The attempted coup by the M’Dahz resistance changed everything in the town. The satrap, having spent so many months as a barely-disguised tyrant ruling through the powerless governor, finally abandoned all pretence of care. The morning after the executions, posters went up across the town reminding the population that M’Dahz was a Pelasian city now, in the province of the satrap Ma’ahd, and warning that the last quarter he would ever consider giving had now been given. Any further individual infraction of the strict rules to be imposed would be rewarded with a very painful and public death, and any larger-scale civil disobedience would result in the systematic extermination of every last occupant of the city and their replacement with Pelasian settlers.
The dead from the southern wall were left where they fell for seven days by order of the satrap and no one was allowed near them. To the horror of those who lived nearby, not all of the victims had died when they fell, but lay among the stinking, grisly remains of those who did, limited by shattered limbs as they wailed and begged for days until the heat, starvation and wild creatures of the desert who dared come so close to the walls finally killed them off.
Asima had heard the tales of what had happened and how it had been dealt with and found herself curiously unmoved; a trait she was seeing more often in herself and that she felt should worry her more than it did. While she recognised what a horrifying thing the satrap’s judgment had been, she could not help but blame the stupidity of the plotters. Why had they tried? If they had just tried to reason with the satrap, none of this would have happened anyway.
Besides, she had heard Pelasian soldiers in the compound close by the governor’s house talking about the incident and many of them had, privately and out of earshot of their superiors, spoken of their own dismay over the events of that day.
Not all Pelasians were cruel and, if people had only given Ma’ahd no cause for alarm, he would likely have soon returned to his hometown and left the governor to run M’Dahz. Then everything would have been more or less back to normal.
But no.
Because of the idiotic activities of the so-called ‘resistance’ the satrap had, instead, rooted himself ever deeper in M’Dahz and had brought the rule down harder than ever on its inhabitants.
But while these fools could bang their drums and shout their slogans and continue to bring down the wrath of the conqueror upon their heads, Asima was resolved to make her and her fathers’ lives easier however she could. The problem was that the actions of those idiots in the militia had placed the satrap in a particularly angry and unresponsive mood and just how she could go about approaching him now was a thorny issue.
She sat on the decorative chair, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She had always known she was pretty, and the way Samir and Ghassan used to look at her had confirmed that this was not merely narcissism, but an accurate appraisal of her appearance. And yet, even being conservative with her opinion, she could see that she had begun to change over this past year and was filling out, becoming voluptuous and more truly beautiful than girlishly pretty. The timing was unfortunate when she thought about it objectively. Another year or two and she could probably have had the satrap eating from her hand.
She smiled.
“I will have him eating from it, regardless.”
Her attention was drawn to a sudden intrusion in the corner of the mirror. For a moment, in a fashion that threatened to worry her, she was irritated at her father for having interrupted this introspective viewing of her face. She turned and smiled her most devastating smile.
“Asima…”
“Father?”
“My dear, you have been sent for, and I do not know whether you should go.”
She laughed lightly.
“What are you saying, father?”
“Satrap Ma’ahd has ordered that you present yourself. I know that that is what you have been intending to do anyway, but, for all your wits and precociousness, my dear, you are still a girl and still my daughter. I fear that perhaps you should flee instead.”
Asima laughed again.
“Flee where, father, and how?”
Her father’s brow furrowed.
“I know that you have your ways; secret ways in and out of the building. Use them, Asima. Get away before Ma’ahd gets his claws into you.”
“Father, you worry too much.”
Straightening, she walked across the room and patted him on the shoulder.
“Things will be fine, father. I am of Pelasian blood, remember.”
With a last glance back, she checked her reflection in the mirror and nodded with satisfaction. She needed to look her best for this.
Along the corridor and out into the main hall, she was busy planning how she would sweep into the satrap’s presence like a graceful swan. It was all about impression. It was about making herself important and worthwhile. It was…
She stopped for a moment at the balcony above the stairs. There were black-clad soldiers marching around the ground floor of the governor’s residence. Surely they did not mean to break their promise and invade the governor’s own house because of the acts of a desperate group of lunatics?
And yet, as she watched, she realised that there was not a single white-clad Imperial guardsman to be seen. The Pelasian army was in the mansion.
Frowning and scanning the soldiers, she spotted a particular figure in the centre of the ground floor hall, directing the men this way and that. She recognised the bald head and aquiline features of Jhraman, the satrap’s chief vizier. Jhraman had been the man who, over the past months, had delivered the conqueror’s words to the captives here and who had listened to their questions and requests and delivered them back to his master.
Always a shrewd judge of character, Asima had early formed a favourable opinion of this small, hawk-like man. While he was utterly loyal to Pelasia and his satrap, he was a man of reason, with a remarkably light sense of humour and a kindness of spirit that his master lacked. Her eyes locked on him, she quickly and quietly descended the staircase.
Instinctively, as she reached the bottom of the sweeping stairs, her gait dropped into a sweeping, ladylike manner and she flicked her hair back just as Jhraman turned to see her.
“Asima” he smiled. “You are looking as glorious and radiant as the daughter of the sun just as you always do.”
“Master Jhraman” she replied lowering her eyes while flicking her lashes dangerously. “Thank you for your kind words. I believe the satrap has requested my presence? You require so many men to escort me?”
The vizier gave a tight laugh. Something in his manner warned her not to play too many games with him today.
“Hardly, Asima. The news will be circulating soon enough, I am sure but, sadly, I must inform you that governor Talus hanged himself last night.”
In a testament to her iron composure, Asima barely blinked, though her mind raced through many avenues before arriving at a conclusion she daren’t voice. Instead, she feigned shock.
“But why?”
Jhraman shook his head.
“The reason is immaterial. Regardless, he is being cut down and will be taken to a place of burial today with appropriate honours. Sadly, this means that his guard are no longer appropriate here and are being deported back to Imperial territory.”
Asima nodded sagely. Whatever the satrap would secretly have liked to do with the white-clad Imperial guardsmen, he would not dare risk it. Even with the Empire in chaos as it was said to be, Ma’ahd would not push his luck any further. The Emperor had abandoned M’Dahz, but these soldiers were citizens from the north.
Likely their presence in M’Dahz was an ongoing impediment to the satrap. Perhaps that was even the reason Ma’ahd had had the governor take his own life? She blinked as she realised the implications of all of this. No governor meant no guards, but it also meant no sanctuary; no protection. The satrap’s men were here because they were commandeering the mansion. They would then eject the occupants at the very best. At the worst…
That just did not bear thinking about.
She frowned at the vizier.
“May I enquire as to why the satrap has sent for me?”
Jhraman shook his head and sighed.
“I believe your father mistook the request I made. You are not to present yourself to him, child, but to me.”
An alarm went off deep inside Asima, but she maintained her composure, her frown still aimed at the small man before her.
“Master Jhraman?”
The vizier cast his eyes back and forth furtively. They were practically alone, with the few soldiers nearby busy and at the edge of earshot.
“His Majestic and Imperial Highness, the God-King himself is, I fear, displeased with the manner in which the satrap has conducted this affair. I have advised my master that a gift, or donation, to an appropriate value will buy the satrap his majesty’s support for the coming year.”
“I am to be a gift?”
Asima mentally chided herself. Such an outburst was hardly productive, and she had almost shrieked like a fishwife. Several of the guards glanced in their direction and she blanched at the look of displeasure in the vizier’s face.
“Be quiet and calm, child, or I shall have to discipline you.”
His shoulders relaxed a little as the guards went about their business once more.
“His majesty is a good man with a strong appetite for… healthy young women” he concluded, colour rising in his swarthy cheeks.
Asima blinked.
“You mean…”
“Yes,” the man replied with an embarrassed smile. “You and three other young ladies of my choosing will be sent to Akkad, to the harem of the God-King. By Pelasian law no girl of less than thirteen years of age may be taken to a man’s bed, but rest assured that it will take at least two years for you to learn the ways of the court.”
Asima found she was shaking her head.
“You have no choice in the matter, Asima. Accept it and be pleased. Whatever you may think of this now, be assured it is a good thing. You will be taken from this barren cesspool and to a place of unimaginable wonders and delights.”
He smiled a very genuine and warm smile.
“And your father, being the father of someone so potentially important, will be well looked after. I will see to it myself.”
Asima stared at the man before her.
“When do I leave?” she asked in a small voice.
Jhraman pursed his lips.
“Tonight. Take a few hours to say your farewells and gather anything of personal value. Travel light though, as many of your things will be inappropriate and, upon you arrival, you may be made to discard them. An hour before sunset a caravan will leave, accompanied by cataphracti and soldiers. The journey will take many days but, with the consignment being so delicate and valuable, you will travel only in the late afternoon and evening time and early in the morning, when the sun is still cool. Pelasian way stations will shelter you for the nights.”
Asima found she was shaking her head again, thought not in denial. Already, her lightning mind was racing ahead, planning the coming days. She would not be alone. Three others, who would very likely all be beauties and probably wealthier and higher-born than her. But they would not be as bright or as cunning. By the time the caravan reached Akkad, they would be to her as crows are to eagles. She must be, as her father used to say, ‘the best thing on the menu’.
Akkad had best prepare itself. The Pelasian capital held many of the great wonders, but it had never tried to contain someone like Asima.