn't suscipetable to do disease. During this time I learned that these fishers were far from the only ones around the bay, but just one group of many dotted around the lake, which I'd come across every now and then. Eventually, I was able to convince my original settlement to allow me to act as a runner between them, traveling by boat, so I could learn about their differences and similarities while sharing useful information amongst them. I also learned the plight of these fishermen, victimized by the nomads, Was is common to them all. I also learned, that their fishing and gathering endeavors, seemed to more then meet the debt of their needs & turned it in a surplus that could be consumed in leasiure and socializing, which had, certainly, over the years, contributed to their relative advantage over their nomadic peers in regards to communication.

This all presented me with the opportnity that I was looking for. None of these settlemetns trully had much in the way of formal leadership, it was all decentralized, at most, older more experienced members act as mentors for the younger ones. For someone like me, this, combined with their insecurity from the nomads, presented an opportunity, a power vaccuum to step in & allow me to shift things in what I considered to be a constructive direction, to grow civilization out of hese circumstances. The time that fishers spent in leasuire, was identifiable to me as an economist, as surplus that could some how be consumed & converted into a debt to something. That 'something' would come about this discussions with the different fishing settlements, where I suggest collective defense against the nomad, not by training everyone in self-defense, but training & equipping a some people very well. Overtime, people did start coming around to this view, namely, the stronger people that I was looking to recruit for this effort did & once that happened.

For my part, I didn’t exactly have military training, but I was familiar with rugby & my accomplices were familiar with using fishing spears. Together, we made a passable team. All the settlements would pay tributes of supplies a central settlement, that'd be able to send out warriors when alerted. Not directly for defense, that was infeasible, but for reprisals. The Fishermen had been used to fleeing & relocating whenever the nomads came along, what would be added now was a cost to their being chased away in the first place. All of this would, in time, create precisely the incentives needed to produce the 'civilization' I wanted to see emerge in the long run. The nomads would learn not to mess with the fishing settlements, which would allow those settlements to be more sedentary & build permanent structures, one day, even walls. That permanence would make it easier to demand more of them. They'd then tolerate those greater demands, because it'd be responsible for their greater security. Years down the line, even, the arrangement could be turned into a proper palace economy, in which raw materials came in & the most clever crafts people would work with it & send it back out. The best of every tool replicated & delievered to all other settlement, in addition to a promise of security. From that position, I could influnce the creation strategic debts, that'd create steer creativity in the way I needed it to push these burgeoning civilization forward. But that would take time. Years, decades & generations. But it would work, eventually.

[Arlye Austros]

South Bank of the Rérkhes, Ancient Iberia.
2950 B.C.
Days later.

They’d taken the course of a river that came from the south into the Rérkhes. They called it “Selile”, “Trickle of towns”, for it ran among several small houses scattered between woods and dispersed streams. Diego couldn’t figure out the modern name of the river, but assumed it came from the Baetican Sistem to the south.
The houses, some huddled together, others isolated, had all one thing in common. They’d been attacked and had to show for it. Recently dug graves, signs of fire, scared inhabitants. They looked at the group with uneasiness until it passed by. Diego and his band decided it was best to limit any communication. But by the utterings and words used, he assumed they were Bargasshkan. As their supplies dwindled, particularly since some volunteers had joined them west of Gardubba, he decided to approach one family.

“Please don’t run!” He urged a man who’d been sitting by the entrance of a hut with his child on his lap. The boy jumped out of his slumber and rushed into the darkness of the house. The man grabbed a stick and got up, struggling with a wounded leg.
“Stay away!”

“I mean no harm. I see you are wounded. If I wanted to hurt you or the boy I would have done so already.”
That didn’t seem to calm the Bargasshkan down. But it probably stopped any more actions and caused him to think before acting.
“I come from upriver. We all do.” Diego signaled to his companions, twenty-seven in total. All armed. “We are sent by the priestess of Etagina to deal with the Soezzhkan and push them back from these lands.”
“Why would you do that? You want payment? Our homes as well?”
Diego rolled his eyes. He’d seen this trait of the ancient society up north.
“If you won’t trust us, then know we are sent to pacify this parts because it makes the people of Gardubba afraid. You can take the benefit of seeing your home rid of intruders at face value or consider that benefit for our people.”

The staff was firmly held still, but the man’s breath seemed to steady a bit.
“You should sit down. Your wound is still bleeding, and you need your strength to take care of your family. We can tend to the wound for now.”
The man trusted and fell back against the wall, sitting with a painful moan. The face of the boy peeked from the doorway but the figure vanished as soon as Diego noticed it. At a signal, one of the northerners approached and looked at the wound, a gash just below the loin.
“Two nights ago, it was. It’s been happening for months now. I suppose it was our turn. We’d been lucky so far.” He narrated with his eyes closed as the wound was cleaned and some herbs used to cover the exposed flesh.

“At least you and your boy are alive.” Diego stood across the entryway, looking at the man, not wanting to come into the house and test the little patience and trust he’d been shown. “I’ve seen many graves nearby. Fresh ones.”
He grunted. “Only because I haven’t been able to dig one myself. My woman is still inside. I’ve made what I could to cover her up a bit, but the boy is too little to drag his mother away, let alone dig her into the ground. And I can barely stand myself up.”

Diego had a couple of men dig a small grave behind the house while he and two more took care of the body. The child ran off into the shadows and then slithered back outside to his father. He didn’t try to understand the mutterings they exchanged, but supposed the boy didn’t want his mother taken away by strangers another time. Once the body had been properly covered with some fabrics and hauled near the grave he invited the father and the son to say their goodbyes.

Luckily, that small act of kindness was enough for the man to offer help without being asked.

“I would give you food if I had any here. But I have barely saved enough for my son. I will leave with him tomorrow and go to the Rhérkes. Heard it’s safer there.”
“It is.” Diego nodded and smiled as the man and the boy sat again on the wall of their house. The air inside was still somewhat foul, and the stench of the mother would take some hours to fly off. “I am sure the people nearby will help.”

“I am not.” He replied sternly. “But we will try them anyway. There is a small storage of vegetables that were kept hidden when they started coming. A nearby family had it dug before they were driven out of their home. Follow the trail and search the willow line to the right. It is under the fourth tree, facing north from the trunk.”
The company found their small stash of supplies as promised and camped nearby with a small, warmed meal. They kept watch all night, though, as they could all perceive the movements in the corners of the darkness. No voices accompanied them, though, and so they were either paranoid or the stalkers were extremely silent and disciplined. That last possibility worried Diego the most.

They continued the next day with the same looming feeling of being observed. The company advanced on the western margin of the river, always keeping their watch to the outskirts of their march. The day went on without any sightings, though, and they slept on a bent of the river that gave them a good cover.
The next morning, though, they clearly noticed a group of people watching them from across the bend. Diego quickly roused the party and initiated a chase. But the three strangers vanished in the distance. The continued south alongside the river and entered a generally flat area, with islands of trees on the few slopes.
“We are too exposed.” Golzal approached Diego. He gestured the party to a halt.
“True. And we can’t see past a small distance. These trees offer a cover we can’t exploit.”
Golzal pointed to the south. “That is a good site to look around, though.”

It was another hill, but it had a larger height than the gentle slopes around them. It also seemed to dominate a fairly good view to the south. Diego could vaguely see the figure of the Baetic mountains behind it.

“Then we should head there."
The party faced the hill and approached by passing between huddles of trees. Once nearby, Diego could notice movement on the hill. People rushed to hide behind rocks, and they didn’t seem to be a threat.

Nevertheless, the group raised their weapons, ready to defend themselves. Diego positioned the shielded warriors in the front as the slope came by to meet them.
Then an arrow flew and struck one of the warriors. His shield fell to the ground. He quickly turned in the direction of the arrow, towards one of the tree groups on the hillside. Voices fell from the top of the hill.
“Watch it! They have surrounded us!” He heard one voice say.
“FORM UP! FORM A CIRCLE!” Diego waved his spear and signaled. Stones flew about them, and everybody feared being struck and wounded. Shadows stirred under the trees. Another arrow came and struck a shield.
“Find cover!” He yelled again, and rushed behind the feebly shield line.
“They are coming for us!”

Diego watched through the legs of the shieldman in front of him and saw the Soezzhkan charging at them, waving maces of stone and spears. A few of the men leading the charge had a the head of a bull arranged as a cloak over their heads, in a manner that reminded Diego of the Lakosshkan.
He yelled. His north men yelled, and the Gardubban volunteers joined in as well. Then they charged in unison. The two bands met in the middle with clashes of clubs and shield and spear with flesh. Diego quickly locked combat with a Soezzhkan raider who wielded a thin-headed copper axe, so he used his bronze-tipped spear to keep his foe at bay, meeting every swing with a thrust that threatened his life. Finally, he found an opening and quickly found the spot, piercing his thigh and then his neck. He then turned to face one of the bullmen who had just killed a Gardubban volunteer.

They fought for a couple of minutes, with Diego feeling himself outmatched at every swing and movement. He had to use the heel of the spear to force the attacked into backing down his mace. The bone and stone hammer found his body twice, clashing with Diego’s northern attire of interwoven furs absorbed some of the damage. But he feared he’d broken some ribs. After the second impact he recoiled and made some distance with his spear. His foe was not happy. Probably frustrated he’d been so resilient.
“Come again, mongrel!” He insulted the Soezzhkan. The bullman yelled and lunged forward. Diego raised his spear and deflected the hammer, breaking the shaft one palm under the tip. He quickly turned to the heel and struck the warrior on the left arm. Both ended rolling through the floor, wrestling for the hammer. Diego used his knees and struck the man on the ribs. Then pushed through his own pain to force another rolling. And another. And another.
The tip of the spear shone on the grass and he grabbed it in one fast move. It sunk in the man’s eye. What followed was a painful scream silenced by a tight lock on the neck. A minute of struggle and the fight was over.
The same could be said of the battle around. He realized the people on the hill were watching until it seemed the Gardubbans could put up a fight. Ten or so men had joined with sticks and stones, and after aiding the Gardubbans who were outnumbered, they helped overwhelm their foes one at a time. Soon it seemed the only recourse was to flee, and one of the three original bullmen called them back to the woods, using a bow to kill two Bargasskan warriors and create some space for a retreat.
He looked back on Diego before vanishing into the shadows. The Unwithering fell to the ground and grunted.
“We won!” Golzal yelled as he stood over him. “You are wounded.”
“I just need to rest a bit. Let’s see…”
He sat and checked under the covers of fur and wool. There were two huge hematomas blossoming on his right side. “I can breathe, though.”
“I will have Foaghzal look at it.”

They lost five men, including those last two killed by the arrows. The raiders left seven on the field. But many on both sides had been wounded, and the Bargasskan who had aided them urged the group to find refuge on the hilltop, where they had piled rocks to create makeshift defenses.
Once atop, Diego watched the southern horizon under the light of dusk.
The leader of the refugees talked to Diego as Foaghzal, the northern healer, looked upon his wounds.
“They come from those mountains. Two nights ago they chased us all the way to this hill. After that we’ve been unable to leave.”
Diego grunted and turned to look again. There was a lonely set of large hills between them and the Baetican system. He could vaguely see lights, and supposed they were not too far. Probably a day’s march.
“I assume they are strong and defended.”
“If they can risk coming and surrounding us for days, I imagine so. The bullmen are their leaders, and there are at least a dozen around these parts. These three were tasked with keeping us pinned up here.”
They were thirty people, between men, women and children, and their food would run out very soon.
“We must breach this little encirclement, then. We will fight at dawn, and we will flee to the east to put the river between us and them.”

[Orostan]

THE EMPIRE OF CHINA - AARON DAWSON
2950 BC

THE WHITE SWORD SOCIETY

The area west of modern day Wuhan was a center of tribal resettlement in the south of Aaron's Empire and administered as part of "Chu Province". Allied tribes from the south would be allotted agricultural land while captives from hostile tribes or entire tribes that had surrendered usually were distributed among those allied tribes and the relatively small amount of non-local people from the Yellow River region that governed the region and provided the military garrison. Being the base from which expeditions into the south were launched that garrison was frequently supplemented by an Imperial Army that was stationed in the capitol of Chu province - a city called Hanchang in the south of the province that was considered to be one of the best fortified cities in this part of the country.

Zou Zan and his associates were far from Hanchang or its expansive government and military compounds. In the rural hills of Chu province it was impossible for the eyes of the empire to see them or its tribal allies at all times. That did not mean that the empire's influence was not omnipresent however. While Zou was of an average height and build, only physically distinguished by perhaps being a little more handsome than the average man, he was known among his village for his ambition. He'd always been the first to volunteer to lead a hunt and always eager to lead men during the wartime that sometimes came when the harvests were bad although he was by no means a man who enjoyed spilling human blood. That ambition had been restricted by the conditions of the world he lived in - until now. The idea struck him while in the city of Hanchang working on a construction project. The Emperor came on one of his inspection tours and from the scaffolding of a city building Zou got a good although distant look at him. Although the Emperor had a totally foreign appearance and Zou did not doubt that such a man must have had some powerful magic to keep himself young and make others obey him, he was still a man. What knowledge any man had could be learned by another, and anything one did could be done by any other if they were physically able. That was why Zou had collected so many men together in this small rural community who shared the same hunger he did.

The devotees of the Heavenly General Jorg Wasingtan could be distinguished at the other end of the crowded shack Zou's group occupied by their white and red striped scarves that were sometimes interrupted by a stripe of blue. The names "Ji-Feng-Sun" or "Hay-Mi-Tan" were being thrown around by them as they evangelized to anyone in earshot. The more traditional men arranged around the shack standing up or sitting on whatever stools or boxes were available looked at the cultists with discomfort and chattered amongst themselves.

Zou called the meeting to order by picking up a rock left on the large crate in front of him and smashing it against another rock, creating a distinctive and loud sound. He continued producing the sound until the chattering had stopped and the room was looking to him. Even the Jorg Wasingtan cultists who had been included only because any God the Emperor also respected must have been powerful were staring and waiting for him to start.

He stood on top of the crate and picked up a sword in its scabbard that had been next to the crate and out of view of most of the attendees before that point.

"I have never been someone who enjoys excessive talking. Instead I have always enjoyed strong action, and I think many of you are similar. You have collected the skins of animals, trophies from enemies, or the horns of beasts to prove your accomplishments, have you not?" He asked the crowd. A few of the men wearing animal skins nodded.

"Let me prove my accomplishments to you." Zou slid the sword out of its scabbard and exposed it to the room. The sunlight coming in through the window at the top of the wall behind him would bounce off its reflective surface and he hoped awe the crowd. The sword itself was of a similar shape to many of the other straight double edged swords produced by the Empire but its quality was markedly higher. The iron it was made of was polished and of a high quality that was reserved for weapons given to elite military formations. Whoever had originally been issued this sword had been an important man.

"I gained this through a victory in combat." He neglected to mention he had hit the man in the head with a rock from behind when he was distracted. "Soon you will all have white swords of your own!"

"Heavenly General Wasingtan will give us all white swords!" shouted one of the cultists at the back of the room. A wave of chatter spread after it, some voices in support of the rebellious sentiment and others more cautious.

One of the more prominent warriors stood on top of a box with a scowl on his face. "The Emperor is a powerful and evil wizard whose armies I fought alongside the King of the Chu. What makes you think that you can oppose him?"

Zou spoke louder than him - almost yelling. He was trying to sound confident and louder than the skeptic but most in the room would believe he was only trying to be heard. "I have already opposed the Emperor and taken this sword from a soldier of his. If everyone can take a sword, then he will have no army! We will grow stronger by attacking isolated garrisons and traveling small units. Even powerful magic and soldiers cannot be everywhere at once in strength."

A few more men agreed with Zou. He continued. "Attacking where the Emperor is weak with speed and skill is how to win! All you must do is what I have already done! Everyone must take a white sword!"

Some of the more eager men started a chant. "WHITE SWORD! WHITE SWORD!"

The chant spread to the rest of the room, and soon Zou was shouting it with his people.

LORD OF LIGHTNING

Aaron had been called many things by the people he had integrated into his empire. The most recent title on account of the lightning rod he had installed on the top of his palace was "Lord of Lightning". The height of government buildings necessitated that precautions be taken to prevent lightning from setting fire or damaging them, and as the technology of a lightning rod was totally unknown and unnecessary in China before Aaron's arrival the sight of lightning striking the iron rod on top of Aaron's palace had created more legends about his alleged magical powers. It was already known to him that the people around Luoyang ascribed to him mastery of the five elements of water, air, fire, and earth but the Emperor didn't understand how deeply the superstition had integrated itself until crowds would gather in Luoyang's central square during thunder storms from which the government palace was visible and the Emperor "controlling" Lightning could be seen.

Aaron had wanted to dispel these superstitions, but Prime Minister Zhao had advised him not to. The beliefs were harmless and it was likely the people wouldn't believe the Emperor if he declared that he was not a wizard. They would think he was trying to hide something from them instead.

He didn't know if he entirely believed the Prime Minister but his reasons were enough to ignore the issue for now. It was during stormy evenings like this that Aaron preferred to spend time with his daughter while listening to the pleasant sound of the rain. Lei sat across from him as she usually did. She was wearing finely made woman's wear as expected for her social position although her skirt had been shortened to end at the middle of her shin rather than at the ankle as was typical for upper class women. Her sleeves as well were also tailored to make it easier to engage in physical activity and although they were loose and hung around the arms as was typical there was less excess fabric. What fabric was there though was black and well made like her fathers. Her facial features were probably unique in Luoyang. While it was said she resembled the people who lived in the dry regions far to the west of the Empire that also had a mix of European looking and East Asian features she had inherited her father's green eyes which made her unmistakable. That among other things caused her to be regarded as quite attractive by some and in addition to her status as Aaron's daughter led to constant marriage offers - all rejected, of course.

"You can't keep me in this palace forever, you know." She said to her father, in the English language she had spoken with him since she was little.

Aaron sighed. "A man tried to kill me last month. A regional official tried to stab me and an accomplice nearly hit me with a crossbow bolt. If I let you go out of Luoyang whenever you want you could get killed."

"Is that why you've had soldiers train me when you're away?" she responded.

Aaron smiled slightly. "They tell me you keep yourself in good shape. I hardly think that would deter an assassin though."

"Do you think the armor I had the blacksmiths make me might? Or what about the twenty guards you make me go to the market with? Or, how about the fact that you nearly had a boy killed for touching my shoulder once? Does that deter anyone?" Lei gestured to the pile of wooden slips on the living room table, each with a ribbon of silk attached through a hole in their corner. More offers to marry her - yet to be rejected.

"I wish you'd understand that I'm just trying to protect you. Your mother would never forgive me if I let anything happen."

"A cub grows into a lion." She responded.

"You think of yourself as a lion? What would you have me do then, let you go run around the country and hunt deer?"

Lei grinned. "I did hunt deer for my eighteenth birthday. I had to convince you to give me a hunt for my birthday. You were proud of me, weren't you?"

He nodded. "I had the large predators cleared out of the forest for you."

"I wish you didn't. I can prove to you that I will be fine. Let me take a small trip to a safe province at least."

Aaron relented. "You will have to be protected. What city do you want to go to so badly anyways?"

"Ji."

Ji was a northern city in the same area Aaron though modern day Beijing might be. It was considered an important center of iron production second only to Luoyang. It was also a well defended and militarized city on account of its position near Shen territory. Because of the frequent skirmishes with the Shen it was considered a very prestigious and intense post for military officers - the Shen were perhaps the best organized enemy of Aaron's empire.

Her father looked like he was thinking so Lei continued to explain herself. "Ji is a very well defended city. There is perhaps no place safer."

"It's a little far and it would distract the military. You can't challenge random young officers to practice duels like you used to."

Lei put on a proud expression "I did win most of those duels."

"They were probably going easy on you."

"That isn't what Marshal Lu thinks."

Aaron looked out at the storm outside. The sun had set and the only light visible were torches in windows and street lamps that burned oil. The moonlight could not penetrate the dark clouds. He would have to let his daughter go out eventually - at least he could control what happened in Ji from Luoyang to some degree.

"Fine. I'll let you visit Ji. But you're going to have to act like royalty there."

Lei's happy feeling was slightly blunted by that. "I'll do my best."

[Tesserach]

Pedagogy of the Unimpressed

Through our labours do we repurpose the world,
For our own well-being.
Yet every animal we take, every field we sow,
Ripples through a natural equilibrium,
The foundation, upon which we all draw breath.

To take, is to give in return,
To breathe, is to exhale,
The field sown and harvested without care,
Soon runs barren,
And understanding, implies responsibility.

There is simple calculus to acquiring great abundance,
There is, in fact, one and only one way to do so:
Inputs equal outputs,
Simply take more from others than you give in return.
Do this, and you will accumulate great abundance.

But this is not The Way.

---

Cold: the air and water flowing.
Hard: the land we call our home.
Push: to keep the dark from coming.
Feel: the weight of what we are.

This: the song of sons and daughters.
Hide: the heart of who we are.
Making: peace to build our future.
Strong - united - working till we fall.

And we all lift,
And we're all adrift,
Together, together
Through the cold mist,
Till we're lifeless
Together, together.

---

Sarujan, the Adopted Son,
Somewhere in the Ghistari Jhal Valley, January, 2949

The sound of picks and shovels fall upon the loose soil like hundreds of metal raindrops falling upon the land, followed by the faint crystaline chime of metal sliding free from the loose, dry, stony soil to the accompaniment of work carts scratching and scraping against the stones and sediment and the grunting groans of their animals. Up and down, up and down the implements fall under the Bolan sun. Work crews are scattered across the landscape. Little clusters of shapes and shadow moving amidst the loose, shifting stones and the trails and piles of aggregate stacked along the valley floor, leading into winding trails ramping up towards the hilltop outlets from which monsoon rains would soon flow.

People sing as they work, voices raised in songs to the timing of their labours. Songs of work and reverence for the work done, the work yet to do; offerings to life and the future and the promise that, one day, these valleys might bloom with more than scraggly, thorny brush and little tufts of grasses.

Sarujan wipes a bead of sweat from his brow, leaning against his shovel. He understands the work in theory.

He can hear the Nestos Scholars complaining to Aradin, who continues shovelling material missed by the train of carts; the plough first, a specially designed scraping cart second, scraping up loose soil into the container. Aradin and the small party around him help shovel missed or fallen material into the carts.

The scholars are complaining about the work. That it would be easier to simply dam these little valley channels down in the main course of the river valley.

Even before the Nestos people had arrived, many had made similar objections to the work. Aradin had already made explanations like this until his was blue in the face when they'd encountered the same problems in the southern Moro Valley back when he'd been too young to join the work crews in their labours.

"Building a dam is easy. Anyone can build a structure and call it a dam." Aradin had once told Sarujan. "A small one may endure a time. But a large one?" Aradin shook his head. "They don't know what they're getting into."

Older students from the school accompanied the labour details. To learn practical skills even as Aradin or other members of the faculty, who gave them lessons to apply the theoretical lessons they learned to practical details of the work detail.

Sarujan already knew the answer to why they couldn't simply build a dam out here as the 'scholars' seemed to think would be ideal.

For one the soil was too loose, dry, and stony. Strong waters could cut new channels through it like a knife through butter and the valley was more than a kilometer across. The scholars seemed to believe that because bedrock existed, it would be stable to build on, but here, it was limestone.

Further down surface water flowing in streams and the Bolan disappeared underground at points during the dry season, only to re-emerge further downriver. Aradin predicted, and sure enough digging around the Bolan river itself had revealed sections of porous rock into which the river flowed.

"It's easy to build a dam. Anyone can stack rocks. But if you don't understand the character and hydrology of the land in detail; it will fail." Aradin says, continuing to shovel dirt and stones into the moving cart.

The scholar speaking seems unimpressed by this. He's read all the works of Nestos on the subject. This is all makework nonsense.

Sarujan still remembered the look on the man's face when his father had explained that they'd be expected to help perform labour rotations. He'd never seen an adult looking so scandalized.

"With common labourers!?" Had been the incredulous reply from Scholar Eluti.

Back in the present Sarujan returns to shovelling loose soil into the terraced field bed they were laying. The aggregates lay in piles where they were dumped in separate piles as they came out of the separation agitators; big bins that were shaken by an ox walking circles, many toothed gears shook the bins. The filter mesh allowed small stones and dirt to fall through into a second bin with a finer mesh that separated out the loose soil.

Larger rocks were used for the terrace work. Smaller stones to provide aggregate filler and drainage beds and linings. The soil taken from the river basin they shoveled into these terrace beds up hill, near the beds. The work here was supervised by a river shaman who was one of Aradin's former students. A young earth priestesses was occasionally glimpsed walking the terrace ways, collecting soils and returning to her tent where she kept her sacred soil testing bundle. There she'd perform the sacred rituals of soil analysis that would allow her to divine the Mother's will as to which plants would thrive, help the soil retain moisture, and whether the soils required additional treatment or fertilizer. Mostly they needed little, though occasionally she declared the Earth Mother spirit preferred certain piles of dirt be mixed before being used.

Being Aradin's adopted son, Sarujan got to see and learn a lot of things many wouldn't see or learn until they were older. He got to accompany Aradin when he was called to consult on things. He saw the priestess' sacred bundle when she'd had a question for Aradin inside her tent. Strange glassware, like her long elegant looking pipettes, a microbalance that had its own meticulous packing with its collections of carefully kept standard weights. It was so sensitive that even a single grain of sand could be measured. There were burners. Vials with different substances, including strong concentrated acids. Cotton filters.

It was a bit of a secret, but there were even some iron filings in the priestess' bundle.

The Scholars made much of Mehrgarh's reliance on bronze instead of iron, but Sarujan happened to know these priestess kits involved small quantities of iron. The secret of how it was made was, well, a secret, but Sarujan knew it involved Agni, the secretive fire temple where the Mehrgarh Institute had constructed what Aradin called a 'research reactor.'

Sarujan didn't know what role the iron played in the priestess' work. Only that they had it.

He'd been present when some of Aradin's older students who'd graduated as full members of the Saasan Anthaathi had confronted Aradin privately one night. They'd been disturbed by the boasting of the Nestsos Scholars about how backward Mehrgarh was.

"They pointed out that our library is now mostly filled with books they brought, books we cannot even read without their assistance." One of them had said.

"They said we have no iron. They say it is superior to bronze."

"They said we are so primitive, we haven't even mastered tricycle technology!"

"We must acquire the secrets of tricycle technology!"

Aradin had been mostly amused by this. But then, he was amused by most things. He mentioned they'd done testing on some of the materials the Nestosian had brought and frankly, found problems with most of it. Their materials showed signs of being rushed, with little thought put to purity, proper hardening technique, process control or quality testing. It was clear, Aradin claimed, they'd placed a great deal of emphasis on doing many things and very little gathering data or creating the tools and instruments that would let them do any of these things well. "If I'm honest, when I sent the samples for testing, their iron didn't hold up well against even our cheatsy bronzes." 'Cheatsy' was the word Aradin used for the bronze they cut with lead, either alone or with small amounts of tin. "I don't think they understood or knew how to precisely monitor and control the conditioning of the metal. I couldn't find a single reference to annealing in the translations I've seen so far."

Aradin had confidently sent them away, but Sarujan had seen enough to know Aradin had doubts that he voiced properly. One night soon after this episode, when Aradin had thought he was sleeping, Sarujan had overheard Aradin muttering to himself in his native tongue, something Sarujan had picked up enough of as a child to understand.

"How the hell did they identify all this stuff?" Aradin had thumbed his temples upon reading one of Lily's translations from Nestos 'definitive' materials science book. "I still can't identify half the mixtures we've created. We're still trying to pin down Avagadro's number, these guys don't even seem to have bothered with that much less developing techniques for analytical chemistry. How did they do any of this?!" He started flipping back and forth through the translation notes. "Is there seriously no mention of fumehoods anywhere in their apparatus write-ups? Were they just mixing stuff indoors with no indoors? No wonder none of their chemistry scholars survived..."

Sarujan just pretended to remain asleep.

"They really like arguing don't they?" Daya was standing bow-legged atop the dirt pile, shovelling the soil into the half-constructed terrace basin.

"How they didn't die in the desert is beyond me."

Daya gave a short laugh before his eyes went wide and he ducked just as something struck Sarujan on the back from behind. Sarujan spun in the loose soil, nearly falling backwards in the loose soil.

"A lot of us didn't!" Sarujan had just a moment to realize one of the scholars' daughters had been working nearby, her sharp thickly accented voice cutting through the sounds of ongoing labours even as she gave him a hard shove that sent him careening down into the soil bed. He rose again, sandy dirt falling from his hair and sticking to the sweat on his face and back.

Neaera was Scholar Urian's daughter. Out of the three scholars that led the Nestos people, Urian was the one Sarujan liked least. Kakaria seemed nice enough. Eluti reminded him of some of the kooky old elders who had strange ideas but meant well. Urian just seemed mean at times.

She was standing on the lip of the terrace bed, staring down at him. Neaera, Sarujan decided, looked mean too.

Daya still standing atop the dirt pile was laughing his head off. "Fuck man, she got you good."

Sarujan took a breath, remembering some of Aradin's lessons dealing with his younger brothers. "You're angry. Think before you speak." He stared at the girl, shaking the dirt from his shirt.

"I didn't know you were there." Sarujan wiped some of the dirt from his face. "They complain a lot. I just don't like complainers." Looking at his sweaty forearm he realized he'd only succeeded in smearing it across his face.

Neaera shifted her footing in the sliding dirt. "So you're complaining?"

Sarujan opened his mouth to deny it, then realized that was exactly what he'd been doing. Daya laughed again. "Yeah. I guess I am." Sarujan started climbing out of the soil bed. "You never been annoyed by something?"

"Just you." Neaera fired back, still looking like she wanted a fight. Sarujan wasn't sure how old the girl was. Aradin said a lot of the refugees hadn't been well-nourished in the first place and their travels hadn't done them any favours. She was probably older than she looked, maybe older than him, but he stood quite a bit taller than her.

"Thanks for having my back by the way." Sarujan flung some of the dirt off his shoulder in Daya's direction. Grabbing his shovel back out of the ground he glanced at Neaera. "And I doubt I'm the only thing that's annoyed you." Then a stroke of genius. "Especially with them around."

Looking back, Eluti was raising his hands at Aradin, saying something no doubt silly.

Neaera paused then, rolling her eyes before finally deflating a little. "Is good for him." Between her accent, which was difficult to decipher and her awkward wording Sarujan realized Neaera's command of the language was still a work in progress. It was maybe unfortunate that Eluti, who was old and seemed chronically allergic to work, had been the first to really learn the local tongue. It gave the rest of them a bad reputation.

"You mean, the work is good for him?" Sarujan planted the blade of his shovel into the pile of sifted soil that had been deposited around one of the terraced depressions they dug out.

Neaera laughed and shook her head. Picking up her shovel again. "No. He can be... worse. You have not seen."

"Oh." Sarujan said. "My condolences." He smiled, trying to imagine the meltdowns that must've occurred throughout their ten year sojourn across the known world.

Neaera planted her shovel in the soil. "I do not understand 'condolences'."

"It means he's sorry to hear you had live with that guy."

"And I didn't mean to make light of... everything."

The young woman pauses, looking back to her work, beads of sweat forming beneath her hairline as she looks up to the valley hills rising around them. Beyond them the mountain peaks. "I also do not understand though... why we do this? Dig. Sort rock." She gestures expansively to the valley all around them. "Is crazy."

Sarujan considers the question. This wasn't the Bolan Valley, but rather another offshoot valley west of the little coal mine community. "It's a... Great Peace thing. We take from nature - so we must give back. When we are done, the rivers will be gentler and the hills lined with trees."

Neaera looked down at the valley floor below them, long beds of stony trailing off beyond the hills. "Your river, I think ah..." She made a gesture towards it. Not a drop of water in sight. "Too tame already."

Sarujan laughed. "You should see it in a few months. A few years ago we lost an entire caravan in the narrows. They said they heard a terrible roaring sound. No one was sure what it was. The water had begun to rise quickly, but then, a wall of water came raging down the narrows so quickly that twenty men, and all the carts and animals were carried off. The survivors had to run and scramble up onto high bluffs to escape. After the elders who is around seventy years, said their grandfather had told a story of something similar happening in his father's time."

Neaera looked up at the mountains peaks surrounding them, following their rocky heighs down until they were blocked by the hills around them, then down into the rocky valley. "You are telling... joke tales?"

Daya shook his head this time, planting his shovel. "No. That happened. One of our friends was doing a rotation with the miners."

Sarujan looked down. "Bharath." Bharath hadn't really been a friend. He'd actually been a bit younger than them but they'd played soccer together. Aradin and the boy's father never saw eye to eye. Still didn't. But Bharath had been a good kid. "He's son of a Darshana chief in Mehrgarh, Jayesh."

Neaera looks awkward, searching for words in a language she's not familiar with. "Sorry."

Sarujan stops himself from saying, I'm pretty sure you must've seen worse.

"It happened. I'm sure you've seen worse." Daya says, at which point Neaera says nothing.

They work on in silence for most of the rest of the morning until the afternoon break is called. During most of the year it's too hot to work through the afternoon. Heck, it's too hot in the mornings and evenings but at least the sun doesn't add to it. This time of year, until around March early April in spite of the lack of water, the daytime temperatures were actually... nice. Usually people ate, slept and just tried to stay out of the sun.

As students of The Way, Sarujan, Daya and the others students usually had their lessons this time. But during labour rotations things relaxed a bit. Not that there weren't chores to do, but they had free time. Sometimes they'd play soccer, other times they use the time to practice. Most of the boys were preparing for their manhood ceremonies, there'd be competitions around the Spring Festival. That was also when the Indus Guard did their annual trainings and there'd be opportunities for young boys to join them, or one of the tribal warrior societies.

They ended up talking about a lot of this with Neaera and a few of her friends among the Nestos people. She had all sorts of stories about the places they'd been, some of the strange festivals and rituals they'd seen. They'd been in all sorts of fights with different tribes all across the west. Seen people killed, and thought they'd die. They all carried weapons and even Neaera carried a knife and bow. They seemed a lot more interesting, in Sarujan's opinion, than the scholars themselves.

By contrast Daya and Sarujan just had stories about working down at the water treatment plant, catching fish in the Bolan, the time they'd made a little catapult and used it lob random stuff they found at goats and the time they'd accidentally set fire to a field and never really got caught.

"What is fishing?" Neaera asked them at the end of all this. Sarujan tried to explain to her the word for fish, until they realized, she'd never actually seen a fish or gone fishing. They'd never stopped for fish or fishing along any of the rivers they'd come across. And there weren't that many fish in the deserts it turned out.

"Well. We'll have to fix that." Sarujan declared.

They resumed the work in the afternoon and continued as the sun settled beneath the horizon. Sarujan tried to explain to Neaera and some of the others what they were trying to accomplish. That in the Moro Valley, where similar work had been done years before, looked completely different now. But it was clear they were incredulous. Once their work rotation was over another crew would take over. It wouldn't be finished this year. Or next. They'd hopefully finish up the section they were working on before the tepid spring rains, so the plants could be put in the ground and start establishing themselves before the monsoons came through.

"The valley is different after the rains." Sarujan promised them.

As they settled in for the night Sarujan, Daya, Neaera and two of her friends ended up hanging out together. They listened to wolves howling in the distance under the light of the full moon. They shared a little about some of the songs of the tribes and Mehrgarh, and Neaera and her friends attempted some bad renditions of songs they'd encountered to the west.

The next day it was back to work. And the day after. Other than breaks for temple days, they had four more weeks left on their labour rotation.

As their rotation time came up they began wrapping the work they'd done. Shoring up the terrace beds they'd made. But they'd dug down a decent portion of the valley floor, created a series of beds for collecting water there, and lined one of the modest floodways with terraces, with contoured and graded beds for diverting, and capturing and retaining water all the way down, with stones to secure the banks until the plantings could be done.

But it wouldn't be completed by them.

On the way back, they stopped by the Bolan River and they made sure Neaera saw fish, and went fishing. They stopped by a few Guarang camps along their route, collecting Sarujan's mother and brothers from where they'd been visiting his aunt.

And as they travelled south they diverted west and south down into the Moro Valley.

It was here the group from Nestos finally got the opportunity to see what the work they'd been doing was aimed at doing. As they wound through the passage between the Bolan valley towards the Moro, it was plain to see the terrain changed. The dusty, stony soil and austere scrubland began to give way to a trickling stream that they followed south for a ways.

Along the banks of the river course, ghaf trees lined the way. The years since they'd been planted were such that they were only around 10ft in height, but even in the dead of the dry season - it not having rained in nearly two months - they were still green. Betwixt the trees, thick hedges of ker shrubs grew out of the slopes, fresh leaves sprouting. They were joined by thick hedges of karonda, who grew along the banks but continued further in, faster growing, several of them were already taller than the actual ghaf trees. Further down the bank, thick, brown tussles of vetiver grew up like rushes, swaying back and forth. They were joined along the banks by little leafy plants of alfalfa.

Together they helped hold the banks of the river banks together. The alfalfa, karonda and ker produced food for animals and people alike. Even the ghaf tree's pods had high wildlife values - they'd all been found to establish quickly with deep root structures, and seemed both highly drought tolerant but also tolerated short lived inundations fairly well.

Buffel grass, and long bushy threads of danchi grew up in patches everywhere by the river and along terraces up the sides of the valley both along the floodways and areas in between. Where the soils were thick along the valley floor, away from the river, they'd planted Indian Rosewood trees. Further up, and where the soils layers were thin, were scattered acacia trees, selected because of their ability to grow and thrive quickly, in thin, dry, loose soils.

The later trees in particular were fast growing, with some of them already stretching 5m-8m in height, creating a threadbare canopy, the outline of a forest.

"You can see what we're attempting here." Aradin said. "The main river here actually could be dammed further up, where narrow passes and granite bedrock were suitable. It has adjustable spillways, allowing us to store monsoon water, and let it flow into the valley year round. But the hills on both sides ran high, with steep slopes, and the loose soil was a lot like the valley we were working on. Especially during the monsoons it ran down too quickly - so we dug out catchments, in the valley, used the soil to fill terraces down the floodway paths. Almost all of these trees and plants were planted either by us, or some of the tribespeople who live in this valley.

"There've been problems for sure. Goats. Goats are a big one. You can see some bare patches where herds destroyed our original plantings. We had to prove what we were doing to the locals with test-beds. The Earth Priestesses worked with them, explained our plans. Then we had to keep other nomads and their giant herds from coming in the moment all this came out. Also, we pissed off a few people that used the river canyon further up to travel since, well, we flooded quite a bit of it. There's been some... tension. But we bribed, I mean, gifted most of them. And now, well..." Aradin gestured around. "Look around."

The Nestos people looked around. "It cannot be possible that this valley ever looked like the one we came from."

"It was five years of work. Hard work. And we're not done." Aradin said. "But this is The Way of Great Peace, there is method in what we do. We passed up a lot of opportunities to grow marketable crops, so we could ensure the nomads put out by our efforts were fed. We passed up opportunities to pursue iron, build great walls, palaces and great temples, we don't have to labour to do all these things; instead we do this. The rest will come, in time."

[Saxony-Brandenburg]

“The Sage Spinoza asserted this: That everything which exists is an aspect of The Divine’s Nature.”
-The Sayings of Olifia.

Mid 2955 BCE
Til-Surdu
Olifia

Over a year has passed since he had slain the warlord Albho, but he was not the last to go. He is but one man. A devilish man, against whom we declared the Jihad. Yet it would not end at his death. Since then, three more warlords have fallen to the blades of the Fedayyin and their allies. Three more hillforts now garrisoned by men loyal to their new warlord. And to the conqueror, come the spoils. From the men who resisted a crop of two hundred slaves was sent to the south. From the men who submitted, twenty four villages bent the knee to our heralds. Yet this was but a fraction of the Hivite swathe. It would take years more to tame the whole of the race.

It’s late in the evening, the blazing, angry sun has begun his descent beneath the western hills of this rugged land of pine and stone. Upon this hill a town now rests between walls of rough stone, piled high and mortared together with clay and sand. A bastion of foreign authority amongst a subjugated people. Hivites, black-heads, and Gishimmari live in tight quarters amongst each other. They share cookfires. They sell bread to one another. There is no physical space for bigotry. For outside the walls still lingers the fear of death.

Amongst this crowded settlement, the greatest of homes belongs to their leader. Ilyas. He, in the fashion of a Hivite Warlord, reigns from a great hall made of timber and cobbled stones. From there he does not merely live. From there he makes his palace. From there he plans his Razzia. From there he rules his subjects. Within he accepts their submission.

In the hall a smoldering fire crackles and pops. Filling the air with the scent of burning cedar. There where the light of the fire does not reach, bowls of burning oil suffice. The dim, warm glow casts shadows long across the faces of all within. The warlord sits beside me, a blade as long as his forearm resting upon his lap.

There is a rapping on the doors, three hard, loud knocks. Ilyas nods to the guardsmen, and there opens them, filling the dim hall with a brief glimmer of the light of dusk. Twenty four men, headmen of the subject villages, shuffle into the hall. As they enter, their blades - the iron-sword markers of a Hivite’s right to rule, is taken from them. They kneel before Ilyas and I, and wait in silence before all have come side by side below us.

“Begin.” Ilyas commands, and the first of them holds up his gift to the warlord. A statuette of a ram carved in brilliant emerald-green malachite. He takes hold of it from the supplicant, and nods, handing it to Zarriqum at his side.

Then the next man in line offers his object of tribute. A stack of three large ingots of iron. Ilyas thanks him and continues. Copper ingots, a lion’s pelt, a bronze shield, a string of beads in purple jade. Each are accepted in kind as adequate offerings for a new lord. Each are allowed to return to the mass, before Zarriqum brings forward a box, and places it at my side.

Ilyas and I stand, and he looks down at his new subjects with a pleased authority. I speak for him in their native tongue. “The warlord Ilyas accepts your gifts as tribute, and for you has gifts of his own. Before you leave, you will receive three bolts of wool-cloth of good weave, as well as one weight of balsam-powder from lands far away.”

I open the box and hold out towards them its contents. Within is a collection of twenty-four rings, bands of polished iron. “Kiss the ring of your new lord and I, and receive the marker of your right to rule under him.”

The first man, he who gave the malachite, now stands again. He first, and without pause, kisses the extended ring of Ilyas, who does not seem to revel in it. He does not stare down at the man, but gazes across the room. I wonder how he feels about such formalities. Yet as he moves to me, and I extend my right hand to him, which holds a single thick ring of copper-gold, he pauses. He looks up at me, and then to Ilyas. He looks me up and down. If Ilyas will not take revelry in this, then I will be allowed a little. For it is the first time I assume such a man should supplicate himself to a woman. I wonder if it brings him shame. I wonder if he can admit he did such to his many wives when he returns to his village. After a pause, the chief relents, and plants a kiss upon my ring.

From the box I take the thick ring, and extend it towards him. “Take it, and do not merely submit to him, but prosper under him.”

And so with each supplicant two kisses and a ring were exchanged, until each now wore a modest piece of crude and heavy jewelry. A marker of status, and a reminder of modesty.

“By the end of the year your tribute will be this: Hands and earth. From you we will conscript labor. From you we will tax your fields and pastures. In return, you have our oath to protect you from both your neighbors and foreign foes. We will protect your pastures from raids. We will ensure your law and customs are followed…

And for those among you to whom mining for precious metal is your vocation: Take heart. That we will not seize. That, we will purchase from you. The standard of four weights of grain per one weight of crude iron ore, or eight weights of grain per one weight of iron ingot. And two weights of grain per one weight of copper ore, or four weights of grain per one weight of copper ingot.

To you I offer this advice. Dig deep. Dig plenty. There will be much metal in need to be traded. You will not grow poor so long as we cooperate. There is much to be gained in our common interest.”

Then they go, out into the night. To travel back towards their villages, in distant valleys throughout these lands. They will go to their people, their petty subjects, and farm from them the tribute required, and the tribute not. I tell Ilyas this, when he questions me: ”Why should we purchase the metal? Why not take it as an additional tribute? What good will come of it?”

I answer him: “Consider this: That rule by fear alone will breed resentment among one’s subjects. They will grow their hatred, until it bursts forth in an explosion of fury. Yet on the other hand, rule by generosity alone will be equally destructive. They will drink of your generosity until they have drained it dry. Then is when they will betray you, because they think they can gain even more by your end. Yet in the middle, that is where you should aim. Create fear in those who plot against you. Reward those who cooperate with you. That is how you inspire loyalty. You should remember this, if you seek to be the next Mukharrib, Ilyas.”

---

The Following Month
“Alu Qusdu”, Nippur

The house of Yassib was a compound close to the size of ten hovels the black-heads lived within. A collection of rooms made of brick and mortar, whitewashed, surrounding the middle courtyard. A gate at the front stood two guardsmen. At any time of day you would see servants and supplicants passing in and out onto the street. There was a stable for his family’s camels. There was a reservoir of rainwater. The courtyard was green with flowering shrubs and jasmine trees. All a testament to the status of the family it housed.

Yet this, was soon to change.

Like the rising and setting of the sun, the course of men’s lives are, in its order, pre-determined. He is born, he ages, until he dies. Shuffling off his coat of flesh, and returning from whence he came.

Yassib’s sunset now burns across the horizon.

Yassib, son of Danel, joined the company of the prophet in his forties. He was elected to be Mukharrib of the Northern Gishimmari by the zealot clans in his fifties. Now well within his sixties, his time, in this world, was growing short.

It is a glorious thing to live until such an age in these times. A man who has seen war, traveled half the world, and established his house as foremost among their kin and neighbors. Many times in this life could he have passed. In the deserts of The Great Expanse, as they crossed dunes and braved the wrath of an angry sun, in their exile from Yanbu. In the mountains of the deep south, he led a company of heroes to find and bring-home the great sky-stone which hailed their people’s divine mission to bring order and righteousness to the lands of their ancient enemies, the men of Kengir. To take for themselves land of good soil, green pastures, and plentiful water. That same stone, which was broken into pieces, and revered in shrines and Prayer Halls throughout Nippur.

Yassib was, for his leadership in the early struggles of their faith, elected by the tribes which followed Umm Kharuf to be their secular “Mukharrib”, or “Federator.” A tablet to commemorate him, upon falling into sickness, was made by his sons prior to his death. On it, he is known as “Yassib the Lawgiver”. For he reconciled the ancient Gishimmari tradition of oaths and tribal politics with the teachings of the Prophet. In this way, the Sharia, the Law of the Gishimmari faith, is just as much his as the Prophet herself. It was he who appointed the learned and literate students of Olifia to serve as judges, replacing the elders councils of before who tried and punished crime and broken oaths. It was he, who, learning the prophet’s script at age fifty-five, compiled the laws onto clay tablets and papyrus scrolls for consultation. Yassib the Lawgiver forged his people from many, into one.

Yet now Yassib lay dying, and as I pass through the gates of his compound, the usual glee which fills his home is not found. The air itself is sad, and even the blooming flowers of their garden seem to hold any joy.

The reason, beyond one man’s death, is obvious: They may still be prominent, but they will not retain the same status as they would underneath him as Mukharrib. The wealth. The honor. It was the end of an era.

Yassib’s room was in the very back center of the complex, with a great window infront which allowed the breeze to flow from the garden and inside. Yet today, the curtains were drawn closed. It was quiet. I felt the gaze of his family as I passed them towards his door. I looked up, and saw his son, Rebh, standing at the door. His face was sullen. His head wore a green headwrap. His face wore a short beard, but even this did not disguise a young and naive appearance beneath. He placed a hand upon my shoulder.

“Thank you, Prophet, for coming today. I know you have traveled far, yet my Father has been asking for you since he first began to fall ill. He wishes to see you once again before he dies.”

I reached out, grasping his arm. “Rebh. I would not dare deny a request from your father. He is a good man. The best of men.”

“You honor him.”

“He is most deserving of honor.” I look the young man in the eye. “You are a good boy Rebh. A good father deserves a good son.”

“I- I wish to be Mukharrib, Lady.”

I could not help but feel a frown twinge across my face. “We will talk in a moment, Rebh. Now, I will see your father.”

With a short nod I took my gaze away, and, without another word, knocked on the door.

“Come.” A soft, old voice came from within.

The door softly swings open, I step inside and indeed smell the scent of death. The smell of molding paper. Of dying flowers. The stench of the old and dying. It has its own, solemn beauty. A fate which comes as sure as the setting sun.

“My lady.” I see him, Yassib, laying in bed. He attempts to sit up, with shaking, weak arms. I step towards the bed and place a hand on his chest.

“Rest Yassib, you need not get up.”

“I ought to greet you right.” He mutters, looking away from my gaze.

“You have greeted me rightly a thousand times, Yassib. You can be forgiven for one deviation.”

“As it is… Lady, I am glad to see you. For you to take the time to see an old, dying man.”

I reach down, and grasp his hand. It is thin, boney. Connected to gaunt arms made from sticks and spotted leather. “For the best of men, Yassib. I would cross the great desert to be at your bedside.”

He turned back to look at me. His trembling fingers gently squeeze my hand. “Is it not a shame that I cannot serve you any longer?”

I grinned. “It is indeed a shame Yassib. Yet you have earned your rest. A long, deep rest. A reward for a lifetime of service.”

“You know Lady - in the years I have known you… I have not seen age pass upon you. Tell me, Lady, honestly. Will you ever join me there?”

I shook my head. “The tomb has rejected me once. I am sure it will again. No, it is a reward I am incapable of achieving. My labor is forever. Count yourself lucky, Yassib, to have a night to your day.”

“Tell me again, Lady. Where is it that I shall go, which you will not reach?”

I tapped his hand, breathing a sigh. “Where does a fire go when it goes out?”

“Nowhere.”

I nodded. “For your body, it will turn to earth. Be they ashes scattered in the wind, deposited in the hills… or buried beneath the ground. It will return to the land. From where all the nourishment which created your body came. So it will go. Just as the plants and animals bodies. They return their nourishment to the land.”

“And my soul?”

“Your body is the vessel, the soul is the liquid inside. When the vessel breaks, the liquid spills. It evaporates. It is absorbed into the earth. Your soul is the flame when the fire is put out. Snuffed in an instant. There will be no more Yassib to be.”

“Ah…”

I placed a hand on his chest. “But in here.” I raised the hand to his head. “And here. There is a piece of the Divine. A breath of Wahd which you will breathe out upon your death. When you pass, it will live on. For the Divine lives forever. For that, which is in you, will return to whence it came.”

“To the well of souls.”

I nodded. “Seek refuge, Yassib. From before you were born, you were at peace. You return to that peace, which will embrace you with the love of the mother and the father. The left and right hands of the eternal divine.”

“Such little time we have…”

“Ah, but what great things you have done with that time, Yassib.”

“I have tried to spread goodness wherever I went, Lady.”

“You have done that and more. You have brought honor to your clan and tribe. You have raised a good son, and good daughters. You have written good laws. You have walked the path of the righteous.”

“Ah, yes, my children… My son, Rebh. He wishes to be Mukharrib, as I. He is a good son. He is smart. He is pious. He is loyal. But he is not a leader… Not like the tribes need now. I know who they want the next man to be. My son will not best Ilyas in the vote of my successor. They want for a warrior, one to grow our people, grow our faith, grow our prosperity… my son is not ready. Please, I ask of you to take care of him. Find a place for him. I fear he will lose his way without a role to fill.”

“I swear to you, my loyal servant. I will find a place for Rebh. A place of dignity. Of honor. A place where he can grow, a strong tree planted in good earth. To keep him on the righteous path.”

“Ah… That is good to hear, Lady, thank you.”

“For you, Yassib, that is the least I could do.”

“But how is your child? Narwa, the girl you’ve raised.”

“I could not be more proud of her. Today, she goes from village to village - around this city and the adjacent. She gives bread to those who suffer famine. She heals the sick. Fixes teeth, sets broken bones. All without a price.”

“I hope the tithe the tribes provide your treasury is enough, Lady.”

“More than enough, Yassib. More than enough.”

“Is there anything I can do, for you, Lady, before I go to where you cannot?”

I gently nodded, and from within my robes withdrew a paper, folded, and placed it in his hands.

“I have one last request for you, Yassib, before you pass. In this document, I have a law. You are a good men. You have appointed good men to serve you. But there will not always be good men to take your role. Men who put their own ambitions above the causes of righteousness and goodness. I will read it to you now, so that you can understand what I ask of you:

THE LAW OF PEASANT SOVEREIGNTY- Establishing the right to one’s home and fields as law, be it observed that no official or officer has the power to extrajudicially seize the property or land of a peasant. That every peasant’s fields and home are his, so long as he dwells and works within, and not his Ensi’s, Shakkanaks, or Scribe-Administrator’s. That if such a right of sovereignty is abridged, he may appeal to his local official of the law - be they judge of the Law, or priest of the Sharia. Let those found guilty of such violations be stripped of his titles, and the property restored to the peasant.”

“Bring me my ring, and a candle, lady.”

The candle is lit with a neighboring oil-lamp. The yellow wax bubbles and drips onto the page. The old ruler, with shaking fingers, presses the ring into the wax, imprinting the image of a lion onto the page.

“It is law. My final law, I think. I am tired, Lady. I think I should like to rest now… Thank you for visiting me. For giving me one last act of good to remember as I pass.”

“Go with Love and comfort, Yassib.”

I turn to leave, folding the paper, and placing it back into my robes.

“Lady?”

I turn back to look at him. He reaches a hand up and out towards me.

“I have one last favor to ask of you. I am sorry. It burns at my heart not to ask of it.”

“Please, Yassib. Anything.”

“I wish to return to Yanbu after my passing. I know it will not be I, but… Spread my ashes back in our homeland. I wish to return to the earth on which I was born.”

I paused. It had been so long since I had thought of Yanbu. That place, along the sea. Among rocks and shrubs. Land of the tribes. Land of blood. Land of Alya. Land of my regrets and my triumphs.

“I swear, Yassib. I will spread your ashes there with my own hands.”

“Bless you Lady.”

“Bless you, Yassib.”

The door closes behind me. Silence from within. I taste the fresh air. The stench of death gone. Rebh, is still there. He looks at me for answers. I place a hand upon his shoulder. “Walk with me, Rebh. There is something with you I wish to discuss.”

“Of course Lady… of what importance is it?”


“I wish to offer you a job. Your father taught you to read and write in the sacred script - did he not?”

“He did, Lady.”

“If you do not gain the title of Mukharrib in the vote, I want you to work for the temple. We have so much wealth now coming into the tithe fund. I have had to construct a warehouse behind the prayer hall to keep it all. It is not mine to spend, Rebh. It belongs to the people. I need someone to keep track of it all. So we can start our next project to spread righteousness.”

“I… I don’t know what to say, Lady.”


“I need you Rebh. You are good, you are honest. My daughter Narwa is away now, she goes from village to village, rarely here enough in the holy city to manage my affairs. I can offer you seventy shekels a month for your payment. That’s enough food to feed you, your future wife, and any children you may have along the way. You’ll be serving the faith. It would make your father proud.”

“I…”

“Just say yes, Rebh. I have promised your father I would keep you on the right path. I am offering you this for him, as well as for you.”

“I cannot decline.”

I patted his shoulder. “You will not regret this. Your father will be very proud.”

---

The sun has begun its descent from the sky. The heat of the day has passed. Labor continues on the build-sight. Behind the prayer hall they have laid the groundwork of a new project of mine. A vast treasury I’ve been given, the new mandatory tithes. Hundreds of shekels every month. A small portion from every clan goes a long way. Enough to hire three dozen laborers. Enough to hire four good stonemasons. Enough to build in sandstone and fired brick, not mud and earth like most of the city. Umm Kharuf does not use the people’s wealth on clothes or a palace. No, if I am deserving of this trust they have given me - I will do what they cannot. For what the state in this ur-form does not have the ability to yet. What the people need. Those who suffer. The daily suffering of these cruel times.

I am a mother who cannot give birth. I am without children of my own. The more mystical of the Gishimmari know why. They call me a sacred hermaphrodite. I mind this not. But, for my title, “Mother of Sheep”, it is right that I act upon it. How many women die in childbirth in these times? How many children die at birth? Is it not cruel? Is it not wrong? What can I do about such things? I tell the people to wash their hands. I tell the midwives to clean everything before the birth. But it’s not enough. Disease, infection… all are so common. The fields outside the holy city are littered with unmarked graves of infants who passed so young. And the sick… left to rot in their homes, perhaps even starve, if they haven’t family to take care of them.

I will do good on their trust, then, to alleviate some of the pain. Earth is dug and a foundation laid. Marked and planned with the chief masons for a structure which in these times does not exist. The suffering is made to stay in their homes, or if they are lucky, the floors of the temples of the Lady of Lagash. Yet they are so few and far between. Both my temple and her’s have cooperated for years. Is it not right to build in stone an institution to give more ability to those who do what we can to alleviate the pain?

It was the lady of Lagash which saved Kengir from the plague, not long ago. Before I arrived in these lands. When it suffered the death and despair brought by Luther, and his mistress, my favorite cup. I have written them a letter not long ago - before I left for the Hivite lands. And, upon my return not only had a reply come, but I had received what I had asked. Three priestesses trained in remedies for illness, like those given during the plague. Along with them, two midwives of their order. I only had one requirement from them, and I would give them enough payment and supplies to offer their work for free to anyone who needed it: They must wash themselves, their clothes, and everything they touch within the walls of the future hospital.

One large hall with windows high above the heads of those within was the largest part of the structure. Its roots were already laid. Light and fresh air are always necessary, yet too much could allow the filth to get in. Or disease to get out. Side rooms for seclusion of the severely diseased, a storage pantry for food and herbs, a water reservoir for clean rainwater. A kitchen for preparing meals for the sick. But one which I paid most attention to, made completely of smoothed stone, was a chamber on one side of the building, completely closed to the rest.

Al-Ilat, the lady of blood, is not merely bloodied for that shed during battle. The blood lain to earth during war is more than equalled by the blood lain giving birth. Blood, infection, disease. For a large portion of mothers - birth was not merely a suffering, but a death sentence. There is little we can do in these cruel ages. The midwives do their best, but the most advanced of their methods involve cutting open the stomach of the mother to save the child, at the cost of the mother’s life. They know the right positions, they have experienced hundreds of lives coming and going. Yet they cannot understand the necessity of cleanliness. The necessity of immaculate conditions for a little more chance of survival.

In the center of the chamber will be a pool of fresh, clean water from the reservoir. Changed with every mother. The walls and floor must be scrubbed with lye soap. There are no windows. There is only one door. Only women will be allowed inside. A table, a stool, a bench - it is both spartan and sacred. I have paid for new, sharp instruments from the blacksmiths for the midwives to use. Since the walls are in stone, I have hired an artisan to carve an image of a mother Ewe into the walls. I wonder if one chamber will be enough. Perhaps we will need more, as the population swells.

This is a great project, and projects take time. I will have to pay the priestesses of the Mother-Lady, as I will refer to them here, before the hospital itself is finished. The masons tell me six months until it has four walls, and a roof. In the meantime we will need to commission the furniture and supplies of operation, so that it is not a mere empty shell. A building means nothing without the people inside.

Low wooden beds, raised a foot off the ground, allow the sick the minor comfort of being free from rats and insects to bother them. Even if they sleep on reed mats atop the frames. Baskets and shelves and pots and chests for herbs and supplies. Sheets and sheets and more sheets. Wool blankets and towels and cloths and rags. From experience, there can never be enough cloths in medicine. For soaking up blood. For keeping the shivering warm. All of this has an expense. An expense I pay gladly, for the wealth I am given is not mine.

It takes just two weeks to lay the foundations. Stone blocks filled with mortar - sand and clay and quicklime filling the cracks. I make the masons give the workers a break in the middle of the day. I take breakfast with them where they can. They are the urban poor - often those who supplement their families income with petty labor. Not skilled artisans. It will take them a while to achieve the precision necessary. Yet all I have is time. I am willing to wait for as long as it takes. As they begin to lay the bricks for the walls, mortaring them as they are stacked high - I must depart from my supervision for now. For Yassib has given me a new responsibility, which I only learn about after his passing.

---

“Blessed Lady. I pray that this letter pleases you, for as you have asked of me to enact a law to respect the dignity of the peasants, so do I feel right to entrust you, and your temple, with the custody of two such villages of black-heads. After having received complaint of their Gishimmari Shakkanaks seizing their fields and property unjustly, I have transferred their administration to you or your appointed supervisor. I hope that this is not too great a burden to you or your temple, but I can think of no fairer or more just an administrator than you, the church of Wahd. I pray that you will be a better shepherdess than those before you.
With all my gratitude for everything you have given me,
-Yassib ibn Danel.”

The two villages in question were those of “Kibtu Abuḫšinnu”, and “Adurtu Enzu”. Their complaints of their Shakkanak, who ruled over both, it seemed, had existed for over five years. He had muscled them into giving for his personal estate the best and most fertile fields, those close to the river, and neglected the irrigation canals which ran into the fields of the rest of the peasantry. He had placed a personal tax on the fields of every villager, and had seized for his personal herd the animals of every house within. Needless to say, tensions were high as we came to the village, and none seemed fit to protest when, with the judge’s order in-hand, and twenty of Yassib’s retainers behind me, dragged the Gishimmari Shakkanak back to Nippur for punishment.

And there I was left with two villages. Hungry, poor, but my own. And between them both, a great compound of a house, with six camels, an orchard of date-palms, and a herd of a hundred sheep to my name.

This, was a good use for Rebh. But first, there are wrongs which must be righted.

The black-heads of the villages, were, to the best of my knowledge, only loosely aware of myself and my faith. Surely Narwa had passed through, but of course a single good deed does not religious conversion make. Not that I needed their souls. After all, I am no christ-god. Yet churchlands should I desire to make, their admiration would be enough. Two sheep for every house. That was what I could afford, from the flock I’d inherited. Their former master, dispossessed, perhaps in exile. The handling of the men Yassib had entrusted to carrying out his orders. Men I knew not the names of.

If you go door-to-door, offering sheep to common villagers - they will either look at you like you are mad, like you are a fool, or more likely, that you are ill-intentioned. Of course, to anyone besides I, a prophet, kept afloat at the expense of my followers, fully funded by the state- would not ever desire to give away such bounties. Even other churches would surely believe they could do better things with repossessed wealth than to give it away to the peasants. Yet idealism can be afforded, when wealth is plentiful. That those who accepted my offerings were so grateful to me, to embrace me, and shed tears with thanks, was adequate reward. It took only three days for those who refused my gift to come to me and ask for that which I’d offered them.

If these two villages were to be church lands, then those who administer it must live by church ethics. Rebh has known luxurious living for the majority of his life. And while I would ensure he did not live in poverty, any luxury which a governor of my church’s lands would not live in luxury. He would live, as I have learned to live. Simply.

I had the Shakkanak’s residence gutted thereby. All that which his wife and child did not receive, luxuries they did not carry with them to the house of her father, must be carted to the market and sold. Sold for copper and silver shekels. Traded for grain. Traded for livestock. Five Kungas. Three for Kibtu Abuḫšinnu, two for Adurtu Enzu. I trust they can work out amongst themselves how to hold such expensive draft animals in common. That I hardly care to micro-manage. A matter for the villagers to choose their place, not I. I only ask that they not sell the equids. Even if they believe themselves more capable of choosing what to do with the income. It is an investment after all. And there are methods one could employ to grow that amount substantially. But until then, there was a final matter to attend to.

For now, I owned slaves.

It is late. My head felt dizzy from the gallons of ale the villagers had handed me. I could still hear their revelries from the village commons. A simple, yet delightful, celebration of their newfound wealth. The black-heads praised “Umm Kharuf”, though they used it more as my title, than in its religious meaning. I found it quite amusing. As I crossed the dusty path towards the Shakkanak’s compound, I saw the warm light of a fire within the slave’s quarters. A separate house from the larger one. One of the three in which the Hivites lived with their families. It occurred to me that I might pay them a visit. Not with guards or even a weapon. They were barbarians who I had deemed acceptable to place into bondage. Yet, after all, these were men. And I cannot count myself as above looking another human being in the eye, and speaking with them honestly.

The door was a long cloth hanging amid the doorway, casting below it the shadows of those inside. There being no way to “knock”, I could only call out to those inside.

“Excuse me? May I come in?”

There was, in the Hivite tongue, a collection of voices. It was rare that anyone in these lands knew their tongue. And though I had rarely spoken to them, perhaps they knew I was one of the few who did. An arm reached out across the doorway, and held open the cloth. A pale face with dark brown hair stared back at me. Not pale, but the color of warm wood. Cedar, or pine. Pale by the standards of the black-heads or Gishimmari. The Hivite color, something between my skin and the skin of the locals.

“Lady.” He said plainly, and looked about behind me. “Where are your?...”

“I come alone.”

He stared at me plainly. “I do not understand.”

“I wish to talk with you.”

“Talk?”


“Yes, talk.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

He stared at me, and then looked back at those inside. He shrugged, and allowed me to pass him and enter the dimly lit room.

It was a common house for the black-heads. A square hovel of mud-brick walls, with a small fire in the center. Straw beds hugged the walls. A few clay pots and baskets decorated what was a spartan home. I sat myself on the wall, and felt four sets of eyes upon me. Two men, one woman, one child. One of my slaves had brought his family with him upon his captivity. The other was taken on the battlefield, and could not. The younger man, the warrior, sat in the corner. The older, with wife and child, still stood at the door.

“I am Olifia. I am your mistress.”

The man at the door answered, eyes betraying unease and distrust. “It is uncommon for a master to enter the quarters of a slave, indeed especially alone.”

I shrugged. “It is not unlike my own home.”

“You mean the great big one over there?” Came the voice of the young man in the corner. He pointed at one of the walls, the direction of the Shakkanak’s manor.

“No. I stay there, but that is not my home. My home in the city, see, is about this size.”

He snorted. “And I guess you live in a slave-shack, why?”

“I needn’t anything greater.”

“If you do not need it, let us have the great house then. Hm?” Replied the young man.

“You know I cannot do that.”

“Oh yeah, why not?”

“It does not belong to me.”

“And who-”

“That is enough.” Replied the older man, as he squatted beside the fire. “Please, Lady, tell us why you have come.”

“I have told you.” I held up my hands to them. “I only wish to talk.”

“About what?” He replied, slowly sitting himself down. “Our labors?”

I shrugged. “Sure, that… And of course, why and how you came to my possession.”

“Your people conquered ours, there is no question on how.” Spoke up the young man from the corner. “You bested us in battle, you claim our flesh and blood as your own. For now that is.” He spoke with a smirk. The older man scowled at him.

“That is just so. But unlike others who claim servants from conquest, I think you will perhaps find me as your lady more amenable than others.”

“Slavery is slavery. You think you are better than us?”

“I did not say that.”

“We could kill you, you know what? We kill you, and run. What is to stop us?”

I shrugged. “And then what?”

“Hm?”

“And then what will you do?”

“Why, we will return home of course.”

“Home where?”

“Home in the lands of which you have taken us!”

“And which way is that?”

He paused, and looked at me, confused. He thought about this for a moment, and then another. It soon dawned on him that he didn’t quite know. I frowned. “It matters not. We can live free. In the bushes. In the hills.”

“And what sort of life will that be? Hm? Do you intend to steal all your lives? This is a land of laws and order, unlike the Hivite swath. All bandits, no matter if it takes weeks or years, will hang here in Kengir.”

“Better to hang than be humiliated!”

“SHUT UP!” Screamed the older man to the younger. The young girl in the room began to cry at her father’s voice.

“Look what you’ve done!” The woman hissed at me.

I cared not. I looked between the two men. “You could have a decent life. Work my fields. Keep a garden for yourselves. Your wife and child are free after all. I give you a portion of the field crop, I give you clothes, I give you shoes. I will not whip you, as other slave masters do. I will not make you work in the heat of the day, or before you have eaten. And indeed, you will do good by your efforts.”

“Good? Hah! Good by enriching you? That seems good for you, and not for us.” The younger man grinned. “You think us fools.”

“I will not be the one who reaps the fruit of your labors, boy. I have no intention of lying to you. You will do good by your efforts.”

“Who will then, hm?”

“The poor. The hungry. My flock.”

“You intend to simply give away the product of our labors?” The older slave looked at me with confusion.

“That I do.”

“You take so that you may give! What makes that so mighty and moral of you!?” The young man sneered.

“I do not think it makes it good or moral of me. For me, it is necessary. For you, I think, it would be good and moral. And lest you forget, a worse master than me would simply sell it to purchase fine clothes and jewelry for themselves.”

“Whatever it may be, you still cannot deny that to us, what you spend on what you take matters little. What matters is that you take it.” Added the other.

I held up my hands. “Think on it. You may build a decent life for your wife and child here. What have you to return to in the Hivite lands? Stability? I think not. Even now, Ilyas continues to subjugate the other headmen. Long life, stability, and a full stomach. That is what you will find in my service.”

The young man scowled at me. There was anger building in him. Dangerous anger. Murderous. I turned my eyes from him. I already knew how he would protest. “What is your name?” I asked the older man.

“Tahi.”

“Tahi. Good name. And your woman?”

“Menna.” He answered for her, casting a glance back to her.

“May I ask yours?” I turned to the young man, who I could see, held his hand within his roughspun tunic. He held my gaze, a small shiver across his arms. Yes, that was that very same murderous drive I saw in him before. I knew its implication. “No? That is fine.”

“My name is Ashtu.” He grumbled, slowly removing his hand. In the dim light, I could see, glimmering in his hand. A short blade, perhaps only six inches. He stood up, his predatory eyes not losing mine.

“Ashtu! Stop it!” Barked Tahi, who leapt to his feet.

“Your people killed my father, my brother, and took everything from me. And now you wish to be friends? You wish to give me ‘dignity’?” He spat on the ground, taking a step towards me. “I will not be your dog. You will not have my soul!”

I tilted my head. “Your soul? Boy, you should know. I need not your soul. I need your hands. I need your sweat. I need your blood. What do I care for your soul for?”

His nostrils flared. His muscles tensed. Before Tahi could reach out to grasp him, Ashtu threw himself forwards. His face curled into a statuesque snarl. He pounced himself upon me, my body flinching as he pushed me to the ground. My head slammed against the wall with a violent ‘thud’! Rocking my world and spinning my mind in the pain. A faint plume of dust and plaster wafted across the air. The impact cracked a dent in the wall.

“Stay BACK Tahi! Unless you wish to go down with your new master.” He glanced back at the older slave, who held the little girl in his arms. He whispered in her ear something I couldn’t discern.

“Tell me, Prophet? How does it feel to be at the mercy now of he who you have wronged? Will you beg for your life?”

Gripped by the static embrace of the dull pain and adrenaline, I looked back at him. I did not tremble, my breath did not shake. I took a deep breath, and did not move my gaze. I spoke to him as I would any supplicant. Just the same as any who would come to me in reverence or prayer. “The man who holds a blade to God thinks God is at his mercy. How very wrong he is. He holds the blade at his own neck.”

“Damn witch.” He spat, and with shaking hand raised it. “You think you a God?! I’ll show you who is God when my blade tastes your flesh!”

I nodded. “Do it then, boy. Do what you think is right.”

“What?”

“DO IT! KILL ME YOU LITTLE SHIT!”

“Crazy bitch.” He muttered, hesitating, before plunging the knife downwards.

I felt the fist collide with my chest before the blade pierces my skin and bone. Seconds passing as minutes. The world stood still. The sharp pain, the rush of my world entering and exiting reality. The stillness of the air. The weight atop me. In those fractions of a second I felt the agony. Yet through the pain, I reached with my hands, and grasped his arm which held the knife. And smiled.

“How does it feel to hold your blade to God?”

He looked at me in disturbed shock. “Crazy bitch- I have a knife in you! Why do you still speak?!”

“Many men before have tried to kill God. Many men before have tried to kill me. Many men before have tried to defeat fate. They all failed. It is futile.” He tried to wrench his hand from me. I gripped him like a vice- my fingers turning red with the force which I held him. My breathing grew heavy, I could feel my dress slowly dampening from the wound. “Look at me boy! Look at me! Look into my eyes! Do not look away!”

“You’re crazy…”

“I forgive you.”

“WHAT?!”

“I forgive you.”

He looked behind him to the older slave, who looked onto us in silent horror.

“No… no, no! You’re- you’re a freak! You can’t do that! You can’t… Whatever.” He ripped his arm, finally, from my grasp. I slumped backwards. The pain throbbing through my skull, radiating through my skin. He stood, and looked down at me. Though I was the one impaled, he was shaken. Deeply disturbed. Casting his gaze away, he balled a fist, before releasing it. He muttered something to the ground, and stumbled out towards the door.

“Lady?” A muffled voice called to me. My hands clenched the knife in my chest. Thank Allat he left it in. I clenched my skin surrounding the blade. The flesh was tender and wet. Unnaturally soft. I’d wager he’d broken the bone, and gotten it fairly deep. I coughed, and felt warm drool trickle down my lips. My mouth tasted of iron.

I saw Tahi standing above me, his wife kneeling next to me. “You intend to run too?” I muttered to him, before he shook his head, and ran out the door. Menna, with shaking hands, ripped the dress down across my chest. She took my belt from off my waist, and as best she could held it around the knife. My mind felt heavy, and I realized my heavy breaths felt shallow. I wondered what he had done to me. I wondered if I would again return to Wahd's embrace. Emptied, and refilled. Yet this time, I would not.

---

When my mind regained focus, the first sense I felt was the heat. Warmth. Sweet warmth. It radiated down from above me. My eyes fluttered open, I saw the rays of light from outside the doorway. Around me, I could see the outlines of bodies, shapes and figures which moved about. The dull sounds of voices which through the pain felt like a mile away. Gasps and exclamations as I tried to pull myself up.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up, it was Rebh.

“Lady…” His voice was distant, but discernible. “I thought I had lost you.”

I reached out a shaking hand and grasped his arm. “Your father would have known that was not possible.”

“I… The knife- it had pushed, well… It was deep. I did not know anyone could survive that.”

I shook my head. “Few among men could. But… I assume a miracle has happened.”

He looked down to my chest, which, exposed - was wrapped in rags. “The sisters said it had closed around the blade when they arrived. When they took it out, it took only a moment for the bleeding to end. I do not know how, though. He had - the entire blade was within you.”

“Now you know not to doubt me Rebh.” Miracle or not, it felt like razor wire dug into my chest, an agonizing pain which felt unending. “Did they find the boy?”

“Who?”

“The boy who stabbed me.”

“The Hivite slave? Yes, Lady. He’d hardly run to the next village by sunrise. We found him in their granary, they beat him up pretty good and dragged him here. I figured you’d want to order his execution.”

“Bring him in here.”

He paused. He stared at me, raising an eyebrow. “I do not understand.”

“Bring him in here.”

“But lady, I can’t-”

“It is not a request. It is an order from your Lady. Bring Ashtu in this room.”

“As you wish…” He looked from me to the door, and soon disappeared behind it.

And, as certain as the setting sun, he appeared. Flanked by two men with spears at his back, black and blue with dried blood encrusted below his nose. Wrapped in ropes which dug into his skin. Ashtu had certainly had a night.

“Untie him.” I asked the guards, who looked at me like I was crazy. I probably am. “I will not ask again.” With another moment’s apprehension, they soon did as they were told. Unbinding the boy’s arms, unwrapping tightly bound flesh which was marked by the ropes. He rubbed his arms, moved his neck. But he looked at me. He kept looking at me. “Now leave us.”

“Lady, He will-”

“Leave. Us.”

We were soon alone.

I sat up, stretching my neck from the place it rested on the hard floor. “You intend to mock me before you have me killed?” He asked me. I raised my palms.

“I told you, I have forgiven you.”

“Liar. Bull shit.”

I reached out a hand to him. “I will accept your apology.”

“Like hell I will apologize to you.”

“You wish to die then?”

“Better to die on my feet than serve on my knees.”

I shrugged. “Ok then. Kill me.”

“What?”

“I asked you before. You did so. You wish to die again? Try to kill me again.”


“You are a madwoman, truly.”

“You are not a fool Ashtu. You got me real good, you know that? Yet here I am. Explain it.”

“You’re lucky.”

“I’m more than lucky. Look, there’s a pot over there. Bludgeon my skull with it.”

“You goad me.”

“Will you?”

“You mock me.”

I reached my hands out to him. I grasped his hands a second before he could snatch them away. I squeezed his fingers, and pulled him close as he tried to pull them back.

“I am giving you a CHOICE, boy! I am giving you a choice, because choices are all we have! I care not what is in your heart! GOD cares not what is in your heart. What you do with your hands, these, that is the ONLY thing which matters. Do you understand yet? I gave you your first choice. You made a decision. Now I give you one more. Salvation or condemnation, make it! You are a man. Make your choice! Use your hands.”

My chest heaved. My fingers dug into his palms. I could feel the heat, the sweat beading across them. He was shivering. His eyes were those not of a wolf, but of a deer. I held him there, so close, my nose inches from his. Silent.

I released his hands suddenly, the taught tension cut in a single moment. “I know you won’t do it. You cannot do it.”

“You are making this too hard!” He spat at me, his hands reaching up to his face. “What the hell is wrong with you?! This is not the way of things. I tried to kill you! You should have me hanged by now! This isn’t - this isn’t the way the world works!”

“The world works any way you damn well say it does!” I spat back at him. I forced myself to stand, I threw myself upon him. I held his shoulders, too tired to stand on my own. “You are no animal. You have a piece of GOD in you! You can make your own fate! So USE IT! What path you take is up to you boy! One leads to the mountain. The other leads to the pit. So make it! Make it like a MAN!”

“I can’t… I can’t do it. Why can’t I do it? Oh, father! I have failed you!” Tears begin to drop from between his fingers, under his palms. He sniffles. Snot clogging his nose. “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?!”

“I did nothing to you boy. You did this to yourself. You have lived by the blade and you tried to solve this with your blade. And this is where it has gotten you. Alone in a shack, next to an injured woman older than your mother, and you can’t bring yourself to kill her? I know you are not afraid of death. So why, hm? WHY?!”

“I... I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Again boy again.”

“I-I am so sorry!”

“For what?”


“For hurting you.”

“Why?”

“What?”


“Why did you do it?”

“I was a fool. I was such a fool…”

He fell to his knees, trembling. He pulled his hands from his face, and looked up at me with tears still in his eyes. “I have made a mistake, Lady… forgive me!”

I wrapped my arms around his head, pulling it into my lap. “There there… I forgive you, boy. You knew not anything else. Your people, knew nothing else.”

“Please spare me.” He begged, looking up at me. “I was arrogant. I didn’t- I didn’t listen.”

“I have already forgiven you. You won’t be harmed.”

“But- but why? You never have said why you’d want to forgive me!”

I tapped my lips with my finger for a moment, the question equally asked in my own mind. I leaned down to him, just to his ear. I whispered, so quietly. “The scribes will record this. And they will remember that I forgave you. And they will do as I have done.”

[Melon Heads]

First Dynasty of Kemet
The Fourth Nome
Waset Village
First Month of Peret
2959 BCE

Surely goodness and mercy will follow me
all the days of my life
And I will dwell on this earth forevermore
Still, I walk beside the still waters,
and they restore my soul
But I can't walk on the path of the right
because I'm wrong.

________

The distant sound of water dripping, the whirring of an embalming machine and the muffled voices of two men lured them out of the dark fog of their mind, and into what coalesced into a dark hallway, linoleum floors and walls covered in laminated health regulation sheets, a ceiling of fiberglass tiles. A heavy, solid wooden door with yet another regulatory health and safety sign stuck to it, but it opened easily enough when Geordi turned the doorknob and stepped in.

The embalming room was modern in a way that Geordi knew they would never see again in their waking hours, and they took a moment to take it all in. Though the subject matter was so strikingly macabre to the layperson, they couldn't help but find comfort in the familiarity. On one wall hung numerous hooks holding various protective gear -what a beautiful thing, to have personal protective equipment- thick rubbery fabric gowns, bags and hangers left from families to be eventually reused, a few closed biohazard bins of medical waste that had yet to be picked up. The other wall was near entirely cabinets and closet space, some of them open to expose the embalming fluids, tools, and accessories needed for the modern mortician, though Geordi didn't know if they would qualify as such anymore. Even so their heart clenched at the familiar, ghastly sights. They could only with difficulty look at the three figures in the middle of the room.

On the table was the first they gazed upon, an inanimate, nude figure laying upon his back, eyes mostly closed but mouth open, and his blood visibly pooling slowly around his neck, head held up by a plastic support. This was, and Geordi was grateful, not a face they recognized from their peers of the old world, but instead rang familiar as a person that they had only met as a removal tech. Though Geordi had only known him after his death, their brain supplied them regardless of his surname.

Lazarus. His surname had been Lazarus. It had been a bit of a joke, honestly, during that shift at the morgue. The day they had picked him up had been fraught with a bemused anxiety, even knowing that the possibility of him gaining consciousness while in their care was slim to none, Geordi had been apprehensive the entirety of the time they had custody of the man that they would at one moment be going about their day and the next be grasped by a cold, damp hand, or their ears pierced by a horrified scream.

Nothing had happened, of course, the man had been dead as a doorknob, but the experience had lingered in their mind nonetheless, and Geordi took a step back just as they heard the door to the embalming room slip shut behind them.

But Lazarus was not the only other person in the room, two other beings were there to hear it, even if they were in retrospect not quite 'living.' On the right was a male figure, with dark, freckled skin and a light dusting of hair on his arms, wearing scrubs and latex gloves as he prepared the deceased Lazarus for embalming, moving in a way that Geordi was quite familiar with, the reluctance of someone who was not entirely at ease, but still passionate and invested in their craft. But while his body was that of a man, his head was that of a canid, one that Geordi had to take a moment to recognize. He almost reminded Geordi of a fox, or the basenji dogs some of the more affluent folks of Kemet had and trained. A Jackal.

The other man, on the left, was more removed from the activity but still invested in watching, peering at the Jackal and the corpse. His clothes were old fashioned, at least for the twenty-first century, dress pants, a button up shirt rolled up to the elbows, and a fitted dark blue waistcoat. Funnily enough, he was also wearing glasses, though they were a bit precariously balanced on his small head and long beak, lofted atop his uncannily long and feathered neck. An Ibis.

The three not-dead not-men stared at each other for a moment, the Ibis and the Jackal looking at each other with glances that belied communication between the two of them that Geordi had no hope of deciphering, and they feared, for a moment, that they had entered unwittingly into a moment they should not have.

Their fears were assuaged, though, when the Ibis continued to speak from where he had left off, ignoring them entirely for the moment.

"And to think that this is something that even the common man would be able to afford, to be given a repose after death in which his family can mourn with him days if not weeks after he passes! Such an interesting science, they will come up with, in the coming days."

"You know just as well as I do that this won't become the common practice for thousands of years. Frankly I'd say 'coming days' is a bit of a misnomer. It's like calling the sun a bit warm, or a horde of locusts a mild concern for the coming crop."

"So you do not eagerly await the day that this is made an available practice?"

"I never said that. But it's going to be a long time before they're working with anything much more advanced than salts and resins. And who knows if we should still be there to see it. Hey you, when did this become the standard?"

The Jackal wasn't pointing, or even taking his eyes off of the corpse before him, but Geordi still knew they were being addressed. In the real world, it would have taken some time to dig such information out of the confines of their memory, years having spread a thick layer of dust upon them, to say nothing of the head trauma. But here, in these dreams, the information flowed freely, like water. Geordi had never had lucid dreams before the invasion of Biau and Canaan. Now, they had them what seemed like every week, since returning from Yerushalem. From Akeldama.

"During the civil- the American Civil War, in the 1850s. They used it to transfer dead soldiers to their homes instead of burying them where they died. The president we had at the time was murdered, and they embalmed him too, and paraded his casket around the countryside."

"And he did not fill the countryside with the scent of his rot and decay?" The Ibis, this time.

"I wasn't there, but not in the way he would without embalming, no. The stuff they used back then was a lot stronger than the modern juice, too. But even now, er, then, I've seen a person remain inert for weeks embalmed, without much issue."

The Jackal laughed a bit, though it was strange to watch with a dog's mouth. "And what a great feat of Man that will be.”

The Jackal’s tongue flicked out once, twice, as he licked a strip of blood off of his gloved hand. Geordi’s hand twitched, but only in a nixed motion to dissuade that. In their waking hours, their hands shook persistently. In the dreams, their fingers moved only when they willed it. “Why do I dream of the prep room today?” They had never been good at the clever words and distinguished speech of an orator; if moving words were to come from Geordi, they would not fall from their mouth. So when they spoke here, even in such empyrean presence, it was without frills. Despite this, neither the Jackal or Ibis dignified it with a direct response, instead continuing to speak with each other.

“But still, there are people even of the far off hereafter that would scorn such practices. Say it is the nature of people to decay, for their bodies to feed the Earth, and reunite with it. A stark juxtaposition with the desires of the people of Kemet, to preserve their bodies to one day reunite with the rest of themselves. Such is the varied will of man, to want to preserve the Khet of their loved one, but also to need to let them go, and hope they go somewhere peaceful.”

The Jackal’s hand sits upon Lazarus’ collar bone, the incision open and continuing to bleed darkened lifeblood from a slit vein onto the table, angular forceps slid from the skin down until the metal tips touched the inside of his heart, letting the old blood flow. In turn, a cannula is clamped into the carotid artery, the pressure of the machine shooting it into the dead man’s vascular system. Geordi misses such medicinal technology so much sometimes that it physically aches.

“But to decay is the ‘natural’ way, such is the nature of life, and death, though a body may die, its remains will feed the dirt and the worms, the vultures and the seeds that grow over it.”

“And the worms will be plucked from the ground, to be fed to a juvenile bird. When the bird is grown, it will be caught by another animal that hungers, and that animal will be hunted by men, to feed their children. And so it goes.”

The Ibis turns, beady eyes behind wireframe glasses, and looks at Geordi directly. “But you have stepped off this path, an incongruity in fate. Even the Lord of Silence you slip from the hands of. Why is that?”

Geordi grumbles, “I don’t know. I was a regular human before Ptahshedu found me that day, or regular enough.”

“The others likely believed the same, but who’s to say what changed, if anything?”

“I damn well didn’t understand Egyptian before landing here, I know that much. Do you know of other people like me? How can I find them?”

“That is not for me to answer, Anomaly, they must be sought out with your own efforts. You will have other matters to handle first, young hands and wary minds to guide to fruition, before they can help you, and before these questions can be answered.”

The blasé attitude was only more grating as the conversation circled. Lazarus was turning firm and pink beneath the Jackal’s hands, his own clasped over his stomach and held in position with a small towel. “I really wish you would be more upfront, instead of just sifting through my head and asking me strange questions. Why is it of such interest to you, even? This world won’t even exist for four thousand years. And I’m just a man who happened to fall out of it.”

“‘Just a man,’ you say.” The Ibis taps his beak, looking between the Jackal, the corpse, and the interloper. “But that is not all that I see, there, is it? Turn around, Harbinger.”

Geordi Hagar turns to the door behind them. There’s a dingy mirror there, there was always a dingy mirror hanging on the back of this door. But in place of the visage they expect, a man with tanned skin and a slightly bulbous nose, it is instead the head of a goat, with uncanny hazel eyes, that stares back at them.
________

Geordi of Hepi wakes up in their home, former abode of the deceased Hunero, strewn across a ramshackle cot assembled of twine and sticks then covered in linens and a quilt of uneven animal hide. To their left and high up on the wall, light can be seen shining through a slatted window, the distant ruckus of man and animal both waking with the morn. Geordi lurches as they get up, and run outside to vomit in the grass.

To their mortification, Akhpet approaches only moments later, while they’re still wiping sick off of their face. Of course, the man had seen in his time much worse than someone being sick, but he raises an eyebrow nonetheless.

“You’re late to the House, our time in service started as Ra showed his face. You know this.” He paused then, for a moment. “But if you’re sick, we should not want you bringing it with you.”

Shit, not only did I oversleep, but Akhpet saw that embarrassing display too, ugh. “Since you’ve gotten promoted, you sure do like to act all mature. As if you’ve never had a hangover make you ill.”

“You have not been drinking, if you had, you would have been hanging off of Simut or Kawab or I for much of last night.” Ah, the cheeky bastard was still in there, even with the new responsibilities since Khun had stepped down due to illness. “But you did not, and according to your neighbors, this is not the first time you’ve woken up sick.”

Geordi pushes past him to go back into their house, but it only takes a few moments before they emerge again, a slightly cleaner tunic pulled over their head and face scrubbed with water. “It’s embarrassing enough that you had to come get me, man. At least let me deal with my own bullcrap. I feel fine now anyways, must have just been a nightmare that freaked me out. Or a stomach bug.”

Akhpet nodded as they got walking back up the path to the House of Montu. Of the lot of them that had gone to Biau and Canaan, Geordi knew their friends all had dreams of their experiences, some of which were not pleasant to relive. Ptahmose in particular would sometimes wake himself up by screaming, the chaos of Urushalem had stayed with him, even if he was able to smile and laugh during the day. Something had happened, between Geordi taking that blow for him and their return to the camp, and he had not deigned to share it. Amani hadn’t made herself scarce, exactly, but she seemed untethered, for lack of a better word. Unsure of her next goal. Simut still favored his injured arm, and Kawab had thrown himself into caring for his wife and new family as soon as the army had returned, part of the reason why Geordi refused to shirk their duties at the Temple, so he would have more time with Rewed and baby Inena.

It’s on their walk to the House of Montu that Geordi asked, “Which of my neighbors told you I’ve been sick these past days?”

Akhpet hummed, readjusted the bag on his shoulder. “Ptahshedu’s daughter, the frizzy haired one.” “Merytamun? He only has one daughter.” “Yes, her. Said you’ve been sick for some time now, she also said that you were arguing with their livestock the other day.”

“That’s…” I didn’t even punch the damn thing this time! “I keep telling them that cursed goat should be turned into meat, but Ptahshedu says he behaves ‘perfectly well for a goat,’ ugh. But that’s unrelated, the thing’s just a dick. And I’ll be fine,” Akhpet had gotten a few steps ahead, and Geordi jogged to catch up, catching him by the shoulder, the cool wind coming off of the river helping them wake up. “We’ve both been through worse than the flu.”

Akhpet sighed but nodded as he leaned onto his friend. “Just be sure you’re feeling better when you go visit Kawab, otherwise I think Rewed will take the place of the most fearsome foe you’ve gone against.”

“Ah, Akhpet, don’t you know you’re going to visit them with me?”
________

The rest of the day went with little fanfare, save for an incident where a farmers boat was besieged by crocodiles. Besieged was not necessarily the correct word- but it was the opinion held by the aforementioned man. To be more accurate, he had landed on shores of a part of the river where the great beasts sometimes congregated, and was quite startled and upset to see them deposited in the shallows and silt around it. His fuss had caused a bit of a commotion, due to his insistence on the importance of the raft to himself, and it had taken some time for the men of the Temple to persuade him out of attempting to drive the crocodiles away. This was mostly Akhpet and Simut's doing, admittedly, convincing him to leave it until the animals departed or at least lessened in number. Geordi had been a bit busy trying to postulate what could be so important upon a boat made of papyrus reeds.

True to Simut's predictions, the animals had receded back into the water as the sun reached its apex, and the man was carefully able to reach the boat and navigate it to another bank, thankfully steering clear of the predators. He never did share what his cargo was, to Geordi’s disappointment.

After the effigy of Montu was given dinner and placed in his private chambers, with Geordi joking that the statue had gotten heavier whilst they were away- the other priests must have been ‘feeding’ him well, Simut and Geordi left to visit for a time with Kawab and Rewed at their home. Akhpet had departed in another direction, but placated the two with an assurance that he was just going to go pick up his own wife, Khenwes.

Luckily for Akhpet and Khenwes, they only showed up to their friend's door a quarter of an hour after Simut and Geordi had, which meant the two of them didn't have to go find him. The house of Rhenwes and Kawab, and now Inena, was a two-roomed affair with a large covered patio, with neither room being particularly tidy at the moment, located within the larger, fenced area of Kawab's parent's farm. His mother and father's home crowded with other family members, Kawab had built much of the newer house on his own soon before he and Rewed were wed.

Kawab’s mother and older sister were there as well, though the latter of the two was occupied when Geordi and Simut entered, admonishing her child for pulling on the tail of Kawab's family's dog, Abut. Abut himself seemed only slightly ruffled by the encounter, thankfully, though he did move away from the young one.

Kawab and Rewed looked well, though quite tired. Inena was still kind of strange looking, in Geordi’s private opinion- they did not dare share that with either of the new parents, instead remarking that he looked well. Upon arrival, the infant had been a sickly yellow color, which had apparently been quite a shock to the couple, but the Bes-wife that had helped her had explained to Rewed that such an effect was not uncommon in newborn children. Personally, Geordi was just glad that the jaundice subsiding made him look less off-putting.

The small get-together split more or less into two conversational groups, a few of them breaking away at any given time to fetch something for Rewed if she was holding Inena, which she did for much of the night, or grab a clay mug to drink from. Rewed did deign to allow some of her friends and in-laws to hold him, though Geordi declined, citing their intermittently shaking hands. Rewed did not argue the decision, and no offense was taken.

Sitting next to Kawab, both of them leaning on one of the patio walls of his home, Geordi oscillated between participating in the conversation of their peers from the temple, of which a majority was amicable ribbing with brief intermissions of sincerity, and listening in on the women's group's own distinct dialogue. And while it was a bit hard to hear them at times, especially over the noise of the conversation that Geordi was sat within, and the women's voices lowering when they hit upon certain topics, Geordi did manage to hear Rewed's relief over the fact that, even with an infant waking her every few hours to be fed, and the soreness she still was afflicted by, at least she would not be dealing with morning sickness anymore.

As Kawab's sister agreed whole-heartedly on the matter, Geordi paused, and as the noise of the conversation turned into a haze around them, grabbed tightly onto the loose fabric on the front of their tunic. Thought of their sickness, and remembered the party after their battalion had returned from Canaan, and the amorous night they had shared with another homebound soldier. The pieces began to fall together.
________

They stuck around for a moment after most of their friends and neighbors had left Kawab and Rewed's homes, and hoped that their imposition was not too inconvenient; they only had one question they needed to ask.

“Rewed, pardon the strange question but, who is the Bes-wife who is taking care to make sure you and Inena are well?”

“Um, that would be Shiphra, why do you ask?”
________

First Month of Peret, 2959 BCE (One week later)

The next few days were… interesting. The old Bes-wife Shiphra, when Geordi consulted with her the next day, was initially quite dismissive of their concerns, which they had unfortunately expected. It had taken a long and incredulous conversation to get her to even indulge in talking about Geordi’s claims of biological oddity. But once they had managed to convince her, it was another thing entirely to persuade her to give them the decoction one would need to end a pregnancy in its early stages.

It wasn’t so much that she was averse to request, Geordi was far from the first person to ask her for it, and according to her own beliefs, permitted before quickening occurred, as the being within was merely an ‘appendage of its mother,’ which Geordi couldn’t argue, and wouldn’t regardless. No, her reluctance was more so on the suspicion that Geordi would be forcing another person to drink it, though they only pierced that together when she snapped at them about Amani, of all people.

“That Medjay girl you run around the village with, this is for her, isn’t it? I don’t know why you felt the need to come up with such a story, but if she feels the need for this tonic, she shall come to me herself. If you have given her a child, should you act as a man and provide for her, and not trick her into drinking it to avoid such!”

Geordi pinched their brow and looked down, taking a deep breath as they tried to ignore what was being insinuated. “Does everyone think that we’re together? I swear, Amani’s just a friend of mine. She would cut me navel to neck if I tried to put myself upon her anyways, not that I feel the need to.”

If anything, this admittedly crude reply only fanned the flames of Shiphra’s fire. “Do not come into my house and speak vulgarly to me. I am not a fool, I know those Medjay speak not our language- I don’t know how you got her to lay with you but I will not be privy to helping you skirt your responsibilities if she does not wish it. Bring her back if she wants my help, but if not then leave my home. This is a women’s place, and you are not meant to be here!”

With each statement, Shiphra took her raised wooden cane and drubbed Geordi with it, as if to banish a pesky spirit from the premises of her house. It was only after several drubbings, though, that Geordi ripped the stick from her grasp and threw it to the other side of the room, before proceeding with an action they had taken great care to try and avoid doing in front of other people for the past several years. Their tunic thrown to the side, Geordi stood in front of Shiphra in only their linen kilt, and held out their arms wide as if for examination, or as if to challenge her.

“Do you believe it now, that I could be a child of Hepi, or do I need to take the rest of it off as well to assure you?”
________

When Ptahmose next came to visit the house of Geordi, formerly the house of Hunero, he found them sitting in the center of their home, the dark interior insufficiently candlelit. They sat cross legged on the floor, and to Ptahmose’s surprise, seemed to be staring very intently at a clay bowl, filled with an herbal tincture.

“Finally decided to talk to someone about your sickness, then? I was beginning to worry for you, sen. All the time I’ve known you, you’ve never become ill. I suppose it has to happen to everyone, though. What concoction were you told to take?” He wrinkled his nose at the sight, and pat Geordi’s shoulder sympathetically. “Yeah, that looks like it tastes terrible. Hope you feel better afterwards, though.”

Of all of the possible reactions Ptahmose expected, they did not anticipate for their neighbor to begin crying, but when they opened their mouth it was not a sob that formed, rather: four quiet words. “Ptahmose, I’m not sick.”

The younger man tilted his head, but the statement did make him more confident in his venture into Geordi’s space, grabbing for himself a clay cup of beer and sitting across from them, on their rickety bed. After so many years, Geordi and Ptahshedu’s family moved in each other’s houses almost as freely as they did in their own, particularly Ptahmose and Mery. “What’s the medicine for, then?”

“It’s to make me bleed again. But I’m not sure if I should take it.”

A long silence, then a quiet ‘ohhhh,’ from Ptahmose as he realized what they meant. After that, an even longer pause, before he tentatively asked, “Didn’t realize you had to worry about that… do you want to talk about it?”

A common question between them, especially in the weeks after returning from the Canaanite lands, when Ptahmose could not sleep without ghosts assailing him, and when Geordi would get stuck in their own mental ruts.

“... I think, both options are scary to me. If I do not drink it, I might die of hemorrhage, as your mother did. I may grow very sick, and fight so hard, only to end up with a child dead and myself barren, as Duae did. This body of mine, that I’ve been hiding for years, may become known to the people of Waset, and damn me but I fear that almost as much as the idea of death reaching for me again, but this time catching hold. And should we both be well afterwards, I do not know how to be a mother, or father, or whatever else they would call me.

“On the other hand, I could drink this which Shiphra has given me, which has a smaller but still possible risk of killing me, but which would keep my body as my own. But if I do that, I would have destroyed my only blood kin, or what would have become it. And even after Canaan, I’m not sure I am strong enough to break the first familial tie I’ve found in five years. And though I don’t know the first thing about raising a child, and I would be alone to do so, I find myself wanting to have someone who loves me.”

“.... Well, that’s silly.”

“Excuse me?”

“Wait, wait- not the thing about your body being known, or the, uhm, you’re right about the fact that it’s dangerous. But the thing about being alone. That’s not true.”

“Do you see a husband or wife for me here, Ptahmose?” A broad gesture around Geordi’s home, most of it standard for a home in the fourth Nome, made irregular primarily from the abundance of scrolls and leather bound books present. “Do you see a mother or father, or- I had a little sister and brother, before I came here, but neither of them came with me, Ptahmose. What family do you see here??”

“You are looking at me right now!” Ptahmose shouts, shattering the tense din. “For years, my family has looked after you, and you have looked after us. When Mery was sick, you gave advice to Duae. When our goat upset you, we moved him. You saved my life in Yerushalem, did you forget about that? Did you forget how my family embraced you when we returned? Sen, I call you, and you dare say you’re alone in the world? For someone so learned, how can you also be so dumb?”

By the end of his tirade, Ptahmose is standing in front of Geordi, his hand tangled in the front of their tunic, forcing them to look up at him from where they now kneel. But it’s only a moment before Ptahmose released their shirt. Geordi does not straighten it, instead they sit back down, and pick up the bowl with one hand.

“Should I decide not to drink this, then, do I have your word that you will help me when I need it? When I cannot leave my house for fear of mockery, would you support me?”

“I owe you a life debt, of all the favors I could give, running errands seems pretty easy.”

“And your family will help me as well, you think?”

“As much as we can.”

“...Give me some time to think about it, alright?”

The tonic remains unconsumed, until it is tossed into the weeds outside of Geordi’s home, and feeds the plants that grow there as the seasons pass. And while the weeks and months pass, there is only rarely a time that the home’s occupant is alone there.
________

The First Nome, Inebu-Hedj
Men-Nefer
Opet, 2958 BCE

Before his army, several thousand men strong, had seized the eastern frontiers of Bedouin and Canaanite inhabitants, Den had held arrangements with the architects that would be finishing the assembly of his royal abode while he was at war. Not that there was anything wrong with the Estate of Djet, indeed it was a fine villa, but to live within it for the duration of his reign would be undesirable- how paltry, to not be able to step out of his late fathers shoes, to expand one's political domain but to stay in the house of one's father. Adobe was never meant to last forever, Den felt little grief at taking what had worth and use, leaving what remained to be discarded or recycled by the people.

The Royal Estate of Pharaoh Horus Den Udimu was a sprawling one, most of it a single story tall save for a number of rooftop porches and sitting areas. Encircling the entire estate was a tall wall of mud brick, over a foot thick, and made smooth with gypsum plaster, both inside and outside of the domain. Tiles of faience in a variety of shades decorated the walls, alongside paintings of the Kemetian country, the Patron gods of Men Nefer and the Pharaoh's family, and many other deities of note. This was a constant theme throughout the estate, from the outer courtyard to the innermost chambers. There was certainly space for them, even effigies of some of the less pertinent Gods had their place in the Palace of Den.

Compared to the diminutive thatch huts and mud brick homes of the common folk of Kemet, many of them only a few rooms if not just one, the Pharaoh's estate could be divided into three sections. The first, where the main entrance and outer courtyard were, was over a khet wide in length, not even counting the animal pens on the left to the entrance, and the bulk storage area, both of these walled off and partially roofed, on the right. At the back of the outer courtyard were intricate thresholds into the inner courtyard, a veranda between them for when the Pharaoh, or more likely his dignitaries, to meet with and consult with lower ranking visitors.

The second section was just as large, and similarly divided into three areas. The inner courtyard, which was also the center of the compound, was artfully interspersed with plantlife: trees, flowers, a variety of botanical life both domestic and foreign, the latter population having recently increased somewhat. In the center was an artificially made pond, fired brick lining the walls of it, colored tiles forming patterns on the bottom- though they were hard to see sometimes with the plentiful lotuses and other aquatic plants flourishing under the care of Lady Merneith and their servants. One one side of the pond is a stone altar, carved with a beautiful attention to detail with words of praise for the God Horus, his effigy sitting atop it, hidden from the bright rays of the sun by a canopy of embroidered linen. Truly, Den thought, there were few places more worthy of appreciation than his mother’s garden, Horus would likely appreciate the upgrades, though even the house of Djet had given him much glory as well, Merneith hadn’t had as much room for her garden there. Den had specifically instructed the builders to make the inner courtyard quite large.

To the left were the slave and servant quarters, those who attended to the royal family and their estate. These were simple abodes, lacking the ornamentation of the more prestigious quarters of the Pharaoh’s family, more functional than beautiful. The kitchens were located in this area as well. On the right side was the administrative quarters- indeed many of the scribes and priests who worked intermittently there had homes of their own, but on the off chance of one's work running late, or just living a distance away, there were sleeping quarters in this sector as well.

The rear third of the house was arguably the most regal, being the throne room and personal quarters of the royal family, as well as the Sanctum of Horus. In the center was the throne room, and what it lacked in width it made up for in grandeur. Richly colored tiles and stone formed an ornate pattern on the floor, leading to a dais upon which a throne made of rich imported wood sat, inlaid with gold and draped with fine white linens, large palm fans on either side. Tables and chairs lined the walls, as such to be available for when meetings would be held, and the air was hazy with the smoke of incense.

Left of the throne room would be the Domain of Horus, the statue’s area for nightly repose, as well as a place of contemplation for the Pharaoh. A few skylights shone brightly into his alcove, allowing plantlife to grow around his pedestal, though they were only given water and life by Merneith’s hand. This area was one of the most richly painted, colorful depictions of Horus and his family, much of the extended pantheon having places within as well. Hieroglyphic script detailed prayers to the Gods, prayers for prosperity and for the blessings they could bestow. Den had spent many an evening here, contemplating his own past and future actions, planning for the seasons and years ahead.

Finally, to the right of the throne room was the familial quarters,including the personal chambers of Horus Den himself, the former regent Merneith, Den’s wives, Semat and Seshemetka, and their children, though as of yet he had only one child, an infant boy named Anedjib. These apartments, in Den’s opinion, well exceeded those of his late father, being both larger in scale and of greater beauty. The plastered walls were painted with scenes of northern beauty, the Nile’s Delta marshes filled with a vast array of reeds, lotuses, and animals among the flowing water, which itself ended when it reached the Great Green Sea. Cushions and animal pelts were plenty on the floor, a stout wooden table leaned up against one of the walls. Den’s room had in it his own selection of paintings, an abstract depiction of the ‘two deserts’ of which he was named after, the life giving Nile connecting them. His bed was a wooden frame and not much else, heavy sheets unneeded most of the year in their climate, and on one wall was a collection of chests, those which held his clothing and some of his valued possessions.

But after such a conquest of the Biau and the Canaanite lands, his hoard had expanded a good bit, and he was this day in the process of going through it. The process of bringing his war trophies back to Men-Nefer had finally slowed after some time, and in the weeks since returning from the conquered cities of Canaan his not-small home had gone from mostly empty to surprisingly congested with his spoils.

The cattle had been taken to the fields outside Men-Nefer, and the majority of the slaves that had returned with him to the Two Lands had been dispersed among the towns of Men-Nefer and the capital city itself, the people enslaved made to work for the estate of the Pharaoh however their talents would apply. For the majority of them this was unskilled labor and farmwork, but Den was pleased at the number of craftsmen they had brought back. The people of Kebny in particular had been curiously advanced in their technology and wartime tactics compared to their sister cities, a factor which Den tentatively attributed to their status upon the northern seas and trading relations with far off lands, which would need to be further looked into.

The livestock that now resided in the animal pens of the Pharaoh’s estate were more peculiar than mere cattle and slaves, though. The ‘Kungas’ that had been brought back from Yericho, strange equids that had never been seen before in Kemet, for one. As the knowledge went, they had come to Yericho from Ebla, and further then had been originally bred in Nagar, as a mixed breed of a donkey and indigenous wild ass. Den had brought in some of his more traveled advisors to observe them, but as of yet they were more a curiosity than anything. These were not the only foreign animals to have been brought back, but Den did consider them the strangest, and also possibly the most versatile, especially should they be able to gain more of them in the future.

But even aside from the livestock and men gained from their excursion, there was also to be seen a veritable wealth of material goods that Den had gained, that which had been brought back as his initial laurels. Animal pelts and foreign textiles were rolled up and stacked atop each other, Canaanite and Bedouin armor and tools of war, some of them made of an odd grayish metal. Scrolls, clay tablets and leather bound books, though only a few of them were in a written tongue that Den or his compatriots could read, a many of them written in the modified angular cuneiform of the far east, and some which he could not even identify, but curiously thought that a few had a similar script to the Aksumite scripture, a book of which lay long unstudied but also undisturbed within the estate, which didn’t make sense due to the vast distance between them. He made a note to have this further examined later.

Even more numerous were the little things, items easy to sweep up and carry, rings and beads, necklaces and brooches, coins of many different makes and material. Den smiled as he held a chunk of quartz up and saw it glow in the light of the sun, before placing it back down. A few exotic pieces had already joined his collection, and much of what he didn’t select would likely be picked over by his mother, wives, and eventually the noblemen and women of Men-Nefer as a reward for their loyalty and familial service.

A large flat coin, one that typically would be wholly uninteresting, caught Den’s eye then, not for its metallic sheen, which has dulled with age and travel, or it’s worth, being one of many, but for the peculiar design stamped upon it. The coin smiled at Den, and he picked it up with a furrowed brow, bringing it closer to his face, and then with his other hand grabbed hold of the leather sack it had spilled out of. Within was an array of copper and silver coins, even a few dirty gold ones, but only the one he held had a face upon it. He turned it to the other side, and found, to a slight frustration, more symbols and runes that he was unable to read. “And this is from the east?” He asked, but to no one in particular, more of a private musing. “I wasn’t aware they had such in depth contact with Aksum there as well, to have brought into their script. How strange.”

He was interrupted from his musings by the quickly approaching clatter of feet outside of the storage buildings, and tossed the coin back down onto the bag from which it had come, turning away to egress and see what now required his attention. Indeed as the Pharaoh, he had more important things to do than to query about the peculiar make of foreign coin. And forgotten as such, it would languish among his spoils for many years.
________

The Fourth Nome, Waset Village
Early Aket, 2958 BCE

It's a quiet night, save for the distant sound of cicadas and the ever present sound of the Nile. Indeed most of the town of Waset is asleep by now, the waning moon sitting high in the sky.

In the Kemetian Pantheon, the Moon was identified as Khonsu. A God of Time and Healing, the protector of those who traveled in the darkness. Nuria had been born at night, a few days ago.

In what few moments of rumination Geordi had found in the days since their daughter arrived, they had noted the irony of the situation. A priest of the House of Montu, the God of Nomads, having a child that arrived during the domain of the God of Travellers. A priest who proclaimed themself the son of Hepi, a statement that had originated due to their appearance on the riverbanks during the inundation, but now held even more meaning; Hepi being a God who represented both sexes in one being.

If nothing else, Ptahshedu had had a bit of a laugh about it, after checking in with them.

“Why the name Nuria? Is that common in your homeland?”

Amani's voice shook Geordi out of their tired mind. If coffee existed these days I would be drinking it by the gallon, I swear.

Geordi had chosen to continue living alone, not having a partner. That guy from the party and I never shared how to contact each other. He left before I woke up. Sorry, Nerita, I never thought this would be a possibility? I don’t even know if I would contact you if I could?

“No, not really.”

Because they had no family living with them, and not wanting to leave their home, formerly that of Hunero, which they had grown quite attached to and frankly cautious of leaving due to their bloated appearance, their close friends had agreed to stay with them on varying days. This was Amani's night, in particular, and her presence was a welcome one, her having younger siblings meaning she vaguely knew how infants worked, which was more than Geordi could say.

“I have not heard that name before, is why I ask.”

“It's from a story I heard long ago… Nuria was the name of a woman- a brave woman, wise. Her world had just encountered what they thought were gods, but when the ‘gods’ asked to be spoken to as men, she listened, and for this bravery she was shown how to see the world in its entire.”

They swallow around a lump in their throat, a calloused hand placed on the infant's chest, gentle but covering most of it easily, to feel her heart beating and lungs moving underneath her tiny ribs. She makes a quiet noise, eyes unfocused but squinting upwards from where she's held in Geordi’s lap.

“And she was kind to a stranger in a strange land.”
________

The Fourth Nome, Thebes
Aket, 2957 BCE
One Year Later

I'm going to try to write this quickly, before Nuria wakes up and starts trying to put stuff in her mouth again. Never realized how crafty a teething one-year old could be, when will child locks be invented again? I'm… going to have to work on that.

In an act which Amani has called ‘a pretty stupid idea,’ she’s gotten much more comfortable with Kemetian, I’ve started up what can charitably be called ‘language integration courses’ for some of the adult Medjay in the Theban House of Amun. Admittedly, it would have been my preference to be able to start this sooner, many of the southern people have been here for over a year. In my defense, I’ve been a bit busy trying to keep Nuria safe and healthy, to say nothing of the reluctance of the Priests of the Temple of Amun. The divides between the natives and their new neighbors are discouragingly stark still. The Medjay kids are having an easier time of it, or at least some of them are, but it’s not cohesive.

It ended up being Cheriheb Nebkaure and Khun, both of whom now have relinquished many of their duties but still reside frequently at the House of Montu, who had persuaded the men of the Temple to give this a trial run, giving us one month to give instruction to two dozen men and women from the Medjay tribes, specifically in the local language and practices, to better prepare for long term cohesion. It doesn’t look like the Aksumite empire is planning to cede their new territories anytime soon, or at least to people who don’t follow their faith. So language, communication in general honestly.

Nuria is my main compatriot in this quest, despite her reservations and her tribe's occasionally impudent attitude towards her, she wants to help them adjust to living here. Also, probably she wants to have to help less with minute translation work between arguing villagers. Tefibi of Naqada, and the soldier Akhpet as well, who both served as our instructors before the war on Biau. I think Tefibi was surprised to see me directing this rodeo, but I asked him specifically to help due to his fluency in the medja, and his prior work with the Medjay archer corps. Qedunas of the House of Amun is our local supervisor while we hold our classes there.

Language is a major factor here, obviously. Can’t hardly communicate if you don’t know any of the same words. This effort has been and will continue to be unfortunately dampened by the fact that almost no one around here can read save for the clergy, but it’s not exactly feasible to take the time to teach all of these people such a convoluted writing system, at the same time we’re trying to teach them Kemetian, with such a stringent time limit. So we will be focusing on conversational Kemetian, common phrases and words that are the most useful.

We will also be going over local history, daily practices and culture. How the Two Lands were united, the story of how Ra rises every day, how Hepi brings the inundation, what Gods are revered and which ones are feared. With religion being such a major part of many Kemetians' lives, I want to try and facilitate this into something productive and comprehensible to the immigrants here.

Aside from mentoring the Medjay people, we will also be working on adjusting the Kemetian locals to their new neighbors as well. This will go a couple different ways; the first way is through oral presentation, trying to persuade the people of Waset, Thebes, Madu and Naqada towards acceptance and inclusion, or at least away from complete apathy. Should we be able to make positive relations with the Medjay class, we will be able to share their folklore as well. It was a habit of the Roman Empire, when subjugating new lands, to partially adopt the local gods and customs, correct? Like how Jupiter was associated with Zeus, perhaps we can do something like that?

I don’t know who I’m asking, this is still just a journal.

A couple craftsmen have volunteered to take on the more fluent Medjay as workers in their crafts, though it makes my heart heavy that for many of them, it is only because their sons died in the Biau and Canaan that they are taking these options. I know the ones I have talked to personally still hurt deeply, but the work must go on. I pray not to be reopening old wounds.

Gods, help me not screw this up.

[Hanajima]

Ness Armstrong

House of Silas

I awoke hearing something that I had not heard in a long time, the words of the Old Testament. “But he said unto her, 'Thou speakest as one of the foolish women speaketh. What? shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not receive evil?' In all this did not Job sin with his lips.” I rose my head and could see the stranger, Silas I think his name was, hunched over in his chair in front of the fire pouring over the words of a black book which seemed so out of place in a land as strange as this. He must have practiced that verse multiple times, because he struggled to read the rest, stammering and pausing, rereading again and again, until he reached the end of the chapter.

“After this opened Job his mouth, and cursed his day,'” I recited from memory as I rose from the bed, Silas looking at me surprised. I continued on, “(...) For now should I have lain still and been quiet, I should have slept: then had I been at rest. With kings and counsellors of the earth, which build desolate places for themselves. Or with princes that had gold, who filled their houses with silver...”

He stared at me as though I had sprouted wings, and in the faint glimmer of the firelight, his face looked somewhat attractive. Broken and scarred, but attractive. “You know the Gospels?” he asked in awe.

“I remember some passages,” I replied, sitting on the foot of the bed.

“Are you a Believer?” Silas asked with a hopeful tone in his voice that made me feel bad about my answer disappointing him... as well as worried he might retaliate.

“I... don't know what it means to be a believer,” I replied as... semi-truthfully as I could. I did not in fact know what he meant.

Somehow that answer encouraged him and he smiled and became much more energetic. “I have loved Christ Jesus since I was nine, when some of the Imperium's missionaries visited my village,” he said, looking at me knowingly despite me not knowing at all, as he approached and sat at my feet almost obediently, offering me the book. I reluctantly took it in my hands and glossed over it. “Please teach me from the book, I have trouble reading, I'll be ever so grateful if you do.”

It was... a Bible. I read through it, the script was strange but I could somehow understand it. As Silas looked at me hopefully, I felt my face flush and decided the best way to move on was to agree. “Which book?” I asked.

He did not take even a moment to reply. “Matthew please, I've always wanted to read it.”

“Alright then,” I replied, swearing to myself this must be a good deed if there ever was one. But surprisingly it was not obnoxious or boring. Silas would pause and ask questions whenever he was confused, sometimes to praise my enunciation, or to ask me what I thought about a particular verse. It was actually kind of fun, all of the things that I liked about reading the Good Book every Sunday, and it reminded me of home... or rather, an idea of what home should have been like. I didn't even notice it had become daylight until there was a knock on the door and I looked at the window.

Silas opened the door and it was the redheaded woman, Hupaya, I'd met yesterday with some clothes in her hands. “How is he holding up?” she asked and handed him the clothes. Silas turned and provided me the tunic and trousers, which I hurriedly put on. He nodded and said that I was alright and let her come in afterward, she sat down in the chair across from me. “I just wanted to apologize again for what happened, my friend is really defensive of me, and when she thinks I'm in danger, there's nothing she won't do to protect me.”

I stared down awkwardly, partly because her intense stare was frightening and partly because she was really pretty and it would make me blush. “It's quite alright,” I replied with a dismissive wave that probably looked stupid. “I think anyone would reasonably do what she did if a naked madman ran up to them.”

“You're too kind,” Hupaya said with a happy relieved sigh. “Won't you please come eat with my family tonight as a means to repay you?”

I wanted to grit my teeth, this was so awkward. “There's no need for repayment, I f-forgive you completely. Go and be at peace,” I honestly had no idea what I was saying but she was acting as though this "debt" had some special religious significance. Perhaps it did to her, since these people had never heard of Christianity until this fellow Silas. Who knew what they believed? “... I am sincere.” I added.

She looked a bit bothered and I was afraid I had said something offensive until Silas chimed in. “It is the manner of us Christians to forgive without repayment, Hupaya. Christ has paid the blood price for us, so we forgive all without restitution.”

Us?

Hupaya smiled and politely excused herself, saying she had chores to do. I couldn't tell if this was an excuse to get away or not, but Silas escorted her outside and they talked for awhile before she left, so perhaps not. What they said, I could not make out. I was too engrossed in the bound copy of the Bible I was holding.

---

“He is like a perfect saint,” Silas said with intense enthusiasm as he and Hupaya talked a distance from the cabin. “All throughout the night he did nothing but recite the Gospel to me from memory and instruct me perfectly.”

“And didn't you see how he lowered his gaze throughout the entire conversation with me?” Hupaya replied excitedly. “I haven't seen that level of modesty since you Brother Silas!”

“I think God has blessed the community with a real teacher who can spread the faith, unlike me.” Silas said cheerfully without a hint of self-pity.

“I am just a little confused...” Hupaya trailed off. “I asked him if he was a 'cross-worshiper...' I had to use such language around Sarukê and the others, and he said, 'not since I was younger.'”

“Maybe he was raised in some heresy before finding the true faith,” Silas replied, which allayed Hupaya's fears and made her jump up excitedly. “He's not from around here, and there's some strange beliefs in the world. I will see if I can get him to lead the next prayer session.”

“Maybe I could finally work up the courage to get Sarukê to come, since she owes him restitution for the strike,” Hupaya said hopefully and Silas nodded happily. “I look forward to next Sunday. Goodbye, Brother Silas. God bless you.”

“God bless you too, Sister Hupaya. Safe travels.”

[Observation Post 13]

5/6/2024

498 days passed from when Willis Philip went to bed one night as a Canadian construction worker and woke up in a strange new world as a nobody in Marina Beach. Immortal yet penniless, Willis stumbled into the Sahara village before he got eaten by jungle animals. There he spent his time exploited as a foreign worker, where his job is primarily plowing the rice fields and assisting other villagers when he can. For example helping out the 3 widows who get lonely at night (their husband died fighting the Kurna people, an enemy village to Sahara whose rivalry extends way before the village chief was even born according to the oldest living elder of Sahara). But yeah life is pretty miserable on the account of no modern commodities which Willis have taken for granted. Without tiktok, Willis is forced to stave off his immense boredom by partaking in the most popular Sahara sport besides frolicking under the mango tree: wrestling.

Right now Willis is wresling with another village youth, Jeffo. They bonded over mutual hatred of Erico, the village bully who is hitting on the girl Jeffo likes.

The match begins with a customary standoff: Willis and Jeffo glaring at each other, clenching their fist, bumping their chest together. Willis is a head taller, so he looks down on Jeffo with some sass as he goes in for a cheapshot: "You are going DOWN, buddy. I, WRECKING WILLIS will DESTROY you like the shrimp you are!"

Jeffo stands his ground, unimpressed. "If you wish to defeat me, train for a 100 years!" But he catches his elbow under Willis' chin! Willis stumbles back cursing unintelligibly, spittle flying at Jeffo blinding him to a kick! Jeffo answers back, but Willis shrinks away safely out of reach.

"F********* Maybe I will!" Willis huffs, and both circle each other crab-like on top of a strawmat. "Hahaha, what the hell comeback is that?" Jeffo taunts, and lands a haymaker to Willis' gut before he can respond. Willis grunts in pain, crouches down and heatbutts straight into Jeffo's crotch even as Jeffo pummels his back. Both men tumble down on the mat, Willis turns red as Jeffo throws a leglock strangling him, but just stares at Jeffo with a dung-eating grin as he slowly rises from his knees, LIFTING Jeffo's entire body wrapped around his neck, and pries open both legs with brute force. "Shit- fucking asshole." Jeffo glowers, upside down.

"Who's laughing now?" Willis maintains his smug smile while dangling Jeffo like a toy. Willis yelps sharply, then, releasing his grip on Jeffo as he retreats, fervently scrubbing his eyes. Then Jeffo sweeps under his leg and topples Willis out of bound.

"Whadahell, that's cheating!" Willis grumbles, taking Jeffo's hand to help him up. "Like what the chief's said, all's fair in love and battle." Jeffo laughs. "You go outta bound, you lose the game. So, you in or what?" He holds out his hand for a kucklebump.

"Fine." Willis smiles and the two pound hands. "Let's teach Erico a lesson. A permanent one." Jeffo spits out Erico's name like venom. "That rat bastard have been harassing Erica for weeks. What's so impressive about being in the hunting party anyways? Stupid fool."

"Didn't Erica accept his invitation to go 'gather the mangoes' with him?" Willis asks curiously. "If they are both happy with each other, then-"

"Even you believe in that rumour, huh?" Jeffo interrupts Willis darkly. "I mean, I just think-" Jeffo shakes his head. "Erica doesn't know any better. She is too nice to everyone, that poor girl. She doesn't know how to refuse Erico's advances. So I will help her. Unlike Erico who just want to use her body, I only want what's best for her. We will be so happy together, and she will bear my children..." While Jeffo rants about his fantasies, Willis ponders about the consequences of killing Erico. Erico is part of the Sahara community who are against hosting Willis, due to the fact that he is an outsider, white, and sometimes sprout crazy things. Willis, in order to combat this negative word-of-mouth about him, have been working fairly hard this past year and a half, but with Erico it seems to no avail. The man is vehemently against letting Willis stay in the village, always provoking Willis for no reason other than that one time when Willis is caught with his mother in her home. Jeffo's death, if executed successfully, will help both his friend Jeffo and let him continue having fun with Erico's mother. In essense, killing 2 birds with one stone. The downside of getting caught is severe, however. Murder is punishable by death or banishment. Since Willis have already 'burnt his bridge' with Kurna by executing one of their scouts, he will have to tough it out in the jungle alone, which is basically a slower death.

"So, you got a plan?" Willis asks after a lull in the conversation.

"We can't do it here, obviously. But I know every couple of moons, Erico forces Erica to sneak out of the village, going into the mango groves-" Jeffo grits his teeth at the unpleasent memories of 2 figures holding hands under the shade of the mangoe trees. "Usually Erico gets there first. We kill him, and rid his body before Erica sees us. The jungle will claim his body and no one will be wiser. Oh, right-" He pause and looks down at the crude map Willis have drawn on the dirt. "I know a spot in the palisades where we can squeeze through undetected. We will hide in the groves and wait for Erico there."

"Do you have a knife or something?" Willis asks, making a slicing motion across his neck. Jeff shakes his head. "Too risky, people will notice immedietly. We will have to improvise." He gestures to a sharp rock nearby, and frowns. "Erico's a good hunter, but he's no match for us. Once he's gone for good, I'll ensure Erica will open her heart up to me."

"Coolio!" Willis gives Jeffo's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Why don't you show me where the hole is."

[G-Tech Corporation]

Part 7, Chapter 13: The River, and Blood Flowing

April 2nd, 50 AG

Underfoot the timbers creaked, new and wet and green. Not so raw and ripe that they still had the obvious pulp and resin in them, but ten times wetter than a properly cured construction material, the work of industrious artisans riven from the terrain beyond the Korvwasth at speed.

There was a tang of rain in the air, and toward the Cursed Peaks the sky burgeoned with clouds - not as dark as thunderheads, unless I missed my guess, but a storm before nightfall to be sure. I glanced to my left, to where a small brazier with smoking coals sheltered under a tallhat behind a set of ramparts concealing it from view along the river.

It was a good plan. Petyor could be commended for that, at least. But my heart forgave that it had come to this juncture.

Korva wound on unconcerned, even as the sight of white oars dipping in her green waters flowing down to the south bespoke a tragedy unfolding. There were no sails, not now, not with blows at hand. Behind me the shifting of planks and the drumming of hobnailed boots heralded another watcher come to the apex of the tower.

I held up a hand, forestalling the words before they could be uttered.

"I have heard your advice. You speak out of an abundance of caution, as is proper. There is more at stake here than a skirmish, but the keeping of my kith and kin. In such circumstances I adjudge the better part of discretion as valor."

A heavy sigh came from the head of my guard, the winter-bearded Marcus bending fractionally at the waist just at the edge of my eyesight. He looked fine indeed, garbed for war, his soot-black steel peaking out from beneath the midnight surcoat of his station. It made me feel like a popinjay next to him, my own armor gilt in pallid silver and blood-red scarlet, but the men had stood taller, held their weapons straighter when I had expected them yesterday; if the price of warriors doing their utmost was to look the fool, and to see this matter concluded with the swiftest outcome, then it was an expense remitted gladly.

Not a handful of breaths after Marcus departed to wait with the rest of my contingent a floor below, the slow clatter of boots across the water recalled my eyes to the two shorter fatter towers which stood on either side of the ribbon of gilt afternoon water. There pennants of the Great Anchor fluttered intermittently in the light northern breeze, defiant and proud, though they were a thousand leagues from the lands that had first called that flag their own. Small figures in shimmering armor moved restlessly about the palisades, weapons barely visible at this distance.

It would profit my assessment of my grandson little if I was so close I could act as his nursemaid. Strategos Ygriegos had refined the tactical situation alongside the neophyte to a significant extent, and I had done little more than be informed of the dispositions that were intended for the men of the Second, carefully keeping my conclusions to myself. Either the boy was ready to see war and earn his status as a blooded veteran, or he was not. It was not my place to intervene unless disaster genuinely threatened.

Down the breeze drifted now the curt sound of war-speech, the clack of spear on shield that was drilled into servants of the Imperium with their barracks-sleep until they could recite it half-drunk on a week without uninterrupted slumber. Only a small contingent of the Rampant had been detached for this purpose, but they stood tall and without fear upon their battlements - if I had been in the shoes of the summer-soldiers of the Green Ward, I should have gazed upon them with trepidation, counting their numbers and wondering with growing dread where the other men of the Great Company stood. When the Imperium marched to war it did so in numbers, and those numbers were not here displayed. An ambush? A feint? What was I missing?

But there was little time for such assessments. Little time indeed.

Not far beyond the wash of the Korva stood Laliwen, the home of the Amarusci, new sworn to the Oaths. Their competition with the men and women who served the Scholars of Green Ward, the Firmians and Allovans - it had become a bitter thing, a thing now settled with swords and fire rather than gold and words. The webs of the Eyes were many, so close to the borders of civilized men, and we had known of this raid by the uplanders almost as soon as the war-chiefs were convened. Commerce made strange bedfellows.

A dozen longships, built after the fashion of larger mercantile knaars which would normally traverse the shallow river in times of peace, loaded down with soldiers under the red boar of the Firmanian Master and the rising wave of the Ward. They were not fools. They expected to deal with the war-bands of the Amarusci, and their roundshields stood to on either side of the oars. But much was in readiness that went beyond a simple tribal raid. And Petyor's plan was good, as I judged it.

My weight shifted beneath me, I rested my palms on the rough balustrade and gazed across the intervening distance. Befuddle this armor. And the cautions of state. I was not yet so old and doddering that the hot blood did not sing in me occasionally, the clarion call of battle lending dread and fire to my veins in equal measure. Perhaps it is a measure of the iniquity of men and their brokenness that they can find joy in dealing death to others, to the marring of the imperishable visage of the Almighty where it is already broken by wicked plans. Is the potter right in breaking what has been misformed? Is it a small and petty thing to take righteous pleasure in the unmaking of the flawed?

A question for another time, a quieter time. Once they had finished the counting of the dead, and the wounded rested easy, I might put it to Petyor, to take further his measure. Men who wield power must be more careful than most to have the firmest of underpinnings for their actions, to understand not only how to draw the sword but when it should be sheathed.

A hum in the distance, sudden and terrible. Shields leapt upward along the line of longships as they advanced toward the twin towers, catching swift quarrels from arbalests and repeaters alike. No firearms spoke - this was, at the end of the day, a minor engagement, and depleting valuable ammunition and wearing down precision rifling simply to put down a hundred miscreants in padded cloth and coats of plates was not a winning proposition. Like so much of what the Imperium faced every day, week, month, it was a question of efficiency. Strength could not be everywhere, and it could be even less places if it was squandered. Much of the illusion of security rested on our foes not being sure of the limits of that strength, for those limits were never approached or brushed against. As it should be, where wisdom prevailed.

The longships continued their forward trajectory. If they could push past this warding emplacement, on the open waters of the river under oars they would out-race even a swift steed to Laliwen, to burn and pillage and murder as was their intent. Their captain was no fool - stopping to fight a foe entrenched in an elevated position, trammeled in boats on the water? That was a recipe for disaster, and a tidal bore choked with the corpses of his men. Their shields they bore aloft, though here and there men fell from the boats with a cry of dismay, some bolt or arrow finding her mark, and their rowers pushed forward. Tiny rivulets of white foam fell from their oars, the tempo quickened, men driven on by a rush of adrenaline and fear.

My breath came harder and faster now, eyes measuring distances. I could tell from flickers of movement on the boats that archers there were doing their best to suppress the men of Petyor's command, even with the disadvantage of their low angle of attack. Recurved shortbows had about as much chance of punching through the cuirasses the men of the Second wore as they did of suddenly bringing down each tower, but a lucky shot to the face or some joint of armor could still wound a man, and there was a morale component of the decision as well - better to do something against your enemy, anything, than simply sit and take the abuse. Formations had broken for smaller things, in the Great Northern War when the Danes insisted that their men weather the storm and stand ready. Flesh was a comprehensible thing, and any commander who expected their soldiers to behave as combat automatons was a fool.

They were almost past when I saw it. Lengths of stone hurtled down the closest side of the near tower, weights drawing weights in a durable and unmovable pulley system as had been planned.

Since the first years of the empire, when the Imperium had been no more a name for Mara and her environs, we had relied upon river-chains to control the passage of enemies and goods alike up and down the Elbe and Danube. Forged of supple alloy iron strong enough to hold back fully laden barges, anchored by towers of imperishable stone, they were a backbone of the riparian dominion over which the Great Anchor waved - and here the men of the Green Ward learned to their dismay the danger simple engineering could unleash upon the unweary.

To their credit, the first boat did their best to turn away from the danger, to arrest their course once they were aware of the lethal lengths of black steel menacing them from just above the waterline. But there is little men can do under even the best of conditions to check the flow of a river in spring flood, and when they had just been accelerating to move away from the rain of arrows which fell upon them... they might as well have tried to stand before an avalanche in the Erzgebirge for all the good it did them.

With a creaking crack the river-chain bisected the figurehead keel of the foremost vessel, before snapping forward and scything through the crew with sudden speed. I heard the shouts of dismay suddenly cut short, the tensile strength of that entire keel's acceleration suddenly rebounded along weak flesh and brittle bones. Slower now, the end of the ship caught on the chain instead of breaking, slewing the vessel sideways and sending her crew into the cold water as she overturned.

Then the second vessel impacted the chain, and the third rammed her from behind, timbers splintering and men cursing as they tried to keep their boat upright. They failed.

It was a chaos. Bolts continued to rain at a steady pace from the towers, a remorseless tempo of death which only increased in volume now that the shield-walls aboard the longships were no more. Out of the murky water figures scrambled onto the upturned bellies of their boats, only to suddenly clutch at invisible wounds and fall back into the uncaring embrace of the Korva's eddies and currents.

They would have been dead men then, in all likelihood. A few may have escaped, swimming downriver or sheltering amidst the wreck of the flotilla. But efficiency demanded more than a clear victory, however crushing. On that Petyor and Ygriegos had been in agreement, and it had filled me with equal parts pride and concern to concur with their assessment.

The illusion of security rested on many things. Part of that illusion was convincing our enemies that the price of their status was too heavy to bear, that resistance had as much chance of success as an attempt to fly to the moon by flapping their arms. Part of that illusion, to put it plainly, rested in savagery.

A dozen men dead by mundane means can be borne. One man dead in terror, a story of despair to be told by his kinsmen? His death was efficient. It had a value many times what would be assumed.

And so the crash of ballistae came to my ears, and flames blossomed amid the wreckage of the raiding ships. Battle-fire, that slurry of petrochemicals and incendiary exponents, kindled along the surface of the water, on the overturned hulls, under the flailing arms of the swimmers. It burned in the eddies and the whirlpools, and the shouts and curses became the screams of the damned.

I closed my ears, hardened my heart. These men had been dead once they had decided to prey upon their neighbors, to settle commercial disputes with axes and spears. This was just the outworking of that status which had already been ordained. What did it matter to these souls if they perished by the slow leaking of blood from their mortal vessels in the muddy water, or from lungs charred which suddenly inhaled an inferno as they struggled to stay above the waves? Their ledger had come due, and the means of the fulfilling of the tally had few implications for them, but many for those who would hear of their fates.

It would take several hours to clean up the mess properly, to make sure the fires didn't spread anywhere untoward, to talk the warbands of the sons of Laliwen out of a reprisal raid, to begin burying the dead. The Korva ran red for hours after that, tinged with the blood of the slain. But sometimes the harsh calculus could not be avoided; sometimes, peace meant ensuring you made the other dumb bastard die for his country.

[Tesserach]

Welcoming Strangers
And
Other Strange Customs of the Indus Valley Peoples

---

The Way abhorrs actions of passion,
To feel is to be alive, it is natural,
Whereas to live with responsibility,
Is contrary to our inclinations,
This too is natural.

Outside The Way, men govern with regulations,
Keep order with chastisements,
Only for people to flee from their responsibilities,
Yet in being regulated, people lose all self-respect and dignity,
And cease to regulate themselves.

For people are not so different from the mountain streams,
Which in the long trek from mountains to sea,
Follow always the path of least resistance,
The people and our communities are no different,
Following the course as to us seems best.

The work of The Way,
Through labour, through sacrifice,
Is to chart a path through life,
For ourselves and for others to follow,
That bends forever through humanity.
-Secrets of The Way of Great Peace

---

Oh imagine a land, it's a faraway place,
Where the caravan camels roam,
Where you can wander among every culture and tongue,
It's chaotic, but hey, it's home.

When the wind's from the East,
And the sun's from the West,
And the sand in the glass is right,
Come on down, stop on by,
Hop a carpet and fly,
To another Mehrgarhi night.

As you wind through the streets,
At the fabled bazaars,
With the cardamom-cluttered stalls,
You can smell every spice,
While you haggle the price,
Of the silks and the satin shawls.

Oh, the music that plays as you move through a maze
In the haze of your pure delight,
You are caught in a dance,
You are lost in the trance,
Of another Mehrgarhi night.

Mehrgarhi nights,
Like Mehrgarhi days,
More often than not are hotter than hot,
In a lot of good ways,
Mehrgarhi nights
Like Mehrgarhi dreams
This mystical land of magic and sand,
Is more than it seems.
-Mehrgarhi Nights

---

Lashanya, The Overseer
Mehrgarh, The Same Time

It was another lovely day in Mehrgarh. This was one thought Lashanya had. The other was that herding children, Lashanya thought, was not so very different than herding goats as she had in her youth.

The woman stood waist deep in a surging torrent of tiny, giggling, heads that rushed past her in that moment while she spared a curious glance at the inscrutable expressions of the nomadic newcomers who watched on from further up the road, their faces etched in various expressions of confusion and bemusement. Lashanya smiled at the elders, teachers and older students that were running herd on the little ones, most of whom she was more than passingly familiar with.

The morning labours were done, after they'd been lined up, counted and organized, the children were now being guided to their afternoon activities attended by older students, whose instructions here were to pass on what skills or lessons they themselves had learned as their teachers had taught them. It was organized bedlam for a moment, as the little ones past. This was one of the regular expeditions outside of town, where the elders and senior students would take some of the nomad children to the fields, to learn about the work animals, and fields, while the children from the town were taught some of the skills that their nomadic relatives would used to survive outside the cultivated green spaces of Mehrgarh and the the Bolan and Nari river valleys.

They in turn smiled and greeted the newcomers in fashion. Like a monsoon rains, the little ones came on like a storm, and then they were gone.

"I'm Lashanya, welcome to Mehrgarh! Don't mind the children. Come come!" Lashanya spoke into the silence, turning towards the pavilion, hiking her skirts slightly as she stepped around several piles of animal feces that littered the road. "Mind your feet." She laughed, recalling the incidents of those who hadn't as she bid them follow towards the pavilion. There several young men and women in colourful wraps and skirts were already setting out cushions and tea for them.

This time of day was slow, mostly locals coming and going. Occasionally they might stop and chat for time, but the only ones present were a pair of local warriors who stood up at the strangers arrival and headed back to the guardpost building across the way in order to let them work.

The nomads hadn't reacted to the guards' presence, too caught up with the shock of all the children. "What was all that? You herd children like cattle." They laughed. It was a mixed group, Lashanya noted, four young men - possibly warriors, they carried daggers, but nothing else - but two young women as well. Their clothes were skins, dirty but well-kept. Their manner of speech suggested they were from the northern hill country.

"We teach the young ones lessons in groups." Lashanya explained as the stampede of children faded into the distance, breaking off into their groups. "It is easier on the parents. We teach many things, but that's neither here nor there."

"What sort of things?" One asked, sounding curious as the group filtered under the pavilion from the main thoroughfare that headed off into the eastern expanses. It looked very different than had when Lashanya had first come to Mehrgarh. The little saplings she remembered queerly planted along the shoulder of the road and ditches had grown into young trees now, marked only by gaps where rogue animals had claimed them and they'd had to be replanted.

"Many things we teach. Letters and numbers." Lashanya smiled as she circled to the opposite side of the bench set beneath the pavilion, gesturing for the travellers to sit. "Secrets of heaven and earth. How to tell truth from illusion."

When she'd first arrived they'd simply been trees to her, but since then she'd learned many things. Though she'd been older, a widow, a mother of a half-dozen miscarriages - still she'd attended the teachings with the children, learned letters and numbers and all manner of secrets under heaven.

For instance, she could identify the trees that lined the way now. They weren't all the same. Some, the tallest now, were indian rosewood, the others - white mulberry and acacias - grew shorter. A few tamarix trees were scattered into the mix as well. They provided shade, and were good for the soils, the rosewood in particular had been selected because they grew tall and were fast growing. Already several of them required trimming because they grew over the road.

"And these children learn such things?" The youngest looking of the men asked, seeming to take Lashanya's statement at face value. She could see from the glances that his companions seemed to find this amusing.

Lashanya laughed lightly and gestured for them to sit. "No. Truth be told we're less concerned with graduating great sages, than making sure we graduate good human beings."

"We came to arrange sale of goats - we brought nothing to trade for... all this." The oldest of the warriors among them said, hestitating to sit. The others, it seemed, waitied upon him.

"There's no cost." Lashanya enjoyed her work. She remembered being welcomed her own first time coming. Many of the tribespeople were perplexed, thought it strange they bothered, but really it was the natural extension of tribal custom. It had started as an idea from some of the youth societies, but the Sasaan Anthaathi had seen sense in the idea. "You are guests here in Mehrgarh. Sit and be welcome!"

Hospitality rights were next to sacred in the hills. Lashanya knew first hand, that warriors from the hills could be proud, brooding and violent when roused. To raid, steal, quarrel - such things were expected of young men to prove their mettle. But even the wildest among them would hesitate to do so having been recieved as honoured guests.

Eventually they all seated themselves upon the cushions that had been laid out for them. Most of the others were younger, but though Lashanya was not old she was older, possessed as it were of a certainly matronly disposition - or so she'd been told.

She greeted them in the nomad fashion. It was the way she'd been raised. The greetings, the back and forth mentions of tribe, clan, family - until they found some common thread or were satisfied that that were was none. In this case they were from the northern Guarang tribes, Lashanya from the southern. Some of the elders they both knew.

As their guests seated Lashanya asked about the usual things that one in the hills might ask a guest. Where from? Where to? What brings you among us?

Compared to the nomads in their simple garments, Lashanya's coworkers weaved around them in fine cottons, dyed in brightly vibrant yellows, reds, blues and greens. They wore jewelry of glass and carnelian beads, with copper, and dyed and woven leathers for headdresses.

One of the young men was from the north, Lashanya bid him sit, and join the conversation. Tea was brewed and brought forth in a finely decorative teapot, by a woman with bright smile and wildflowers woven into her headress - pouring the tea she commented on one of the beaded bracelets worn by one of the pair of young traveller women. "It looks lovely on you, did you make it yourself?"

The pavilion was quickly filled with the aroma of steaming tea issuing forth from glasses, poured out for each of the guests in turn. A water basin was brought out, fragrant mix of fresh tamarix blossoms and a touch of sandalwood scented soaps ahead of an offering of simple flatbread, and the travellers bid partake in a Mehrgarhi custom; a cleansing ritual before eating.

"You said you were looking to sell livestock?" After some time, Lashanya eventually circled the conversation back to business.

It was a familiar story, the season had been especially dry. Many had come out of the hills, either looking for work, or bringing flocks to trade for grain. Permanent constructions along the river and irrigation ways, the new work carts, drawing down goat herds around Mehrgarh for more work animals - these had all cut down on the number of field labourers they needed. Even so there were still never enough hands.

"Rohithan, you used to work at the livestock markets didn't you?" Lashanya asked, as though the thought had just occurred to her. It was true the young man had. People working the pavilions weren't selected by accident.

"I did. I probably know a few people buying." He said. "If you want I could take you down there, get you a better rate. You can all come, or stay here."

It turned that Rohithan and two of the men headed off towards the stables outside town.

That left just the four younger travellers who'd been silent. There were questions about live in the hills, since they heard Lashanya had lived among the most distant, some would say wild, of the southern tribes; compared to the rest of the three tribes they mostly kept to themselves. They wondered how she ended up in Mehrgarh.

Those were questions Lashanya preferred not to dwell upon. Unpleasant memories. "We had some bad years." And they had been, but it had been more than just little rain in the hills. She remembered her first miscarriage, the fever that followed. But there was no water, no grazing, the animals were dying. It hadn't mattered that she'd been on the brink of death. They had to move.

Lashanya had been younger than the travellers now. Scarcely more than a girl, and some boy at a festival had promised her the world, and disappeared once it was all over. She remembered falling to the ground, feeling the sun beating down upon her. The boy had abandoned her. The child was dead before they pulled the grotesque thing from inside her. Her father had seen her fall, and simply kept walking. He hadn't said a word.

It'd been an aunt who'd picked her up. There'd been no kindness in her words, rather Lashanya remembered the harshness of her admonishment. "You'll get no sympathy from anyone here, unless your guts are hanging out of your belly. Even then you'd best hold them in." She'd said. "You have to keep up."

One of the women seemed to note Lashanya's hesitation. "It can be difficult." Lashanya met the woman's eyes and forced a smile. Looking among the strangers, of course, they knew hardship. How many children had this girl buried already? Were these good men she was with, or were they like Lashanya's father.

Lashanya straightened in her seat. "Do you think you'll be here for the Spring Festival?" She asked them.

They wanted too, but the chief and elders at the camp would decide. It didn't matter. "Have you seen the temple gardens?" One of the pavilion girls asked. "It's beautiful there."

They had not.

"If you can stay, you should definitely come down to the square in the evenings." Another added. Lashanya let them work. It was unlikely this group had much to trade down in the markets, but another one of their jobs out here wasn't just facilitating business.

"What if we took them down just to have a look at the temple and maybe stop by the market for a bit." One of the pavilion girls asked, excitedly. "It's not too busy."

"Go ahead." Lashanya gave her assent, watching as the four travellers and a three of her pavilion staff headed down the road.

Some of the nomads simply assumed that followers of The Way were simply this friendly. Others were pleasantly surprised when, for instance, Rohithan did more than simply show them around and introduce them but knew the rates, and wouldn't let the cattlemen run roughshod over them. Of course no one just gave out free tea and kept some of the handsomest young men and pretty young women in town just sitting around for no reason.

Lashanya doubted these youngsters had much worth trading for. Either way the cattle deal would get done, and they would get a good price. Not everyone, even followers of The Way knew all the particulars of the plans which the Sasaan Anthaathi were laying. Drawing down the goat herds of the valley was only part of it.

The two warriors that had gone into town would get shown some bronze blades, and treated leather sheaths, flint strikers for starting fires was a popular one, then around the markets. The girls would be shown some of the cookware and try on skirts, and look at fabrics and shawls, scented soaps, and of course they'd meet up around the jewelry stalls. Perhaps they'd check out some of the displays of strange machines, projects by some of the students, and drawings of new plans and contraptions that students and practitioners were proposing that were posted in the stalls.

Even if they couldn't read, their guides would happily explain. And if it led to a conversation about The Way of Great Peace and all the wonderful things it might do. Well that too was part of their great work. Perhaps they might go back to camp and simply talk about the wonderful time they'd had and the things they'd seen, and the fawning attention lavished upon them.

Lashanya watched the group walking away. Even the young men and women that worked with her would probably never know just how much thought had been put into the work they did. Lashanya had an idea. Even as an older student, she'd excelled, had loved learning new things. Some of the most interesting teachings though were the secret ones. There were many such things that Sasaan Anthaathi taught advanced practitioners, secret rituals, secret revelations.

Rituals for the formal assessment of human behavior for instance. Like how Lashanya, and everyone else working the pavilions, had been selected according to assessments of their personality for high agreeableness, extraversion and conscientiousness along with low levels of neuroticism. Other things too she'd been taught, to see to other aspects of her work here.

Rising, Lashanya began collecting up the empty cups from the table. Across the way she spotted one of the warriors outside the guardhouse watching the four heading into town. Briefly he turned to Lashanya and their eyes met. Smiling, Lashanya shook her head and continued carrying the cups over to the wash basin.