Kassius stretched his arms, walking out of the priest’s yurt. His head was dizzy and his body weak from the long fast. The outside of his tent was strangely silent, and the only two people outside were two armored guardians. They stood with their arms folded, and when he walked toward the entrance, they did not give him space to pass.

“Good evening.” He stood in front of them, expecting the guards to make way for him, but they did not move.

“Excuse me, gentlemen . . .” he said, drafting a smile. “This is where I sleep.”

Simultaneously, they grabbed him by the arms. He took a step back, trying to break free.

“What are you doing?” he asked, trying to yank his arms away, but they held him tight. What was going on? Was it an attack because they were children of traitors or perhaps, they had felt offended by something one of their people had said.

“Let me go! Let me go!” Kassius said. “What is going on?”

The men pulled him back, dragging him. He tried to headbutt one of them, but received a slap in the cheek instead. He yanked his body out, but one of the guards took him to the ground, smashing his face, this time against the grass. He tried to lift himself up, but the guards held his wrists together. He felt strings circling around his arms, and binding him tight.

“Get up, you rat,” they said. One of them kicked him in the ribs, and he clenched his teeth in pain.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked.

“Keep your mouth shut,” they said, forcing him to stand.

The camp was strangely deserted at that time of the day, and Kassius’ screams seemed to fall upon deaf ears.

They marched him outside of the camp, to a carp that had not been there before, covered by a canopy as wide as an amphitheater. The inside was dark, filtering the light of the sun outside. In it, he saw all of his friends, all the ones who had escaped from Adachia, some leaning against the carp’s poles, some sitting cross legged on grass, surrounded by dozens of armed soldiers. He, however, did not see the slaves.

“What is this?” Kassius said.

“Stay here and be quiet,” the soldier said. He untied him and pushed Kassius into the centre, he stumbled and fell on one knee. Kassara ran to help him to his feet.

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“Did they hurt you?” she said.

“I’m okay,” he said, turning toward them. “What is going on?” He raised his voice. “Why do you hold us in here, are you preparing a surprise birthday party or something?”

“Shut up!” the soldiers said, before spitting on the ground. “Steppe rats.”

Kassius looked at Kassara with an arched eyebrow.

“It’s even dumber than you think,” Kassara said. Kassius struggled to his feet again and checked for his friends, all of them were there, Tor, holding on to his book, Irema, her hair dishevelled and unruly, Raxana, Gitara, holding the crying baby, pampered by linens that were either brought by her or provided by the captors.

“What are you doing, you fools?” Kassius yelled at the guards.

“Now you shut up or I’ll shut you up!” the soldier who had been cursing him said, grasping his spear with both hands and brandishing it forward.

“Cut it out, Yarnus,” said another soldier. “Don’t need to act all tough. Don’t you see these miserable fellows?”

“You heard the counselor!” Yarnus said to his comrade. “These people are dangerous.”

“But they’re not even your enemy. They’re our sisters and our brothers, that they had wrong ideas doesn’t mean we should treat them like trash.”

“You shut up, Tarnakas, you’re acting like a fool again.”

“And you’re acting like a savage.”

“Now give me a break, will ya?”

Kassius lowered his head and looked at Kassara, shaking his head.

“Why are we here again?” he asked.

“Some idiot thought we are a bad influence because the kids started questioning the chieftain, they put us here to keep us quiet.”

“What the hell? And what did the chieftain say? I mean, we can appeal to him, he wasn’t that bad at the beginning.”

“The chieftain is dead.”

***

The twelve counselors of the Varalkian tribe wept like there was no tomorrow. The Holy Canopy had been erected the very same day. The Chieftain had passed away the night before, in his sleep. He had suffered chronic coughs and terrible abdominal pain. He simply stopped breathing.

But Ghabas knew better. He knew something no one else knew. And there, surrounded by the smoke of sacred seeds, of the ringing voice of throat singers, the sorrow and the wails, he looked around. His colleagues were all enthralled by the smoke.

“Oh, how great, how valiant was our great chieftain,” said Barganas, the oldest member of the Council. His hair had completely fallen off, but still sported a thick moustache that looked like a horizontal rendition of Jupiter’s thunderbolt. “Why, oh gods of the sky, why did you have to take him in such a hard season.”

“Poor chieftain,” Ghabas muttered, coming close to his colleagues and sitting on his hunches. “Such a great man, so valiant. He had a hard time those last days. He was so . . . sickly, a very perilous disease came to such a man so quickly. I cannot believe it, anyway, may the gods guard him.”

“Hail to our chieftain,” said another counselor, thick and muscular, a huge patch of bald hair amid his red locks.

“Ah, which reminds me.” Ghabas stood up and quietly left the group, where hundreds of people gathered around them. He turned his back on them and advanced slowly.

“What is it, Ghabas?” the same man growled, as if offended by Ghabas’ lack of attention.

“Let us prepare a toast in the memory of our great leader.” He reached for his wineskin and brought it to the dining table.