“Burn him! Burn him at once! Immediately!”
The poet shows no emotion. He does not attempt to escape, defy his captors.
“Yes, of course your majesty. At once, immediately.”
The big, burly guards drag the limp, unresisting poet to the pyre.
Treason. I can sense it. I search the court, panic overwhelming me.
So many seek to assassinate me. Kill me. So many seek revenge.
I glimpse a suspicious flurry of movement in the corner of the atrium.
“Treason! You shall join that poet on the pyre.”
The four guilty soldiers follow, unaided, the steps of the poet to the fire.
I play with my sceptre, bored. It is all too repetitive, monotonous. The faint crackling of flames does nothing to raise my spirits. I wave a languid hand.
“Dismissed.”
I was taught that it is easier to hate and to be hated, than to love and be loved in return. It was thought that hate is better, more satisfying and love is unfulfilling and boring. But surely that is also true for hate? The endless stream of executions, the interminable imprisonments- all failed to satisfy, please me. As for love...That poet declared his love for me to a court-filling audience. He was now a scattered pile of powdery, white ash.
It is my duty to cause fear, to kill, terrify. Love can never be a companion to power. Power. I do not only rule Tyrah, my country. I have created a kingdom, an empire. Atal. Increase in power causes an unwillingness to trust. They say that without trust one cannot have love. I am trapped in my golden cage of power, forever barred from a life of trust and love.
I tense, alert. The iron clank of the guards’ boots fail to change rhythm.
The assassins. They’re coming. Coming to kill me. I can hear them. That sound. It’s them. The guards- where are my guards? Why aren’t they taking action against my assassins? They continue their synchronised marching, ignorant of my impending death. Or maybe, maybe it’s them. They’re all involved! Even my guards. My fingers tighten around the ivory handle.
“I am the most powerful woman in the world.” I have no reason to fear. It is they who should fear. They should fear me, not I them.
“Guards!”
They appear in an instant, holding their silver spears in shaking hands.
I run my fingertips along the smooth, icy blade. They are mesmerised, terrified, of the knife. I am fearless, composed. Angry.
“You are supposed to my guards; I expect you to keep watch, be alert, and protect me when necessary. Yet it appears you are unable to do so, and I am forced to lie awake, keeping watch for myself.” I am interrupted by a sound. That sound. “Listen.” They listen.
The chief guard raises hi spear and brings it violently back to earth, causing the sound of metal hitting marble to resound through the hallway.
“Who goes there?”
A petite, dark, petrified slave- girl creeps. Her thick, black hair is wet, hanging heavily down her back.
“And what reason have you for being awake so late, ancilla*?” the chief guard is attempting to regain favour. He may be lucky- finding another chief guard will prove to be a problem. I may spare his life yet.
“Washing my hair, your majesty.”
I am infuriated by the extreme absurdity of the situation. The chief guard, comfortably assured of his success, turns to me with a satisfied smile.
“Your culprit, highness. It is she who disturbed you.”
How dare this insignificant slave girl cause us so much trouble, cause me so much fear?
“You will be imprisoned tonight, ancilla. Whether of not I release you is debatable. Guards, escort the ancilla to the dungeons immediately.”
Too many executions do bore one so, I think, returning to sleep.
“Liah.” I am haunted by childhood echoes of a love long gone. I was once loved, before my love turned to hate. This throne belonged to my son. My son is now dead, killed by assassins- the same assassins who now seek my life. Queen Athaliah. My old, Tyrian nurse promised that I would rule Tyrah. I believed her, allowed no one to hinder her prophecy, and took the kingdom for myself. The nurse is now in prison. Her charge? Accused of conspiracy against the queen. So many plot to kill me. So many have turned against me. With power comes isolation. With isolation comes loneliness.
I am disturbed by the woody scent of smoke. I awake to find him standing there, holding the fire. The poet.
“But you are dead.”
He laughs. “It appears I overestimated your intelligence, Athaliah. How can I be dead when I am so very much alive?”
“But how? The guards-”
“Your guards are terrified of you, Athaliah. They fear for their own lives- if news of my escape reaches you, they know that they will undoubtedly join me on the pyre.”
“And rightly so.”
“Indeed Athaliah. Yet sometimes fear can backfire.”
“I suppose it is possible.”
He moves towards me, his gaze fixed onto my face. By the flickering fire light I can once again see that emotion in his eyes. Love, you could call it.
“Do you think me intelligent, Athaliah?”
“I see no option but to surmise that you are.”
He lets the fire fall gently onto the cedar table.
“Do you love me, Athaliah?”
Fear and haste inevitably lead to death. I am incapable of loving. Incapable of hating. Incapable of feeling. The flames arch over me, yet I sense no heat. The delicate copper figurines burn with a vivid, green fire.
“Do you like your pyre, Athaliah?”
He is laughing, delighted, as the flames engulf us. I watch, hypnotised, as my beautiful belongings are destroyed by fire. I turn towards him, a shadowy figure behind a dancing screen of flames.
“Yes, poet, I do like my pyre.”
Joelaine Fitch 10L
*ancilla: slave girl (Latin)
