The Blood-stained Belt (4 page)

CHAPTER TWO:
KEIRINE HAS A KING

Sharma and I
were about twenty years of age when the struggle against the enemy
reached a crisis after the Dornite city-states formed an alliance
under a single military command and intensified their pressure on
Keirine. The Dornites were using new military tactics based on
cavalry and chariots and as success followed success they began to
widen the scope of their operations. With its lower hills and
east-facing plains, Upper Keirine felt it the most as the raiding
forces swept in against towns and villages, rounding up livestock
and capturing young men and women. Within a few years, they
occupied a sizeable piece of territory that had belonged to Keirine
for centuries.

In the face of
this crisis, the people began to demand action to counter the
Dornites. From all over, the cry went up for a king to lead
Keirine. Finally, bowing to the pressure, the high priest, Izebol,
convened an Assembly of the Nation.

Sharma and I
were appointed to accompany the delegation from Osicedi. As rural
ignoramuses away from home for the first time, we expected to see
dazzling sights in the great world. However, Sininda – holiest
place of Keirine, seat of the high priest, site of one of the
foremost oracles -- disappointed us. In fact, Sininda was hardly a
town at all. It was just a collection of small houses, workshops,
stalls, and storerooms. The only impressive thing about Sininda was
the temple, which rose up the hillside in three ascending levels
and dwarfed everything else in the valley.

In the temple
courtyard Sharma and I squeezed against a pillar and looked around
curiously. The place was crowded, noisy, and so pervaded with a
pungent haze of incense and sweat that Sharma held his nose while
he muttered, ‘What a stink! Don’t they ever wash?’ He looked around
disdainfully and then whispered into my ear, ‘It’s this lot from
Upper Keirine. They smell the worst.’

I replied,
‘Some of our group haven’t washed for a few days, either.’

‘Maybe -- but
they don’t smell as bad as this lot, that’s for sure. Don’t they
teach them anything in Upper Keirine?’

In one corner,
a man was standing on a bench, haranguing a crowd about the
advantages of having a king for Keirine. He was bellowing that
without a king, Keirine would never be able to organise and control
its defences. A king, declaimed the speaker, would unify Keirine
and would overcome the old tribal divisions which he referred to
contemptuously as ‘The greatest bane of Keirine and the greatest
boon to our enemies.’

After a few
minutes Sharma muttered sceptically, ‘Nothing I haven’t heard
before!' He grunted and observed, 'Ha! What is there to say that’s
new? Everyone knows what’s going to happen. Keirine is going to
have a king and it’s going to get one within a few days.’

‘You think it’s
settled?’

Sharma gave me
a wondering look and replied, ‘Izebol isn't a fool. He can see
which way the wind is blowing. Things have gone too far for him to
turn back now.’

‘You
reckon?’

‘Sure, that’s
what I reckon. You’ll see!’

We moved over
to the other side of the square where an anti-monarchist was
bellowing louder than a market auctioneer, ‘We’re the nation of
Keirine, not so? You hear me? We’re the nation of Keirine – not the
tribes or the city-states, or whatever. We’ve been a nation since
before we came out of the desert. A nation! That’s because we enjoy
Zabrazal’s special favour. Zabrazal binds us together as a people.
Zabrazal sets us apart from all the other tribes and the peoples.
You hear me? Zabrazal is the only leader that Keirine ever has
needed and ever will need. Zabrazal doesn’t want a king and we
don’t need one.' There was a buzz of agreement from the listeners
and someone shouted, ‘Praise be to Zabrazal!’ Another member of the
faithful band shouted, ‘No king for Keirine!’

There were only
about twenty-five people in the anti-monarchist crowd, much smaller
than the crowd on the other side of the courtyard. Judging by the
sizes of the respective groups, the pro-monarchists were so far
ahead that they were already out of sight and heading down the home
straight.

Sharma listened
with his arms folded and his legs planted apart, snorting so loudly
that I gave him a warning dig in his ribs, to which he replied with
a withering look. Hearing Sharma’s snorts, members of the
anti-monarchy brigade began to look at us suspiciously; in fact, a
few of them eyed us with definite hostility. Some of the men had
their hands inside their garments. They were probably just
scratching fleabites or guarding their money-pouches against
pickpockets but, with the looks that we were getting, they could
also have been fingering their daggers. I pressed back against the
wall trying to be as inconspicuous as possible while Sharma gave a
final snort – it sounded about as loud as a horse clearing its
nostrils on a winter’s morning -- and moved off, saying over his
shoulder, 'What a bunch of losers! I’ve had enough! I'll be at the
other side of the square.'

Listening to
the speaker, I thought that old Aggam, the supreme anti-monarchist,
would have approved of the sentiments that were being expressed. By
coincidence, just then, I thought that I saw Aggam standing nearby
partly concealed by a pillar. Thinking I was mistaken – hoping that
I was mistaken, in fact -- I looked again. Sure enough, it was
Aggam. He gave me a glare of recognition and then returned his
attention to the speaker, giving me the opportunity to sneak
another look at him. He was more animated than I had ever seen him.
In fact, he was even more animated than when he went after one of
his pupils with his stick. Aggam caught me looking at him, glared
at me with narrowed eyes, turned his thin lips down in disapproval,
and then directed his attention back to the speaker. I studied him
surreptitiously, not wanting the old fool to think that I had any
interest in him. By Zabrazal – he was more of a desiccated old
sourpuss than ever! Suddenly, agreeing with some reactionary
statement, Aggam punched his stick into the air and let out a
holler of appreciation that was so loud that I jumped to one side,
thinking that he was coming after me. I recognised the stick only
too well. It was the same one that he used in the schoolroom, the
stick that he called 'The Corrector'. Feeling uneasy, I sidled to
the edge of the crowd, suspecting that even here in public Aggam
was capable of laying about my shoulders if he thought that I
wasn’t showing enough devotion to the ancient cause of the priestly
rulers. However, even while I was moving away from him, I thought
happily that this time old Aggam, the scourge of the schoolroom and
the terror of our youthful days, would find himself outnumbered,
out-argued, and out-maneuvered.

Two days later
the Assembly convened on a grassy slope on the outskirts of
Sininda. Standing on a platform high enough to be seen by everyone,
Izebol began the proceedings by sacrificing a white goat on an
altar. After he declared that the omens were good, he launched
straight into berating the People of Keirine in general for being
unfaithful to Zabrazal. Raising his priestly rod in both hands, he
declaimed, ‘Fools! You want to become like the nations around you,
abandoning your god for the false glitter of earthly splendour.’
Although this was greeted with a roar of dissatisfaction from the
crowd, Izebol was unmoved. He just folded his arms across his chest
and stood his ground, chin lowered, bull-like head thrust forward,
glowering at the delegates. When he could be heard again, he cried
that a king would turn out to be an oppressor who would tax the
nation beyond endurance and would strip it of its resources.
Furthermore, cried Izebol, a king would conscript the young men for
his army and for his road gangs and would demand that the prettiest
young women should serve him as maids and concubines. Rising to a
crescendo, Izebol almost spat out his final denunciation when he
called out, 'Fools! You are going to choose your own oppressor!
Ha!’

In response, a
stocky man of about forty years of age with broad shoulders and
strong thighs stood up. His hair, thick and tawny, was
unfashionably long and unruly as if he brandished it in the face of
convention. He wore a soldier’s jerkin and stood with his legs
planted firmly apart like a man who knew how to weather a gale.
Izebol looked at him calmly from under glowering brows and called
out, ‘You may speak, Jainar.’

Sharma
whispered, ‘That’s Jainar of Orifinre. They say that he might be
elected king if the assembly gets to vote.’

Jainar planted
his hands on his hips, looked around calmly and called out, ‘We are
well acquainted with the mercies of Zabrazal towards his people and
we are grateful for them.’

Izebol replied
dourly, ‘So you should be!’

Jainar looked
around as confidently as if he was in the bosom of his family,
raised his eyebrows and replied, ‘We have heard that Zabrazal is
angry. But we have not heard his answer to our request.’ There was
a buzz of approval.

Izebol rubbed
his chin and looked at Jainar narrowly before he punched a finger
at him and announced, ‘Zabrazal has an answer.’

Jainar replied,
‘We are ready to hear it.’ He sat down amidst a roar of approval
and applause from all sides.

Izebol glared
at the delegates and called out, ‘You want Zabrazal’s answer? Good!
Now hear the words of your god!’ He raised his rod and declaimed,
‘Zabrazal says that Keirine may have what it wants!’ There was
another roar of approval that subsided when Izebol waved the
assembly to silence and continued, ‘However, Zabrazal reminds
Keirine that it will have to deal with the consequences of its own
choice.' He stretched upwards, his imposing head turned skywards,
and cried, 'Keirine may have its king if that is what Keirine
wants!’ Then he put down the rod, glowered at the delegates and
said ominously, ‘May Zabrazal have mercy on Keirine!’

As expected,
the delegates voted for the monarchy by a ratio of about ten to
one. When the result was announced, Izebol raised his hands and
gave a theatrical cry of exasperation. But he recovered quickly
enough – after all, it was a foregone conclusion – and called for
the sacred dice.

Amidst a
clamour of dissatisfaction, Jainar rose and protested that the
delegates should decide and not the dice. As if oblivious to the
tumult of discontent, Izebol waved Jainar aside and cried, ‘If you
wanted the assembly to choose, then why did you come to Sininda? Go
somewhere else! Don’t ask Izebol, high priest of Zabrazal, to
officiate.’ Izebol shook his finger at Jainar, swept his gaze over
the assembly, and said with finality, ‘That is what Zabrazal
says.’

Jainar pointed
his finger at Izebol, thought better of it, muttered something
uncomplimentary, and sat down. Into the hush that followed, Izebol
said firmly, ‘Zabrazal has spoken! Let the sacred dice decide.’

While the
assembly settled down, Sharma whispered to me, ‘Jainar has big
ambitions but Izebol is too smart for him. He's clipped Jainar's
wings.’

I asked, ‘What
has Izebol got against Jainar?’

Sharma lowered
his voice and replied, ‘Jainar is strong-minded. He doesn’t respect
the priests.’

‘You reckon
that the person chosen by lot, whoever he is, will be
different?’

Sharma replied,
‘Of course. The sacred dice reflect the will of Zabrazal, and
Zabrazal protects the interests of the priests.’ He winked at me
ironically.

The dice rolled
and the priests supervised the process of elimination, tribe by
tribe and town by town, until only the family of Dorgile from the
region of Orifinre in Upper Keirine remained. Orifinre is in the
south-west of Keirine, where the mountains and the highlands give
way to the grasslands and meandering rivers of the endless
interior. The region has a long tradition of producing
entrepreneurs and traders because it not only has easy access to
Kitilat and its coastline but also trades with the fertile
hinterland across the Great River. However, then as now, the people
of Orifinre aren’t just shopkeepers and traders. They like to
remind the rest of Keirine that they also have a tradition of
producing scholars and priests from their schools and in particular
from the celebrated Academy of Philosophy. In fact, up to the time
of the Assembly five of the last eight high priests, Izebol
included, had come from Orifinre and its academy.

Wealthier than
the other regions of the country, conscious of its sophistication
and proud of its higher level of education -- all of these factors
encouraged the people of Orifinre to regard themselves as a cut
above their fellow Keirineians. Predictably, in return the rest of
Keirine accused the people of Orifinre of arrogance. In fact, when
the argument really got heated, it was said that over the centuries
Orifinrians had intermingled so much with other nations that they
were bastards and mongrels and not true Keirineians. The
Orifinrians sneered at this jibe, saying that the people of the
rest of Keirine were rural bumpkins whose intellects had been
addled by isolation and inbreeding.

Dorgile’s eight
sons were eliminated one by one until only Vaxili remained. He was
a man of about forty years of age with a slender build and a
well-formed face that was marred by a scar that ran from under his
right eye all the way to under his ear. The scar had contracted the
skin around the outer corner of his eye so that Vaxili always
seemed to be looking askance at the world. He also limped, dragging
his left foot slightly. Soon after Vaxili was crowned, a rumour
spread that he got his injuries while fighting heroically against
the Dornites. However, there was also a rival story that he was
injured as a boy when he fell out of a tree while stealing fruit
from a neighbour’s orchard. I never did hear the true story.
Perhaps no one really knew.