The alley wall is warm to the touch as I lean back against it. The stones still hold the desert heat of the desert sun, twelve hours past. The heat feels good in midnight’s chill. Stars wink overhead in the indigo sky. The last I will ever see. They shine as bright as they ever do, oblivious to the tramp-tramp-tramp of the conqueror’s army marching ever closer to the city. A hundred miles away, a thousand. Does it matter?
I take another swallow of wine. Vinegar-bitter. A servant’s wine. I smile at my own bitter jest. I force it down, not because I want to but because I have to. I need to. I need the soporific potency of a poor man’s wine.
Jerusalem is doomed. I know it; the city elders know it.
I spent all evening with them as they feasted, four and seven of them dressed in their black robes of office holding forth in the upper room. They would rather see us all dead than admit they were wrong, rather die than do that which would spare us all.
You sound like one of those bearded scolds, they sneered. Four and seven blackbirds picking at their food, the finest to be found inside the city walls. Broiled lamb, and fresh wheat bread, and honey-covered sweetlings.
Aye, toothless scolds with long white beards we’ve had aplenty, they said. Far too aplenty. And we drove the worst of them away.
No, they said, we sent for you because we need a warrior. Someone who can command armies, who can stand atop the battlements and face the enemy, who can slay fifty at a time with that sharp, sharp sword.
Yes, I told them. I could slay my fifty, and lead others to slay their fifties—to what matter? Fifty from a thousand still leaves a thousand yet to slay. What matter it how sharp a sword then? What matter then the fineness of its steel?
Their fists pounded the table in reply, rattling the clay cups in mid-pour. It is not the steel of the blade, but the steel of the man. We need a hard man. We know you to be a hard man indeed. You’ve spent your life putting our enemies to the sword, laying waste to their cities, tearing down their idols, hauling back their riches to that iron-gated cavern hoard of yours. Ah, yes, that treasure cave of yours. We’ve heard the tales. We’ve heard how you’ve stripped the bodies of all the foes you’ve ever slain in combat, piling their bronze armor in neat stacks, altars where you’ve sacrificed your enemies to your blood-soaked pride.
Sacrifice, they hiss, well into their cups by now. Sacrificing the blood of others comes easy, doesn’t it? Your enemies, your men, even your friends. Oh, yes. Your friends. We know how you turned your back on that precious friend of your childhood. Beat his sons senseless when they came to you for help. Robbed them of every coin and more.
Oh, aye, they said, we know you to be a hard man. A hard man just like us. Just like us.
I stood up from the table, knocking over my cushioned chair in my haste. Just like them? Everyone in that upper room knew full well what to do, but they refused—their pride, their dread of shame forbade them. Just like them? Bitter truth has an edge sharper than any blade.
I said what I knew must be said, knowing they would not listen. Knowing they could not listen.
Knowing them to be just as I was.
My helmet and sword hung on the wall next to the door. I stepped around the tables amid drunken hoots and catcalls. I buckled on my sword. I would have flung it in the dust before their feet, but it had one last neck to slice.
I put my hand to the door. The second-most cunning of them pointed his bony claw at me. Do not think, he said, that you’ll be allowed to leave the city like your friend. Do not think your wealth will buy your freedom.
The air hung heavy with the smell of broiled lamb.
I turned. The guttering tallow light glinted across my breastplate. I have no intention of leaving the city, I told them. Not this night. Not any other. I placed the large bronze helmet upon my head, a trophy of some long-past battle. My features lay hidden inside its cavernous space. My muffled voice echoed as if from the tomb: As for any freedom my treasure might buy me—it is not a type any of you would ever recognize.
I opened the door. The eldest and most cunning of them stood. Leave now, he raged, and your good name leaves with you. All the good you have done for our people will be forgotten. Only tonight’s perfidy will be remembered. Countless generations will name you wicked. Heaven itself will.
Heaven already has, I said as I slipped out the door.
#
And so here I am, the richest man in the city sprawled in a filth-strewn alley. Here I lie, the victor of a thousand battles waiting with my sword sheathed in the spot where I wait to die without even a struggle. I, who once commanded armies of men, now command only an army of empty wine casks around me.
Oh, my old friend. Did you think I wanted this? Did you think I wanted anything but to welcome your sons into my arms? Do you not think I wept with each blow rained down upon their backs by my servants?
I take another pull of wine. I have to. I need to.
As long as I’m awake I need more wine.
Yes, I did rob them of the gold they carried. Yes, I did lust after it. But that was simply the dying gasp of the man I used to be. The man before I changed. That wasn’t why I took their gold. Did you really think your parting words would not finally reach me, old friend. Just because a path is chosen doesn’t mean it can’t be unchosen, does it? Or is your life’s work in vain?
Another pull of wine.
Did I not see your youthful face in the face of your eldest son? Did I not hear my own youthful pride in his sneer, feel the beat of my own wayward heart in his? As long as there was a single coin left of your family’s wealth, he would betray your escape, he would creep back to the city, take for himself your robes of office, and join those four and seven blackbirds as they pick and preen and flap their wings and let the city fall.
The gold. If only stealing that had been enough to chase them back.
More wine.
Oh, dear friend. Your younger son. He has her eyes. Heart of my youth. The one battle you bested me in. She saw the blood on my hands and fled into your arms. Do you really think I want her to see blood on his? Would to God there was another way.
Another swallow.
At least my own son is safe. That much was promised me. He will live out his life disguised as your servant, but he will live. Better a servant than carried away as a slave.
His mother was a good woman, but she could never be what she was to me.
One last swallow and the final flask is empty.
I blink back a wine-soaked vision of that old crow cackling. All the good you have done will be forgotten, only your perfidy remembered. I blink back tears as well.
You will know, old friend, won’t you? Surely you will understand. You will ask yourself why I would have what I have—what you so desperately need—if it truly were of no use to me. You will ask why I melted down my brass trophies of war, why I beggared myself to fashion the object, if I truly had not listened to your parting words. You will not let the good I have done be truly forgotten, will you?
The stars overhead dim one by one as my eyelids close for the final time. I feel myself drift off, too sleepy to rouse at the soft scraping of approaching sandaled feet. Unseen hands remove my helm and fingers entwine my sweat-soaked hair, lift my head, and extend my neck. The steel of my sword blade lightly scrapes its well-oiled scabbard lining, the last sound I will ever hear, save one.
Countless generations will name me wicked.
They will—they must—if those countless generations are to be saved. Heaven alone will know the truth. Heaven alone will know I willingly obeyed.
But, you old friend, will you not guess?
Oh, Lehi, my dear, dear friend. Is it not possible for the same angel that visited your son and told him what to do and where to find me—for that same angel to have visited me and told me what to do so that I might thus be found and delivered unto him?
Lee Allred‘s stories have appeared in Asimov’s magazine, DC and Marvel Comics, and dozens of science fiction/fantasy/horror anthologies. His work has been nominated multiple times for various Association for Mormon Letters awards. Lee’s debut professional work, “For the Strength of the Hills,” was named a finalist for the Sidewise Award for Alternate History. He graduated from BYU with a degree in Asian Studies.
