The warrior who comes back from battle without a scratch on them is likely to be derided as a coward who sat out the fight. Even the most skilled warriors do not emerge from battle unscathed. On the other hand, a warrior coming back with too many injuries does not say much for his skill.
And so, they settled on an iron helmet capable of covering his face and fitting over his dreadlocks. Even so, he had to do a lot of adjusting. The Muslim Adregans typically shave their heads and do not grow hair, much less dreadlocks. But after Moutassim married his wife ten years ago, he grew his hair as a way of solidifying his bond with her Genda tribe, a tribe synonymous for its dreadlocked, ebony skinned people as much as it was synonymous for producing sorcerers.
As the army set off towards Kalli with the Emperor leading the way, Agdel approached him on his war horse with a grim expression on his face. Agdel was from the Genda tribe too and was, in fact, the Empress's cousin. There was a time when his locks were as long as his cousin's, but the death of his wife three years ago had caused him to cut off his locks as a symbol of mourning. They were still growing back.
"How can I help you cousin?" Moutassim asked him cheerfully, as his horse fell into step next to Sheikh.
"By listening to my advise." Agdel said through gritted teeth. "If you had fallen, your wife would have held me responsible. Worse, the empire would have crumbled. You have no baby in the cradle and no one wants to see your brother on the Imperial throne. Everyone knows what he's capable of."
Moutassim shook his head.
"I had no choice." He said dismissively.
"You always have a choice! The Empire-"
"It's precisely because of the Empire, I did what I had to do." Moutassim snapped and as if a switch had been thrown, the pain in his cheek started throbbing again.
"You are the greatest military strategist in my Empire Agdel, but perceptive politician you are not. I rule over five distinct tribes, with different cultures, different languages. How else will I win my people to my side? How else will I, a Muslim, govern an empire made up of Muslims and spiritualists? The only thing keeping me on that throne is the military and politics of perception."
Agdel opened his mouth to argue, but Moutassim raised his hand.
"Enough. If you must give your opinion on something, I'd appreciate your opinion on Bremon and what to do with it."
Agdel fumed, but couldn't pass up the opportunity of advising the Emperor when called upon. Very few had such an opportunity of directly influencing the course of history.
"Farouk's death will cause a power vaccum. The person most likely to replace him is his son Khalid, I think he just turned sixteen. Khalid will no doubt flee once news of his father's defeat reaches him. Sieberon is by far the most friendly Kingdom to Bremon. And Votrek has never been particularly fond of you sire. So he will flee there. The danger is if they shelter and provide him with their mercenaries."
Moutassim nodded in agreement. Sieberon was famed for its brutal and sadistic mercenary force, personally commanded by their Prince Regent, Votrek. In a mountainous country which grew few crops and had no natural resource of its own, Sieberon mercenaries were in high demand around the world and had influenced world events in whichever wars they fought. Besides armour and weapons, Sieberon mercenaries were the country's chief export and a high earning one too.
In fact, the only thing keeping them in the Empire was the fact that most of the Kingdoms sold them commodities they could not produce, at rock bottom prices. In exchange, the Empire could rely on Sieberon mercenaries should some other, foolish country decide to invade.
"It means now, more than ever, we must establish diplomatic relations with Sieberon and head off Khalid." Moutassim mused. "But what of Bremon?"
"A governor general? Interim military government?" Agdel shrugged.
"With you as Governor?" Moutassim asked slyly. Agdel bowed his head, raising his fist to his chest.
"If that is your command."
"It is not." Moutassim laughed, a laugh abruptly cut short by the headache coming on. "I need you in my capital, protecting my family, the heart of my empire, now more than ever. Now go away please. Send out scout parties or something. My head hurts."
Agdel shook his head, a wry smile on his face as his horse trotted ahead. No sooner was he gone than Sahelia siddled up on her small gelding. Moutassim groaned. A tag team match it would be then.
"I'm not in the-"
"You took alot of risks today. My sister will not be pleased."
"I am the Emperor." Moutassim drew himself up in mock outrage. "How dare you question my actions."
But Sahelia was not amused. She pursed her lips as she manoeuvred her little horse even closer.
"Tassim, I love my sister. But she's not getting any younger. Ten years into your marriage and no children? If something happened to you and your brother took the throne." Sahelia, who was never fazed by anything, visibly shuddered at the thought of an Emperor Tarik on the throne.
Moutassim wondered at Sahelia's first statement. Did she really love her sister? Over the years there had been an obvious rift between the two sisters, one he had unsuccessfully tried to bridge on numerous occasions. Neither would talk abt it. He knew. He'd asked both of them before.
"No, I will not die childless." Moutassim said, reaching out and gently resting his hand on her's. "No, I will not take a second wife, as Chief Minister Morabi keeps advising me. I love your sister too and together, we'll figure things out."
Sahelia gave a forced smile, the strong, sulking warrior suddenly melting away.
"Now please." He pulled away his hand and looked ahead. "Go help Agdel. Go check on the troops. Your unit. Just go away and leave me to groan in peace."
Moutassim relaxed as Sahelia trudged ahead. He could finally take in the beauty of the savannah, the mountains in the distance, as they followed the well travelled path away from the Bremon border and towards Kalli. As they reached a herd of gazelles, the creatures turned as one and fled, bounding gracefully towards the setting sun. They would have to set up camp soon. Moutassim sighed with contentment as he thought about the relief a bed would bring to his sore body.
His relaxation was broken by shouts ahead. Agdel and Sahelia were already galloping towards the noise. Moutassim's adrenaline reawakened from its slumber and he spurred Sheikh into a gallop too. Was this an ambush?
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The Rozaic citadel and it's royal palace, is Bremon's most recognisable landmark. It is a source of great pride for Bremonians, as an example to the "less cultured" parts of the empire. Indeed, Bremonians are renowned for their Muslim inspired architecture and have, in fact, supplied Kalli with architects for their royal constructions over the years.
The sprawling, pearl white Rozaic palace with its artificial fountains and marble walls and statutes, was home to the extended branch of the Bremonian royal family. It was here that Prince Khalid -King, although he didn't know it yet- trained as the sun set.
The young Prince eyed the four marble wolf statutes arrayed infront of him and the apples on the heads of each of them. Then he stepped deftly to the side and nocked an arrow in his bow. Out of the corner of his eye he saw mother, who sat on an ottoman couch anxiously rereading the last set of dispatches from the front line, pause to watch.
In one fluid movement, Khalid raised his arm and released, doing this three more times while running and ducking. At one point he rolled on the floor before coming up and splitting the final apple with his arrow.
Queen Bethos tossed aside the parchment and clapped. Khalid turned to her and took an exaggerated bow.
"Your father will be so proud to know you're keeping your skills sharp when he's not around."
Khalid beamed, but then a shadow fell over his face. He sighed and walked over to a nearby fountain.
"What's wrong my son?"
"I should be out there. By his side. Fighting and learning. I thought father wanted to prepare me to be King."
"He has been preparing you." Bethos came down the stairs to him and held both his arms. "All those hours, side by side, teaching you history. Languages. Politics. Sword fighting."
"Not archery, though." Khalid said, smiling again.
"No, not archery." She smiled too.
The door to the courtyard burst open. Khalid turned around, incensed at the intrusion. It was one of their soldiers, only his uniform was dirt caked and stained with blood.
"What-"
"Forgive me, your majesties." The soldier kneeled in supplication, holding out his hands for understanding. "The King is dead. Murdered in cold blood by Emperor Moutassim. And our troops were defeated."
His bow clattered to the floor and Khalid sank to his knees, under the gravity of what he just heard. He tried to process the news that his father was dead, while his mother shook him. She was saying something to him, but he just stared blankly at her, uncomprehending.
"Imperial troops will come for us." Her words finally came through the fog of confusion. "We need to act quickly. Your father prepared us for this, never forget."
He struggled to his feet, using his sleeve to wipe away the tears streaming down his face.
"The chest."
"The chest." She confirmed, nodding. Her own bright blue eyes watered, but he could see she was making an effort to hold it back. The grief would have to wait. King Farouk's instructions had been explicit. A guiding light from beyond the dead.
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When Moutassim reached the commotion, Agdel, Sahelia and a group of soldiers were gathered around something. They moved aside for the benefit of the Emperor and he saw it was a woman dressed in tattered, dusty robes drawn around her body and modestly covering her head.
But no amount of dusty robes could detract from her slight, sensuous curves, her large, clear gray eyes, the freckles dotting her nose or her fair skin, conspicuous in a circle of brown or ebony skinned warriors. As she looked up at him, her lips parted to reveal white buck teeth.
"Scouts just found her." Agdel motioned and Hebron, one of his Captains who led the scouting party, stepped forward.
"She was just wandering around sire." Hebron said, bowing his head deferentially.
"She doesn't speak any of our languages. We tried everything we knew."
Moutassim studied her. She stared back at him.
"Did you try Mathusian?"
"None of us here speak Mathusian." Hebron spat. It was a common reaction, one that always made Moutassim angry, when the nomadic Mathus tribe was mentioned. But Moutassim was well versed in the language and the people. After all, Morabi, his mentor and teacher of over twenty five years, was a former slave from Mathus.
"What is your name." Moutassim said in the Mathusian tongue. "What is your business here."
"Tigrita." She said, seemingly surprised that he knew her language. She paused and began wringing her hands. "I was out with my goats, when some soldiers came and robbed me. They took everything I had. My food, water..."
Moutassim translated for everyone's benefit. Agdel shook his head.
"Must have been Bremonian soldiers." He said.
"Must have been." Moutassim said. He turned back to the woman and switched to her language. "Why not join us? Maybe we'll catch up with them. And I." He laughed. "Would love the chance to practise my Mathusian. There are very few in my capital I can practise on."
She smiled and Moutassim's heart skipped a beat.
"You're very kind sir. Yes I'll come."