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Tunisia: May 12th, 1881
"What will it be?" My brother, Aramis, leaned back leisurely, his words dripping into puddles of venom and derision on the pristine floor. His smile, eerily similar to a scythe, stretched in satisfaction as he observed the dishevelled man before him. "The decision is yours to make."
Muhammad III Bin As-Saddiq, the Bey of Tunisa, the most powerful man in the country that we recently trespassed into––steepled his fingers anxiously, his thick brows descending over his troubled gaze like a shadow. He studied the terms of the treaty for what must have been the fourth time, arching his mouth thoughtfully beneath his carefully curled mustache. "How would this benefit my people in any way? I would merely be gifting away my country to France while remaining an impractical head figure to reduce suspicion and rebellion," The Bey reclined against his palatial ottoman, shaking his head. "I disagree with the terms."
"Perhaps," My brother spoke softly, his shrewd eyes flashing dangerously. I knew that he relished in the uneasy cloak of anticipation that immediately descended over the room the minute the word left my brother's curling lips. He leaned forward. "You should consider the well-being of your people more carefully," He paused, glancing at every face in the room in turn. "I encourage you to take your time and contemplate the conditions attentively. However, this is your country and your people," He gestured towards the window indifferently. "They will tell you what they want."
The men around me––my men––grinned knowingly. The Bey regarded us curiously, his carefully constructed mask slightly shifting to reveal a hint of sudden fear. Rising from his vermillion, opulent ottoman, he stepped away from the treaty and toward the window, his long, purple robes trailing after him in a silken stream of amethyst. A strange sense of emptiness formed in the pit of my stomach as I watched the man peer out his window, knowing that he would see a river of cobalt-blue uniforms surrounding his palace, precisely eight thousand, fully armed and intimidating; those were only the men he could see. I hastily stashed my treacherous, sympathetic thoughts and regrets deep inside of my useless, foolish heart, silencing them to oblivion. My expression dropped into a blissful nothingness.
The hollow feeling in my chest threatened to consume me whole.
Golden shafts of sunlight drizzled in through the large panes of glass along the walls, painting the room in an ethereal glow while glinting off of the chandelier above us in showers of splendour. My eyes burned from the sheer amount of radiance and beauty that danced around us when something so ugly was taking place in its midst; it was like a beast dressed in finery or a bat made of jewels: no one cared that its teeth were bared.
The Bey returned to his seat, perspiration visibly glistening on his skin. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and wiping his brow. He cursed softly under his breath.
"France's kindness and generosity only extend so far," I said, clutching the arm rests and ignoring the cold sweat gathering beneath my velvet gloves. I stared at him through half-lidded eyes, feigning unconcern.
Running his fingers along his beard, the Bey briefly squeezed his eyes shut––accidentally displaying a moment of weakness––before snatching a quill and nearly crumpling the treaty in his clenched fist. He lifted his gaze, his eyes impossibly black and bottomless, scrutinizing every vile man sitting before him. Aramis's condescending, accomplished grin sharpened patently, an acute reminder of how similar to my father he was, while I was not. I twisted my bitterness and resentment into nothing, momentarily thanking the saints for this skill, and turned my attention back on the Bey; I was so sure he was going to spit at us, but he merely adjusted his turban, dipped his quill, and signed his approval.
He slid the treaty across the table, his expression steady and vacant. "Inform your President of my eternal gratitude."
My brother got to his feet, wrapping his fingers around the treaty. He shifted slightly so the light reflected off of the numerous medals settled on either side of his chest, momentarily blinding my eyes. "With reverence," He said imperiously, lifting a fist to where his heart must have been. Staring directly into the Bey's blank eyes, he inclined his head and turned on his heel––hardly a sign of respect. I glared after him, watching how the tricorne looked ridiculously oversized for his head, then turned and bowed, the men around me following suit.
As I fell in stride with Aramis, the intricately carved wooden doors swinging open to admit us into the luxuriously ornate halls of the palace, I glanced over my shoulder to see the Bey curl over the table and drop his head into his hands––before the doors hurtled close. Sealing away the regrets of history. I clasped my hands tightly behind my back, sweating beneath my tricorne, watching my brother tilt up his chin and strut purposefully down the halls like a peacock.
One day, I thought, twisting my lips. That arrogance will be your demise.
For reasons unfathomable, a small, childish part of me hoped I was wrong.
YOU ARE READING
Legacy
Historical Fiction"Duty, honour and faith" "I am a descendant of France" Fidele grew up in France, trained everyday since he can remember by his father to never show mercy to anyone. Fidele was never shown mercy either. Once he's prepared, he's sent to Tunisia with...
