A Persian Tale. Kevin J Todeschi

there no way to move these people forward?” The question was rhetorical, though Midias responded nonetheless.

      “What they need is a leader of permanence—a way to insure the continuation of your rule.” The old man peered closely at their dark-haired leader, for he had rumors of Ravi’s refusal of the marriage bed. “You must give these people a child.”

      Ravi shook his head in dismay, “The city may need many things but another mouth to feed is not one of them.”

      “A child will give them hope for the future,” Midias’s response was calm, though he was becoming irritated with Ravi’s continued refusal to heed advice. “You might never succeed in controlling the desert but it is within your power to give these people something to live for.”

      “If all they live for is the question of who rules then they are in need of much more than I can provide.” Ravi stopped walking and waited for the arrival of Jenda and his sister who approached.

      “This is the best advice the council can give you!” Midias’s tone emphasized the seriousness of his words.

      “Then perhaps I need new counselors.” He raised a hand as if to silence any further discussion between them and Midias journeyed off, shaking his head in disgust.

      Ibsen, Ravi’s sister, embraced him before speaking, “Jenda and I,” she began uneasily, “feel you should know what is happening in the settlement.” The embarrassment of her words prompted the younger brother to keep his eyes focused upon the sand.

      “You needn’t tell me,” Ravi replied softly, “I already know. The people speak against me.”

      “Not all the people,” Ibsen replied softly, “but a few are intent on your downfall.”

      At first his words were stern, “It wasn’t they who committed me to this throne, and hence they have no control over how long it is destined to last. However,” he stroked her cheek and lifted her chin so that their eyes met, “do not worry, words cannot harm me.”

      “They say you do not desire a woman!” Jenda said angrily, as though nothing could be worse for a warrior’s reputation.

      “Their words are correct, though not for the reason they would imagine. It would be wrong for me to decide upon Aithea’s direction when I have yet to decide upon my own.”

      “What do you mean?” Jenda asked fearfully.

      “I don’t yet know,” Ravi said mysteriously, “but when I do, I promise to tell you.”

      “Is Aithea not your wife?” the young man inquired.

      “Let us just say that she is, for a time, my companion . . . ”

      “And who could wish for anything more!” Aithea said angrily. She approached from behind and had heard his every word. Her eyes were red, although it was unclear whether she had been crying, was angry, or both. “Is it proper in Egypt to discuss one’s ‘companion’ as though she were no more than a slave?” Her question became an accusation.

      “No, nor is it appropriate upon the desert. I am sorry if I have caused you pain.”

      “If it is a hand-servant you require, then a hand-servant you shall have!” Aithea bowed down before him mockingly and scurried off in the same direction Midias had traveled, nearly tripping on her garments as she ran.

      Ibsen hurried after her, leaving Jenda and Ravi standing alone in the heated shadow of the enormous tents.

      “Do you have a woman in Egypt?” Jenda finally grew brave enough to ask.

      Ravi’s eyes sparkled and appeared deep in contemplation, “She is not in Egypt, though I am certain she walks the earth.” He gave Jenda a smile, laid his hand upon the young man’s shoulder and together they began another inspection of the camp.

      Collectively, they were the settlement’s grumblers—men whose only task was to come together and find something about which they could complain. In the broken shadows of aged lean-to’s and weathered tents they found some measure of relief from blazing afternoons. They gathered upon carpets or mats or stools, simply leaned against tarped walls or sometimes fell lazily asleep upon the bare ground. As a group they debated in tired annoyance the same topics their ancestors had discussed before them. Certainly the novelty of a new ruler provided ample subject to spark new conversation but the old topics proved just as appealing.

      They were about a dozen men who lacked any desire to call themselves warriors, nor did they wish to be merchants or craftsmen or even wanderers—save when patient wives had packed all belongings for the tribe’s mandatory migration. They only moved along with the settlement when it became clear that they had to follow if they wished to eat.

      Although in truth an average age would be near middle years, by their own account they felt too old to have assigned work, yet not quite old enough to die. Instead they desired to discuss deeds of days gone by, or simply thoughts of deeds that might have occurred had conditions been more appropriate at the time. In the heat of the desert sun it was too tiring to do much of anything.

      “ . . . that was nothing,” the palest of them continued, “eight years ago there was a storm that tore even Remai’s tents to the ground. Took quite a bit of work to rebuild after that.”

      “How would you know?” the bald one chuckled. He gnawed on a piece of dried meat with his few remaining teeth. “You haven’t moved in a decade.”

      “I was there to see it, wasn’t I?” He looked around for a few heads that nodded in agreement. “That was about the time I took sick.”

      The bald one spat a piece of gristle unto the sand, “That was a bad one,” he finally conceded. “But I’ll tell you something, you didn’t see Remai hiding behind his brother to get out of the wind.”

      “Amal was already dead,” one of the sleepers said with half-opened eyes.

      “Still, it is not the will of the gods. Oman should rule.”

      “You’re a fool,” one of the eldest replied with as much stamina as he could muster. “Remai knew better than to choose Oman. We need someone who understands the settlement, not a fighter. But I think this Ravi understands us no better. Jeuen is the wisest choice.”

      “If he’s so wise,” the bald one shook his head in amazement at his companion’s ignorance, “his counsel would have been relied upon more frequently.”

      “How about Midias?” the pale man inquired.

      “A fool’s fool.”

      “Mark my words,” the bald man insisted, “one day Ajhi will lead us.”

      “No, in the end it will be Oman.”

      “Oman’s a hot-head!” the bald man insisted, “like his father before him.” At his words a silver dagger ‘swooshed’ through the air and imbedded itself, quivering, by his sandaled feet. The bald man watched the blade nervously before looking up at the angry and inebriated face of Joell standing in the tent’s doorway.

      “Perhaps you would like to repeat your words a second time?”

      “I’m an old fool,” the man replied. He offered up a generous piece of dried meat and shrugged helplessly.

      Myra, the aged former empress, said a quiet prayer and waited for a sense of peaceful calm to fill her mind. Even within the confines of Croesus’s palace it was possible, for a time, to find some small measure of tranquility.

      There were those who insisted on calling her Ashimashai, saintly-soul, though she made no such claims herself. She was simply an old woman, long accustomed—though not happy—with the place of a woman who had long lost her crown, her