The Death of Kings - Chapter Five

Zanoth crouched down by the pond of the oasis, dipping his fingers in the water and watching the shimmering halos run away from his touch. The oasis was placid in the early morning with the soft, retreating moon above—Artemis in a race of her own.1

“Those small ripples that you are creating,” Apollo said to the Greek. “We need to alter them. Make them centripetal.”2

“What do you mean?”3

“We need to make them gravitate towards you instead of from you. We need to alter your thoughts."4

Ignoring him, Zanoth slipped his hand into the water and plucked a rock from under the surface. Holding it in his palm, he found that there were many small creases in it, the tiny remnants of liquid blinking in the moonlight. “Why do I need to know what's happened?” he asked, turning the stone over, stroking it with his finger. “I’d rather not know.”5

“I need to know.”6

“Why?”7

“Because you’ve murdered someone, Zanoth. You’ve assassinated a king.”8

The Greek looked away from the oasis. “An Egyptian one?” He shook his head and rolled the rock up in his sleeve. “I’ve been chased by an abnormal serpent—can’t you gleam something from that? I don’t want to have my mind
probed.”9

Apollo rapped him on the head. “The reason why Apep was chasing you is obvious; why you killed Tepet is not. I need to know what happened, Zanoth. You can’t tell me what you did, but what were you thinking of before?”10

“Nothing.”11

“I doubt that very much. You remember up into your fifteenth year, what was in it?” Apollo asked.12

The Greek didn’t want to answer. Of course not. Did he even have to? In the presence of a god, was he not already found out? “How much do you know of me?” he questioned, looking up at the sun god.13

“I know you’re an assassin.”14

“Before that. Do you know anything of me at all?”15

“Your name is Zanoth Luthean Olian. Born to an Athenian farmer, your childhood is not very mark-worthy, but that’s all I know of you,” Apollo said, kneeling down next to the water and splashing his face.16

Zanoth watched him, eyeing him quietly. “Then you actually know nothing of me. With what conviction do we put our lives in your hands? You do nothing.”17

“We supply your superstitions.” Apollo wiped his mouth. “We stand by like the idols you’ve fashioned after our forms—that you worship under and never look up at, that you call out to but never converse with. We know nothing of
you because you know nothing of us.18

“I need you to talk to me, Zanoth. Tell me what your last memory is... Please.”19

Zanoth said nothing. He dipped his fingers again into the water and created a ripple hardly visible in the now-waning light. His bow was propped against a palm tree to his left. “It is true,” he said, “I was born to an Athenian, but I was raised as a Spartan in the years after I was taken from my father. I was educated by historic wars and their tactics, in killing, before I was fourteen. Then, when fifteen, I murdered and deserted.”20

“What more, Zanoth?”21

“The last thing I remember is waking up under an olive tree with an owl in its branches. When I had fallen asleep, the tree was healthy; but, when I awoke, it was nearly dead. I remember no more. Only the tree had changed overnight, none of the surroundings.”22

“An olive tree?”23

“Yes.”24

Apollo stood and looked toward the east. “An olive tree may be significant,” he said softly. “Go back to the temple,” he ordered Zanoth. “I’ll be back when the sun sets.”25

26

It was Zanoth’s third day at the temple, and, as he trudged up the dune, he couldn’t help but ponder how isolated it was—how, even though the sands always moved, the temple seemed firmly placed in that lonely spot. Just as Apollo had seen it earlier, so had Zanoth now. It was curious to him. Odd.27

He entered through the opening of the courtyard and looked back towards the sands, completely abandoned. There was nothing upon them save the oasis and the slow growth of the sun. There were no plants, no visible animals, no colors. It was almost revolting, and Zanoth, who felt trapped there, sunk down at the steps of the temple. There was hardly anything to do.28

He couldn’t read the Egyptian on the walls, and Apollo had left him only with his thoughts, instructing him to meditate more thoroughly on them. But that was not Zanoth’s wish. Instead he had previously spent his few days shooting and eating ibis—there weren’t as many squawks now—and inspecting the burnt remains indoors, of which he had found very little interesting.29

He now looked towards the hall that he had first encountered the Greek god in and stood up. Within a few moments, he was at its mouth, peering inside. He had no light with him, no torch or anything to make a fire with. Then he remembered the triangle and eye inside the temple. He tore a strip of cloth from his shirt and ran towards the large doors, slipping through the open crack between them. Kneeling down by the eye, he held the wad of cloth right above it and waited for the spark. But nothing happened. He blew on the stone, yet there was no reaction. He rubbed the cloth against it, and still nothing happened. Then, though it presumably should not have happened, when the cloth was simply left there, the eye sparked and lit it. 30

Zanoth leapt. Puzzling for a moment before picking up the cloth, he took out his knife and wrapped the cloth around it. Carefully protecting it against a breeze with his other hand, he made his way back to the corridor.31

Even with the resourceful torch, the hallway was still dim. Zanoth kept close to the ground, crouching and holding the torch near the floor. He couldn’t see much of the walls this way, but it allowed him to see openings in them if there were any. Creeping along he eventually reached the room where Apollo had been playing his lyre. In it, he found another torch, lit it, and then snuffed out his. The room’s walls were immediately illuminated with the greater light. Just as in the temple and on the pillars, pictures adorned the walls along with numerous cracks. However, the pictures here were not as those outside. Simply, they were paintings. They ran around the room, creating a story.32

Now, Apollo had already told Zanoth about his battles with Ra, how he had acquired the stone temple, but as Zanoth turned with the paintings, he found more than he was told. Apollo had been writing on the walls in Greek. Within the paintings, he saw how the temple was not Ra’s central sanctuary—that his actual home was in some “city of the sun.” He saw how the stone temple was passed over at midday, at the strongest point of power, when Amun-Ra would change to the form of a falcon and rest at an oasis. Then, as Zanoth began to read the writings, he found arguments and philosophies, outbursts and short poems.33

There was a poem there that read,34

The love of souls—
So intricately felt—
Between the worlds
Of grass and sky,
Of night and day,
Within penumbrae.35

If only!36

When things have gone,
The days long lost,
Only then will they see
How much there was,
How little they had,
And how we could have been.37

Sentinels and guardians
Around them have been set.
Where has their sight gone?
When will I be found?38

Apollo had been shouting for attention and received none. Zanoth sat there, on the floor, gazing at Apollo's writings and scratching at the ground with his knife, perplexed.39

Apollo would still be gone for the rest of the day.40