The Death of Kings - Chapter Three

Zanoth was never supposed to know. That is why he was always kept busy. If you are able to keep the body working—muscles stretching and contracting—the head begins to only focus on keeping you doing what you are doing. It bans all other thoughts from entering your mind as sweat pours down from your temples, stinging your eyes. Whenever Zanoth tried to remember why he was there, the bow would strike him in the head and the thought would flow away. Excruciatingly, his mind worked to block him against his will, to cut the strands of home from his senses. And it was doing rather well.1

Apollo stood in the center of the room at the eye as Zanoth pondered in his blankness. A thought would appear as a swirl and then swiftly break into discordant dots, emphasized by the changes of expression on Zanoth’s face. He tried anxiously to call up memories, travels, people, even sounds, but none of the dots interlocked. There was only one image in his mind, and it seemed to be formed of cheaply mixed pastels: a barren olive tree surrounded by patterns of swirls and shields. This held no meaning to the poor soldier. He could only remember old memories—memories from his childhood and perhaps four months before his run from the creature Apep. But those recent ones, too, were blurs.2

He was born in Athens. That was the first thing he remembered. The second thing he remembered was that his mother’s name was Lenisa. He remembered the warmth of her embrace when he was young and unmarked—how her long, wavy hair was scented. He pictured her shadow against the backdrop of his old home, the home of a layman, of a farmer’s family. Always, he had stumbled or ran through the gardens as a young child while his father worked with the plants and produce.3

“Watch out for the holes, Zan,” he heard his father echoing. “I’ve just dug them.”4

His family had always provided for themselves with those garden patches. Then a Spartan raid rushed through.5

After the end of the Peloponnesian War, lingering Lacedaemonian, Spartan, captains had tied Athenian farmers together on community fields, demanding payment in food from the men and clothing from the women. Zanoth’s family belonged to one such community field. But they did not work peacefully.6

The Athenian families revolted against their Spartan dictator with farm tools. Brave, lusting fools—they were quickly beaten and killed, and, in the rage of their despot, their fields were burned and their children were taken; Zanoth went with. Those who were too old, eight and above, were all murdered and cast to the embraces of the crags. Those who were young enough…wished for the fate of the others. All four boys were sent through the training of the military and its cruelties. The girls, each with foreseen Athenian beauty, were sent to the guardians of the oracles.7

Zanoth, miraculously or damned, was still alive.8

As a young man around his fifteenth year, he was pushed into a hunting run with another youth. They had started off in Sparta’s lowlands, looking for game such as deer and the like, but were unsuccessful. Then, when they finally looked to the rocky regions, thoughts began filling Zanoth’s head—graphic, strategic thoughts. The man with him, his name was Jeros, and Zanoth would have no second thoughts at all from killing him. Jeros was insufferable and stupid, but he was strong. Zanoth would have trouble with him.9

They started up the cliffs with a picture of goat meat in one of their minds. Both had bows set and ready—knives at their sides and bags over their shoulders—and their eyes were wide-opened. Following closely behind Jeros, Zanoth tried to not give the Spartan any idea of treachery. He looked off to the sides of their path to the rocks of the Grecian city-state and down to the tangled shrubs covering the pebbled dirt. It wouldn’t be hard to hide someone up there.10

After an hour of walking and climbing, a bush quivered to the left. Jeros nodded back at Zanoth and the two slowly crept up to it, careful of their footing. A horn moved behind the leaves. Jeros let loose, running up to the bleating animal and Zanoth stood still. The Athenian’s mouth opened and his hands shook uncontrollably. He didn’t have the benefits of experience yet.11

“Zanoth!” Jeros called and looked back at him. “Help me with—…” 12

He stood silently, staring at Zanoth’s aim and expression, the look in his eyes and the shallow breathing. “Zan!” he screamed and dove for Zanoth’s legs, knocking him to the rocks. Jeros punched decisively and strong to Zanoth’s ribs and chest and face as the Athenian tried to block them—he was desperate to roll over on top. Each blow landed with a bruise. Zanoth began wiggling his hips up to where Jeros’ knees had straddled him. A second later, he pushed up with his legs, knocking Jeros forward so that his hands were above Zanoth’s head. Instantly, Zanoth grasped one of the Spartan’s hands and locked up a leg. He threw his weight to the side and landed on top. But Jeros was ready for the systematic defense. He squeezed Zanoth’s ribcage with his legs causing Zan to cry out in pain. Jeros unhooked his knife from his belt and held it in front of Zanoth’s face motioning up. Quietly they both stood, both breathing heavily. Jeros slid forward quickly holding the knife to Zanoth’s throat. “That was a bad move, Athenian,” he said. “You’re going to—“ but he couldn’t finish his sentence as he fell backwards, as Zanoth’s foot was in the air, held oddly at the height of Jeros’ head. Immediately he brought his right foot down to the Spartan’s throat.13

“A bad move yourself, Jeros.” Then, with a blink, he kicked Jeros’ head to the side with his other foot. A long crack sounded out. Bone-tingling.14

Seventeen minutes later, after he had recovered somewhat, he dragged Jeros to a cliff—one lush in plants—and kicked him over, watching his body tumble and break as it went down. “That wasn’t that hard. Not any blood”—he looked around—“besides my own.”15

He went back to the goat and prepared it with salt from his bag that had been thrown. The goat would be his meat as he made the long walk back to his farmland and home. He was still a boy after all. He missed his parents, and his journey home would be hard.16

17

“Zanoth,” Apollo called loudly, waking the dreamer from his thoughts causing him to blink and raise his eyebrows. “What are you thinking about?”18

Zanoth pinched the sides of his nose and rubbed his eyes. “Just my last memories.”19

“What have they told you?”20

He sighed. “Nothing.”21

“Keep thinking.”22

23

He trudged on through the crags, always heading northeast to Athens. The sun came down magnificently among the clouds, streaking each one with tendrils of red and violet, almost blood-colored. There were no thoughts of betrayal or deserting in Zanoth’s mind as he fled the Spartan army. It was unnatural to have no other thoughts in one’s mind than processed ways of killing one’s enemy, the best ways to charge cavalry, battle formations. In his teenaged head, he missed emotion.24

As he began a lengthy descent to plains, his breathing began to settle and his shoulders perked themselves up an inch or two. The sun now sat on hind legs in the darkening skies—its nose poking above the edge of the world. To the West a little way’s off, a small grouping of olive trees propped themselves up among their trunks. He patted his bag with the goat’s meat and waded through the long grass to their embrace. After a burnt meal and burnt fingers, he kicked the fire out.25

He sighed, disgusted with his culinary skills, and slumped into the nearest tree, crossing his arms. He sighed again. By this time the sun was gone, Apollo was on his way back to Egypt, and the moon had begun to rise. The grass, which was really wheat, blew with a slight breeze back and forth and the faint sound of an owl’s hoot drifted along with it.26

27

“Anything, Zanoth?”28

“I don’t know.”29

30

In the morning, he didn’t remember falling asleep nor did he remember dreams. But that was as normal as waking. What he did remember though was his last sights of the tree he slept under—long, spindly, and leaf-adorned. However, the olive tree he was under now was bare, naked, nude, even trimmed of excess branches. He pushed himself up with his elbows and gazed out at the fields. They were perfectly fine, even bulbous. He craned his head back up at the tree and began breathing from his mouth. His knife itched, but moreso his hand. Simple explanations for his predicament began running through his mind but each were defeated by the sense of reality.31

An owl flitted to a nearby branch. And his memory ended.32

33

From his spot in Apollo’s adopted temple, Zanoth stood awkwardly. Sweat drenched his uncleansed clothes making its hard areas soft and previously unadorned areas scented. His sun-scalded lips parted and closed slightly as the image of the tree burnt itself into the irises of his eyes. Sand blew across the oasis outside.34

“Fifteen.”35

Across the room, Apollo turned from a charred tapestry and stared back at Zanoth’s eccentric appearance. “Fifteen what?”36

“Years.”37

The assassin collapsed.38

39

When he finally awoke, he felt almost the same as he had when he had awoken under the olive tree. Only this time, instead of an unnatural tree, an Olympian deity loomed over him. Apollo’s golden eyes pierced Zanoth’s blue ones, his brow furrowed.40

“’Fifteen years’ what?”41

“What?42

“Exactly. You’ve been asleep for a day and nearly caused the sun to stay at one o’clock for an extra hour. Now ‘fifteen years what?!’”43

Zanoth’s eyes started darting left and right and Apollo sighed.44

“Before you collapsed, you muttered ‘fifteen years.’ I want to know what you meant, Greek.”45

Zanoth swallowed. “My last memory is from when I was fifteen-years-old.”46

“But you are nearly thirty.”47

“I know,” Zanoth said as he closed his eyes again and blinked a few times.48

Apollo turned around frustrated and began taking a few steps as he thought. The fire slowly rose in the triangle’s eye. The god stopped after nine strides.
“What of Apep?”49

“Apep?”50

“The creature that was chasing you that you foolishly tried to shoot down! What of him?” he yelled.51

“I don’t know! All I know is that he was trying to kill me,” Zanoth shouted in turn.52

“With good cause.”53

“What?” Zanoth asked angrily.54

Apollo turned on him quickly and stared at him. “What do you mean ‘what?’ That’s something that even a deluded man should remember…”55

As quickly as it had come, the anger receeded from both of them. Zanoth’s head began to bob slightly as he looked at different sand patches in the floor, trying to make sense of anything in his head. “Then I’m insane, because I don’t remember anything, sir.”56

“Nothing?”57

He looked up to the god. “Only running from Apep.”58

Apollo licked his top lip and tasted the dirt on it. “We have to go to Hermopolis.”59