The Tyrant
A young man in a black military uniform marched through the corridor with a heap of papers in his arms. He gave a curt nod to others who were loitering around. The heavy sound of his boots meeeting the wooden floor echoed throughout the place. He halted in front of the double doors, adjusting his posture. he knocked and, without waiting for a reply, pushed them open.
‘Lord Chancellor, sir.’
The sole occupant of the room sat behind the desk on which large piles of papers were resting. His pitch black hair and dark uniform reflected the morning light. He was writing, seemingly unaware of the subordinate who was then shifting uncomfortably. A dip pen in his left hand moved dexterously yet elegantly. The young officer feigned a cough. Lord Chancellor’s eyebrows quirked although his eyes were still on the documents.
‘The petitions for today, sir.’ The young officer put the stack on the desk carefully. He took the first few from the top and laid them before Lord Chancellor, adding hesitantly, ‘The perpetrators of the explosion at the market have been captured, sir. Along with the boy they claimed to be yet another surviving member of the Kreine dynasty. The Council said it has complete trust in Lord Chancellor’s decision, sir, whatever that turns out to be.’
The pen in Lord Chancellor’s hand ceased moving momentarily at the mention of the boy before proceeding on as if nothing had happened. He studied the new documents briefly. He dipped the pen into the inkwell on the desk. His solemn countenance never changed as he signed each paper. The young officer collected them. He gave a low bow before leaving the room, marvelling at how calm Lord Chancellor was when he had just sentenced men to die.
***
Word spread like wildfire. The Clock had not yet struck ten when people crowded into the main square. Their eyes alternated between the monstrous blade on a wooden platform and the distant prison. Their lips were moving tirelessly, speculating on what would happen. Their actions made Isra feel sick. He pressed his lips together tightly. His nails dug deep into both palms. At long last, a tumbrel gradually came into view, surrounded by officers who bade the on-lookers to make way.
The Captain of the Guards hopped onto the platform. He read from the scroll; announcing that the prisoners had all stood trial, confessed their crime, and were sentenced to die by the grace of Lord Chancellor.
‘Cursed be upon the Tyrant! Azad’s Thrones belongs to the Kreine, not the usurper. For Goddess Benu!’ A man barked before the blade slid down and cut off his head. Isra closed his eyes in sorrow at the sight, but gasps from the crowd forced him to open them once more. He could only stare in horror as the guards dragged on the next; a boy of no more than twelve. Asha! Isra was ready to dart out to the scaffold when a violent force jerked his shoulder backwards. The others were behind him. They shook their heads, sadness etched on their faces.
Isra gritted his teeth. He could not will himself to look way when Asha said in his little voice, ‘For Azad, for Goddess Benu!’. He turned his back immediately after that, not wanting to see. He did not flinch as the sound of the razor piercing through the flesh filled the silence. He merely looked his comrades in the eyes with cold determination as the Captain declared the end of another rebellion.
From the large window in his office, the Lord Chancellor watched the execution of the rebels. He never averted his glance. His countenance expressed neither elation nor remorse.
***
A tumultuous noise woke Lord Chancellor from his slumber. He heard screams, assault rifles being fired, and bullet cases clanking on the ground. He reached under his pillow, feeling for his pistol. The footsteps were getting closer and closer. The Lord Chancellor withdrew his hand. Still sitting on the bed, he raised his empty hands above his head and greeted the intruders nonchalantly, ‘I do hope that you haven’t managed to massacre everyone on your way here. Able and loyal staff are rather hard to come by these days.’ He felt a heavy blow to his head and then the whole world went dark.
Isra glared at his fellow brethren who eyed him in disbelief. He clutched the carbine he had just used to render the Tyrant unconscious. He lingered as the others dragged the man away, confused at how modestly decorated the room was. There was no display to be seen of wealth or luxury which came at the suffering of the people. It was filled with tall bookshelves, the desk was all covered with reports and strategic plans. The rage surged through Isra and in a fit of anger he threw the pillow across the room. His eyes then caught a gleaming metal. Why?
***
Even in plain clothes and chains the former Lord Chancellor still retained a certain air of grace. He seemed annoyingly calm at his fallen state though bruises and blood were visible on his face.
‘I found your pistol. Why didn’t you fight back?’, Isra asked. To his surprise, the Tyrant just shrugged.
‘And what would that achieve? I would have killed some of your so-called sons and daughters of Benu and you would have forced the gun out of my hand. We would have ended up here just the same with relatively more bodies and wounds,’ He spat the name of the rebel faction with unrestrained disgust.
‘So you’re doing it out of the goodness of your heart, then?’
‘I see no need for an unnecessary blood-shed’
The image of Asha resigned to his fate flashed into Isra’s mind. He gave an animalistic cry and lunged at the Tyrant, pinning him down to the ground. His fists battered the face of the despicable man. Isra would have reduced him to a bloody pulp, had the others not intervened. They dragged the unyielding Isra out of the prison cell.
‘Compose youself, Isra!’ A familiar voice made Isra look up from his place on the floor. His peripheral vision blurred with tears mixed of frustration, anger and grief but he could still make out the rough outline of his respected mentor.
‘Maestro, he killed Asha. Allow me, I want to cut him into pieces—’ Isra sobbed.
Maestro let out a sigh, his tone considerably less harsh, ‘I know, Isra. This is why I forbade you from seeing him. And I must insist that you never come down here again. Conversing with him would serve nothing except to turn you into a monster too.’
The older man pulled Isra up and nudged him out of the area gently. ‘Come, there’s a lot of work to do. We have only cut off one head of the serpents. There’s still the matter of the Council.’ Their footsteps faded into the darkness.
***
The next day Isra found himself sneaking past the guards to the prison cell. Admittedly, he did not want to disobey Maestro but Isra could not ignore the aching desire inside his soul. He had to know, needed to understand. The Tyrant glanced up to acknowledge his presence idly as if he had already known that Isra would come.
‘One would think that a sick man who condemns people to death by such merciless means would at least have the guts to stand over the executions,’ Isra mocked, his voice coated with pure hatred.
‘I did,’ the captive replied calmly, ‘I watch every single one of them from my window. I’m just not as thick as to present myself as an easy target for you at the scaffold. And boy, pray tell. What do you propose to be a merciful way of taking a life? Hanging? If the fall’s too short, a man’s left suffocated for half an hour. Too long and his head comes right off. Firing squad? Miss the heart and he slowly bleeds to death. Electric Chair? I’ve been to several executions in such manner. I’ll never forget the scent and the taste of roasted fat on my lips. Or perhaps since you are all the agents for old good Azad, would you prefer the tradition method of beheading? I imagine the sound of convicts screaming in agony as the executioner trying to chop off their heads at a third try must be a pleasing music to your ears.’ The Tyrant ended his long speech with a small smile, though his eyes were cold as ever.
Isra was at a loss for words. His body was shaking visibly. ‘Yes, it is gruesome. Yes, it is bloody. But at the very least it guarantees that they would not suffer for long. It is ugly and awful because that’s what taking a life is supposed to be,’ The Tyrant concluded almost sadly. Isra could not contain himself anymore.
‘And what about sending a twelve-year-old boy to his death!? Was that also necessary? He had done nothing. He was just a boy! Is being born such as you are so great a crime!?’ He roared, satisfied when he saw, for a moment, flashes of what might have been regret appear on the older man’s face.
‘It was necessary. I take no pleasure in it but it was necessary,’ the Tyrant repeated whether to himself or Isra, Isra could not tell. ‘Had I not called for his execution, the rebellion would not have ended. His heritage was not a great crime in itself but I cannot and will not risk the existence of this government being threatened by the old ways. The boy had to die so that this nation may live.’
‘He was just a boy.’ Isra’s voice was barely louder than a whisper.
‘Precisely. Who do you think would hold the power if your rebellion succeeded? Who would rule this country? The boy would be no more than a mere puppet for grown men to pull the string.’
His words felt like a slap to Isra’s face. Much as he loathed to admit, Isra had found that he could not argue with the former Lord Chancellor’s rationale. He stood up and prepared to leave. He stopped before the door, contemplating for a brief moment, and turned to look the captive in the eyes.
‘He was my cousin.’
Isra took his leave without looking back, but the voice that he heard saying after him was unmistakable.
‘I’m sorry.’
***
‘Maestro, may I ask something?’ Isra blurted out. The two were strolling along the path after the fiery debate among the rebels had escalated, resulting in the adjournment of yet another meeting. The older man nodded, his eyes staring ahead. ‘The Tyrant…’ Isra crafted his question carefully, ‘Why did he seize the power from the previous king and wipe out the whole royal family?’
His Maestro was silent for quite some time, his lips were set into a straight line and when he finally spoke, his voice was grave, ‘You already know the story, child. It was the lust for power and greed that drove the Tyrant to take what was not his. That monster thinks so highly of himself. You know all too well the lengths he would go to tighten his grip on the nation. It is the duty that Goddess Benu has bestowed upon us, child, to free Azad from the yoke of tyranny and to restore the rightful king to its throne.’ Isra mumbled a word of thanks and excused himself. Maestro watched as the young man quickly disappeared from his gaze. A glint of discontent and resolution were evident on his face.
***
Isra stormed into the prison cell. ‘Indeed, you are the Incorruptible. I praise you, sir, in your mission of obliterating those who disagree with your view, there’s no equal! No doubt the devil would be so proud seeing your works under his influence,’ he spat the Tyrant’s nickname detestably, shaking his fist.
‘I do not understand,’ the chained man responded curtly.
‘Enough with your lies! The explosion was your men’s doing. You order them to attack my hometown, killing innocent women and children only because they would not uphold your ideology. Bodies were found there, dressed in black uniform. Yours. I wish your mother had bashed your head in the crib, you bastard! Which evil spirits sent you here to this land!? You heartless tyrant! You deposed the previous king only because you wanted power for yourself. Even a thousand death cannot atone for all the crimes you’ve committed!’ Isra cried out at the top of his lungs. The closed walls of the dungeon amplified his booming voice. The others must have heard him, but Isra paid no mind. His chest heaved up and down in anger. It took all of his strength not to resort to violence again.
The Tyrant cocked his head to the side. ‘Really, my boy. And here I thought you were better than that.’ He let out a long sigh which to Isra’s ears did not exactly sound genuine. ‘True, I don’t object to harsh and ruthless measures per se, if it is necessary. However, I’ve never stooped so low as to aim at innocent people. Your cousin did not count. It was your dear brethren who dragged him into this mess. I merely reacted to it,’ he added, raising his chained hands up to halt Isra who was about to bring up Asha. ‘Though,’ he continued, ‘I can think of one particular group which did not exactly shy away from civilian casualties though…’ his voice trailed off meaningfully.
It cannot be. Isra felt cold realisation wash over his body. His mind conjured up the image of the man on the execution block who cried bravely for their cause. The image of his aunt and uncle lying lifelessly in the pool of blood. His narrow escape from the burning mansion with Asha on his back. Rueful faces of the rebels who said they had come to save them. Isra stumbled, trying to get away from the former Lord Chancellor.
‘Oh, boy,’ the captive called, ‘We did storm the palace and dethrone the king but it was to end the plight and suffering of the people. I’ve never wanted the title. The Council casted the vote and really someone’s got to do the job.’
As soon as Isra reached the door, he broke into a run. He was not quite sure exactly what he was running from. The former Lord Chancellor or the truth that he had spoken.
***
Isra blinked. ‘I’m sorry?’ He did not quite believe his ears.
‘We’ve negotiated with the Council. They agreed to revert back to the old ways providing that they still have positions in the new government, of course,’ the messenger repeated.
‘And what about Lord Chancellor?’ Isra was surprised at how he had referred to the man.
‘Don’t worry. The Tyrant will pay for his sins. He’s scheduled to be executed without trial in two days by that gruesome method of his. Isn’t it the novelty? An evil man dies by the very method that he had cruelly employed to kill so many people,’ she wrinkled her nose and left to inform others.
Isra sank into his chair. It was in such state that Maestro had found him. ‘I already heard the news,’ Isra spoke weakly without lifting his eyes to greet his mentor.
‘Well, then. I guess, congratulations are in order, no?’ Maestro padded on his shoulders softly. Using his arms as the support, Isra turned to stare at maestro in disbelief.
‘Azad needs its king, child.’
‘The Kreine were all dead. Asha was the last of them,’ Isra forced himself to say his cousin’s name. It was still hard to admit that he had gone forever. Maestro nodded his head in agreement. ‘Yes, the line of the Kreine is no more but,’ he gestured his hand towards Isra, ‘You are his cousin.’
‘His father married my aunt. I have not a drop of royal blood!’ Isra shrieked.
‘The oracle of Benu has spoken, my child. Regardless of your birth, you are her son. The future king of Azad.’ Maestro took Isra into his arms. He ruffled Isra’s hair lovingly like a father would have done to his son. Isra did not returned his embrace, nor did he resist it. He just stayed there, motionless, like a breathing corpse.
***
The main square was crowded with people. By the looks of it, it might as well be the whole capital that had come out to witness the fate of the man they called the Tyrant. Isra eyed the scaffold from his place with the others. He had pleaded with Maestro to keep the news a secret for the time being. His mentor complied reluctantly. Isra knew that it was childish to have done so; the burden would not vanish magically even if he swept it under the rug and pretended that nothing had changed. But it would not hurt to try… He mused ruefully.
The hubbub suddenly died down and every head turned towards an old crimson cart which was making its way slowly to the scaffold. On the cart sat a lone passenger. Isra held his breath. He had not visited the cell again after hearing the news. The time of captivity had left its mark on Lord Chancellor’s body and face, though he still carried himself in the same manner that Isra had first seen in the cell. He stepped out of the cart and onto the scaffold gracefully, not waiting to be dragged off. As the new Captain of the Guard declared Lord Chancellor’s monstrous crimes, Isra was reliving the last encounter the two of them had had inside his head. It was three days after the ‘revelation’, a day before he had received that news.
‘Why did they nickname you ‘the Incorruptible’?’
The man chuckled. ‘It was given to me by my mentor, actually. He and the others used to tease me that I’m so steadfast in defense of my idea, there’s no way to sway me with money or power.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He died,’ Lord Chancellor paused, ‘executed by the order of the king after openly opposing the increase of tax on the poor.’
‘Do you have any last word, monster?’ the Captain asked Lord Chancellor grimly. His voice brought Isra back to reality.
Lord Chancellor looked to where Isra had sat. Their eyes met and Lord Chancellor smiled. It could hardly be called a beam, but this time Isra felt as if the older man had truly meant it.
‘Long live the King.’
The weighted razor fell with a resounding crash. Before murmurs of “Long live the King” reverberated throughout the main square.
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