Forgiveness of the Dead

He tried to look serious,
but a smile now and again cut through his lips,
as he stood on the prow watching his disembarking troops.

The ships clung to the yellow band
that curved around the promontory,
like bees drinking honey.
Soldiers ran to and fro, carrying bags, weapons and tools.

No one needed his commands,
so he stood there, a mute symbol of authority,
looking at the walls of the city that he would soon take.

It was his first assignment
that came directly from the king.
The city was rich, albeit peculiarly positioned.
The promontory, on which it stood, looked like a head on a thin neck,
hovering above the shoulders of the mainland.

Of course, this was the city's strategic disadvantage,
for it could be easily cut off from the rest of the country.

On the other hand, he pondered,
it could receive and send merchant ships,
dominating the entire trading route, making repairs and collecting taxes for passage.

It was also self-sustained. Before the decision to invade was made,
his country's merchants came here often.
They reported how beautiful the city was on the inside,
something one couldn't tell looking at these grey slabby walls,
how many fine buildings and temples were there,
and market-places, and gardens, and fountains.

It could endure years of siege. He licked his lips and turned his head to the right,
where his men were dragging a huge battering ram
that had been a real pain to transport here,
he even lost a soldier when one of the ropes snapped during a storm.
This soldier must be here, too,
helping others to push the ram through the sticky sand.
He had postponed the burial prayers on purpose,
resisting his soothsayer's indignation,
for he wanted the dead soldier to see
that the ram, for which he had given his life, was installed and ready to crash the gates.

Even the dead had to be satisfied with him.
He was still young, barely twenty.
If not for his father's position at court, he wouldn't be here,
wearing this splendid breastplate with two griffins assaulting a lion.
He ached to prove himself.

It was good time for an attack.
The old king of this country had died two months ago,
and his elder son was in this city.
If the promontory was cut off, there was an excellent chance
that the other son would not send help,
as this would interfere with his own ambitions.
Most likely, the city would be left to defend itself
and then, after it was taken and the elder brother killed,
the new king would reach a settlement with the invaders.

This was the plan, with variables, yes, but it seemed sound enough.
His country could not support a colony here,
on a distant and hostile land,
but it could claim a share of taxes, or free trading routes,
or something else, not counting the spoils of the siege,
which promised to be enormous.
There were statues of gods inside, tall and made of pure gold
strewn with precious emeralds. He saw the drawings made by spies.
There were horses inside that could fly to the sky and back,
horses that ate no food and drank no water.
All they need is a drop of blood of their master, every day,
but in return one could ride anywhere, even to the feasts of the immortals.

There was also a vast sum to be paid
for getting the city back. All this looked very enticing.
And he was in the centre of it all. He would accomplish it all.

As soon as the landing was completed,
the news arrived that the promontory had been successfully cut off.
There was some resistance from the city, some cavalry sent out,
but the enemy changed his mind and resolved to be besieged.

The city must have known about the invasion
and was well prepared. In its decision to withdraw the cavalry
he sensed reluctance to sacrifice men.

Of course, the elder brother needed his troops to start a civil war,
once this youngster breaks his teeth and crawls back home.
He felt rage rising to his head. I will show him.
He will be the one crawling in the sand begging for mercy
and I will stand there, deciding slowly-slowly.

The siege began. Soon it became clear
that the city defences had been underestimated.
The walls were too high for the ladders,
and several days were spent joining two into one,
which made the ladders shaky.
Now they sprawled uselessly under the walls.

The battering ram worked on one of the gates,
and one of its horns was already broken.
The soldiers grumbled. They blamed him,
an inexperienced general, too young for this mission.

Not a single sally had been made yet.
In the evening, soldiers sat around the tents,
slices of meat smouldering over the fires,
and listened to the echo of music coming from the city.
There must have been a celebration of some sort,
possibly, even a wedding. A wedding!
He felt insulted.

And so his dreams of taking the city and coming home soon
were gradually turning into a puff of wind,
the same one that ruffled dirty froth on the shore.
It all was sliding out of his hands. The siege would be a long one.
When the ram shattered completely and a dozen soldiers were wounded
in a vain attempt to climb the walls,
he no longer gave orders to attack. He decided to wait
until the city's supplies ran out. They had springs inside, this is true,
but sooner or later there had to be shortage of food.
There were many people behind the walls, and they all had to eat every day.

He spoke to his soldiers. He told them the city would have to surrender,
they had to be patient. The enemy was surrounded and no help was coming.
A few months, at best. And then they would all become rich. They would have gold, precious gems, horses, women! Every man would take as much as he could carry home. Their ships would sail back, water rising almost to the brim, so heavy they would be, so laden with treasures!

The speech was a success. There were still four months before the storm season. He could still be home by winter. He may even have a triumphal procession arranged for him, who knows? It is unusual for a man so young, but traditions can be bent.

The waiting began. There were fishing nets on one of the ships,
and the men spent their time fishing, shooting birds and gambling.
The tender yellowness of the sand was strewn with dark tents,
as if the sea had thrown them out
during one of its storms
and now was gathering force
to encroach and suck them all in again.

The city walls stood in front of them,
motionless, unperturbed, made of enormous grey slabs
fitting so well that there was no room
either for birds' nests, or even for grass.
At first, he didn't approach the walls
for fear of archers, but gradually he lost caution
and rode along the walls alone.

There were no archers. The city showed no interest in the invaders.
On the left side, the shore was steep,
with rocks descending towards the sea
and dissolving there, worn away and mixed with pungent froth.

He would sit there often, thinking about the city,
its round gardens, and trees listening intently
to the sough of the wind,
their dark-green earlobes pulled down by ripe fruit,
and the birds of all possible colours
leaping from branch to branch,
fluttering about in spontaneous flocks,
like a messy rainbow, combining differently each moment
and then scattering into busts of quivering colours.

He thought about horses led to the stream
by girls, their breasts naked,
their hips wrapped in richly died satin clinging to the skin
so tightly it seems to constrain their movements.
The horses stand in the stream, their hooves indistinguishable
from the dark stones trembling as rapid water flows over them,
the manes of the horses merging with the girls' dark, blond and red hair,
as their fingers, white-banded from the rings
of lapis lazuli, and chrysoprase, and amethyst
that they had taken off before coming to the stream,
glided along the necks and backs of the noble animals
who spread their wings in the smooth morning wind,
and the wings surge, and hover majestically, reflected in the water,
only the tips of the plumes vibrate, amplifying
and making the thoughts of the wind audible.

He imagined the temples behind the walls,
the temples of gods who had never revealed themselves to his people,
the gods whose gold shadows melted into statues
placed at the entrances occluded
by clouds of precious incense.
The gods holding pine-cones, or baskets with fruit, or animals,
a doe or a hare, in their muscular hands encircled with ruby-encrusted bracelets.
The gods with earrings shaped as apples and tangerines
pulling their earlobes down as they did the branches in the gardens,
the fruit that he would pluck himself and carry away on a plate of beaten gold.

He imagined the people swarming the streets of the city,
too confident that these walls would protect them,
that the gods would metamorphose hares and does
into hyenas and tigers puffing volcanic fire,
that the birds would fly to the city warriors,
carrying garden dew in their ebony beaks
and sprinkle it in the eyes of the archers,
making them sharp and precise in finding the target,
that the girls would go to the defenders of the city
and saturate them with love, and make their hearts strong,
eager for fight, yet pliant and patient
like those hands washing the winged horses,
and make their bow strings unbreakable
like that hair mingling with the winged manes,
and each girl would carry semen in her belly,
a restive clod of condensed future,
and give birth to new warriors, ever more powerful,
more divine in their condescension to this miserable siege,

and he may well see those new generations,
an old man still waiting for the gates to open.

He was too young.
The waiting appeared interminable.
On some days he imagined what would happen
if he never took the city,
if years passed, clumping into decades,
and he was gradually forgotten in his own land,
even his father's affection slowly rubbed away
by the streaming sand of days,
and if not, his father was already old and would die,
taking his rugged love with him, leaving it to no one.
The wives of his men would remarry
and have other children, and even the memory of his expedition
would be suppressed, first with embarrassment, then with indifference.
The city, too, disconnected from the rest of the country,
would go its own way. There are enough women inside to beget new generations,
for whom the limit of the world will be the walls surrounding them,
who would be alien to their own people if they ever met them,
as he himself would be seen as an alien if he ever returned home.
The army from the mainland may never come,
for the king wouldn't want to liberate a contender for the throne.
And he would never want to go home,
a stranger tainted by defeat.

They would coexist on the promontory,
the one side besieging, and the other enduring,
one bound by the other, one shaped by the other,
one giving the other the reason to be,
saving the other from death and disgrace.

He felt something within him was attacking
and something was defending.
He lived and breathed for as long as that counteraction lasted.
If the attacking side were victorious, he would cease to exist.
If the defending side surrendered, he would also disappear.

Evening had already settled in the air,
and he felt so bitter he wanted to cry.
His weaker side whispered
that he should make up some excuse and sail back,
while he still could.
But, of course, he couldn't. Even if he was not executed at home,
his military career would be over. Even his father would disown him in disgust.
He had to hang on. The city might surrender, who knows.

At that moment a strange, clear sound
came from the top of the walls, the sound of a flute.
The very first moments he was startled, then offended.
The flute sang, tossing trills into the darkening sky,
as if returning something to the day, which had almost passed,
something the day had forgotten,
some light, some clarity, the singing keys to lock the white door in the night's face.

Marriages are not enough, they dare to entertain us with music?
He didn't know himself why he was so angry.
His right hand kept half-pulling his dagger out of the scabbard and clicking it back in place.
He bit his lips and listened.
The player was very good. All over the camp, the voices quietened,
even the horses ceased stomping,
only the fires crackled, adding their erratic rhythm to the music
and enhancing it.
The flautist went on and on, for a whole hour.
The general stood very close to the wall and listened.
His anger was still there, but now so many other emotions
rose from within that anger stood out no longer,
it became one of the patterns on the cloak his soul was wearing,
clothed, hidden by her resurrected memories.
There was his mother's hair that he pulled at
with his puffy hands,
the hair streamed down exactly as this music does,
thick, unpredictable hair around his mother's face,
her dear lips, her love streaming towards him,
even now, even now, when she is long gone,
gone when he was too little to miss her,
and that anguish lay dormant, waiting for him to mature,
to be able to feel, to value it,
and when he did, it rose and shackled his throat.
Smeared in tears, his cheeks were cold,
for the evening breeze kept blowing on them.
He remembered the first stallion his father gave him,
so lively, so clean, like this music,
a poor animal, a friend for two weeks,
who got sick and died,
but he could feel its elongated face lying on his shoulder,
his deep, gleaming eye staring at him,
covered from time to time by the fluttering eyelid,
as the sun is sealed by storm clouds hastening into the sea...

The next day the soldiers spoke mostly about the flautist.
All of them admired his music and hoped he would play again.
Anticipation grew as the night approached.
And he did come out to the top of the wall,
and played again. Nobody saw him, for he stood behind the bulwark,
and nobody wanted to see him, for the figure of the enemy
would stand between them and the music,
blocking its path.

Those were strange sounds, wailing and contemplative,
like a mind thinking with clarity amidst chaos and pain,
a static eye inside, unshaken by the most tragic wind.
The camp listened. The fires crackled.
The city listened, too, so quiet behind its terrible walls,
as if it wasn't even there, as if the walls were hiding a barren, birdless valley,
like a massive egg laid by an extinct creature centuries ago,
that will be broken from the outside, but never from within.

He tried to imagine the flautist. A old man, certainly.
It takes many years to learn to play like this.
An old man lamenting the fate of his city,
which will be soon taken and utterly sacked.
I will order him to stand on a platform
and play his flute, as my men destroy his city.
And if he disobeys, I... I...
He thought about a punishment he would inflict on the flautist,
but everything seemed too little. He already hated that music
and he waited for it every day, impatiently, with shameful longing.

The flautist did not play much, a mere hour, when the darkness came.
He was obviously cautious not to be spotted on the wall.
His flute stitched and stitched the night
that was covering the day's dormant face
bulging under the dark violet cloak coming apart
and revealing refulgent seams flashing above the horizon,
the clusters of silent lightning, now flute-voiced.

If the flute stopped, the cloak would surely crawl apart
and the day's face would rise,
revealed more and more as the dark shroud slid off it,
and he would leave his mother and his stallion,
and be again in front of the leaden walls
indifferent to his ambition and anger,
in the company of men whose respect he hadn't earned
and who tolerated him because of his father.

Some nights he would come really close to the massive hewn stones
and stand there, his head raised, listening to the music.
At this reduced distance he could hear more in it,
he could hear his own waning spirit,
the shell of a great general torn apart
by pulsating hooks of singing fire.

He noticed that his soldiers already loved the music.
It was a diversion, something beautiful in their uneventful, dragging life.
The enemy kept ignoring them. The battering ram broke down a long time ago.
The ladders were useless. No one had been killed yet.
He was getting really nervous. Another month passed,
yet there was no indication that the city intended to surrender.
How were they going to spend the winter here? It was madness.
They had to go home in ignominy. He was not hated yet,
but this was close. He felt it.

It was this damned music. The music was to blame.
It weakened the spirit of his soldiers.
After all, they came here to fight, not to be entertained.
Damn it. Damn it. A great army sitting in front of the wall,
fishing and gambling and listening to the enemy's flute!
Maybe, this music was a way of telling him
that the city would never surrender? Of course, this must be it.
How didn't he see it before? It is a mockery, a defiance.

Depressed, he sat in his tent.
He felt he couldn't manage the situation.
He might hold another month, perhaps. Another month of fishing.
Then the northern winds would arrive,
and the sea would start opening its thousands mouths
filled with dark-white saliva, chewing algae.
He would have to order retreat. They would force him.
And then, at home – dishonour, maybe even death.
With what contempt his father would look at him,
how disappointed he would be! If he commanded this expedition,
surely, the city would have been already taken
with the same swift ruthlessness which he showed to everyone,
his wife, his children, his servants. Even the king avoided confrontations with him.

Perhaps, he would not be executed. His father's influence might save him.
And what then? An exile? Living on some sun-parched island, in some rat hole?
Or living at home, friendless, despised even by the servants?
It was that music. It made the city's spirit stronger.
Without it, the enemy would have already negotiated surrender.
Something had to be done. It had to stop.
If he deals with the musician, he will show
both the city and his own men
that he has his father's guts.

The flautist appeared after the dark,
always at the same time. The melodies he played
were hummed by the soldiers. These were easy melodies
that could have been composed in anyone's country.
The flute lamented and cried, rose into the black sky
and hovered there, making the stars twinkle faster
and then merge in brilliant smudges as the eyes filled with tears.

He came to the wall with a short spear,
but quickly realised his mistake. He was not strong enough
to hurl it upwards and hit the target he couldn't even see.
Only the bow could do it. He was not a bad archer,
his father had taught him well.

He saw that, if he could quietly hide among the rocks, on the left,
some space behind the bulwark would become open.
The musician had to be behind it, there was nowhere else to stand.
If he steps behind even a little, he may be shot with an arrow.

First evening he missed. The arrow whizzed into the night,
towards the faint white spot barely seen on the wall.
The arrow flew into the city. The music did not stop.
The flautist did not notice anything, too absorbed in his playing.

He practised next day, feeling, as the hours rolled,
that his skill was returning to him, even better than before,
having inexplicably profited from the period of passivity.
At night, he stood behind a tall boulder and listened to the flute
for the last time.
The musician lost some of his alertness. Part of his body was clearly seen in the faint moonlight.
The flute sang far out into the sea, perhaps calling the other flute,
a silent one, no longer held in any hand.

This time the shot was superb. There was a brief cry.
For a moment it seemed to be a continuation of the music
that got out of tune. Then all sounds ceased
and something fell down, bouncing off the stones.

His hands and legs began to shake. He couldn't control them.
With difficulty, he stepped towards the wall and looked.
It was hard to see. He strained his eyes that suddenly became very dry.
Something gleamed among the stones. A piece of polished wood
reflected the moonlight. It was the flute.

He was afraid to touch it, as if it was a venomous snake.
He forced himself to lean and pick it up.
It was heavy, well made and still warm. He threw up.
Although no one could see him, he felt embarrassed.
He spat several times, to clear his mouth, but there was no saliva in it.
The acid was burning his throat. He desperately wanted to drink.
He pushed the flute into his quiver half-filled with arrows
and crept back to the camp.

Once in his tent, he drank and drank. Then he lay on the couch,
freezing, without any thoughts. The quiver was on the floor.
He couldn't open it as he couldn't open his own heart.
He felt so much that all his feelings were worthless.

By morning, he calmed down. The flautist was the first man he ever killed.
He was not even a man, for his face remained unknown,
only his soul had been unfolded completely,
so completely that it encroached on the territory of other souls
and claimed their memories as its own.
It claimed his mother and her love,
it claimed the dead little stallion he never learned to ride,
it must have done the same to everyone in the camp,
where life went on as normal. No one knew what had happened.
For them, the music was still coming next night.

The city, on the contrary, changed.
Already before the noon, there were heard loud lamentations,
cries of despair and the sounds of other flutes,
not so delicate as the first one, muffled by the thick walls.

Pride reigned in his heart. Even his father might have missed the target
in the dark, at such long range. He waited for the night to tell his men
that he, with his own arm, had despatched the impertinent foe,
when they began to wonder why there was no music.
He felt much better now. He was happy he had finally killed.

The city wailed and lamented all day long. It was depressing.
Various opinions were voiced in the camp. Some thought that the prince himself had died
and the city would have to open the gates.

The silent night descended. Nobody came onto the wall to play the flute.
Only the stars exchanged their glistening whispers.
It was then that he realised how much his soldiers were attached to that music,
how necessary it had become for them.
They were unsettled, discontent. He quickly realised that it would be foolish to the extreme to let them know what he had done. The flute remained in his quiver, which he now fastened and pushed under his couch.
He told his men that the flautist did not come on account of the funeral
and that he would certainly play tomorrow. Grumpily, they went to their tents to sleep.

But that was the last day of tedium. In the morning, everything changed.
The city responded. A man was lowered from the top of the wall
in a large basket. Amazed, no one even thought about shooting at him.
The basket touched the sand, and the man stepped out.
He was wearing a long cloak embroidered with embracing lions,
the large round earrings made of lapis lazuli dangled on both sides of his face, nearly touching his shoulders. His dark hair was tightly plaited and clasped by a thin metal ring,
his beard hung down like a black tongue.
There was no fear and no weapon on him. He stepped briskly.

He went straight to the young general, recognising his insignia,
gave a scroll to his servant, turned around, went back to the wall,
got into the basket and was swiftly lifted back into the city.

The general nodded. The servant, his father's expert in poisons,
unrolled the message,
sniffed it, rubbed it here and there and licked the papyrus.
Nothing suspicious. He gave the scroll to his master.

The letter was written in the language of the invaders, in red ink.
After the customary preliminaries, it briefly informed the general
that the prince's son had been shot the night before
and that the city was in mourning.

When he read these words aloud, there was an enraged outcry all around him.
His soldiers were furious, vengeful. Who shot the flautist? Who? Who?
He was suddenly surrounded by savages. They would tear him apart if they knew.
His voice faltering, he continued to read.

The spirit of the young man was not restful.
In the morning, a cup with frankincense was upturned in the main temple.
The spirit had also taken the left eye from the statue of Baal. It was a very bad sign.
It portended pestilence, famine and plague.
The spirit had to be placated before the third night, or his anger would get stronger.
There is a Kouros made of pure gold, with huge emerald eyes, in the prince's palace.
The value of this statue is incalculable. The workmanship is unparalleled.
You may not take our city, but you can sell this Kouros on your way home
to the king of any country, for only kings have enough money for it,
and this would make your expedition worthwhile.
This statue will be delivered to the general in exchange for the cowardly, worthless murderer.
When the moon rises, let his soldiers, in full armour, line up on the beach.
The spirit will come and point to the man who had shot him.
I will buy this rotten wickedness from you and I will pay you gold.

His father would raise his head and tell his men that it was he who had shot the flautist,
and no one who wanted to stay alive, would dare to confront him.
His son, however, was different. He went back to his tent and sat there,
listening to the indignant voices raging over the camp.
To admit everything would be reckless and dangerous.
They might kill him. Not openly, of course,
but in the same way he had killed the musician.
They might deliver him in exchange for the statue and sail home.
They would report to his father that he had died a hero
and share the spoils. No, he couldn't tell them.
The last thread would snap, the last thread holding him above their heads.

The whole next day, he hardly stepped out of the tent.
He heard quarrels and high-pitched outcries.
The men looked for the killer, accusing each other.
He could also hear greed in their voices. They wanted the gold.
He was becoming more and more frightened. He couldn't refuse the prince's offer.
It would look suspicious. He would give himself up.
He had to stand together with the others. The spirit would identify him.
And then... His men were sick of sitting on the beach.
The affection they had developed for the flute music was a clear sign of this.
That would be the end of his command. The end of his ambitions.
He didn't entirely regret his action. There was a tiny part of him
that was still proud of what he had done, but this part was drowning
in black waves of anguish.
When the tongueless night descended
and the camp fires crackled tensely,
as if now they accused each other of the murder.
Like scarlet-plumed parrots, having memorised the soldiers' words
repeated so many times during the day,
they mindlessly crackled them out, those barely recognisable, frizzling words,
and tossed them, together with fervid sparks, into the sea.

He went back to the rocks. The waves moaned and stretched their pale arms towards him.
Heaps of rotting algae lay here and there on the pitch-black boulders.
There was no one around. The wall was empty. The city slept.
He stood on the same spot from where he had made the best shot of his life.
There was a clump of viscous saliva in his mouth.
He tried to swallow it, but his throat did not contract.
He had to stand for a while before he could speak.
When he did, his lips began to tremble. He could not stop them.
His voice was not his. The words fluttered off his lips like fitful moths.

I am speaking to the man I shot here the day before.
Please know that I deeply regret what I have done.
I only wanted you to stop playing your flute. I didn't think I would reach you with an arrow at such a distance. Please forgive me. I am begging you. Don't ruin my life.
Don't destroy me, I implore you. I made a terrible mistake. Please let me live.

He began to sob and then fell on his knees.
The sea's voice became soft. The sea was forgiving him.
The wind's voice became kind. The wind was forgiving him.
Streams of tears washed moonlight off his face
and he knelt now in the gleaming pool.

Please, I beg you. I beg you. Forgive me, forgive me.
He must have said it hundreds of times, although something within him knew
that once would have been enough to plead his case, to warrant response.

There was no response. He was done for.
He rose, wiped his tears and straightened up.
The spirit of the flautist had not spoken to him,
but the spirit of his father raged in his chest, indignant.
His lips curved, he turned around and went back to the camp.

The following day passed unnoticed.
Everyone waited for the night to come.
Some soldiers even polished their breastplates.
Everybody was afraid.

It rained a bit towards the evening
and the wind blew from the direction of the city,
carrying the sweetish smell of funeral spices.

They lined along the shore, as the letter had instructed.
A simple letter, written by the enemy,
managed these men better than he ever had...
A death's letter addressed to greed, indignation and curiosity.

He, too, put on his best armour and stood at the head of the line.
The scarlet mane on his helmet dangled erratically,
brushing past his cheeks.
There was a lion with a raised paw on his breastplate,
the paw had been slightly dented few years ago by his fencing teacher.
He always wanted to have it repaired, but now it doesn't matter.
The figures of standing soldiers were slowly merging with the black air,
only their faces, and armour, and spears continued to gleam
reflecting the mixed light of a single fire left in the camp and the moon.

The city was completely dark,
not a soul was seen or heard from there,
only that funereal smell, already nauseating,
poured and poured from the gaping mouth of the wind.

Suddenly, the air became dead quiet.
The wind ceased. The tide stopped. The waves that were already on the shore,
quietly trickled back to the sea. The new waves did not come.
The moonlight became red and then white again.
The camp dog whined once, and then again, more loudly,
and fell on the sand, his head hidden between his paws.
Someone dropped a spear. It thumped on the wet sand, like a sound of a step.
He couldn't feel his legs. He seemed to hang in the air.

He didn't remember how long they had been standing like this,
lined up in polished armour, waiting for the dead musician.
There were several flashes of silent lightning
reflected in the sea. All of them lasted a moment,
but the last one remained and grew in shape.
There was no doubt any longer. It was a whitish figure of a man
that quickly glided towards them from the direction of the sea.
Soon they could see his arms and legs,
hanging motionlessly along his hips.
He was dressed in a cloak that was not white,
yet it appeared so as the moonlight became more intense.

He couldn't see more of the apparition,
because it moved aside, reached the end of his line,
turned and began to glide parallel to the standing soldiers towards him.

The dropped spear was not picked up.
It lay in the sand, perpendicular to the line.
The ghost would have to glide over it. For some reason, he hoped
that the spear would somehow stop the spirit.
He was already so cold he didn't feel his body at all.

The dead man glided slowly, very close to the soldiers
who stood terrified, motionless, hardly breathing.
The whitish cloak of the apparition
was reflected in their breastplates,
and this reflection also glided,
vanishing in the intervals and flashing up again,
like a diving wave or a rope tying all the soldiers together.

There was such tension between the dead and his reflection
that even the wind, slight as it had become,
didn't dare to blow between them.
There was already some glimmer of the moon on the armour,
but now, as the white wave approached, the armour seemed to flare up on its own,
a ghastly, metallic fire, while the heart of each man was being incinerated by fear.

He could see the musician now. A young man, very young.
He had long dark hair hanging down in clumps,
his face was very pale. He must have been handsome,
when he was alive. No longer so. There was a grimace of pain on his face,
an arrow was sticking out of his throat,
one of those expensive arrows made of cedar that he bought with his father's money.
Bleeding must have been profuse,
as the musician's neck, and shoulder, and the whole left side
were covered with dried blood.
It was no longer red, not even black,
but in the moonlight it seemed that someone had splashed him
with molten silver.

The musician was looking for his murderer and not finding him.
He was patient. He paused in front of each soldier and peered into his face,
as the poor man turned livid. Some shut their eyes, some turned their faces away,
some looked directly at the ghost with such strain
that tears hung on their eyelashes.

He stood and waited. He tried to pray, but did not remember any words.
He thought about running away, and he might have,
but his body was petrified. He couldn't move.
There were only several soldiers left before his turn. He waited.
He felt that his heart had torn its ligaments
and lay at the bottom of his belly,
twitching like a dying fish.

The apparition reached him and paused.
Its face levelled with his face.
He did not turn away, he couldn't command his eyes.
They stared at the blank, frozen eyes of the dead man,
which were in turn probing his eyes, searching deep inside them,
until they found his guilt. The face of the flautist wrinkled,
his eyes widened and the blue tongue slid out of his hard mouth
like an adder from between two slabs of flint.

There was a thick, hollow sound
as of the wind trapped in a spacious room.
The dead began to breathe and peered, peered into his face.
The dry lips fluttered, whispered,
and the apparition moved closer.
Please forgive me, please forgive me,
I beg you, I beg you.
These were the words. The ghost was mocking him.

Its arms began to rise, still motionless, like two sticks.
The white wave of reflection bubbled up his breastplate,
as if he was drowning in milk
slowly reaching his neck.
At this moment he lost the last shreds of composure.
His face screwed up in a grotesque grimace,
his eyes narrowed and two silvery snakes
ran down towards his mouth, to hide in its shallow cave.
He came up to his mother,
put his head in her lap and let her stroke his cold, unfeeling head,
his ear pressed against her heaving, warm belly.
He could hear her soft belly heave. One of her breasts pressed his ear.
His face was hidden completely in her cloak
heavily embroidered with flowers and smelling of jasmine.
He inhaled the smell of her body and of jasmine,
and this is how he survived.

It was his great fortune that his men were too frightened
to look at him, or his reputation would have been ruined forever.
He reached such a depth of humiliation,
his whole figure was so pathetic, so begging to be spared
that it went beyond his own contempt into simple surprise, a dream.
The ghost still hung in front of him,
but something changed. The dead mask covering it
was melting away, and a handsome young face
showed more and more. The hands fell back,
and the eyes looked bright and clear.
The arrow sticking out of his neck
curdled into a few tiny sparrows
and fluttered off towards the city walls.
The blood dried on his cloak
peeled off it as paint peels off an unprepared wall,
fell on the sand, seeped through the sand and was gone.

The dead man no longer appeared dead.
Those eyes were alive, surrounded by thick lashes
rustling as a grove of chestnut trees
rustles while a stray wind meanders in their midst,
trying to find its way back to the sea.
Stronger and stronger blows the wind,
more and more leaves fall from the chestnut trees,
the lashes vanish, the eyes become rounder, clearer,
merge in one eye, and look, it is the moon staring now in your face,
it is only the moon leaning towards you,
her dishevelled rays strewing the water, still like the sand.

The next day, when the sun rose,
a tall gleaming statue of a Kouros
appeared on the wall. People worked around it,
tying it with ropes and shouting to each other.
A while later, the statue began to descend. It was majestic.
The gold had that darker, deeper gleam
that only pure metals have. There were two huge green stones
in the statue's eye-sockets, surrounded by ruby eyelashes.
Another pair of resplendent stones was his nipples,
and yet another his testicles. His virility was erect,
proclaiming health and well-being. A garland of fresh flowers hung on it.
The soldiers, losing all sense of danger,
ran to the wall and crowded around the statue
which now stood firmly on the sand,
its balance kept by its sheer weight.
The exclamations of marvelling, the outcries of amazement
mixed with cheerful chirping of sparrows,
flocks and flocks of them, whizzing in all directions at once.

There was also a small basket in the Kouros' hand
clasped with several gem-incrusted bracelets.
His servant took the basket, found a scroll in it,
unrolled it and wanted to lick it,
but the general was too exhausted.
He waved his hand, ordering the servant to read the message aloud.

There was again a passage of preliminary benedictions,
followed by the expression of a profound gratitude.
The prince, the ruler of his eternal city,
is not amazed at the generosity shown,
because he knew all along that his enemy was most noble.
The spirit of his son has been appeased.
There was no more disturbance in the temple,
and the priests found a white kid,
alive, before the altar, at dawn –
his son had settled his grief
and revenge was no longer demanded.
The prince does not wish to call such a great and considerate general his enemy,
but his friend, even his younger brother. He is willing to open the city,
not to be conquered, but to become his eternal ally
and to take all the cities of the empire, one by one.
He invites the most glorious general to converse with him
behind the city walls tomorrow at noon.

The jubilation in the army was indescribable.
The men reached ecstasy. They spurred each other on,
laughing, joking, talking,
perhaps, still releasing the terror of the previous night.
The city remained silent. The people had long vanished from the wall.
The echo rolled along the grey slabs.

The servant threw the basket on the sand,
and another scroll, a little one, rolled out of it.
The red seal stamped with a clenched fist meant
that the message was for the general only.
He had his servant examine the scroll for poisons,
then went into his tent, broke the seal and read the message.
The prince informed his brother, the commander of the mighty army,
that one more thing needed to be done
before they could embrace each other as friends.

When his son was shot,
he dropped his flute and it fell somewhere in front of the walls.
This flute must be buried with the corpse,
or the spirit will not know peace.
The prince is sure that the flute can be easily found.
Tomorrow he will bestow a lavish gift
on the man who will bring the flute.
If it is not found, then he regrets
that the negotiations will not be possible,
for the spirit would need to be appeased and consoled.
This may take months,
and the city must not be opened while dead blood cries in it.

He finished reading and sat on the couch.
It was so close, his victory.
One lucky shot, and the city will open to him!
Even his father may not have achieved this so quickly.
Warm waves rolled down his chest in turbulent succession,
his head spinned.
The gift for the flute must be lavish indeed.
He will say that he found it among the rocks,
and that will be all.

He could hardly wait. The hours dragged.
He paced along the beach,
looking longingly at the walls.
His gilded sandals squeaked in the wet sand.
Towards the night, his impatience reached its peak.
He drank some wine, hoping to fall asleep,
but he couldn't. He felt no hunger,
although he had eaten nothing that day.

Thoughts, more and more thoughts
raced through the valley of his expanded head,
galloped like a herd of mad horses
through the many partitions that existed within him,
breaking them, mixing the memories of his childhood,
the long-hushed images, the discarded dreams,
the fear his father stirred in him,
his desperate adulation of his dead mother,
in one throbbing clod, burning and painful.

He ordered to take his couch out.
He reclined in the breeze. This helped.
Tomorrow is the day of his glory.
Look at these men sitting around campfires,
everyone talking and talking
about where they will sell the gold Kouros
and how they will divide the money.
It will be a lot of money. The craftsmanship alone costs a fortune.

Tomorrow he will get a dozen of such Kouroi.
Let them see whom they dared to despise!
Then dreams of power overcame him,
he imagined silver chariots, his chariots,
dashing through the battlefields,
his elephants, adorned with rugs and crystals,
charging at the brittle lines of his enemies
whom he made tall and strong, towering to the skies,
in order to crush them with greater relish.

The breeze fluttered above the beach,
brushing past his cheeks
like a lonely bird seeking something and not finding.
The sparrows began to wake up in the cracks of the walls,
but the breeze paid no attention to their chirping.
The sun rolled out. The walls began to glare with vermilion light.
The camp was still asleep. He stood alone,
his feet hidden by the wet sand,
his vermilion hair rising and falling.
All his thoughts left him.
The Kouros, wrapped in the white cloak,
stood in the midst of smouldering fires,
and there was something very familiar about its figure.

Towards the noon, he put on full armour
and his best, white-maned helmet.
He thought about hiding a dagger in his right boot,
but rejected that idea.
The prince himself was about to meet him
and he could ruin everything if the dagger was discovered.
He stepped out of his tent a strong man.
His soldiers looked at him differently.
Respect was awakening in their eyes.
Indeed, this campaign was swift, with no losses.
No one had managed to do this before. A great man was being born.

He walked to the walls impatiently.
The flute was hidden behind his breastplate.
He could feel it shifting with his each step,
like a plant thrusting towards his head,
which was mistaken for the sun,
so brightened up it was with inner triumph.

A group of armed soldiers followed him.
The archers had their bows ready. The swords were taken out of the scabbards.
When they came closer, several men with large shields
stood around him and covered him on all sides.
The gates creaked and opened just enough to let them in.
He felt some apprehension, but he suppressed it,
for fear of losing the respect of his men.
His servant ran through the door,
then reappeared and made a sign that all was safe.
He stepped in, still surrounded by shield-bearers.

He expected to see the city,
the people gazing at him in amazement,
the fountains and the gardens in bloom,
scattering plum blossoms on the lead-coloured stones of the square...

But he saw another wall,
as massive as the outer one,
and other gates.

How pathetic his battering ram seemed to him now!
And yet these stones obey his presence,
as if he were a god. A god! Why not? A mere human would not have accomplished all this.
His father, perhaps, was not his father at all.
Some god was his father.
The thought was silly, but, once in his head,
it stubbornly refused to leave. He was safe, he showed his courage
by entering the walls practically alone, unarmed! Fortune kept smiling on him!
There was no sign of ambush or any hostile intention.
The other gates slowly opened, just enough
to let back in several servants
who had opened the outer gates for the general.

He and his men were left alone between the walls.
The wind rumbled somewhere above their heads
and the birds were not heard.

It was very cool here. Relief from the scorching afternoon,
fear and elation
were mixing and unmixing in his chest,
now becoming distinct,
so distinct that even the elation seemed frightful,
now disappearing within each other,
transforming into a some sort of throbbing
that could have easily been taken for
the natural agitation, the energy of a young soul.

Then there was a movement behind the inner gates.
He straightened up. Two men stood in front of him,
their shields ready, naked swords in hands.
They could escape at any moment,
as the outer gates remained ajar.

A few servants appeared. The distance between the two walls
was big. The servants did not carry any weapons.
They wore very light clothes, to make this evident.
They stood in two short rows, and another man came in.
This had to be the prince. His dress was opulent,
encrusted with precious stones. He was about fifty.
There were several thin threads of pearl in his greying beard
and large round earrings in his earlobes. Gold, of course.

His face was masculine, but not tough.
He had vivid eyes, very blue and glistening.
His skin was sunburnt, and this added to the air of inner strength that he exuded.
He wore a broad belt woven from silk and silver.
An empty scabbard hung on it.

He came close to the young general,
perhaps, too close. He paid no attention to the armed soldiers.

I greet my dear brother, the commander of this illustrious army. May blessing descend upon you and your house.
He rubbed his palms and rose them briefly above his head.

The fear still clenching the young man's heart,
snapped and fell off like a broken hoop.
He smiled and ordered the shield-bearers to stand behind him.

The prince smiled too, very faintly.
He turned around and nodded. His men, one by one, disappeared behind the wall.
Only two servant remained, near the very gates.
Such unspeakable courage shook the young general. He felt inadequate.
Hastily, perhaps, too much so, he also turned and asked his men to retreat to the wall.
They did so, albeit with reluctance. He noticed that some of the older soldiers
still had their bows ready.

The two men were alone now,
standing on the sand, between the ascending cascades of grey stone.

The prince looked at him,
his beard pouring, like an autumn rain, on the gemmed glade of silk.
A bird whistled above. It was a sudden, piercing sound.

Did my brother bring my son's flute?
Yes.
He pulled the flute from his breastplate.
He saw it now clearly for the first time,
a strange, polished, remarkable instrument,
plaited with strings of pearl, the same ones that the prince had in his beard.
What had been silent inside the flute,
was now singing clearly in the young man's head,
and what had been loud and terrifying in his head,
now seemed to find peace inside the flute.
It was so polished that he saw the brown reflection of his face
glide up along its body, momentarily disappearing
inside the black sound holes,
and then shoot upwards, slide off the musical stem,
as a bird flutters off a branch graced with dark green leaves glittering after rain.
The bird rose high between the walls,
and the rain drops fell to the ground,
some on his sandals, some on the sand,
and glided towards the prince's legs.

The prince took the flute and kissed it three times.
Who found it, my brother? I want to reward this man.
I found it myself, to please the illustrious prince.

The older man fell silent.
Maybe, some soldier found it and brought it to you?

The general was too elated to feel indignation.
No, I found it and no one else.
My brother will excuse this question. I wanted to be sure that the gods indeed have chosen you as their equal. I am deeply honoured. A young god will enter this city.

The general's pride rang like a thousand anvils
struck at the same time.

The prince waved his hand,
and a servant approached with a cup.
The prince took it. The servant went back at once.
According to our tradition,
I want to share this wine with my brother.

The cup was round, decorated with interclasping wings.
The prince brought it to his lips and took a long, slow draught.
Then he offered the cup to the general.

The young man hesitated, but then, blushing a bit,
took the cup and drank the rest of the wine.
It was very dense and velvety. Pleasant warmth enveloped his stomach.

The prince made a sign.
Both servants went away.
The gates closed. There was a thud followed by the hoarse sounds of sliding bars.
The general looked here and there in surprise,
but he wanted to move less and less. Standing still gave him greatest pleasure.
He heard his men whisper,
but he didn't turn to them. His happiness was still complete.

There was still a chance
that you had taken the flute from one of your soldiers.
That is why I asked if that was so.
You said you had found the flute yourself. I know you had.
The arrow we pulled out was not an arrow of a common archer.
We observed your men both days.
No one went to the rocks. No one was looking for the flute.
It was clear that you had not told them.
And yet you brought the flute.
You shot the poor boy. It was you.
For this, I brought you a fine gift and you have just accepted it.

The general wanted to move, but he couldn't. He didn't understand.
It was all hazy in his head.
Fear woke up and beat its wings like a black cormorant,
shaking off the last drops of other emotions.
The wings beat faster and faster, ready to take off.

But... but...
They shouldn't have sent such a young man to us.
Look what you got yourself into.
Did you really think the prince would come here and talk to you?
I am a common servant.

The older man already spoke with difficulty.
But...
Yes, we both drank poison.
There are two more walls around the city.
Your men are welcome to this one.

The cormorant soared. He followed it attentively as it flew farther and farther, turning into a colourless speck. He desperately wanted to fly after it, to see how far it could reach, and his body obeyed. A pair of magnificent black wings unfolded above his head. He could feel how violently his shoulder blades were pulled by these wings as they swelled in the wind coming from the froth-choking sea.

The old man lowered himself on the ground.
There was a trickle of white froth coming of his mouth.

The general's soldiers ran up. Two of them grabbed the general under his arms.
Another one pulled out a dagger and was about to cut the old man's throat.
The general stretched out his hand. The soldier stopped.

He crouched on the ground, face to face with the old man.
The thousand hammers were hitting the anvil. His temples hurt.

But... I was forgiven.
He whispered these words that were already disobeying his tongue.

The old man tried to laugh. He face was twitching.
Forgiveness of the dead... is for the dead... you can have it now.
And also... I should tell you...
The prince never had a son.
He fell back and lay there with his mouth open.

A dark curtain fell.
Only one hole remained in it, pierced by his arrow that had been shot so well,
and some light poured out of it.
He put his eye to the hole, to see all of the light,
and his eye blocked the hole. Now there was only darkness inside.