and passageways toward the high walls of the palace compound.
Along the thoroughfare they turned left and climbed the stairway toward the next highest level of M’Dahz. The guard’s face when Asima occasionally saw it was set in a grimace as though he were expecting trouble at any moment; indeed, the way he held his sword suggested he was prepared for constant attack.
Strangely, there was no sign of movement in the streets. Clearly over a half of the town’s population had abandoned their lives and fled to Calphoris, but there were noises among the streets and buildings of M’Dahz; noises that didn’t bear too much listening to. A scream cut through the general hubbub and, now that Asima concentrated, she realised that most of the sounds were those of wanton destruction and sobbing.
A sudden shout attracted her attention as they passed an open door. Risking a quick glance at the interior, she caught a brief sight of a black-clad figure raising something metallic. There was a gurgle and Asima turned her head away and closed her eyes, fervently wishing she had not looked in the first place.
As they strode on, she found herself and her father drawing closer and closer to the white-clad guardsman. What was going on? This appeared to be the looting and pillaging of a victorious army; she had heard stories of what the soldiers of a conquering force were capable. But from what the boys had said, this had been a peaceful surrender and take-over of power; the governor was nominally still in charge of M’Dahz. There was a dull thud from an alleyway on her right. She noticed the guardsman’s head snap round towards it and kept her own gaze locked on the way ahead, biting her cheek once again.
What was going on?
Slowly and nervously the three of them climbed the streets to the palace compound. The gates, always shut against the possibility of theft or wilful damage, were wide open. Where previously no guards had been visible from outside, now black-clad Pelasians in shirts of splinted mail stood by the gateposts watching the street carefully. Within the walls, the only figures visible were black-clad Pelasians. Asima looked across sharply at the guardsman walking with her, but the man kept his expression neutral and his eyes straight ahead.
As they approached the gate, the Pelasian soldiers shifted quickly as if to bar their way, but relaxed as they recognised the white and silver uniform of the governor’s guard. The guardsmen gave a professional salute to the two men who merely glanced at him and then waved uninterestedly toward the internal buildings.
Inside, Asima sized up the situation in short order. There were several buildings in the compound, and she was aware of the purpose of most. Black figures strode in and out of them, often carrying goods one way or the other, even in the guards’ barracks. The only building that seemed to be escaping the worker ants of the Pelasian force was the governor’s residence, tall and elegant and with four white-clad guardsmen standing to attention around the entrance, watching the activity in the courtyard with distaste.
As the guard led them across the courtyard toward the governor’s building, Asima glanced around her and noted with interest the small party of four people just arriving at the gate, well dressed and carrying bags, escorted by another white-clad guardsman.
As they reached the entrance to the house and the guardsmen stepped aside, the next group caught up with them. A nod of recognition passed between her father and the portly gentleman in the other party.
“What do you suppose this is all about?” her father enquired quietly.
“Not sure, but I’m damn glad I’m here and not one of the poor folk being beaten to death that we passed on the way!”
Asima’s heart skipped a beat. Ghassan and Samir and their mother were out there somewhere.
“Why are they doing this?” the man asked.
“I’ve no idea,” her father replied, shaking his head, “but I suspect we’re about to find out.”
The guards escorted them up the ornate steps and into the house. The first storey consisted mainly of a large hall, with several doors leading off. A floor of decorative multi-hued marble lay beneath them, while wide, beautifully curved staircases rose to both sides, meeting at the far end to create a wide balcony that overlooked the hall. Guards stood on the platform, while the hall itself below thronged with people, all well dressed and from the lower nobility or wealthy mercantile class. In this one room stood most of the wealth of M’Dahz.
Asima and her father, along with the new arrivals, tried to find enough space to stand comfortably. Minutes passed, accompanied by a low murmur of troubled conversation, and heads turned occasionally as further groups of blessed citizens arrived and were ushered into the room.
Finally there was a brief conversation in some strange guttural language between the guards outside and one of them stepped forward and closed the door.
Asima cursed her imagination. Was it her own thoughts or the influence of Samir and Ghassan’s quick minds that made the situation suddenly worrying and uncomfortable? It occurred to her momentarily that everyone in M’Dahz who was of worth to a conqueror was gathered in one room. The old adage of eggs and baskets leapt to mind and she found herself looking carefully around the stairs and at the guards, searching for something that might signal a doom for those present.
Her imaginings of a gruesome end flittered away as the door above the stairs opened and the governor, with two of his aides, stepped up to the balcony rail and waited for silence to fall across the hall. Once the assembled crowd had noticed the new arrival and every face was tilted up toward governor Talus, the man cleared his throat.
“I expect everyone here would like an explanation.”
There was another unhappy murmur that came and went quickly.
“Satrap Ma’ahd has set his men loose in the city. I have lodged the strongest complaint with his second, but the satrap is unwilling to grant me an audience.”
Asima noticed for the first time the tired and defeated expression on the governor’s face.
“It seems,” the man continued, ”that the satrap had promised his men a sacking of M’Dahz, and he intends to keep his word despite my attempts to end this without incident.”
He took a deep breath and Asima noted the way, though his face maintained a strained composure, he repeatedly slapped his palm on the balustrade in irritation.
“I am quite simply unable to protect the people against this wanton destruction, but I have done what I can: I have taken in those we deem the most valuable of our citizens to protect you from the worst of these troubles.” He glanced sidelong at the guard commander next to him. ”I can only hope that my doing this without seeking the satrap’s approval is not enough to anger him, as that may well place us all back in direct danger.”
He straightened.
“I have had rooms prepared for you all in this building. There is little space and things will be cramped. You are, sadly, required to share living space. I can only apologise for the conditions, but I had to try and save as many people as I could. Once I leave here, my staff will help you all settle in and see to the provision of food and bedding. I, regrettably, must visit our new overlord and attempt to smooth things over and secure your safety. If all goes well, the satrap is mollified, and the army run out of places to loot and rape, then it is my fervent hope that you will all be able to return to your houses in a matter of days. Thank you for your patience and I hope that we will ride this through safely.”
With a bow and a sombre look, the governor turned and left the balcony. There was a long, uncomfortable silence, and then suddenly the noise burst like a dam and angry and despairing voices flooded the room. Asima looked up at her father, who had remained silent and gaunt.
She had her own worries.
Samir and Ghassan burst through the door to find their mother sitting cross-legged by the wall, rocking slowly back and forth.
“Ma?”
The woman raised her face sharply and the boys saw with heartbreaking sadness the tears running down her cheeks.
Samir sighed. What more could the Gods have thrown at their poor mother? Her husband had died long before his time and left her all but penniless to bring up two headstrong boys. There had been a brief interval when Faraj had returned and things had once more become easier and hopeful. And then the Empire had left and Faraj had gone off to fight and die.
And then her boys began to follow in his footsteps. They had prepared themselves for death this morning; it had seemed inevitable. She had ordered and then cajoled and finally begged Samir and Ghassan not to go with the militia, but they had been defiant and proud. Strong. Like their father and their uncle. And then they would be dead
