The Philosopher Of The Court Of Calipha
The Philosopher of the Court of Calipha
It was all over the news: Jacago was not losing the war anymore. Mirilen was up in bloody revolution. Pansolvina was being retaken, according to the League. Most importantly, the apparent balance of power in Emeriqua was fast leaving the hallowed, ancient stones of Bellamarha and Dystroch Columilis, bound for the steel towers of Jacago. It was one thing to have a mighty nation determined to conquer the world; it was another thing to have that nation now on my side of the Misseppa.
I hate politics. That's what the King is for.
I am sitting in my spartan room in the middle of the most hedonistic royal court in the history of this cursed world.
I am Lot in the middle of Sattam and Kamora.
I am praying for peace.
I am alone.
I am sane.
The world is a big place to talk about, and I know nothing.
But I know that I know nothing.
Which makes me smarter than them.
I am Turast Darrisch, philosopher laureate of the Caliphan Royal Court. I am the peace and quiet of Sakram Anto, a city originally named after a holy book.
Lot has an inflamed sense of irony.
But I am still alone.
Oh, every so often I venture out. I have to, it's my job. The Royal Court of Calipha needs its philosopher laureate. Not that it ever listens to me, but it proclaims that it needs me.
Lot is my definition of my definition of myself.
Look in the dictionary and next to my name you'll see the phrase "See 'Lot'". Assuming you can read, of course, and can afford to spend money on books. If you are a Caliphan victim, or, rather, subject, then chances are you can do neither.
Lot is my job.
It is morally wrong to disobey the 'Dictates of God' as related by the King, and the King declared me philaureate. Although I wonder just how close to God a man can be that's currently bombing refugee camps up by Porlen, I don't wonder at the wisdom of doing what the nice men with the big guns tell me to. So I have wasted my life at this festering muckhole of a court, living like a monk in the middle of a centuries-long cultural orgy.
Lot is my feeling of last-street-preacherness.
I have to say, though, that the court does have a good library, for what it's worth. A copy of every major book from before the Idealists is in here. Sokratise, Plaido, Lok, Foltair, Ridjartz, Palanyuk, and in a dusty, ignored corner of the court library, Iasu.
An interesting book, this one about Iasu. The Royal Court is supposedly based on service to Iasu, but this is the only copy of the Wyrdikaud I have ever found. Many people know the stories, how God loves all the people and sent Iasu to save us.
They never heard about Sattam and Kamora. Cities burned alive for their evil ways. We will die too, and we won't even have the dignity of suffering at the hands of forces we couldn't stop.
Lot is my anticipated martyrdom.
I know this, and I know that despite my spartan dwelling and my good sense, I too will share their fate.
I wish I thought I knew everything. I wish I didn't know that I know nothing. I would not bear the burden of warning these fools, but I would be partying with the rest.
And I of course am my own lot in life.
* * *
I am studying in the library. This is not my time, it is their time. The city of Phinx has proclaimed its independence from the Kingdom, and applied for membership in the Jacago League. My job is to determine if we are legally bound to merely make faces at them across the border to protect our treaty with Jacago, or if we can send in the army and absolutely vaporize their town. I have three days to review legal precedent and give an official recommendation to the King. Like he even cares.
I am hearing music. I am in a library. There is something wrong with this picture.
A curious instrument. Its sound is very high and shrill, but at the same time it cools you to the soul. Beautiful in every regard. This music is coming from outside.
It is resplendent. It is pleasant. I am not allowed to hear anything resplendent or pleasant. I must finish this pointless task so the King can promptly ignore it, and it will not be fun.
Then I hear my favorite song. While I read legalese, I am singing the words in my head. This simply will not do. I stand up from the desk I was sitting at and storm outside, ready to scold.
The library is situated, like the rest of the royal court, in beautiful gardens. Benches are everywhere. I see the culprit disappear into the shadows, man or woman I can't tell. I start to give chase, when a glimmer catches my eye.
Laying on a nearby bench is the instrument. A silver bar with ten holes. I pick it up. Words in dead Iorephan languages are written on it, and above the ten holes are the Ancient symbols for the first ten numbers, starting with one.
I take it you play it by breathing into it. So I do. A note sounds. What if I draw breath? Different note. Simple, but effective.
"Could you play what you were playing before?" asks a jogger.
'You have me confused with someone else', I tell them.
"Come on! That's a beautiful piece," the jogger's girlfriend insists.
'Maybe later', I say. But I know I'm lying. I intend to toss this in the garbage at first opportunity and continue with my work.
Nevertheless, I decide that the dead languages on it merit further study, so I hold on to it as I review precedent.
The King can be ignored for once, I decide. He ignores my attention after he called me here in the first place, so I deserve to ignore him for once. I think about the Phinx scenario, and decide that Jacago won't last. Melwocki and Najavelle are too jealous, and their temporary alliance-turned-empire will crumble after Mirilen falls. Or Mirilen will destroy them. So let Phinx be theirs. That is what I will tell the King.
I return to my spartan room. I study the languages. Ancient Doytsch, mainly, with a smattering of Ancient Angol and Ancient Frencoi.
Suddenly, I put the instrument to my lips without even thinking about it. I try to remember my favorite song, and I sound out the notes. Not even thinking about the clear and present danger that this might even be fun, I slowly learn the song.
Lot can play an instrument.
I add little touches to the song here and there. A note slightly higher than normal here. An extra note there. This song is mine, and this device is becoming slowly mastered. This is better than everything.
* * *
Lot flies into the Dystroch, six months ago.
Lot flies into Jacago, two months ago.
Lot is appointed philaureate, and part of the job means he sends secret messages back and forth between rulers when he's not busy.
Lot flies into Lazvekas, seven weeks ago.
'No, sir, His Majesty the King most emphatically will not sell you arms to fight your war.'
Lot flies into Aumaja, five weeks ago.
Lot flies into Bellamarha, a week ago.
'Greetings from His Majesty the King of Calipha, President Haymis. I'd be delighted to attend the government rally tomorrow, but I have a plane to Sakram Anto to catch next morning.'
Lot flies into Mayamee, four days ago.
'Greetings from His Majesty the King of Calipha to the great People's Republic of the Caribbean, and its esteemed leaders. Military alliance? We'd be delighted.'
Lot flies into Macsaco Sidad, three days ago.
'Greetings from His Majesty the King of Calipha to President de la Cervuela of the Republic of Macsaco. Sell you nuclear arms to aid your war against the People's Republic of the Caribbean? Our pleasure, but keep it under wraps.'
Airplanes today aren't like the ancient airplanes. Those airplanes were usually big, and could easily fit hundreds of passengers. There were big corporations called airlines that could get you anywhere in the world for less than a month's pay. Modern airplanes are cheap fabric twin-propeller planes, and negotiating a flight in one of them across Emeriqua can cost six month's pay.
You're under a small glass dome with the pilot as the only other human life onboard. Piloting an airplane is pretty easy, so I hear, and modern pilots are very talkative fellows. They pick apart every aspect of both your lives and discuss them in detail, and are your best friends for the duration of the flight. After that, you never see them again.
Lot flies into Autawa today.
Today I meet a philosopher-pilot.
"You should take your job as a rare opportunity," he says.
'Opportunity?' I protest. 'To do what, be ignored and get shipped across Emeriqua?'
"No, man. To live for free and secretly fight the servants of darkness. Show them their foolishness. Reprove them creatively. And if you're ambitious enough, gather your forces and revolt."
'Easy enough for you to say. You spend your time across Emeriqua. No one King or President or whatever is breathing down your neck.'
"True enough, but you could breathe down your own neck with the right contacts and enough smarts. Just like they're doing in Bellamarha."
'Say what? What's happening in Bellamarha?'
"It's in the newspapers. Haymis has a revolt on his hands. Started by some Vertis guy outta the Dystroch and some adventurer man named Kythe. Hope they win."
'What did you say your name was?'
"Brenton Veneratis, jack-of-all-trades."
'Do you mind if I practice my music organ?'
"Go ahead. Autawa's an hour away."
I pour my soul into the harmonic device, and golden notes of darkly beautiful audio purity issue forth.
"You're pretty good."
"Here we come. See the towers on the horizon? That's Autawa."
Lot flies into Autawa and delivers the King's message. But you fly into Sakram Anto, playing the harmonic organ.
"I think I heard somewhere that those things are called harmonicas," the temporary best friend corrects.
Harmonica.
I can play the harmonica.
You walk off the Royal Airport in Sakram Anto and make your way to the Royal Court, playing your harmonica all the way.
I have never been so joyful, praise Iasu.
* * *
"My lord, we need to invade Phinx immediately!" declares a strapping young little minx by the name of Speri Eiksnom. She's a member of the clergy by association. Her father's the Bishop of Sakram Anto, and she's a carnalistic spoiled heiress. Her face is full and round, and she has jet-black hair that she wears up. Her eyes are big like they are in Nipponese animation, and her lips are big and fat and look like they're set in an eternal pout.
Hypocrite.
The word hypocrite is derived from the Greek hypokritos, which is the term for "actor". Speri puts on a mask before she puts on her makeup and she never reveals her true self.
She hates me. I hate her. She represents the people here that make us like Sattam and Kamora. She is by no means the most influential court noble. She is by many means the most irritating, at least to me. While I despise and am despised by the rest of the court in general, I single her out because she is the most perfect example of our little hedonistic society.
"Why do you say this, Miss Eiksnom?" inquires the King.
"My Lord, we can't allow the honor of the court to be besmirched by letting some upstart burg put us to shame! I say we put down this little rebellion!"
Hypocrite.
'We have to have honor first before we can go about besmirching it.' Oh no, I think I said that aloud.
"I ask the philaureate to please hold his tongue until it be his turn!" bellowed the King.
'My apologies, liege.' One day I will see you die, and your snot-nosed child will take the throne. I will teach that child that his father was an incompetent buffoon. Long live petty defiance.
"Now is the philaureate's time to speak," declares the King.
I list facts and figures and legal precedent, all of it absolutely true except for the small fact that I blew the assignment and made it all up.
Lot is totally bored.
I arrive at my spartan room and play my heart out. This harmonica is now my life. It is my only real earthly companion, the way that Iasu is my heavenly companion and a drunk's best friend is a bottle of scotch. My soul soars almost as high each night as it did the day I believed.
I am alone.
But I am happy, right?
I guess.
I master new songs. I slowly begin to learn mouth positionings by heart, and get so good that I can perfectly play a song I've never practiced before on my first try. Since this is all I do with my free time, it takes about three weeks.
Later on, I would learn that my neighbors would strain at night to hear the beautiful music coming from their walls, and would not fall asleep until the sweet melody finally ceased. I was unknowingly adored at night by the same people who cursed me by day.
For the simple fact that court assassinations are somewhat common, the old King made it a policy of making one's address anonymous. The court was built so that you couldn't physically see your neighbor walk out of his door in the morning, and you wouldn't know where he lives unless he told you. I tell nobody where I live, so nobody knows my address save for the old King, who won't do much talking because he's dead.
Someone finally tracked down my harmonica music to this room. I heard someone knock on the door while I was playing. I didn't answer, and there was a lock on the door of the kind that the servants put on a vacant room. After fifteen minutes, the knocking went away.
I keep on playing.
Lot wakes up in Sakram Anto and you wish he hadn't. Lot has your average rotten day. You come home and plan to play well into the night.
Here is the pounding at the door. Thirty minutes today.
Finally, I hear the sound of something scraping on my door, and five minutes later I hear the swish of paper passing under the door crack.
I read it.
"Dear mysterious man, I love the music you make. Please keep playing. I'll listen outside your door. I love you, whoever you are. Please let me in one day, so I may see you face to face. -Your Mysterious Amour"
I am completely and totally surprised.
Actually, my mysterious amour doesn't love me. My mysterious amour loves my music and hates me in real life, just like my neighbors.
I am alone here.
I am a rock.
I am an island.
* * *
Lot flies into Seetak the day after the note.
'Greetings from His Majesty the King of Calipha to the hated scum of the north, the Republic of the North Pausyphic. Give us the city of Porlen and we will stop bombing your refugee shelters.' Sorry, don't kill the messenger. I don't make the news, I just tell it.
Lot flies back to Sakram Anto and he wonders why there aren't international laws against what he does for a living.
Lot doesn't look back at Sattam and Kamora.
"Dear mystery man, please acknowledge my existence. If you want my continued adulation, please play my favorite song, 'Thank You,' as part of tonight's repertoire. -M.A."
'Thank You' is my favorite song, too.
My life is cold and I'm wondering why I was ever born at all. The court's intrigues leave me bitter, and I can't take it all. Even if I could, it'd all get worse; but your notes slipped in my hall, they remind me that it's not that bad, no it's not that bad at all. -Mysterious Music Man
I was never good at writing notes.
I am not alone.
I am not sane.
I am happy.
I play 'Thank You' right before I fall asleep.
* * *
I hate mornings. Because I play my harmonica well into the night, I am never fully awake in the mornings anymore. But I don't care. My life is not the court. My life is not the headlines. My life is my harmonica and those little notes passed under the door. I have found joy. I am enlightened. Give up your life and go live like a monk so you can play your music all night and have a relationship of sorts with a stranger who hates your guts. This is wisdom, this is epiphany. So I am joyful right in everyone's wishy-washy little life, and it just makes them all defensive. But I don't care what they think. Not even that blathering idiotess Speri.
I remembered the book that I borrowed/kept from the court library, the Wyrdikaud, so I have included that in my day. After work and before playing, I read some more of it and pray to the God that my King wouldn't know if he was struck down by lightning and electrified bits of his arm landed on my shoe. Then I play all night.
This is better than everything.
Slowly, I am learning the notes and words to hymns. I realize that nobody in the present day has heard of a hymn, so let me explain the concept. Before the Idealist War, people would write religious poetry and set it to music. This is a hymn. Hymns like:
Faeder ure, pu pe eart on heofonum...
Iasu is just alright with me...
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound...
I don't know the names of these hymns, but they're interspersed among the pages of the Wyrdikaud, along with chord names.
I guess I'm growing closer to God. Maybe I should escape Sakram Anto before the fire from heaven hits.
Lot is only half-kidding.
Lot flies into Juno.
You come home.
On the return flight is Brenton Veneratis, jack-of-all-trades.
We have beaten the odds.
"Hello again, Turast," he greets.
'Hello. Can I ask you a question?'
"Yeah, anything," Brent replies.
'How do I discover the identity of a secret admirer?'
"They reveal themselves to you. So how's your Royal Court annoyances coming along? Have any admirers otherwise? Even started yet?"
''I have no sympathizers but you. Everyone at the court, including the King, is a fat lazy bourgeoisie carnal rich snob and totally pro-status-quo.'
"Really? That bad?" he commiserates. "Here's what you do. Blow something up. Embarrass everyone at once. Make a 'holy sacrifice' of sorts. People are stupid, and when something disturbs their pretty little world, some will follow the new way."
'Holy sacrifice?' I ask.
"Yeah, man! Let slip the dogs of war! You need to break eggs to make an omelet. Before you can live forever, you need to see death for yourself. How do you think Iasu did it?"
'He was the son of God. He could do anything he pleased.'
"Humans could not be saved. It was impossible. Enter the whole crucifixion thing. He died, and became immortalized. The process of salvation is the same, you're symbolically crucified and you die before you live again. Humans could not be saved, but they could be broken and God could build something better with the pieces, something that could be saved. Are you understanding?"
'I am saved,' I relate.
"Good for you. Now look at the big picture. Being saved will only help you understand the concept better. In order for society to be saved..."
'Society must be destroyed and rebuilt from the ground up.'
"You have to shatter yourself and bring as many people with you as you can. Make a bomb and blow it up. Anywhere. Kill a bush in the King's gardens, if you want. The mere presence of a bomb in the royal court is enough for starters."
'But my life was just starting to come together. I have a harmonica, a secret admirer, and happiness at last.'
"Only when you can give all that up will you be allowed to keep any of it."
Lot is angry and confused when he finds that his wife is a pillar of salt.
I am alone.
But I must be insane.
* * *
The holy sacrifice. I bought a few stamps and a few vials of red ink from a Sakram Anto stationery merchant before I returned to the royal court. I also hired a gang of freelance goods relocators, if you get my drift.
There was no harmonica playing that night.
There was only the butchering of pretentiousness.
Hee hee hee.
Lot's self-righteousness giggles.
Poor amour.
When I was little, I lived in the Santeayko ghettoes. There was military rule there, because it was so close to the Macsacan border. I would slip quietly at night past the sector checkpoint, in search of food to steal so my momma wouldn't starve.
I suppose what I did back then was wrong; but thankfully, my sneaking skills haven't lost their edge.
Several hours and about a dozen tense moments later, they and I return, and I am a happy man. I toss them their payment and quietly sneak them out the gate.
I can't wait to wake up next morning.
* * *
They all filed into the throne room the next day, every one of them with a big red 'A' printed on the back of their shirts. Since this was Saturday and laundry day was Sunday and their clothes for today were the only ones available, they had no choice but to wear the tainted clothes. And to cover my tracks, I had an 'A' as well. But my 'A' stood for 'Anarchy'.
I always knew they were hypocrites. They always knew they were hypocrites. Now they had to admit it.
Now their little society was that much closer to death.
None dared comment on anyone else's A, not even the King. None but me.
'So Speri, I see you must have slept on a stamp or something.' I exult now, drunk with the blood of society. 'Speri, by any chance, have you ever read 'The Scarlet Letter?' No? A pity. It's about this young woman who-'
Speri sits down at her station at the royal table, which was sadistically placed next to mine ages ago. She hides her face from mine. Is it my imagination, or do I see salty discharge splatter on the table next to her elbow?
BAM BAM! Direct hit, captain! She's sinking!
I am a rock.
I am an island.
I am on the attack.
* * *
I am plotting out my next strategy in court all day. I am absentminded. I am daydreaming. But, with everyone wrapped up in their own self-consciousness, no one even notices.
I can't come up with anything else.
So I play harmonica that night.
"Dear Mystery Musicman: Where were you last night? Come back soon. -M.A."
Dear M.A.: I have a surprise for you, whoever you are. Wanna find out? -Mysterious Musicman
"Dear Mystery Musicman: Yes! I need something good today! Show me the surprise! -M.A.
So I open the door.
Hypocrite.
Hypocrite.
Hypocrite. Hypocrite. HypocriteHypocritehypocritehypocritehypocrite.
It's Speri.
I am surprised.
She is surprised.
Lot curses to himself.
"I didn't know it was you," she defends.
Nor I you. It's okay, come in.
"You made the A's, didn't you?"
I had to break you to save you. It's nothing personal.
"I think I understand."
You know nothing, Speri. I know nothing. But if you choose to realize this, you are smarter than the rest.
"You are just one huge paradox, Turast. You play marvelously, you live bitterly. You break me to save me. You want to save me, but you hate me. Forget this, I'm going home."
As you wish.
She starts to leave. I close the door as she steps out.
"Wait!" she cries at the last minute, throwing her hand to block the closing door. "Let's just forget the past few years. I see something in you now that nobody else has ever seen before. It merits further investigation."
Nobody else has ever said that to me before. But we are still total enemies at court, I presume.
"Naturally."
* * *
I am forty-six years old and she is the first female besides my momma that I can call friend. At court we are enemies. But not as often. Our rivalry has merely become an officialdom, a ritual to maintain for the benefit of others.
After work, it's a different story. She comes in now, and I play my harmonica. She listens. Sometimes she comments on my music, and once in a blue moon we'll forego the music and just talk. This lasts until I'm too tired to play/talk anymore, and go to bed.
Speri told me once that my music gives her release. In her world of fakery, it's the one real thing she knows. And that's why she sat outside my door for all those weeks, despite the weather and the night chill.
"Actually, I think the chill was more motivation. I need to suffer."
Lot feels a sense of accomplishment.
* * *
Let slip the dogs of war. There is a pretty little trinket in the gardens, near the royal chambers. It is a thin, muscular statue of the King holding a sword and standing victoriously atop a conquered foe. The King is a flabby coward who never held a weapon and couldn't kill fish in a barrel out of sheer incompetence.
I went to the airport that morning, in hopes that I could find Brenton there. What luck.
"Hey, buddy. Whaddya need?"
A bomb. I need a bomb. Do you know any contacts who could get me one?
"What kind of a bomb?"
Nothing huge. Just for a minor act of vandalism.
"Actually, I can help you. A friend of mine knows how to make homemade dynamite. Here's the address."
1387 Appre Way. Excellent. What sort of sicko makes homemade bombs, I ask when I get there.
"Only the most meticulous, evil-genius-type sicko," he reassures me, a brown-haired man with a tattoo of Osiris, a god of ancient Ijapt. "You never know when a revolution will take place. If they ever tell us to eat cake, I want to be prepared."
Your name, please.
"Lyle Merlowe, president and only employee of Merlowe Underground Munitions Incorporated. What can I do for you today?"
I need dynamite. Not much, a stick or two should suffice.
"What are you going to hit?"
An overpriced waste of taxes.
"One of those, eh. Here you go, revolutionary. On the house on your first visit."
On the house?
"You'll be back for more. Besides, I can't wait to read about this in the headlines."
And it is only on my way out that I get the pun and realize that Merlowe Underground Munitions Incorporated is abbreviated as MUMI.
* * *
Destroying other people's things is wrong. Disrespecting the King is wrong. But Dafyd did both when he cut the robe of Saul. When the King of Esrayl took a field from someone when he didn't even need it, the prophets screamed bloody murder. This was what I was doing now. I set the dynamite stick between the muscular legs of the faux-king statue, so that the most damage would be done. I lit the fuse and went home.
It blew up two minutes later, and the King went sobbing to his lovely dead statue. He cradled the chipped face like it was a newborn child. He probably loves that disfigured hunk of stone more than his subjects.
Poetic justice.
The King is a slave.
His fake likeness owns his soul.
His stone is his god.
Meanwhile, Speri was freed. She had started to look to me as a mentor. She recognized that I wasn't fake, at least not as fake as everyone else. So she looked to me for guidance, and I was happy to oblige her. I gave her truth, and she was a quick learner. Once departed from fakery, she was actually very brilliant.
"Hello again, Turast," she greeted sweetly as she walked in that evening.
Hello, Speri, I replied. You know a lot more now than when you were simply my M.A.
"Yes, I do," she confirmed as she sat down on my bed next to me.
You have one more thing yet to learn. This is most important of all, I say. I close and lock the door.
"What is it? Why didn't you tell me this thing first?"
I did, but you weren't ready to understand, dear child. Now, I believe you are.
"What is it?"
You are EVIL! Even though you think you're okay now, you're still going to end up like them! Do you know what happens to the rest of this court!?
"No! What!?"
They will burn forever. There were cities long ago, Sattam and Kamora, that were only half as evil as we are today. They were burned alive by fire from heaven. In them was only one righteous man, named Lot. He escaped, but not even his wife survived. They were both fleeing, but they had been told by God not to look back. She couldn't help herself, and looked back. She became a pillar of salt. Understand: YOU ARE GOING TO DIE ONE DAY AND YOU WILL BURN FOREVER IN HELL! DO YOU UNDERSTAND!? ANSWER ME!
She believed me. I had never steered her wrong yet, so why would I lie now?
"What can I do?" She sounded truly afraid, as if she could actually feel the flames of hell burning her alive. She always hung on my every word, and finding those words to be truth, hung on the next ones all the more. Praise Iasu for that. "Can I be saved?"
No. You will burn forever and be miserable forever.
"Please!" she cries. "I'll do anything! Just show me the way!"
There is a way, come to think of it, but you would have to be ready to give up everything. Can you do that!?
"Yes, yes!" she bawled.
And that was how Speri died, and therefore lived. She now understood everything perfectly. It was as if she was suddenly wise.
It was a lot easier for her to hit bottom, though, because she had lived in a world of perfumed roses. All it took for her to come crashing down was a glimpse of reality along with the wholehearted affirmation that that reality is truth.
* * *
A criminal always returns to the scene of the crime. I am not a criminal, this was not a crime. Not in reality, at least. Nevertheless, I am compelled.
I am not alone.
In the middle of the night, I approach the charred remnants of the statue of the King's fantasy. I can't see the base of the statue, because there are three people blocking my view.
In Nayarque City, the Wiraldraecin Shrine still gets mourners and those who venerate the dead. The Afkhan War was fought and won two thousand years ago, and the people of that place died two thousand years ago in a horrific crime of war. Yet people from all over the globe still mourn for a generation they've never even seen at the scene of that crime. They think about the tragic loss and they give a grudging respect to the villains who orchestrated it so cunningly.
This was not a crime and I am not a psychopathic murderer. And people come to this crime scene, not to mourn the dead and contemplate the ruthlessly cunning darkness, but to mourn their illusions and contemplate the yet unknown brilliant architect of this strange new marvel. In this version, they like what they see.
I stand shoulder to shoulder with them. In the dark, I am unrecognizable and so are they.
'Who did this?' I ask.
"A hero," replies one.
"A lord among men," says another.
'Does this hero have a name?'
"Some say Domini Cane did it," answers the first. Domini Cane is a derogatory nickname of mine. The Dominicans were an order of monks before the Idealists, and 'Domini Cane' is a Lhadin play-on-words meaning 'Dog of the Lord.' A rare instance of intelligence among a crude people.
"I say Speri did it," the second proclaimed. Although Speri and I were officially enemies, even the walls could sense we were fast becoming good friends. "She has changed."
"Friends!" protests the third. "It doesn't matter who, it matters why. He was making a statement. Down with the monarchy."
"No! If he was saying that, he would have just killed the king!"
'I did it because I wanted to destroy this dark culture,' I say.
The men's knees go weak. They fall to the ground.
"Who are you?" the second one asks.
'My identity is irrelevant,' I tell them. 'My nom de guerre is...'
Lot? This is no longer Sattam. This is no longer Kamora. Why? Because there is hope. The light of righteousness, however dim, shines in more than one heart. Wherever two are gathered in my name...
So who am I now?
'Spartacus.'
"We pledge ourselves to the revolution, Spartacus," the first one swears.
'Do you really?'
"Of course! Without question! You will be our new king!"
'Will you give up your little flirtations? Will you stop being a social animal?'
"What does that have to do with anything? We're talking about a revolution here!"
'We speak of two different revolutions. If the people are evil, why put a good king on the throne? Kill the king and I'll just blow up a new statue six months later. You want to suffer, deep down. I can help you.'
"What are you trying to do?"
'Life can only come after you die. Kill society and build a better one from the rubble.'
"We don't understand, Spartacus, but we want to. We trust you."
I am Spartacus.
* * *
You return to your apartment.
The word hypocrite is derived from the Greek hypokritos, which is the term for "actor". Spartacus puts on a mask before he laces up his combat boots and he never reveals his true self.
But that's different, you protest.
Lot tells you that you're full of it and you're just wearing mask after mask.
You say that Lot's full of it.
Lot asks you why you wear his face.
You say because it's so beautiful.
Lot tells you to go to sleep and forget about this nonsense by morning.
You decide to dream instead.
In your dream, there are a million souls burning to the ground and multitudes of buildings damned to hell. There is suffering and there are horrors and there are martyrdoms and it is all beautiful. The beauty of the agony enthralls you. You stare into the smoke and the flame and the streets with no names.
Out of a sidestreet steps a temporary best friend, an aviary visionary. He's holding a stick of dynamite and a Wyrdikaud.
"Turast! I need you to help me!"
Help you do what?
"I need you to wreck stuff. I brought the only weapons you'll need."
People will die!
"That whole Sattam and Kamora thing isn't as horrible as it sounds. Did those people deserve death?"
Yes.
"The people around you. Do they deserve death?"
Yes, but we all do.
"You won't be killing anyone. You're just blowing away chunks of dust and soul."
People are chunks of dust and soul. And what if they don't like destruction?
"They'll come at you. Don't worry, you're already dead. So am I, for that matter."
You're thinking of the undead.
"We died and now live again. We followed the Xristos. Now will you take up these weapons or not?"
Yes. I will.
"And Turast?"
Yes?
"You are Spartacus. Regardless of what Lot says, you are Spartacus. Lot is on hold, Turast is on hold. You are Spartacus, and you're gonna drag people outta Sattam and Kamora kicking and screaming."
Why?
"Because you have a dream."
And then you wake up.
* * *
You wake up in Sakram Anto, thankful for a purpose.
You eat in the royal hall and then get down to the business of the kingdom.
"The first item on the agenda is the horrific blast that has, surely, traumatized the court," proclaims the King.
We are dropping bombs on little children west of Porlen. The Ninety-Sixth Motorized Knighthood is on its way to Phinx. We are secretly letting our friends and allies the People's Republic of the Caribbean get nuked so we can provide a 'protective occupation' afterwards. We are watching Mirilen take arms against itself. But obviously all of this must pale in comparison to the unexpected detonation of a piece of stone in vague imitation of the King.
Surprisingly, the Commander General of the Army said something to this effect.
"Say what!?" demanded the king.
"You heard me well enough," the General said. "It was probably a commoner who didn't like the idea of starving so you can think you're valiant or whatever. So I propose we move on to the next item on the agenda."
The King was without speech. The expression on his face was priceless. No one had done that to him before.
"Well- I, um, er... Fine!" the King permitted. You can't really argue against the truth, after all. Especially if you only speak in expletives.
* * *
That night, there were seven men at the statue besides me.
I am Spartacus. Turast is on hold.
"What do we do now, Spartacus?"
'First off, you all have new names, for the purpose of this group. Your names are numbers. Who was the first one to visit the statue?'
"That was me."
'Hello, One. The second? Hello, Two.'
And so it went. Spartacus and his army of numbers.
'You all have specific jobs. One, your particular specialty will be to embarrass the court. Two, you destroy stuff when I tell you. Three, you obtain the bombs for Two. Four, you get the money for Three. Five, you help One. Six, you and Seven make sure the rest of us can do our jobs. Understand?'
"Gotcha, Spartacus."
"But what will you do?"
'Micromanage you all as necessary.'
Long live petty defiance.
* * *
"Hey Turast, have you heard anything about a Spartacus?" asks Speri.
'Yes. I am Spartacus.'
"No, I am Spartacus," she replies. She is the only one who has made that joke yet. "Seriously, you are?"
'I wouldn't lie to you, Speri.'
"So you blew up the statue."
'It was a pointless knickknack.'
"That harmonica is a pointless knickknack."
'It makes you feel something real, Speri. That statue only made you want to throw up.'
"So are you building an army at night like everyone says?"
'If I told you, I'd have to kill you.'
"Do you want to be King?"
'I will never be King.'
"Does anyone else know who Spartacus is?"
'Nobody. Promise me that you will tell nobody.'
"I promise."
* * *
You wake up in Sakram Anto. Only you wake up in the middle of the night, thanks to a bomb blast at 3 AM that destroys the King's private fountain.
"I don't know who is responsible for all this, but it needs to stop!" decries the King. "All my pretty things!"
You wake up in Sakram Anto three hours later, ready to take on the world. You gather for the royal breakfast.
I don't eat cereal. I eat a bagel with cream cheese and a cup of coffee. And this is a good thing, at least today. One must've switched the salt and the sugar, and injected lemon juice into the banana that the cooks sliced for the court.
It was beautiful.
Today was the twenty-sixth of March. And it would go down as the first day that Operation Defy and Demolish wreaked havok.
* * *
We need a name, a beautiful mask that defines us as an organization.
"What should we call ourselves, Spartacus?"
"I got it! Spartacus' Men!"
'That could just be bad in so many ways.'
"Told ya, Four! How about the Numbered Army?"
'Lame. Give me something good.'
"Perfect, sir! Operation Defy and Demolish!" declares Two.
'How is this perfect?'
"Operation Defy and Demolish! It describes our mission statement, and it can be abbreviated ODD!"
Brilliant. Okay, not brilliant, but definitely a step above polite society. I am Spartacus, and this is odd.
'It works,' I tell him. 'If you people got paychecks from me, Two would have a raise right now. Now, about that explosion. That was good, but cut back on the bombs. Soon we'll have nothing left if we keep up with the bombs. If we stop bombing for a while, the King will think it's safe to rebuild his expensive stone toys. Then we can rebomb them and that'll be much more effective.'
Lot begs Spartacus from behind locked doors not to take the angel.
They nod their heads.
I am Spartacus, and this is ODD.
* * *
For the next few days, the pranks happen as usual. ODD has gotten very devious in its mischief. We even play pranks on fellow ODDmen, just to eliminate suspicion. Speri and I were recently the subjects of a chair sabotage. The right legs of my chair and the left legs of her chair had been busted. It looked safe to sit until you actually sat. So when we sat down at the same time as the rest of the court, we fell into each other.
Typical ODD irony. They must've inherited it from their leader.
That same day, the General sported a 'Kick Me, I'm Stupid' sign on the back of his shirt. So of course some ODDmen took him up on his offer in front of the King. Everyone desperately tried to hide their smirks. After all, this is the Royal Court. We do not indulge our emotions in the open, not here. Here, we are hypocrites.
Hypocrites.
We put on our masks before we put on our clothing and we never reveal our true selves.
Speri, of course, is not in ODD. She doesn't feel the need. ODD is basically a useful crutch for the dumb to learn to be intelligent and overthrow high society at the same time. If you're smart about dumb things, it will rub off in the rest of your life. Speri was taught differently, individually. Of course, I couldn't do this for everyone, so ODD was made.
I was walking home from work on the 31st with Speri shadowing me. This was normal, it gave her a way to come home with me and make sure no one noticed it.
What wasn't normal was the sound of harmonica music. My ears perked up and I went towards the beautiful, lovely music. Whoever was playing was at least as good as I was.
It was coming from the direction of my home. Had someone discovered my harmonica? If so, I was ruined. Nothing was inherently embarrassing about having a harmonica, it's just that it was private and I wanted to keep it that way.
Seeing nothing, I enter my home.
Sitting on my bed, playing my harmonica like some blues maniac is Brenton Veneratis, jack-of-all-trades.
I am shocked.
Brent stops.
"Oh, sorry, am I disturbing you?" he asks politely.
Speri bumps into me. In shock, I stumble forward.
"I see you're with a lady friend. Don't worry, I understand," Brent says.
'It's not what it looks like. She's a good friend and only that.'
"Well, I'll continue then." He begins the first notes of 'Whundhirwaul.'
'You were the man in the park, Brent, weren't you. You were the one playing 'Thank You'.'
"Correct on both counts."
"What are you two talking about?" asks Speri.
'False appearances,' I answer. 'But why, Brent?'
"I wanted to see if there was anyone intelligent in the court. Appreciation of fine art is a sign of intelligence. I snuck in and played a few songs. I left the harmonica on a bench and stole into the shadows. You came along and took it. So I knew you were the man I needed."
'For what?'
"I have connections across Emeriqua, you know," Brent says. "I don�t live here, but I�m just as disgusted as you."
'Next you�re going to tell me that you feel my pain and that I can cry on your shoulder.'
"Don�t gimme that. I just call �em like I see �em." Brent got up and handed me the harmonica. "Oh, feel free to keep the harmonica. I can get more somewhat easily."
I grab the harmonica. 'I don�t know if I trust you, Brent.'
"Come on, buddy. Nothing�s changed, right? Friends?"
When you only have two friends, you need to be more forgiving.
I nod.
"And that�s what I thought. Keep in touch. I won�t be here for a while, I�m headed to Mayamee."
'Don�t go to Mayamee,' I warn. 'We just sold Macsaco a nuke and-'
"I know," he affirms, pushing back the arms of his shirt to reveal a �DC Forever� tattoo. "I�m gonna take care of the mummy�s little bro and his girl."
'Mummy�s little bro?'
"MUMI�s little bro."
'MUMI. Merlowe Underground Munitions Incorporated. You mean Lyle is the brother of Kythe?'
"I knew it wasn�t lost on you."
"What�s a mummy?" pipes in Speri, completely lost.
'I am Ozymandias, king of kings.'
"Ozymandias? You mean Ramses?" For I had introduced her to the works of Sheli and Dikinz and, most importantly, Iasu.
"Well, kids, I gotta go. De la Cervuela waits for no one." And so Brent left.
"Who was that man?" asks Speri.
'A not-so-temporary best friend.'
* * *
I was having fun.
For the first time in my life, I was truly happy.
With the harmonica, the friendships of Brent and Speri, and Operation Defy and Demolish, I was happy.
So naturally something had to be done about that.
One had planted industrial dye in the King�s water line. When he showered that morning, his skin was tinted royal purple from head to toe. So ODD was waiting with baited breath to see the King show up that day.
"The King regrets to inform the Court that all matters today will be postponed till the morrow," droned a page. "Oh yes, the philosopher laureate is summoned to the King�s private chambers."
Had I been found out? If that was the case, I would almost surely die. And it was then that I realized that ODD was no longer a joke. Men could die if someone made a mistake.
'Milord, you summoned me,' I stated, standing properly in the doorway of the King�s bedroom. Two scantily-clad girls were feeding him vast mouthfuls of turkey meat as he lay in bed under the sheets. Turkey meat cost four dollars Royal per pound on the streets, and forget about the price of scantily-clad female servants. It was even higher if they were cute.
The corpulent potentate of Calipha looked up from his gluttonous delights. He rolled a stubby purple arm across his overstuffed pillows to wrap a meaty hand around one of the girls� waist, who very clearly must be in it only for the money.
"Ah, Turast. Enter. Take part in the pleasures, if you so desire." The girls� eyes went wide at the prospect of serving someone who wasn�t a total slob. They proffered platters of steaming turkey and goblets of wine.
'Thank you, milord, but I shall pass. Is there a task you require of me?'
"So formal and to the point," lamented His Majesty. "We are not in court, so relax. But yes, there is something you could help me with. I am sure you�ve seen the strange things in court lately, right?"
'Of course, Your Highness. Falling into Speri is hardly my idea of normalcy. Whoever did that must pay.' (The word hypocrite is derived from the Greek hypokritos, which is the term for "actor"...)
"Oh, that�s right, your little tiff with Speri. I don�t see why you two hate each other. If I didn�t know better, I�d say she was perfect for you."
'With all due respect, Your Majesty, we were talking about your personal life, and not mine.'
"Right, sorry." He adopts a knowing smile. "Anyway, you are my philaureate. If anyone can figure out something, it should be you. Who do you think is behind these attacks, of all the people in the court?"
'You think someone in the court is responsible?'
"Actually, several someones. But they have a ringleader, code-named Spartacus. Who do you think Spartacus is?"
Oh dear. If this is a trick question, I�m dead. Better play it cool.
'Well, Your Highness, in ancient history Spartacus was a man who led a slave revolt. His men were captured, but no one could identify him. So they asked which one was Spartacus, so they would know who to kill. Spartacus said, �I am Spartacus.� Then one of his men said �I am Spartacus.� This continued until everyone was claiming to have led the insurrection.'
"What does that have to do with anything?"
'Well, Your Highness, it could have nothing or everything to do with anything. If the leader chose the name Spartacus, it might mean that he feels like a slave to something or maltreated by something. Might be you, might be society, I�m just not sure. Or maybe it means that the leader is anonymous, not even known to his men. It might mean that he doesn�t want power, just freedom. I don�t think that Spartacus is a serious threat to the throne, Your Majesty, at least not yet.'
"How do you figure that Spartacus is not a threat?"
'Your Majesty, he could have easily blown up the Royal Army Command Center instead of your statue. That would have taken out the entire government, allowing his men to take power during the ensuing chaos. He could have poisoned the wells that water the Royal Court and have his men live off water reserves. The fact that nothing of the sort has occurred makes me think that he�s trying to tell you something.'
"Tell me what?"
'He has blown up a statue. Forgive me, Your Majesty, but the taxes of the starving commoners were wasted on that hunk of stone. It was also, a, um, well... slightly distorted picture of your true self.'
"You don�t have to mince words with me, Turast. I know." He looked hurt.
'And then he proceeds to blow up a fountain. Then he basically embarrasses everyone in the court in front of everyone else. I'm not sure, Your Majesty, but he might be very angry about the life of luxury the court leads while the citizens starve. This is, in all probability, a wake up call. If you don't do something soon, the people might rally around Spartacus and revolt.'
"Good point, Turast. I'd better put more guards on the streets."
'That's not quite what I meant. Anyway, how will we pay for the extra guards?'
"Just raise their taxes some more."
'It would be cheaper and more cost efficient to scale down on luxuries, Your Majesty. And, as far as I can figure, it would end the attacks by Spartacus.'
"No demagogue will dictate to me how I am to live my life!" the King declared. "But forget that. Turast, you may not know it, but I do appreciate your advice. Though I often ignore it, you are the only one here who is still in touch with the outside. I think you have not enjoyed yourself all these years at court, so I want to befriend you. While I recover from this dye attack, I insist you share this turkey with me. It is quite excellent, I assure you. Ladies?"
Wonderful. Just great. The King tramples all over the face of logic yet again, and tries to make it up to me by giving me turkey. Somehow this doesn't equate.
'Thank you, Your Majesty, but I just ate. Really, if there is nothing else, I must be going.'
"Very well, Turast, but we should hang out sometime. Just the two of us."
'As you wish.' I leave, hoping that he forgets about his offer.
* * *
"So where were you, Turi?" Speri inquires as I open the door to my room. Lately she has taken to calling me Turi. Heaven only knows why.
'I was with the King. He wanted to know some things about Spartacus. He was eating turkey and wanted to give me some.'
"He was eating turkey, you say? Cannibalism is legal now?"
'Apparently. He was with two of his... well, servants, I guess.'
"Did they say anything to you?" she demands, with a hint of jealousy in her voice.
'No, but why does that matter?'
"Did you say anything to them?" A flash of green is about her.
'No, I didn't. And why do you care?'
"No reason. So what does he know about Spartacus?"
'Only what Spartacus wants him to. The King is going to raise taxes to pay for more guards on the streets. Spartacus worries him.'
"I don't see how much worse it can get for them."
'You are bourgeoisie. You don't know what it's like. You were never one of the commoners, Speri.
I was.
I remember the taxes and the lawless guards that you hid from as if they were thieves.
I remember the judges who looked the other way when the army took your stuff and stole your land.'
"Are you angry at me?"
'No. I'm angry at the King. I wish I knew how to stop this tax. I wish I knew a way to fix it all without bloodshed.'
If this goes through, the peasants will finally revolt. I am convinced of this. And the whole court will be killed. The slaves will unknowingly slay Spartacus.
And I am Spartacus.
And my life was going so well, too.
* * *
"I hereby proclaim that taxes will rise five percent across the Kingdom of Calipha, to pay for an extra police force to protect against Spartacus," bellowed the King to the assembled masses. "Also, I am hiring professional detectives to hunt down Spartacus and his men. Every last member of this so-called 'Operation Defy and Demolish' shall be put to death."
The masses let out a collective groan. The King dismissed them with a wave of his hand. He was led out to his personal automobile and was driven back to the Royal Court.
I watched all this on the television in my room. Speri was with me, sitting on the bed as usual.
"It should be interesting to find out what Spartacus does," Speri commented.
'Yes it should, I reply. I can't even begin to guess what he'll do.'
* * *
I watch the numbers of ODD, now up to Sixteen, murmur in consternation. We meet in a decrepit tool shed now. The statue is too dangerous.
"We can't just sit here and be slaughtered like cattle!" protests Thirteen.
"Yeah!" agrees Nine.
'I'm thinking. Give me a moment.'
"I've been making some contacts throughout the city," says Eleven, our new bombcraft specialist. "I've personally organized three more chapters of ODD, and more of the citizenry are joining every day. Give ODD a week and we'll be fully ready to revolt."
"I have contacts high up in the Royal Army," Two adds. Nobody mentions, though everybody knows, that he is the Royal Army. "I might be able to get the Army on our side when we fight back.
'Nobody said we're fighting back, I say.'
"We have to!" declares Seven.
"We have all the arms and bombs necessary," Eleven says. "All we need is manpower. And if we revolt we'll have that, too. The people will flock under your banner, Spartacus!"
'Fine. I'll tell you what I'll do. Give me one night to think this over and then I'll tell you my decision. But swear that you will all do whatever I tell you to, no matter what.'
They all promised that they would abide by my decision.
"I want to fight now!" declares Four.
"Hey, by the way, tomorrow's April Fools'," mentions Six. "What are we doing? We have to do something brilliant."
'I know exactly what we're doing tomorrow.'
"What?"
'Nothing.'
"What!?" exclaims a shocked Eight.
'The King is expecting us to be out in full force tomorrow. The entire police force will be out tomorrow night, patrolling the streets and the court. If we do nothing, we're doing something. We're sabotaging the King's nerves and rendering pointless the policemens' overtime. And next year, when they'll be expecting us to do nothing, then we hit.'
"Absolutely devious," remarks Fourteen.
"But I want to hurt them NOW!" insists Four.
I am Spartacus, and I have little control over my army.
* * *
I am Turast, and I have little control over my life.
'Yes, Your Majesty, I would be honored to give this to the President of Jacago.'
I walk to the Royal Airport, and I look all over for Brent. Of course, no sign of him. He's in Mayamee.
Lot flies into Au Hare, delivering a last-minute message to the President of the Jacago League.
'Greetings from His Majesty the King of Calipha to President Daley the Seventeenth. His Majesty the King would like to make a trade arrangement with Your Greatness the President of the People of Jacago and Protector of the Rights of the Same. If you refuse to annex Phinx, His Majesty the King will sell you a nuclear warhead for the price of ten million dollars Jacagoan.'
Au Hare is far enough away from Jacago that even by car it takes an hour. So two hours there and back added to fourteen hours of flying time means that I am not going to make the ODD meeting. So I gave a message for Speri to give to ODD, saying that we would not revolt yet.
As I'm flying over Sakram Anto, I see fires burning across the city.
Those odd men revolted.
I am not Spartacus.
* * *
The King was in the middle of unofficial business with one of his ladies when they entered, wrapped entirely in black muslin cloth so they wouldn't be recognized.
I was right behind them, shouting for them to stop. I entered and found that the King was being subdued. His evening lady had ran off shrieking, leaving only the King and ODDmen in the room. They were having a hard time holding him down securely, because his huge stomach wobbled like a waterbed every time he squirmed to get free. So they just hit him in the side of the head with a vase, knocking him unconscious.
'What are you people doing!? Didn't you get the message!?'
"Yes Spartacus, we did. Shame you missed the beginning of the revolt, being in Mayamee and all. But it went off without a hitch."
'But I was in Jacago, not...'
Oh, I get it now.
Curse you, Brent. (Hey, by the way, today's April Fools'...)
They gagged him and pinned his arms behind his back with duct tape, then they slapped him awake. His eyes went wide.
"Spartacus? Do the honors?" asked Five.
"WHAT!?" vented the King, enraged. "YOU were Spartacus!? I trusted you, Turast!"
What the heck, I'm in it this deep.
'Hey Your Majesty! You're not so majestic now, are you!? But then, you never were. The Emissary of God to the Kingdom of Calipha fooling with a prostitute! THIS is what you get for misrepresenting God the way you did! This is what you get for raising taxes like that! You're treading on the very people who built and sustained your Kingdom. We didn't ask for much, just a King who would serve the God he claimed to, freedom from your hitmen and a chance to use some of the money we worked to earn. But now, look at you. You took away everything we had, so now we have nothing to lose but our lives while you have everything to lose. So long story short, you should have never screwed around with us.'
They made sure he would never do anything again. They slit his throat and dragged him to the belltower.
WHAT!?
"Good job, Spartacus. You have an eloquent tongue, if I say so myself."
In it this deep, I have no choice but to further the revolution. I have Two send word to the army to join us. Meanwhile the Palace Guard has just stumbled into us and is radioing for backup.
They pile into the hallway and we tangle.
Guns rattling like a demon's laughter, people fleeing the temporal plane, and brave Spartacus, leader and hero of this revolution and many more to come, is trying to stay out of the way and not mess things up.
Help me.
I try fleeing out of the King's bedroom via the windows, but I bump into the Palace Guard.
"Die, ODDman!" He aims his gas-powered K49er at me and prepares to slay.
I wonder at the wisdom of doing what the nice men with the big guns tell me to.
I see my life flashing before me.
I am stealing food so my momma can eat.
I am saved.
I am summoned to the Royal Court.
I am Lot.
I am Spartacus.
I am not Spartacus.
I am totally screwed.
I am... saved?
A lone figure runs from behind, hacking through surprised Palace Guards and mowing them down like grass.
"Hurry! This way! We have to get out of here!"
'No need to tell me twice,' I say.
Dressed in a black outfit, the stranger is holding an axe that he must have grabbed in the tool shed. In the darkness of the night, I can't even tell whether my rescuer is male or female. We flee to the hills surrounding the city, and finally stop at an abandoned stone church at the top of the highest hill. In the ruins we climb to th |
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