As the oldest member of the ruling house, she was expected to wear the colors of royalty and adorn herself with a continent’s jewels. Each day female servants took great pride in seeing to her appropriate appearance. Yet it was painfully long, indeed, since she had been granted an audience with anyone beyond the palace.
Without apparent reason or warning, within the last few months her imprisonment had worsened. She was a prisoner in her own room! Although Croesus had been blamed for her captivity, it was Bestreld who had issued the command. She might ask the emperor for an explanation but the only way for her to see him was through the exchequer. A prospect that was unlikely. As a result, her days passed slowly into weeks, each appearing too much like those that had gone before, until Myra began to wonder if anyone even remembered that she was still alive.
She opened her eyes and took a calming breath in order to become more relaxed before finally shuffling the worn cards she had gripped the entire time in her hand. After so many years the exercise had become almost automatic, though, as always, she made certain her fingers had touched every one of the cards at least once. When she was satisfied and her moist eyes glazed with an intensity that seemed almost severe, she began to deal the worn pictures face up in front of herself. Though she had spread the cards a thousand times before, a look of complete wonderment took hold of her as the cards and the pictures drew forth their tale.
It wasn’t long; it took her just a few moments. Suddenly she knew that something of the greatest magnitude was about to occur. The realization caused her to catch her breath and her heart beat with an excitement that had long been lacking. Something was happening in Lydia, unbeknownst to the people or herself, and it dealt with intrigue and deception. But a greater surprise lay just beyond the city walls:
Events were happening upon the desert plains that would alter even Croesus’s dreams for the future. A new ruler had emerged upon the desert sands, and Myra knew in her heart that his life was destined to cross her own.
The Attack
Purity, next to life, is the greatest good. And purity is procured by the law of Mazda to any who cleanses self with Good Thoughts, Good Words, and Good Deeds.
3
Croesus toyed with the miniature castle held firmly in the palm of his right hand. It was a beautiful piece, skillfully crafted—an exact replica of the emperor’s Lydian fortress. Though his mind had wandered from the silver object itself, he continued to visualize one of the women who strolled within the palace walls. He imagined Serena, whose beauty was beyond description, as she walked through the chambers of the Temple School. Her pale flesh appeared molded by the desert gods and his mind filled with thoughts of pleasure that were not those of an uncle toward his niece. The emperor was certain that the day was fast approaching when Serena would become his and he would discover for himself whether the fantasies of his mind equaled the realities of the bedchamber.
In the midst of his daydream, Croesus remained completely oblivious of the fact that Eliot eyed him with an uneasy combination of fear and total apprehension. Croesus’s neck was swollen with tension and his reddened forehead was beginning to sweat. Since Bestreld had not requested a morning’s audience, Eliot knew there could be but one thought on the emperor’s mind.
The strains of Eliot’s position had begun to affect the man’s body, for he trembled ever so slightly. Because of the emperor’s erratic behavior, the duties of personal guard were not vied for amongst any of the palace slaves.
While Eliot looked on nervously, Croesus allowed the rest of the school’s maidens to prance through his head. He tried to imagine the temple baths in the midst of their antics—though he had heard the echoes of their laughter and the sounds of water against marble walls, he had yet to discover a way to see the ritual firsthand. The thought of the girls made a pleasing diversion, though Serena’s image continued to replace that of the others. Croesus knew that even as emperor he could not avail himself of the women. It would not do to anger the girls’ families. Besides, his citadel employed women for such recreation—although not all so employed had aspired to be part of such labors.
“Eliot!” the emperor bellowed finally, placing the silver castle ever-so-gently upon the arm of his chair before wiping the moisture from his brow.
“Yes, my lord,” came the nervous reply.
“I shall be in my chambers; I wish to meet with one of the Aaibzan women.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And Eliot,” Croesus added as an after thought.
“Yes, my lord.”
“See if an Aaibzan can be procured who resembles my niece.
The years had been harsh but despite hunger, wind-storms and occasional attacks from rival settlements, Margi had managed to remain relatively content, exceedingly plump, and devoted to caring for the many that needed her. Her life had been full and not without frequent male companionship, for even a fat desert woman was better than no woman at all. She was as comfortable staking a tent or corralling the goats as she was rocking a youngster to sleep in her ample lap, for time and her girth had molded her into one of the settlement’s strongest women.
She had never married, nor birthed any children of her own, but she had often tended to the offspring of others and thereby found herself the beloved Mamyu of many people. Her duties as nursemaid were performed with devotion and an intensity rivaled only by her lovemaking, for even now she was a frequently-sought consort. She was also respected for her knowledge of herbs and the medicinal value of Taro, and found herself—because there had been none other—the city’s authority on the fever. She did not relish the job, but it was hers nonetheless, and her experience with it had been harsh enough to shatter the girlish joyfulness with which she and had approached her youthful task as Sumi’s handmaiden.
The years had passed quickly, and in the interim Margi’s life had weathered many changes. Perhaps, most notably, Sumi had become her dearest friend—the two sharing much between them. Their respect for one another was immense, although it remained exceedingly difficult, even now, for Margi to understand why Sumi remained with a man who was such an inferior lover.
She paused outside the tent flap, taking in one last breath of palatable air before entering. The stench of the fever permeated the bodies, the clothing and even the bed coverings of those afflicted with its final stages. In spite of her many experiences, the odor was quite difficult to tolerate.
She was generally unaccompanied on her rounds, although on occasion Sumi had assisted her when the fever had reached epidemic proportions. Most frequently, however, she was alone, ignoring the hastily painted symbol for contamination upon the door—a mark that blackened numerous desert dwellings—advising all but Margi to keep their distance.
She inhaled a final breath before pushing aside the tarp’s flap and entered the shadowy chamber. The room was warm, heavy with moisture from unabated sweats and bodily fluids that could no longer be controlled. Her own movements towards the cot were cautious, for it was not unusual for a fever victim to imagine the woman an approaching adversary in the midst of desert warfare. However, Margi sensed the man’s time was near, giving him not the strength to sit up, let alone enough energy to prove much of an opponent.
The man before her was a warrior, yet he lay like a child with his legs pulled up to his chest, shivering in delirium beneath soaked blankets that added more to the