Spit and spoiled fruit slapped Ashallah across her face. She turned. The other cheek soon met the same fate. She shook her head.
“If only I had my blades,” she said to herself, wishing her words would scare the spines from the onlookers above.
Ashallah’s cell, while still in the catacombs, had a barred opening that looked into the street above. The slit was barely a foot tall, the kind one would pass without so much as a glance. Despite its small size, the window attracted constant attention, from onlookers wanting to see the female prisoners within. Most only glanced and moved on, sometimes shaking their heads with disapproval or disgust. Although fewer in number, the wicked of the public would stop and hurl insults, accompanied with rotting fruits or meats meant to taunt the chained. 181Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdhOcLKG4nj
“Here’s your feast!” said one particularly heinous woman, an old hag with stained teeth. She tossed a spoiled meat pie at Ashallah’s cell, which struck one of the bars to burst open and splatter on her face. Ashallah’s chains clanked as she reached for her face to wipe the pungent juices away. She raised her head to shout obscenities at the leathery-faced woman but found she had retreated away from the onlookers.
For the past two days, Ashallah had been enduring such shame. Along with ridicule. Scorn. Embarrassment. All of it was a world apart from the suffering she would have experienced had the turquoise captured her. Because they nearly did.
The turquoise had stopped short of their conquest, while standing feet from Ashallah on the underground riverbed. Ashallah, having nearly missed their clutches, found herself between them and the keepers on the other side of the bank, where the female prisoners of Yasem and its surrounding lands remain housed.
“Leave this place!” demanded one of the keepers who stood guard behind Ashallah. Ashallah noted that he, like all the other soldiers on the bank, had a shaved head. A strong, booming voice that one has, she remembered thinking. Especially for a eunuch.
In response, the turquoise which had almost torn Ashallah to shreds arched her back and hissed. The feral bitch ventured forward before a crossbow bolt shot past her. The other turquoise took notice and bared their teeth. Nevertheless, all remained in their places.
Ashallah, at once relieved but still cautious, turned slowly to look over her shoulder. As she expected, the mass behind her had grown to encompass forty strong. The rear line, situated on the rise of the bank, bore crossbows fitted with bolts of silver palmwood, polished so smooth and bright they nearly glowed in the lowlight of the catacombs. In front of the crossbowmen, a row of soldiers bearing steel-tipped pikes stood, their blades pointed at the turquoise. The pikemen, outfitted head to toe in boiled leather and scaled armor, were far more equipped to sustain the claw and tooth attacks than Ashallah.
In front of the two lines, and nearest to Ashallah, three captains of the eunuch guards scanned the underground riverbed and the tunnel entrances beyond. Once convinced that no further threats were coming, the one who had spoken approached Ashallah.
“You wear the clothes of midnight,” he stated.
“And you wear the armor of a guard with no stones,” she replied.
The guard, perhaps having had his humor removed along with his testicles, remained stone-faced. “Our messenger brought word from those above. There has been an alarm sounded for a traitor, a woman of the midnight warriors who killed her commander and two soldiers accompanying him.”
“You believe that traitor to be me?”
The eunuch captain leaned in slightly. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Ashallah eyed the crossbowmen, the soldiers with pikes, the other officers and the captain before her. She considered her options, knowing she would find no fairer treatment in all of Yasem than with these men. Any other captors -whether the turquoise she just escaped, the guards at the other end of the catacombs, or any soldiers above – would violate and wound her repeatedly, possibly to no end.
“I am no traitor,” Ashallah started, knowing her response would not appease her potential new warden. “I have served Yasem with honor, even under the cloak of darkness, when the Grand Sultans many missions required the cover of night rather than the exposure of day. I have done everything required to fulfill my duties, save the one that only serves the vilest of men. I refused my commander’s many advances, to his dismay, so as not to have his filthy cock inside of me. For that blemish to his manly pride, he tried to rape me, along with his guards. I responded with steal and blood, resulting in the crimes you now charge me. I will admit to killing Shaheen and his fellow rapists in self-defense. But any accusations of treason or other crimes I will deny, to the point of death.”
The eunuch captain stared back at Ashallah. She thought she saw the flicker of emotion. Whether pity or empathy, she could not say. Perhaps it was even a poignant feeling, stemming from his own helplessness of losing the ability to make love or father children. Whatever it was, for Ashallah the flicker served as only a point of curiosity. For within a moment, it passed.
“Take her into custody,” the eunuch captain ordered. “You will remain under our charge until those above are ready to judge you.”
As they bound Ashallah in chains, an undeniable truth rang through the recesses of her mind: I have already been judged.
The clanking of scaled armor above drew Ashallah’s attention. She raised her head to find two eunuch guards stand before her barred window. As though on cue, the cast iron hinges of her cell door creaked, as seven eunuch guards entered along with the dungeon’s keymaster. The keymaster, a twig of a man seemingly made whole by the thick robe draping his shoulders, coughed as he fingered through the keys on his ring.
“Do you always have such an escort?” Ashallah asked. “I bet they wipe your ass after each shit you let loose.”
“Insolence,” the keymaster noted as he fingers came to rest on the key to her chain. “A common side effect of staying here, even if only for a few days.”
“If you knew my accused crimes, you’d expect this much and more from me, given the sentence I face.”
One of Ashallah’s chains clanked to the stone floor. The keymaster reached for the other that held her at bay. “I needn’t worry about your worsening insolence. You face no further time here.”
The other chain fell. Ashallah eyed her opportunity to escape. With her hands free, she could snap the keymaster’s neck like driftwood and have his keyring before he hit the floor. In the same instant, she would endure the blades of the guards, who encircled her. She could dodge one or two in these quarters. But seven?
The keymaster’s beady eyes, unperturbed by the prospect of death at the hands of a prisoner, met her searching gaze. “Kill me. Try to hold me hostage. Or don’t. These men will not hesitate to skewer my thin frame to strike you. Be certain of that.”
Momentarily defeated, Ashallah followed the keymaster out of her cell and down the corridor toward the central quarters. Her escort of seven accompanied her, with their pike blades pointed at her neck and torso. Not doubting their expertise or precision, she walked on through the quarters, past the stares of the other eunuch guards. Although none would hesitate to strike her down if need be, Ashallah felt strangely at ease amongst the castrated. Like the midnight warriors, they were soldiers yet outcasts. Some five hundred years earlier, a slave trader had presented his entourage of eunuch soldiers to the Grand Sultan, boasting of their skills and loyalty. The Grand Sultan was so impressed that he bought the company of eunuch soldiers from the trader, so that since then scores of castrated had served in several capacities. Initially, their primary responsibility was to guard the harems of the Grand Sultan, which held the most beautiful women in all of Greater Dyli. It was a task suited only to those who would not act on the desire to fornicate; even the midnight warriors could not be trusted to deny such temptation. Decades of obedience further impressed the Grand Sultan, so that he expanded the roles they served. Yasem was even fortunate enough to receive a few companies of eunuch soldiers to keep the peace over the women of the city. Their assignment was wasted, though, as the old command of the city saw them not as an ally but a threat to their power. A collective gathering of officers and commanders, which had included Shaheen, relegated their service to the catacombs, where they were to guard those female offenders who were lucky enough to find sanctuary in their captivity rather than that of virile male guards.
Ashallah and her entourage passed the mess hall, barracks and the armory. At each, she felt the stares of the guards. She endured similar gazes above when she ascended the stairs to the street. Surrounded by guards, Ashallah did not have to concern herself with others throwing rotten and spoiled foods at her. Instead, they hurled insults and wishes for her demise, words that would have bothered a lesser woman. Undisturbed, Ashallah continued with her head held high. It was not until she neared the amphitheater that her demeanor showed any effect from the crowd.
As the guards led Ashallah to the entrance of Yasem’s amphitheater, she spotted the indigo and black clothes of the Shadya. The fact that they were there, outside the arena walls to protest the trial of a woman by men, was not so surprising to her. What was unusual was the extent of their presence. With every step Ashallah took toward the mouth of the stadium, their numbers seemed to grow, far beyond the total she thought them to be. By the time she and her guard entourage came within fifty feet of the entrance, hundreds lined both sides of the thoroughfare. Eunuchs and virile soldiers alike stood with pikes and javelins crossed before themselves, pushing back on the crowd that would push and shove as Ashallah passed.
Ashallah would have marched on, the audience a blur to her, had she not heard a familiar cry.
“Yala Hasem!”
Ashallah stopped.
“Move,” commanded one of the guards.
She did not. She listened to the crowd, who began to pick up the wartime chant. Something particular about that first cry captured her attention. She thought she heard a familiar voice. Perhaps from one of her midnight comrades?
“Move,” urged the same guard, who pushed her along.
Ashallah obliged, albeit at a slow clip. More from the crowd took up the chant.
“Yala Hasem! Yala Hasem! Yala Hasem!”
The whole audience that lined the street became a sea of dark hues. Women beat their fists in the air and waved clothes of black and blue. The soldiers dug their feet into the sand as more Shadya pressed upon them.
“Yala Hasem!”
Ashallah paused once more. There it was again. That one voice. So distinct as to pierce the discordance of the surrounding Shadya. As the guards shoved her forward, another sound drifted to her ears from the crowd, one that further awakened her sense of familiarity.
“Asha!”
Ashallah whipped around to find her mother to her right, at the forefront of the crowd. Although in her daytime hijab, Ashallah could still see her eyes, which at that moment appeared frightened. A soldier held her back with the shaft of his spear. She paid him no attention, though. Niyusha’s attention was split between her and the rest of the crowd, which she searched in vain.
Two guards pushed Ashallah over and again. Ashallah tripped forward, but her gaze remained on her ommah. She planted her feet into the dirt and leaned back, to buy more time to look upon her mother. Once more, Niyusha turned from Ashallah to scan the crowd. Ashallah, from the middle of the street, searched as well. Dark blue clothes fell against a backdrop of black, and vice versa. Women’s faces and eyes met hers, as more fists beat the air. All looked similar, but none was so different as to strike Ashallah as an acquaintance.
Then she saw her. Like an oasis in a stretch of sand. Orzala.
She was behind two other women, part of the second line of the crowd. Then she wedged herself forward, so that she stood chest to chest with a eunuch soldier. She shouted and screamed, “Yala Hasem!” along with the others. Her voice, rising above all the others, was somehow definitive and strong. When did my sister become such a powerful young woman? Ashallah asked herself, as she watched Orzala punch the air as she yelled.
The eunuch guards had lost her patience with Ashallah by then. Four now marched behind her. One was even brazen enough to jab at Ashallah’s back with the tip of his pike. That further inflamed the audience.
“Yala Hasem! Yala Hasem! Yala Hasem!”
The shadow of the arched entrance blocked the sun from Ashallah’s face. Knowing that the amphitheater would soon cut her off from the crowd, Ashallah craned her neck to look back at her mother. Their stares locked long enough for Ashallah to point at Orzala.
“Take her from here!” Ashallah screamed.
The butt of a pike shaft met her abdomen. Ashallah doubled-over, falling to her knees. Two eunuch guards picked her up by the shoulders as the audience erupted, spilling into the street. Her escort hurried her into the amphitheater. Ashallah, coughing for air, heard the heavy oak doors close behind her as the guards dropped her into the sand.
“Orzala . . .”
Ashallah turned to the amphitheater doors, her sense of rationale having left her. She reached for the nearest guard to knee him in the groin. She wrestled his pike from him as she shoved another guard away. She swung around, expecting to find the keymaster. Instead, a closed fist met her face, not one or twice but three times. She sunk to her knees, grasping her nose. With her eyes watery, Ashallah rose to one knee, aiming for the closed doors. Without warning, a solid strike to her left temple – by what or from whom she could not tell – sent her head to the sand.
Through her haze and writhing, she heard a man’s voice. It was booming, yet the man did not yell. He simply spoke as one who has authority.
“The crowd has broken the lines?”
“Yes,” replied the keymaster. As if to echo his affirmation, fists pounded from outside the arena doors.
“And this one,” a eunuch guard declared as he nudged Ashallah with his foot. “She is the cause of this uprising.”
“No,” replied the authoritative one. “She is simply a pawn. Another woman made an example by the Shadya. Their last example.”
Ashallah turned from her side to her back. The mid-afternoon sun blinded her. She raised her hand to block the sun, long enough to see the man of authority.
He was not a man common to Yasem. Unlike the commanders, captains and local magistrates, he wore no breastplate, carried no kilij sword or bladed weapon. A robe with violet and white stripes hung from his tall frame, while the white shora headwear that fell around his shoulders shimmered with gold thread. He bent down on his knees to inspect Ashallah, allowing her a glimpse of the ruby and emerald encrusted rings he wore. Each precious stone had seven sides, the sign of a vizier from the Court of the Grand Sultan.
The pounding on the outside of the amphitheater doors grew louder. The vizier glanced in its direction as one of his apprentices approached.
“Vizier Hyder, it is not safe for you here.”
“The doors will hold as they are up until the call comes,” the vizier replied.
The call. Ashallah knew what that meant. The realization sent a chill through her body, a very real sense of dread that made her shiver with anticipation. For as a midnight warrior, she had witnessed the effects of the call before. That one command from the Court of the Grand Sultan, that one call, could vanquish Ashallah’s foes and enemies in an instant. Used only in certain instances, the call struck fear among the masses. Even among the most hardened of warriors.
How many decades, centuries, have passed since it was last used in Yasem? The Shadya are not that large of a threat. Certainly not to the Grand Sultan. Why them? Why Yasem? Why now? With so many other women among them . . . Like Orzala . . . Ommah . . .
All sense of dignity that Ashallah had as a fighter left her. Humility ensued, as did fear, and every other emotion she had been trained to ignore or suppress. She extended her hand toward the vizier, her palm outstretched and open in an act of submission. She parted her bloody lips and looked up, summoning the courage to speak through her fear.
“Please . . .” she begged, for the first time since she was a child.
Vizier Hyder stared down at her long and hard. His look held no sympathy, no compassion. Ashallah could only wonder how many before her had begged only to receive such a response in return.
The apprentice behind Hyder cleared his throat. “Vizier, shall we toss her outside to suffer the call with the others?”
Hyder considered. “No,” he finally said. He turned to the edge of the arena. “Throw her in one of those cages there, so that she may hear the call for herself. The memory will give her something to reflect on as we prepare for her public trial later.”
Ashallah rose to her knees, nearly ready to spring upon the vizier when a net of hempen rope fell on her. The butt of several shafts hit her on all sides. Under their force, she fell. Silhouettes, ringed by the sun above, descended. Her legs parted the sand as they dragged her by the net. The coarse grains beneath Ashallah turned to slabs of stone as they hauled her into the lower amphitheater corridor.
They passed cage after cage. Hyenas and lions snarled, flashing their jagged teeth. She caught glimpses of the stripes of Amalycian tigers and the spotted coats of Kalcahtic ice leopards. All yelped and roared at her and her captors. That is until they were out of sight. The last few cages housed not with animals but with men and women. Unlike their fellow caged, the human prisoners lacked the will to show fury. Their response to a new neighbor was one marked by numbness, as glazed eyes and muted lips met her presence. Finally, the guards turned into the open door of the last cage. They let loose their grip on the net, retreating behind the safety of the cage door just as Ashallah wrangled free from the cords. Ashallah reached through the cage bars in vain as the eunuchs made their way down the corridor and out of her life.
“You wretched half-men!” Ashallah screamed. She beat her fist against the cage bars, sending the echo of their vibrations down the hall. Eunuchs, she contemplated as she sat cross-legged by the door. So much for saviors of women.
Whether by chance or design, from her cage Ashallah had quite the vantage point. She was able to see most of the sandpit of the arena and the better half of the spectator area, from the lower seats to the uppermost gallery. Midway up the stands, a scarlet awning stretched over the marble gallery reserved for visiting dignitaries, generals, wealthy merchants and members of the Court of the Grand Sultan. That is where Ashallah spotted Vizier Hyder, taking his seat in the chair of honor. With him stood his apprentice and soldiers dressed in an array of blue, green and red clothing. Janissaries, Ashallah realized. The most elite soldiers in Greater Dyli, charged with protecting the Royal Palace of Rilah, members of Court and the Grand Sultan himself. If ever there were soldiers who deserved Ashallah’s admiration, it was they. Their presence did more to worry Ashallah than impress her, however. For they served as yet another sign that the vizier’s presence was to carry out edicts deserving of royal attention. The kind of attention that results in capital punishment.
The janissaries flanked the vizier as his apprentice leaned in close to his ear to speak. The vizier listened, paused, and then flicked his fingers, a move that sent the apprentice scurrying. As the apprentice ran off, the clamor from outside the amphitheater seemed to grow louder. The cries overlapped each other, yet the distinct chant of Yala Hasem continued.
“Shut up, you fools!” Ashallah pleaded through her teeth. She knew she was only speaking her thoughts, that none outside would hear her and that all those in the corridor who did would not care. Nonetheless, out of desperation, she spoke again. “Leave this place. Please!”
Across the sandpit in the marble gallery, Ashallah saw the apprentice emerge from the stairwell carrying a small wooden box inlaid with lapis lazuli and abalone shell. He opened it before the vizier. Hyder removed a curved ivory horn ringed with gold. He stood and studied the writing engraved on its side.
Ashallah shook the bars of her cage. The door rattled just a bit but otherwise remained strong. “No! You bastard! In the name of Jaha, don’t do it!”
The vizier paused to look across the arena in Ashallah’s direction. Ashallah stopped shaking the bars. Perhaps her cries had carried past the noise outside the amphitheater to settle upon his ears. For a moment, she even thought that the vizier had reconsidered.
Ashallah narrowed her eyes. She focused in on the vizier’s face, with a sense of attention that eclipsed any she had experienced in battle. The details of all in the marble gallery became so clear. The yatagan swords at the janissaries’ belts. Their green kufi hats. The blue sash across the chest of the vizier’s apprentice, marking him as a member of the Court of the Grand Sultan. The candied dates and apricots, salted figs and crystal wine decanters. All of it was glaring in detail. Especially the calligraphy inscribed on the curved horn, in a language unknown to Ashallah in a script as deadly as it was beautiful.
Vizier Hyder locked eyes with Ashallah. Ashallah searched the man’s eyes and realized it was not a look of pity or sympathy. No, there was none of that. It was the look of an enemy. A foe. A man.
Hyder, his gaze never leaving Ashallah, raised the mouthpiece of the horn to his lips and blew.
The beats were jarring. The pitch a series of highs followed by lows. The music was hardly pleasing to the ears, yet somehow Ashallah found herself listening, wanting to know how the song ended. It carried a serious tone, one she thought reminiscent of a soldier’s elegy. A song of death.
“Dear Jaha,” Ashallah prayed, her voice so low only her god – the one she had abandoned long ago – could hear. “I know he plays the death song. Let his music summon no evil. May no spirits or creatures come. Have mercy on all those women. Along with my sister. My mother.”
Then like a comet streaking across the sky, it came. A projectile of fire, burning bright red and yellow, flying toward Yasem. Ashallah heard the cries and yelling outside the amphitheater quiet, and even the animals caged down the corridor silenced.
The glowing mass dove toward the city, like a meteor emblazoning the sky. As it neared the city, it slowed and curved in the direction of the amphitheater. The blazing ash and fire that marked its entrance into the sky fell away, revealing the dread beneath.
Gold script overlaid blood-red skin. Sinewy muscle coiled torso and limbs. Eyes as black as the finest ebony flared, as wild as the beast’s hair and as threatening as its nails. Wisps of black smoke curled around the legs of the creature, snaking around one appendage and past the other as if they were prowling serpents. The figure neared, allowing Ashallah to study it further before it came to a halt and hovered before the marble gallery.
The figure presented herself before the vizier. Ashallah closed her eyes. A male beast from a nightmare, she told herself. A demon from one of the Five Doors of Hell. A jinni.
She opened her eyes just as Hyder pointed to the doors of the amphitheater. The jinni turned to fly above the arena walls and descend on the crowd outside. From her cage, Ashallah could see nothing of what occurred. But she heard. The cries of the women. Not cries of protest like before. No, these were ones of pain and anguish. Of fear and sadness. Lamentations and pleas for mercy that Jaha did not answer.
Ashallah closed her eyes again, only this time she also covered her ears. Still, she heard. All of them.
She beat her fists against her head, a futile effort to stop her hearing. It was no use as the yelling continued. Along with the cries. Bounteous screams. Then less. Followed by fewer still.
Then finally, the silence.181Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsZuKZJv6C1
