Persepolis II

Surrounded by mountains, at the foothills the city burned.

The king cowered at the edge of the cliff, eyes watering from smoke and from shame. Everyone had deserted him. Gone to the arms of the God of Death, or to the tents of the enemy, who offered simply the gratification of being on the right side of victory, the sweet smell of women and wine, and the chance to survive at least one more day. What he once would have offered them. Now they danced on his forefather’s graves like ravens on the carcass of an old ox.

My father’s father’s fathers built these walls, raised these pillars, and flied these flags. They entrusted me in honouring our people’s might and power, and I would have of my sons and their sons and the sons after them. He thought to himself. For generations people came offering gifts to this city for peace and harmony. Oh you should see those processions of gold, fruit, wine, and camels. And now - overnight, in my hands, it would all turn into ash. Why me? Why me of all people? Why this king of all kings?

Her hand reached out to his shoulder. He shuddered only to realise this familiar touch. Gone were the elaborate gold and jewels that once adorned her head and face, the elaborate satin that draped her body and the deep dark kohl that had lined her eyes. But the smell of the eucalyptus oil that once, twice, three times and more mesmerised him remained encircled around her olive skin, an aura, a halo, more brighter than the fire that raged beneath them.

She was the only one that would never desert him. She would be the only one that would enter the doors of the underworld with him. In his kingdom, in his heaven, her toes would have been kissed by every pilgrim and her image would be replicated in every household and her story would be retold to every child. But now he had no kingdom and he had no heaven. He had her, only her, and the dagger she held in her trembling hands.

Farewell, my concubine, he whispered. Then with the flash of a blade, he fell into her arms.