To Stand Forever

My father spluttered, wheezed, and then, with a grimace, raised first his head from the pillow, then propped his body onto his elbow. The pain passing from his face, fire returned to his pupils. He then turned them upon me.
“The barbarians are to be welcomed into the city. They are to be admitted to the forum for one month.” He coughed. “Those were my orders, and my orders they remain.” Lowering himself back to the bed, he maintained his gaze. I walked away. On reaching the far wall, I spun on my heel and spoke:
“And my feelings remain. I will go to the forum to discuss it further with the council in the light of last night's events.” His eyes followed me out of his chamber.

“The barbarians,” Father had said a month before, “Remember things that we have forgotten. They remember things that we ought not to forget.” I had paced in front of him, fists clenched behind my back.
They have been our enemies for generations. They killed your grandfather and left his head to rot outside our city gates. That we ought not to forget.

I climbed the two flights of steps to the Menzabar tower. From this point, one can see in all directions, the city appearing as a forest of towers, marble spires lit white and sprawling stone houses glowing gold in the desert sun.
Half a mile away to the East, I could make out the maze of alleyways that formed the poor quarter. From there and the surrounds, smoke rose through the haze.

“We must move beyond the crimes of past generations,” Father had said. “The city is bursting at the seams, and the barbarians understand life outside these walls. It is that understanding that I will ask them to share.”
They share with us their ideas, and we share with them what? Our knowledge? Our gold? Our women?

At the heart of the poor quarter, whispers had first been heard in the tea houses, and from within knots of men outside the temple gates:
“The barbarians bring disease.”
“They will steal from us, then disappear in the night.”
In the lanes of the bazaar and amid the dust and traffic at the crossroads, whispers gave way to stronger voices:
“They'll be dining at the palace on the taxes we pay, while our houses crumble.”
Then, among clouds of pipe smoke in the gambling pits and on the street corners, the voices rose into a shout:
“They'll rape our women!”
“This will be the end of the city!”
From the Kasadian Gate at the western edge of the poor quarter, the mob had exploded. Charred walls and window frames marked their passage; blood stained the streets.
In the stupefying heat of the new day, the anger of the rioters had subsided. Now, in the cooling afternoon, a rising hum reached my ears, and the first shouts carried over the faint breeze.

“With reconciliation,” Father had declaimed, “We no longer need fear the barbarians. We no longer need be constrained by our walls, prisoners in our own buildings.”
But there will always be someone to fear, someone beyond and outside, ready to steal that which we have laboured for generations to create.

To the North, over a mile distant, dust and noise rose from the repairs taking place on the city walls. Surveying the circumference of the city, one or two more patches of wall were scaffolded, while the remainder stood in disrepair. Only two days ago, Scarabus, captain of the City Guard, jabbed a bronzed finger into my shoulder as he said: “They could knock down our walls with a feather and be drinking tea by sunset in our precious forum. We haven't had a penny for the army in the last five years.”

“Would you build the walls so high,” Father had asked, “that you could never see beyond the city? Bar the gates so that none could enter, nor ever leave?”
I would do what was necessary, Father, to protect myself, my family and my people.

To the West, a fraction below the horizon, marked by a rising trail of dust, the Barbarian host was approaching on horseback through the desert. They would be here in a matter of hours.

Now, through ill-lit tunnels, crouching between dank and mossy walls, I made my way underneath the city. Emerging into the sunlight, the high walls of the forum muffled the babble from the rest of the city.

“The time has come,” Father had argued, “to look beyond ourselves. We will open the gates to the barbarians and invite them to the forum. Dialogue is the spark that lights a thousand fires. Without ideas we would not have the ramp and pulley to build our city walls, our towers, temples and libraries. But you will say that an idea never fed or clothed anyone.”
No, father. Without the idea, we don't have the scythe, the plough, the irrigation for our fields. But it takes hundreds of men to forge those tools, and thousands to wield them: only then are we fed. And those ideas are formed in the shelter of our homes, safe from the wind and the cold, safe from barbarian arrows and spears.

My face shadowed by a hood, I stood at the edge of the forum. On the paving stood huddles of robed men. Among them was the barbarian ambassador; or so they called him. Ragged, wildly bearded, and deaf to our tongue, he stood to one side.
The forum was silent. I drew back the hood from my face. One by one, faces turned to me. Angustrim, one of the elders, at last spoke.
“Our Prince. We hope that you bring us news of some improvement in your father's condition” Murmurs of consent from all around were issued.
“Thank you for your concern, kind elders. But I'm afraid his condition has worsened further.” At this, they lowered their heads and murmured once more, now expressing disappointment, sympathy: some such sentiment that they thought I would consider appropriate. Angustrim at last spoke.
“You have our sympathy and support. But if you will pardon my directness, portions of the city have been damaged. Some fires are still smoldering. There is a rumour of a mob forming again...”
“And the barbarians will soon be at our gates.” finished Haddaras.
“Something must be done,” said Barthezem, fidgeting in his robes.
“Something, indeed, must,” I replied. Many nodded their consent; all waited. “First, please, your thoughts.” Angustrim stepped forward.
“If I may, it is your father's wish that the barbarians be invited to the forum to share their knowledge. We know and support his reasons for this. However, it is this issue that has caused most consternation among the people.”
“Perhaps when the barbarians come...” ventured Barthezem, “things will calm down.” I turned to him.
“Perhaps.” I said. “And in your judgement, can we afford to take that risk?”
“I... ah...” he consulted a distant and solitary cloud for inspiration. “The issue is certainly complicated...” he concluded.
“And in your judgement?” I asked, turning first to Angustrim, whose eyes would not meet mine, then to Haddaras, who contemplated his fingernails. Finally, I thrust my arm towards the rest of the mute elders. “You spend your days in the forum listening to your own chatter, strutting like peacocks. Yet now the future of the city is at stake, you stand and gape like eunuchs in a whorehouse.”
“Forgive us,” said Angustrim. “We are accustomed to discussing matters of taxation, justice...” His words fluttered to the ground like a wounded bird.
I strode across the forum and grasped the wide-eyed barbarian by the shoulder. “If dialogue is the spark that lights a thousand fires, the dialogue we shall have.” I turned to a frail elder, shrunken in his robe. “Deuterostos,” I said, “Ask our friend why our people riot. Ask him what we should do.” Deuterostos addressed him in a series of choked syllabals. The barbarian, with many shakes of his head and jerks of his claw-like hand, spat his advice onto the floor of the forum.
“He says,” translated Deuterostos, “that the city is strangling us.” His monologue grew in volume and rapidity. “He says that we have forgotten the feel of the wind on our faces We have forgotten how to ride, hunt and fight: how to live.” The barbarian, beard trembling, gestured wildly around him. “We have become afraid.”

With the barbarians' words still ringing in my ears, I re-entered Father's chamber. Placing a pitcher of water by his bedside, I knelt. His cheeks appeared to have recovered some colour, his eyes their twinkle. As I opened my mouth, he spoke.
“What did the barbarian have to say?” I started. He observed me with a raised eyebrow. “Oh,” he continued, “You and I are not as different as you think.” I snorted, something resembling a laugh.
“He said that we have become un-manned, mewlings suckling at the city's teat. His sentiments were along such lines.”
“And?”
“And I agree.”
“So you find some value in his ideas?”
“Yes. That thought, at least, I found valuable.”
“It is as you say,” he said, eyes on the ceiling. “We need ideas, but we need to men to put them into practice. Men cultivate crops, husband animals, build defences. These ideas let us thrive and grow. Suddenly, we find, no longer do we need to spend every waking hour and every breath struggling to survive. Then,” he said, after a pause, “we spend our time thinking, talking, writing poetry, creating art, giving our lives meaning. This is what we have achieved. This is civilization.”
“This is civilization,” I echoed. “This is what sets us apart from the barbarians, scratching around in the dirt.” I stood over my father. “So we build walls to keep them out, ramparts to defend ourselves. If I were King, I would build a city to stand forever.”
Father's face hardened. Wheezing, he turned away. “While I am King,” he said, “We shall have reconciliation.”
Shaking my head, I knelt again by his bedside. I filled a glass , then held it up to his lips. He brought his head, quivering, forwards. Trembling with the effort of holding himself in position, he gulped down the water, and sighed. Reclining once again, he breathed deeply for a few moments before a choke interrupted the steady rise and fall of his chest. He recovered himself for a moment, then again his chest caught as he inhaled. A frown crossed his face, then his upper body convulsed, his head jerking upwards from the pillow. Gasping, he stared at the glass of water in accusation. With his free hand, he clutched at his throat. His eyes, bulging in horror and realisation, bore into mine. The glass shattered on the polished floor.

The Royal Gong was booming. Sheets of black silk hung from the palace walls. Minute by minute, the shouts and clashes of the mob had died away. Without even a word from the palace, the news had spread throughout the city, blanketing it in silence. Awesome, I thought, was the power of a single idea. Father would have appreciated the moment.

I looked over the city once more from the Menzabar tower. To the West, the rising trail of dust still signalled the approach of the barbarians, oblivious to the barred gate and soldiers lining the walls. They would first, I reasoned, encounter their ambassador treading his lonely path away from the city.
I paused for a moment to listening to the rising buzz from the tide of people at the gates of the palace. Then I stepped forward into the light.
Seeing me on the balcony, framed by the pristine marble of the royal palace, they roared their acclaim as one:
“Hail, Ozymandias! King of Kings!”