TWENTY EIGHT - PLEASING SEMIRAMIS

The tent room faintly smelled of spices, fat and rosemary-coated lamb. The gnawed remains of a roasted kid lay on a silver platter in a corner. A hazy sweet grey smoke lingered through the chamber, lit up by a thin ray of light that shone through a ripped seam in the pavillion-ceiling.

Sapphire sat with legs criss-crossed between the pillows. The smoke calmed him, made him relax and lean back on the carpets. Here; in her presence, he was content. Calmly the words rolled out of his mouth, and he told his mistress what he had seen and heard.

Semiramis, her tall body seated on her high wooden seat, loomed over the merchant and listened attentively; like a mother would listen to the rapport of her child. When the subject of the praying monks came up her expression fouled.

‘Have you encountered these elders before?’ Sapphire asked. ‘The tribal chief called them the monks of the sacred flame, and seemed to hold a great deal of respect for these fragile white robed figures.’

‘Grandmasters. Monks. They are just old impotent men, and I have them killed wherever I can find them.’ Semiramis confirmed. ‘I exterminated a small stronghold in the deep west six moons ago. You see; these men do not worship me, refuse it, and harden others to refuse as well. I should have known their blighted presence was within the canyon as well, these locals have resisted far too long for common desert tribesmen. The death of this order and its attendants is priority, Dan Sarpa. You must learn this, and you must pay attention to their ways if you are to encounter them again, the day may come that I give you the command to hunt them out at other places as well.’

‘Divine is your right to kill these disbelievers, my mistress.’ Sapphire replied tacitly. ‘But the men in the canyon are desperate. I believe the fire-altar holds the key for success without violence. The locals might be swayed into some form of subservience if you were to… allow the monks safe passage.’

‘Safe passage?’ Semiramis’ mouth became displeased.

Sapphire nervously licked his lips, not yet ready to give up. ‘Down there they are starving. If you remain here not only will your precious time be wasted, but you will subjugate only host of dead. Better for them to bow, be branded and serve your might. Strange how I know so little of these fire worshippers, even as I have crossed the desert all my life. Still, even with my limited knowledge, I advise you to let the monks go.’

‘A possibility.’ Semiramis rested her chin on her hand, long finger tapping against her cheek.

‘May I give suggestion of proposal?’ A chill ran down Sapphire’s spine as he met his mistress’ dark stare.

‘You may.’ Semiramis voice was cold.

‘You will offer the burning altar and its aged attendants to leave unharmed, never to return to your realm again. Upon fulfilling the contract they are marked and permanently exiled out of your territory, wherever your holy Queendom may be...’

Semiramis said nothing and Sapphire quickly continued.

‘Upon their departure you will receive the deep canyon in your possession. The inhabitants are good fighters, holding loyalty and honour in high regard. Take the strongest men in servitude and allow the rest to keep with their women and children. You can then demand tribute from the remainder.’

‘Dan Sarpa, you offer them good terms, very good terms for people that have resisted my rule for the longest of time. I thought you a negotiator. I expected ruthless mercantile exploitation, not the hand of clemency.’

Sapphire gave a slight nod. ‘You want more men, this is how you will get it. If you want them all dead you need to do nothing else but wait. Those are your options, Divine one.’

‘Half their men in servitude, an annual tribute of children, and each of them branded. Those are my demands. Tell them this will be the last offer.’ Semiramis’ words were quick and harsh.

Sapphire smiled, pleased with himself. Surely she would be pleased as well, an entire starving tribe emerging from the abyss by his hand. No more wasted serviles, no more lingering in this rocky waste. When Uruk itself awaited, what worth did these wastes hold?

***

Sapphire swiftly returned to the canyon, where two armed forces still faced each other with readied arrows and spears. At the ledges hundreds of serviles stood unmoving and their banners massed in the wind, peering into the chasm like judges sentencing the judged. And as above so below, the tribesmen had their defiant eyes fixed on the ragged silhouettes, ready to send another wave of serviles to the depths.

Dan Sarpa, with the sapphire in his turban sparkling in the desert scorch, moved between the two groups. He slid past armours, defences and sharp axes. A pathfinder; a dealmaker. He came with a disarming smile bearing gifts of salt, and his silver ringed hand was shaken when he offered it.

The tribals had become accustomed to his presence, no longer threatening him with knives. Canyon-warriors escorted Sapphire to the lower wards of the earthen chasm, where the cliff sides became less steep and a town had squeezed into natural formations and hewn rock alike; a glowing honeycomb halfway down into the abyss.

Down in the dark the grey Deccard awaited, armed for war.

The chieftain of the besieged tribe heard Sapphire’s whispering voice in his ears. His eyes widened, his jaw clenched, teeth gritted, like a wild horse buckling under newly thrown reigns. The demands of Semiramis were made known and with a tiny movement Deccard’s neck bowed just the slightest bit. The chieftain gave no reply to Sapphire's words, knowing negotiations to be over and the proposal a done deal.

She will be pleased, Sapphire thought as his toes twitched impatiently.

Deccard remained silent, gave a final wild stare at the gemmed merchant that stood in his subterranean house. The chieftain’s mouth remained shut as he led Sapphire back down to the entrapped monks and their hidden fire.

Sapphire’s tongue flicked out over his sun-chapped lips. Off all the indebted tradesfolk and mercantile competitors he had ruined over the years, this victory tasted sweetest. No exalted-whores of Uruk to celebrate on, no fortunes spent on jewelry and foreign wines. He had better, Sapphire reminded himself; Far better, and she was pleased. He needed nothing else.

Although…, Sapphire mulled. He imagined Kardid standing before him. Her long curls he saw, and in his mind a few of her brown strands became auburn red like that of her mistress.

Sapphire sighed, the celebratory thoughts dissipating the lower they got. The surface heat was not found down here, and every step or shuffle took another degree of warmth away. Who would live here willingly? Winds howled past, blowing like flutes as they hurled down ito the depths. The wind strenghtened and with chilling force theystormed over the descending pair, distorting their balance and pulling them to the ledges. Sapphire had to hold onto his turban or risk losing it to the wind.

Here live old spirits of the desert. No wonder these people’s faces are hard. Out into the sun they will be led, to struggle no longer for themselves, but struggle for SEMIRAMIS.

Sapphire’s feet slipped, and with startling fear he tumbled over. Deccard’s strong hand clasped around his arm and pulled him back to safety. The chieftain turned away with a grunt and continued the path as if nothing happened.

‘Dont go chase the winds little man.’ He said softly. ‘There is still a long way down.’

Sapphire’s smile had now completely gone, and the merchant focused on his feet the remainder of the descent. Again Deccard’s torchlight showed the crumpled broken bodies of men that had fallen from great heights. It signalled the bottom, and Sapphire felt even more relief than the first time he had reached it.

Swiftly now he went to where the monks had hidden themselves at the bottom of the desert. Deals had to be made.

Light sparked ahead and the fellowship of old sages in white robes stood ready, their modest possessions packed on their backs and their golden-glass encased fire raised by two monks on wooden poles. As the flames glowed within, the multi-coloured panels showed inscription in a language Sapphire did not know.

Dan Sarpa’s silver eyes fixed on the symbols. Where they there before? Curling over the glass...

The monks all stared at him. Some of them had hopeful eyes and seemed eager to go. Others watched with suspicion, blades at their hips. One of monks stepped forward, a ragged head of grey strands and pockmarked sun-scorched skin.

‘Sapphire merchant. Have you come to offer us our salvation at the price of our hosts?’

‘Exact.’ Sapphire replied.

The monk glanced at Deccard with a sad expression, then back to Sapphire. ‘We have deliberated on this long ago, we will accept. But on one condition…’

Sapphire crossed his arms. ‘Tell me.’

‘Say your name.’

Sapphire was taken by surprise. ‘My name? Why my name?’

‘Say your name to us because we wish to know your name. We do not trust the word of a nameless merchant.’

Sapphire hesitated. The onlooking chieftain placed his strong hand on his small shoulder and leaned over. ‘You want to negotiate for the tall mistress or not? What is your problem little tradesman?’

Sapphire’s face hardened and his thin eyebrows frowned. ‘The script on the glass, what language is it? I have seen many peoples and nations. I do not recognize it and I am surprised.’

‘I am also surprised-’ The leading monk replied. ‘That you can see it at all. Of that language you will not learn in this place, down here in the dark. Especially not in these circumstances. It is spoken in another realm. If you want to learn it you go there.’

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

‘Where can I find this realm?’

‘Do you still see the symbols?’ The monk asked and Sapphire looked back at the fire, now seeing only glowing glass.

The monk shook his head. ‘I will speak no further of this. Now your name, merchant. Your true name.’ Old fingers with surprising soft skin touched Sapphire’s hand. ‘It is a wise thing to protect your name against the world. Protect it against misuse, against lies and sorcery. But no oaths can be made this way.’

‘Dan Sarpa.’ The merchant stated reluctantly. ‘There are few who ever knew my name, and even less are still alive...’

‘Dan-Sarpa.’ The monk repeated. ‘So you are not of the Riverlands. Not from Uruk, which was suspected at first. Youre from an entirely different clan. Very well, your name rings true, the terms we accept.’ The old monk turned to the chieftain. ‘We will pray for you, Deccard.’

Sapphire coughed and shook his head. ‘I cannot negotiate in the name of Divine Semiramis with people I have to call monk or old man. The exchange of names, even if they are of unequal worth, has to be completed. Tell me who you are. Tell me of the fire you hold so esteemed.’ Sapphire felt exposed, naked now they knew his name. The urge to deliver venom increased, the serpent seeking to strike. The leading monk smiled as he crossed Sarpa’s poisonous gaze, a few teeth missing between his old disarming lips.

‘I am the Kannadan. Born as Doliath, hailing from the hills of the feasting Anakim.’

The old Kannadan gestured to the glowing flames. ‘This is a very old fire, and the last of its kind not yet extinguished. It once burned safely in the candle monastery, whose main tower shined far across a dark desert. It is from that monastery we have recently fled. We had built it deep in the sands, very deep. It stood at the heart of the desert; wherein lived storms of the sands, birthed and came to die. A reddish hue hung in the sky always, permanent clouds of sand that turned day to night at worst, and muddled the sun’s bountiful light to gloom at best. Dawn came late, dusk came early, and the night’s stars and moon were dimmed likewise. We served what little traveler came across our candle, admitted them within our house of brightness. We watered them, gave them room; all but the true hopeless were welcome, though I always say there is no such man that is without hope.’

The Kannadan stared intently at Dan Sarpa. ‘Even a shard of a soul is worth saving, my old teacher always told me - may his spirit be unburdened by this plane - And I tend to agree with his words. In our lone monastery we were able to sustain the fires of truth for many years. And over time we even became known by grateful merchants who never expected such a place to exist in the deep of the sands. Here, and in other places, within this endless dry land, we were not scoured by the rulers and principalities of the world. We found the harsh desert to be an oasis where the garden of purity could prosper. And then it changed, like the passing of a season, a gradual change in the great sands that reached even our shrouded existence. The wind warned me, and I warned the other vestiges of the order. It seems now my warnings have been in vain, for all of their fires have been lost…’

The Kannadan’s face became sad as he recalled his memories.

‘Possessed men, vicious men of the desert. We had heard of them long before we- ourselves- became target of their hunts. Tales were spoken by traders and nomads of sudden attacks. Murderous episodes in an empty landscape. The caravaneers came less and less, and the nomadic tribes of men who had taken well to our teachings - They talked of their encounters, urged us to leave. But we were disinclined to abandon that region. Those dry hills and dunes had finally encountered our light after an eternity of darkness, I would not have them lose it again. Even if there were only scorpions, even if only rocks, it was worth illuminating! Call it stubbornness, call it foolishness, and I say you are right.’ He shook his head. ‘We saw them a moon after the last visiting caravan had departed. Bestial men, wearing the rags of their previous occupations; their past lives. We tried speaking with them, but were only replied with a singular determination for destruction. They were the men that now stand up there, at the edge of the canyon, with their lying banners of doves. Men that have lost control over their own bodies, broken minds, or no minds at all. They came in the darkest of nights. Small packs, clambering onto the walls of our monastery. Unfortunately our order had long ago learned of the necessity to fight. We defended ourselves and turned to the fire to pray. From our walls we saw their skulking forms in the half-dark, and our thoughts were with our brothers at other places. We wanted to help them, spoke into the flames to pass on our words. Little did we know the others were already dead. Crucified, mangled, esteemed flesh picked from their bones by the vultures and the hags.' The Kannadan sighed, then reluctantly continued. 'When the situation became too pressing we decided to abandon our monastery, departing at dawn with our inner-most holies of holies: the eternal fire, the work of ages. A scourging journey, hastily conducted, encountering only a few tortured corpses beset by black beetles, impaled on jagged stone or crammed into crevices of the wind-swept rocks. Some were our brothers, others we did not know. We had left the beacon of the monastery burning; the candle on the tower, but on the third night we saw it become extinguished, a faint glimmer on the horizon succumbing to the night…’

The Kannadan shook his head. ‘I speak too much. A new face attracts many words, but I know you are not one of ours.’ His tone hardened. ‘You now know my name and I know yours, Dan Sarpa. We are ready to leave.’

The old man held out his hand and another monk handed over a spear. He tapped the weapon on the rock floor and the rest lined up. Twelve monks, grey and white hair, moustaches and long beards. Their eyes showed them to carry heavy burden, their ragged robes revealed long knives and other weapons.

Sapphire nodded, holding out his hand towards the exit. ‘Then you can leave.’

‘I wish you well, merchant-man Dan Sarpa. Perhaps one day you will realize the errors of your ways. That being you follow is not one of love, although you give your love to her.’

Dan Sarpa’s mouth became a thin strip. Perhaps one day you will worship the Divine. ‘You have free passage.’

***

A slow and simple drum beat sounded over the landscape. Amassed rows of armed serviles parted their lines before the crevice. From the deep canyon Sapphire merged, rubbing his hands contently. Semiramis’ black eyes took it all in, her breathing slow and steady.

Behind the merchant she saw the white fire-worshippers emerge, a pitiful group of old men huddled around their fire. They carried it on two wooden poles. Within the protective cover of gold and glass panels, the fire within snapped and sparked. It seemed the flames grew brighter in intensity as they neared her, and she grimaced with unease. Her breathing quickened. The sand under her feet became hotter, the little pebbles and rocks sharper. Her eyes pained and she was forced to look away. Her serviles turned their heads to her as the old men passed, but she did not give the order to hunt. The law of a Divine must be worth ... something.

Towering high behind her men Semiramis stood, choosing to ignore the departing monks and fixing her stare on her prize; A long line of men, women and children had started to emerge from the canyon. Gaunt unwashed faces, ribs showing. The entire tribe was climbing up.

Her dark haired ashen faced servants barked at them, placing knives at their necks and forcing them to line up before the chasm on their knees. Sixty men, including their white bearded leader who now stared at the ground with sadness. Fifty women, and thirty children of various ages. Finally forced out of their narrow cave-sides, this tribe looked weak and vulnerable. They no longer were in the position to negotiate; to ask, demand or resist; they were delivered unto Semiramis.

Multiple fires were prepared and brands heated by the serviles. The servants of Semiramis set to work immediately, the sounds of searing flesh and tormented screams echoing over the chasm as they mercilessly put the hot metal on skin. They worked fast and efficiently until the entire tribe was marked into enslavement to the tall divine.

Semiramis took her time as she inspected teeth, felt their muscles, estimated their age. She assayed them like cattle and picked thirty of the freshly branded men, including the chieftain. Serviles bound them with rope and led them away from their families. Those that remained were silent, clutching the searing burn marks on their skin, looking at their feet or glancing back at the canyon; longing back to the hopeless safety they had.

Semiramis raised her chin and spread wide her arms and hands.

‘Well, are you going to worship your new Goddess or not?’

The armed serviles sank to one knee and their rough voices started a low hum.

‘-Pray, damn you, I won't ask again.’ She spat, and the desert folk stumbled forward and threw themselves at her feet, uncertain reluctant prayers coming out. Shy voices, unsure how to worship. ‘Say my name and bless my name; SEMIRAMIS!’

She reveled in their desperation and let them worship until she grew bored with them. Dusk came with approaching shadows, and her mouth opened over their weak prayer.

‘Your chief was a noble man. He sacrificed his will for you. My words are law in this world. What I have promised will not be broken. Mothers, I see your children are thin and hungry. Will you be grateful if I provide them food?’ She smiled as the frightened eyes turned to craving. ‘Give them bread and water.’ She commanded her serviles. ‘They are ours now.’

***

The night sky was cold and clear with stars. Within her tent Semiramis sat on a tall wooden throne. Her hand rested on Karkid’s curls, who sat on the pillows besides her. Semiramis poured full her goblet with red wine, vaguely realizing she had lost count of how many times she had it emptied already. A pair of empty amphora lay under her seat, and a third was opened.

Her mind was pleasantly numbing. I am larger, she told herself. Larger than the others, so she needed more. As she tasted the comforting heavy taste of the wine, she thanked whatever caravan had brought it along before her serviles had overcome it. May many more traders pass through my realm of hot rocks and scorpions. While one hand held the drink, the other raised a small mirror to herself. Vanity. Her pale face had become flush. She saw the youthful dimples in her cheeks, decades too young.

‘Brush my hair.’ Semiramis commanded with a slight lisp. Karkid quickly took position behind her, now almost the same height as her seated mistress. She straightened her mistress’ long auburn hair with a comb. Semiramis watched her in the reflection of the mirror, lingering over the slave-woman’s large eyes, focused lips and desert-tanned skin. And that hair, that marvelous thick curling hair. Across the room Deccard and his men sat, eyes staring out into oblivion.

‘Would you like some wine, Deccard?’ She chuckled and sipped anew. ‘With your resistance broken the way is open to subjugating the rest of this miserable dry piece of earth. I send you out to those tribes that have not bowed yet. Show your face, tell them who you now serve. Tell them they must come out of their own accord, or…’ She drank, swishing the liquid over her tongue in delight. ‘Or lose their minds like you.’ She laughed daringly, taunting the husk of the man who so long had defied her. She saw the muscles in his weathered face tense and release, visible just a tiny split of time and likely unnoticed by a less attentive onlooker. She wondered if some part of Deccard was still in there; fighting.

‘Yes.’ He replied. ‘Come out of your own accord to the Divine Mistress Semiramis or lose your mind like me.’ His voice was hollow and devoid of emotion.

‘Very well, you know what to do. Go and do not stop until you have completed your task.’

Servile-Deccard bowed and left, followed by his former men. They ran out of the grand pavilion and sprinted off into the darkness.

Back in the tent Semiramis had finished her third amphora, several liters of wine now coursing through her veins. She peered back at Karkid, who slowly brushed her dark-red hair with automative movements.

‘Say, Karkid, come. Here.’ She reached back to touch Karkid’s neck and turned her head, bringing her lips to that of her slave attendant. A warm and wet embrace of mouths, one drunk and increasingly needy, the other sober and frightened.

When their kiss had ended Semiramis spoke to the slave of the exalted priestess. ‘Today was a good day, was it not?’

‘Yes mistress, it was.’ Karkid replied and Semiramis’ upper lip raised to one corner. The hand she held around her slave’s neck pulled Karkid closer. ‘Get down on your knees before me.’ She demanded with a hoarse voice. Karkid put away the comb and placed herself before her mistress.

Semiramis’ hands caressed Karkid’s hair as she was guided to her mistress’ thighs. Semiramis opened her legs and her slave knew what was expected of her. Soon the Tall mistress was sighing and moaning, and the knees clasped around her servant's head in excruciating delight. After a while Semiramis pushed herself back from Karkid’s tongue.

Large eyes looked up to her and Semiramis smiled. ‘Oh Karkid, you have been great in your aid to me, despite your... history. You lack power, luxury, but I think you deserve more than the sweat and suffering you now wear. If you need servants of our own, new cloths, jewelry or men, whatever your heart's desire, you only need to take it. My blessing to you, Karkid. You should know that long lasting servitude to me is rewarded in the end. Obedience nessecitates cruelty; softness buys a quick death and a shallow grave in this unforgiving desert. And yes I have been cruel to you Karkid, but perhaps it is time I am more lenient with you. You could be reinstated as mistress... You will be a noble-woman, a ruler of people, only overshadowed by my own tall form. Tell me, do you want power? I can provide it to you.'

‘Yes, mistress.’ Karkid replied, and Semiramis knew she spoke truth. ‘Very well, I’ll grant you that.’

Her hand roughly pulled back Karkid by her hair, and the mistress’ back arched against her seat as the servant resumed her duties.