Saul of Sodom: The Last Prophet (27 page)

  
“I am here to help you.”

  
Eastman stepped forward again.

  
“I will not let you take her,” he said.

  
“
I
am a martial servant, not an enforcer.”  Eastman motioned toward the
Guards.  “
They
will take the girl away.  I am here in my capacity as
your counsel, to tell you not to get in their way.”

  
“Get BACK!” he roared as two of the Guards stepped forward.

  
“Do as he says,” Eastman commanded.

  
One of the SGs rejoined, “We have orders…”

  
“Your only charge, gentlemen, is to serve and protect martial order and may I
remind you that my client is a martial of the highest caste,” Eastman rejoined
rapidly, then eyed the Guards over his shoulder.  “:You are aware of the
consequences should any harm come upon him through your own fault.”

  
The SGs exchanged guarded looks, stepped back and lowered their weapons.

  
“You must trust me, Martial Vartanian,” Eastman said, taking another daring
step forward.  “I am not the one who betrayed you…”

  
The shaking blade stilled.  His eyes centred warily on the commissioner.

 
 “Betrayed…”

  
Eastman stopped six feet in front of him, raised his head, and the vacant look
in his eyes alone imparted his purpose.  Saul’s blood congealed to ice. 

  
“Celyn,” he muttered.

  
The commissioner bowed his head.

  
“She revealed everything before they cleaned her,” he said.

  
There was silence.

  
“You are lying.”

  
“I would tell you to ask her yourself, but she would not remember you even if
you could.  Martial Knight no longer exists.”

  
Eastman’s words would not sink in.  It could not be true.  It could not.

  
“They have their orders, Martial,” Eastman continued.  “They will not leave
this place without the child.”

  
Naomi pressed tightly against him.  Her fear increased his wrath.  He wanted to
kill them – every last one of them.  He would destroy Sodom – the whole martial
world – if he could.  But he couldn’t.  He could not put her life at risk.

  
“Bloodshed will solve nothing,” said Eastman.  “It is no use fighting this.  You
know that.  The hearing dates have already been set…”

  
“I will not let you take her away,” he reasserted.

  
“We won’t,” Eastman averred, shaking his head.  “The girl’s fate will be
resolved in martial court.  Until then, she will remain in Sodom.”

  
“Where?”

  
“That I do not know.  And neither will you, until this is resolved.”

  
He fell quiet again – a passive, submissive quiet.

  
“She will be safe,” Eastman reiterated.  “You have my word.”

 
His promise was worth nothing.  But he had no choice.  There was no escape.  He
fought against every riling impulse to lower his fist.  The hopeless blade
slipped from his limp grip and he hung his head.  As soon as the blade fell,
two of the guards came forward. 

  
Naomi shrunk away.

 
 “S-Saul…”

  
“I am sorry, little one,” he whispered

 
One of the SGs grabbed her roughly by the arm and a short, sharp squeal of
fright sparked his blood like acetone.  Powerless, he shut his eyes and
compressed his fists as they carried her away.  The girl’s tear-filled eyes
sought him and he heard her weep his name right up until the moment the door
opened and closed, and she was gone. 

  
He raised his head again.

 
 Eastman remained where he was, his vague and beady stare probing him from head
to toe.  

  
“You have blood on you,” he said.

  
Silence.

  
“Martial Vartanian … If there is something else I should know, now is the time
to say it.”

  
The silence continued.  A moment later, it was broken.

  
His cell started to ring…

BOOK
III

FULL
CIRCLE

  
The pandemonium in Capitol Plaza was audible until the bounds of the city, even
in the most secluded boroughs and alcoves.  All along the dusk-concealed street
of one such borough, the eight-star phoenix of the Eden Accord swayed, sparkled
and shimmered -- on hologram billboards and bright banners hanging from corner
to corner and window to window of jagged, terraced, corrugated old buildings.

 
 Though it was only just past noon, a mist had dulled the sky to ash-grey and
the flyover which ran directly overhead cast its shadow over the borough,
impeding what little light was left.  The rain came in rising rhythm, thin at
first and then growing from patters to drumbeats.

  
On the edge of a footway on that narrow, dusky street, there stood an ancient
figure in archaic wears -- a long black coat with a high collar over his face. 
A marbled fist tightened over the grip of the cane on which his weight was
precariously perched.  And he stood, gazing around, receiving his surroundings
like a new arrival to the world.   His sights stopped high and afore, in the
direction of the distant blares from Capitol Plaza.

 
 The rumble of a fast-approaching train rose and smog kicked up in a cold draft.
 The old man lowered his eyes and fixed his stare on the small door across the
street.  The long, platinum hairs on his old head flustered as he took his
first step off the footway, following his line of sight.  A solid tap of his
cane separated each measured step on the sodden road.  A stray dog, huddled up
for warmth, raised its head and followed the old figure with a deferential
stare.

  
The young barkeep at the sink behind the counter turned up a steely eye when
the door to his vacant nook opened and the ancient figure followed a cold draft
in.  The door closed.  A young boy of dark complexion stopped immediately in
the course of buffing a table and nervously peered from the old man to the
barkeep.  The media broadcast on the small screen showed the same live feed on
every TV in every home and on every street across the region. 

  
The door closed and the newscast became audible again. 

  
The old man hobbled in.  With stifled strain, he lowered himself into the seat
nearest the door, clutching steadily onto his cane as he did so.  As soon as he
lowered, his head hung, his eyelids drooped and he breathed slow, heavy and
tired breaths. 

  
A long silence followed.

  
With a single look and a nod, the young barkeep instructed the young boy to go
on buffing the tables.  He took up a wet glass from the sink, poked a hand and
cloth inside and turned, firmly in his grip and peered over the counter at the
old man.

 
 “Weren’t expecting no visitors today,” said the young barkeep.  “Can I get you
anything there, old timer?”

  
The old man raised his head and, looking forward, answered slowly, wearily and
in a dry voice: “Water … please.”

  
The barkeep turned the glass in his hands and set it down on the counter with a
clink. 

  
“Ezra.”

  
The young boy started at the call of his name.

  
“Go on and get the man some water.”

  
The young boy hesitated, snatching glances at the old figure.

  
“…Go on now,” insisted the barkeep.

  
With dumb obedience, the boy dropped his cloth, and the old man followed with
his eyes as he scurried over to the bar counter, took the clean glass the
barkeep had set down, then disappeared through a back door. 

  
The barkeep dried off another glass and set it down on a top of a stack behind
the counter, snatching another quick and wary glance at the elderly newcomer.  A
subsequent rise in the volume from the small screen drew the old man’s
attention to the broadcast from the Assembly House and the inauguration of the Eden
Accord.  The citywide ovation shook the ground with chants of “
Novum mundi
resurgent!
” as a speaker took the podium.

 
The leaders of the Accord appeared, seated at the fore and the president-elect
was front and center among them -- the crown jewel of New Eden.  A vague smile
curled up the sides of the old man’s mouth.

 
 The back door opened again and the boy named Ezra returned with the full glass
of water, eyes fixed on the brim for spillage.  He stopped and held the glass
out to the old man.     

  
“So … you from outside the Capital?” asked the barkeep

  
The old man took three long gulps and set the glass down with a sigh of relief.

  
“You might say that,” he replied.

  
“A lot of people from out of town today.”

  
“It is a great day,” said the old man.  “A day of freedom.”

  
“
Freedom
…” the young barkeep scoffed under his breath.

 
When he looked up, there was an unnerving severity in the old man’s gaze.  “I’m
sorry.  I just have a thing about that word.”

  
“How so?” The old man took calculated pauses before his answers.

  
The barkeep set another glass down on top of the stack.

 
 “Everybody throwing words around lately,” he sighed:  “
Freedom
…
liberation
– or, my favorite –
Novum mundi resurgent
!”  He snorted and shook his
head.  “I tell you. Sometimes you get to thinking these people don’t know what
the hell they’re talking about.  Hell, I
know
most of ‘em don’t.  This
one guy came in here a few days ago…”

  
The young barkeep went on at length, and at the end of it the old man smiled an
ironic smile. 

  
“I see you are not so optimistic for the new world,” he said.

  
The barkeep let out a short chuckle.

  
“I tell you what -- every old world was a new world at one time,” he said.  “You
look like you’ve been around long enough to know that.  You don’t want to get
me
started, old man…” the barkeep paused and then continued.

  “Na,
see – me – I don’t think it’s even real.  This ‘freedom’ thing.  It’s all a
dream – damn dangerous dream too if you ask me.  Hell, it’s why these damn wars
start in the first place … people going around thinking there’s this ‘freedom’
they need to fight for …  Then, soon as they get it, they already get to
figurin’ it’s something else and they start fighting all over again.”

 
The barkeep stopped mid-sermon and finished drying off another glass.  “Then
they call themselves ‘freedom fighters,’” he laughed. “Ah, hell with it. You
probably think I’m crazy.”

  
“No … I think I understand.”

  
The decibel level of the broadcast rose again with a new climax.

  
“…
And
they all think this’ll end the wars,” the barkeep continued after
the brief silence. 

  
“You do not?”

  
“Hell no,” the barkeep exclaimed, setting another glass on the stack.  “The
old
damn world is the
whole
damn world, and the whole damn world runs on
war. This – all this – it’s like screaming for all hell to come our way.  And
it will, too.  You better believe it…”

  
They were interrupted by another, greater climax. 

  
The old man looked up at the broadcast.  The barkeep and the young boy stopped
what they were doing too when the pronouncement from the speaker sounded:

  
“
Ladies, gentlemen, brothers and sisters:  The president of New Eden!
”

  
The President stood.

  
A thousand attendees rose from their seats with her and the cheers and ovations
reverberated through the Eight Nations.  The media’s lights flashed from aisle
to aisle and gallery to gallery.  She made her way across the stage and
ascended the first step to the podium with a deep breath. 

  
Chants rung out from Capital Plaza in titan drum beats:

  
“
NOV –UM – MUN – DI – RE – SUR – GENT!”

  
She smiled meekly, bowed her head and raised a regal hand to the world, rousing
them to a storm that shook the Earth.  Her heart drummed in her breast.  There
was angst in adoration -- a galvanising of duty from which she would have
gladly been unburdened. 

  
S
mile
, she thought,
smile
, through the sustained hurricane of
worship.

  
When the silence finally fell, she cleared her throat:

  
“Brothers … and sisters.”

  
Her voice resounded through the Capitol and the cheers exploded with new
vigour. 

“It brings me great joy and even greater honor to
share this day with you all.  And a great day it is.  A day of providence.  For
history has never known a nobler cause.  And the world could not have hoped for
a braver, more faithful people, to rise to it.”

  
Another eruption of cheers and upwards of a minute’s ovation ensued.  Their joy
moved her to lamentation and, for a moment, the thunder of ovations faded into
memory, When the storm allayed, she continued:

“To see you all gathered here today, in that spirit
from which the bonds of our accord were forged, leaves no doubt in my mind that
the new world is on the horizon.  The end of martial order.  The end of
perpetual war.  Though it may be many long years before we gather here again in
the same spirit as this day: what a glorious day that day will be!  On that
day, and centuries thereafter, the world -- all the generations that are to
come --
will
know us.  Our time is at hand.  Our light will set the whole
world aflame… never to fade again.”

  
Then she lifted her head and pronounced:

“
Novum mundi resurgent!
”