The harbor, the city, and even the hills of the Island of Ischera were nothing more than a distant azure mist, now. Orione Zanna, gazing at the coastline fading into the distance astern of the sailing ship, tried to recall how it had all begun.
And he remembered—the disaster had started in Kratos’ tavern, the Broken Rudder. It was the quietest place in the world back then.
The tavern was named so because hanging in the hall was an enormous piece of a ship’s rudder, as if split by the hands of an enraged giant. The wood was so thick and massive that one wondered what force could have ever broken it. It had been the sea, pounded by a formidable storm—the same storm that had sunk the ship where Kratos served as a boatswain at the time. Kratos had managed to cling to that piece of rudder and had been washed ashore, luckily. None of the others had survived. So Kratos had emptied his savings and bought the tavern, now keeping that relic perpetually suspended above his head as a warning against the wanderlust and adventures that had long abandoned him.
That evening—a late autumn evening—there were no stars in the sky to guide the way, and the wind blew fiercely, driving massive dark clouds and icy rain squalls. The Broken Rudder was warm and welcoming, perpetually filled with the scent of stew, wine, roasted meat, and bread. It was the ideal refuge for sailors, adventurers, misfits, low-league merchants, and those with little luck. It was a safe place for everyone; there were never brawls, and conversations were usually held in hushed tones. Even the tavern girls were discreet and unintrusive at the Broken Rudder.
In the harbor, there were livelier and noisier places, usually frequented by younger and inexperienced folks. But in that particular spot, the mere presence of Kratos discouraged anyone from causing trouble. Kratos was a giant with a perfectly bald head, solid and powerful muscles, and a low, gravelly voice. He remained calm even when he had to use force. That evening, there were perhaps twenty customers—some at tables, others perched on stools with their elbows resting on the counter.
Orione Zanna, captain and owner of the merchant ship Blue Fin, a Malian native from Fontanadolce, was among them. He was a loner by nature, but he enjoyed listening to Kratos’ sober and sensible philosophy as he commented on the tales shared by patrons.
The conversations revolved around mundane topics, pleasantly and reassuringly, discussing the bone-chilling cold and the wolf-like weather that raged that night. Orione slowly emptied his carafe of red wine, cup after cup. The fire crackled in the hearth, dancing contentedly.
It was during a moment of silence that those people entered. There were four of them, dressed in white, smiling. An elderly limping man, a child of perhaps twelve who supported him, and two girls of simple and chaste beauty. Coarse wool veils covered their heads, and their garments flowed down to their feet. The old man surveyed the room, while the others kept their gaze fixed on the ground.
The man had a long, snowy-white beard, a sharp nose, and a chiseled profile. Ancient wrinkles radiated from the corners of his eyes like deep spiderwebs. He must have come from the South or the East; certainly, he wasn’t an islander.
His eyes met Orione’s for a brief moment, and an unexpected mutual antipathy flared. To Orione, it seemed as if the old man wanted to read him, probing for hidden thoughts and forbidden memories. His response was a calm challenge.
Then the old man averted his gaze, and Orione returned to staring into the red liquid filling his cup. He didn’t notice—at least not immediately—that all the other patrons had lowered their eyes, unable to sustain the old man’s stare. The group approached the counter. Orione, still fixated on the wine, heard the boy speaking with Kratos. He asked if there was any bread Kratos could spare and whether the old man could deliver a brief speech to the tavern’s patrons in an attempt to save their souls. The boy spoke with a peculiar accent; it was hard to tell where he came from. Kratos offered them a freshly baked loaf of bread and a piece of cheese, suggesting they could stay to seek shelter from the rain if they wished. However, he also made it clear that if his patrons wanted to save their souls, they could visit a temple and deal with those leech-like priests. Instead, they had come to the Broken Rudder. It was neither the time nor the place for religious discussions. Orione smiled beneath his mustache. The boy persisted, but Kratos explained unequivocally that there was nothing to be done, and the peculiar group vanished as abruptly as they had arrived. The old man didn’t even deign to say thank you. “How admirable,” Orione grumbled, suddenly in a foul mood. “They don’t earn their bread through sweat or face the perils of the sea, yet they shamelessly ask for it as a gift from sinners.
It was late at night when Orione reached the Blue Fin, but there seemed to be great animation on board. Intrigued, he quickened his pace and soon saw that at the center of a noisy group of sailors stood his young boatswain, Andrea. They were laughing.
“What the devil is happening here?” Orione exclaimed as he hurried along the gangway.
The clamor subsided into a low murmur. The small crowd parted as Orione approached, and he found himself face-to-face with a smiling Andrea in just a couple of strides.
“Nothing, Captain,” Andrea said, “we were just talking about a little adventure that happened to us tonight.”
Orione planted his feet wide apart, fists on his hips, and grumbled, “I hope you haven’t gotten yourselves into any trouble.”
“No trouble, Captain, it’s all over already.”
“That’s what you say, Andrea, but there could be pleasant consequences—for you!” someone called from the back. Everyone laughed.
Orione was always irritated when he found himself in the dark about something.
“Well, spill it then.”
Andrea, a slender young man with blonde hair that reached his shoulders, recounted that while the crew was in a tavern, they had witnessed a strange incident: an old man, accompanied by a child and two girls, had entered and begun preaching. His words had enchanted almost everyone, but some had reacted poorly. A brute had even harassed one of the girls. The poor girl, incidentally very attractive, had tried to defend herself, and the harassment had escalated into a full-blown assault. At that point, Andrea had stepped in to protect her, and a brief scuffle had broken out between the crew and the assailant’s friends, ending with the hasty retreat of the latter. In the confusion, the preacher and his companions had also vanished. Later, they had all drunk quite a bit and spent the entire evening discussing the old man’s speech and his fascinating followers.
That was the whole story.
Orione nodded. He dismissed Andrea and the crew, lost in thought. Leaning against the railing, he watched the rain falling from the waxed canvas above the deck into the dark water of the harbor. He wrapped himself in his dark cloak to shield against the wind. The dawn light was already beginning to illuminate the eastern sky through the dark clouds when he decided to grant himself a few hours of sleep.
Orione stood near the gangway of his ship, negotiating the sale of another portion of the cargo to a local merchant when the young girl appeared. She made her way through the bustling crowd of the port, wrapped in heavy white veils, eyes lowered, and an air of bewilderment. The captain observed her asking a passerby for directions, then heading toward him. It took him a moment to realize that she was coming directly to his ship.
The girl stopped in front of him and, still avoiding eye contact, asked, “Please, sir, can you tell me if this is the ship where boatswain Andrea Capoferro serves? My name is Elena, and I would like to speak with him, if it’s acceptable to you.”
“Yes, it is,” Orione replied curtly. “You can go up and find him if you wish.”
He then refocused on the merchant in front of him, who now regarded him with a questioning expression. The girl climbed aboard, and later, Orione saw her engaged in a lengthy conversation with Andrea, speaking in a barely audible, soft voice.
Only later did he have the opportunity to ask his boatswain what the young woman had come to do.
“She just wanted to thank me for defending her,” Andrea replied, without adding anything else. He seemed annoyed by his captain’s question. Then he turned and walked away.
“Who knows why the devil they always keep their eyes lowered, those people. Perhaps they’ve done something they should be ashamed of?” Orione burst out.
He noticed that Andrea hesitated, stiffening, as if that had not been a mere sentence but an arrow. The young man continued.
Orione Zanna had decided to spend the winter in Ischera because there had been two whole weeks of bad weather, and it was now too late to sail safely. But he had made this decision reluctantly and with a sense of foreboding.
Every day, that old owl preached in the markets, squares, and taverns. He preached goodness, purity, perfection, using winged words that struck at the heart. But he could also be strong in condemning injustice, vice, and corruption, and his speeches stirred the souls of upright people.
Not only that: his followers truly put his teachings into practice by helping the poor, the unhappy, the crippled, and all sorts of needy individuals. One of the girls who followed him, the one they playfully called “Andrea’s girl” on board, taught children how to write without accepting anything in return.
Orione, being a shrewd merchant, always distrusted those who gave gifts without asking for anything in return. There was always a catch, no matter what. The problem was that when you didn’t know what it was, it always turned out to be much more costly than you expected.
So sometimes, a scarf given to you in charity ended up being a rope with which you were hanged, and you realized it only when it was too late and already tightening around your throat.
The old man, a stranger named Akhen, asked for gifts for the poor and gave them away without keeping anything for himself and his companions except a bit of stale bread for sustenance. A good soul, they said. But for Orione, he was merely someone who made himself look good by giving things that actually belonged to others. It was all a matter of perspective. Yet even his sailors judged the captain too stern and gruff toward those people. Not to mention Andrea. That blockhead had been enchanted by the sweet girl he had saved; he now hung on her every word. And, indirectly, on the old man’s words as well.
“But have you at least bedded her?” Giorgio, an old, toothless sea wolf who minced no words, had once asked Andrea.
Andrea hadn’t even bothered to curse him.
One cold and sunny winter morning, Orione allowed himself to be persuaded to listen to the old man in the agora, the main square. He went with Giorgio and Andrea. Orione and the old man out of curiosity, and Andrea—so they suspected—to catch a glimpse of his beloved.
Orione was surprised by the crowd that filled the square: it seemed there was no room for everyone, an unusual sight even on market days. The speech had already begun. Orione tried to avert his gaze from the entranced faces of the listeners, but it was difficult. Some were moved. A group of young spinners even had tears in their eyes. Everyone stared fixedly at the old man and his most devoted disciples, who had climbed onto a cart at the center of the scene. Elena, “Andrea’s girl,” stood beside Akhen. No wooden platform had been erected for them, as was customary when speakers vied for some public office. Yet, apparently, the preacher was far more adept at manipulating his audience than all those sophists. His fervent voice dominated the scene.
“And so, this entire world, with its apparent beauty, is nothing more than a trap constructed by demons to ensnare souls and soil them with matter. Those deceitful spirits attempted to give the inferior material form the appearance of superior things, things of the spirit. But observe what surrounds you: the beauty of a forest conceals the ferocity of countless predators, large and small—an entire world of death and blood where creatures feed upon other creatures. No different is the vast sea, populated by fish and monsters, all intent on feeding upon one another. Lightning, wind, storms, and volcanoes demonstrate that even the inanimate parts of nature follow the same principle of destruction. And finally, the human form itself—the body that appears so noble and attractive—conceals disgusting viscera and infamous desires, harboring within it the seed of its own putrefaction. But each of us knows, in the innermost sanctuary of our minds, that we belong to another place, similar to this one but living a truer truth, where beauty is eternal and incorruptible, and where cruelty does not reign, but justice…”
Orione twisted his mouth into a smirk. “Oh, certainly, we were all born in the land of milk and honey, right? And I’m as handsome as Adonis. Bah. What nonsense.”
However, most of the audience seemed enraptured, in ecstasy. He wondered if he was the only one callous enough not to be swayed by the lofty speeches of old Akhen.
“Why must we endure all this? Why are we forced to live in a place our spirits reject when, if we pause for a moment to contemplate it, we know deep within ourselves that we belong to another realm—a place similar to this but living a truer truth? There, beauty is eternal and incorruptible, and cruelty does not reign, but justice…”
Orione’s smirk widened. “Ah, yes, justice. The elusive mistress who dances just out of reach, leaving us stumbling in the dark.”
He watched as Akhen continued, his fervent voice resonating through the crowd. “Why do we remain here, trapped in a prison of flesh that our spirits refuse? Life after life, we struggle to break free, yet our own desires, cruelty, and selfishness wrap us ever tighter in our shroud of flesh. Only true death awaits us at the end of this path of wickedness and surrender: when we are so bound to matter that we cannot detach ourselves from it… we shall perish with it!”
A shiver of terror ran through the citizens of the Island, and a deep silence fell.
“But this fate can be avoided!” the old man declared.
Orione raised an eyebrow.
“Ah, I see… follow me, and I will save you. Of course, why not? Scare them, and then show them a way out. You’ll see how they’ll follow you,” he mused.
But how could they fall for it? It was the same method used by the worst charlatans down in Fontanadolce. He exchanged a skeptical glance with Giorgio. The old sea wolf thought the same way. However, Andrea Capoferro seemed entranced in another world, like most of those who listened to the speech.
Yet there were others who observed with cold detachment. Orione didn’t miss the presence of the city guards—shrewd and watchful. Kratos the tavern keeper stood at the back, arms crossed over his powerful chest, wearing a disgruntled expression. Several local dignitaries had come to witness but not to applaud. Not to mention the priests of Zeus and Apollo, huddled together in a compact assembly. Their gazes were calculating and menacing.
The air was thick with tension, indeed.
“One can escape the deceptions of the unclean spirits who created this universe; it is possible. They envy us, and it is out of hatred for the pure world above that they keep us imprisoned here through desire, the ambition for wealth, the vanity of weapons, and the threat of hunger, thirst, and privation. The threat of pain. It is precisely in seeking to avoid pain and obtain pleasure that we inflict pain upon ourselves. Equally, we inflict it upon others, making ourselves complicit in the great deception. The pleasure we obtain, then, is ephemeral and harbors within it the principle of domination, of evil. It is by rejecting all this that we can free ourselves. We must purify ourselves through renunciation—renouncing oppressing others, renouncing the flesh, renouncing everything that this world, designed to destroy us, offers…”
Old Giorgio chuckled and pulled Andrea’s arm. “You’re not doing well, my boy! It’s clear she likes you, but if this is his belief, that girl will never give herself to you.”
The young man shook off the sailor’s hand with a jerk, not listening.
“Shut up, Giorgio. I want to hear what the sage has to say!”
“Oh, I’ll stay quiet, but I’ll give you one last piece of advice: if you care about the girl, take her away from that man, or you’ll lose her one way or another. And now I’m not joking.”
Andrea didn’t respond.
Orione was genuinely worried about his boatswain. But even more concerning were the evident signs of impatience from the priests, who shot fiery glances at the preacher.
What were the weapons of the demons, according to Akhen?
Desire: Aphrodite. Vanity of weapons: Ares. Ambition for wealth: Hermes. And then there was pain. The priests of Zeus had always maintained that pain was the means by which the father of the Gods taught wisdom to men. Captain Orione wasn’t an expert in religion, but if anyone knew how to listen, it was clear what that man was saying.
“What had to happen has happened,” thought Captain Orione about a month later. He didn’t wonder if there was any good in what the old man did and said. Captain Orione considered himself a no-nonsense type, with little patience for those who indulged in flights of fancy—worse still if they involved others in their follies. The old man and his dearest disciples had been arrested by the city guard on charges of blasphemy, as some sailors had reported. The hoplites and peltasts of the guard had been skillful: they arrested them in an alley, covering their heads with sacks to hide their features, and quickly locked them up in prison within the harbor fortress. End of the story. Better that way. The government of Ischera had acted wisely, albeit belatedly. Except that Elena was among the arrested disciples. A few minutes after the news spread, Orione saw Andrea Capoferro emerge from below deck, his face dark. He wore a leather breastplate and a belt with a sword and dagger.
“But…,” Orione began to say, then had to run to prevent the young boatswain from descending the ship. Orione stepped between him and the gangway. Andrea halted, but his gaze was damnably resolute.
“Captain Orione, I request permission to disembark.”
Orione had no choice but to invoke the power of hierarchy.
“Permission denied, boatswain. I’m sorry.”
The young man hesitated, lowered his eyes for a moment.
Then he bit his lip and raised his gaze, fixing it squarely on his superior.
“Then I’ll have to go without permission. Get out of my way.”
Orione stood his ground.
“No.”
“Get out of my way, or I’ll kill you, by the Gods!”
“Then kill me. I won’t allow you to throw your life away so foolishly.”
The boatswain took a step back and placed his hand on the sword hilt.
“Don’t think I wouldn’t do it. Kill you, I mean. Elena is being held prisoner…”
“I know, and I’m sorry for her, but I can’t be without a boatswain. By the holy gods, Andrea, how long have we known each other? I won’t be the one to tell your mother that you croaked like a fool on this island, assaulting a fortress all alone.”
“I won’t be alone. There are many others.”
Orione furrowed his brow. “Who? The flock of lost sheep following Akhen? They wouldn’t even conquer the Temple of Bacchus, let alone anything else!”
Andrea drew his sword and pointed it at Orione’s belly. “Get out of my way, or you’ll be the first of the unbelievers to lose your skin, Captain. I mean it.”
Orione spread his arms, convinced that the boatswain would relent. He knew his family well, and he’d known Andrea forever—it couldn’t be.
But he locked eyes with him, and suddenly he doubted that the young man would hesitate… damn it, it was more than doubt!
At that moment, a sailor who had silently slipped up behind Andrea struck him on the back of the head with a stick. Andrea slumped to the deck, unconscious.
“Lock him in the hold,” Orione ordered.
Then he took a deep breath, berating himself as a fool.
The faithful followers of Akhen went to the fortress, just as Andrea had predicted. But they went there unarmed, all dressed in white. They simply stood there, on their feet until they could bear it no longer, and then sat on the ground. From the ship, they appeared as an endless expanse of white, filling not only the square in front of the prison but also all the surrounding docks. But how many were there? Orione had the impression that the city itself couldn’t possibly have so many inhabitants. In fact, many came from the surrounding countryside, where Akhen and his followers had roamed to preach their madness. Not only did the “Puri,” as they called themselves, block the entrances to the fortress, but they also obstructed the sacred path leading to the acropolis, the Senate palace, and the city gates. The guards had tried to drive them away, even whipping and beating them, but to no avail.
On the other hand, the Senate and the Archon wanted to avoid bloodshed, so as not to escalate the situation. Akhen’s arrest had already garnered sympathy from many undecided individuals, and a massacre of his followers would have incalculable consequences. Inside, the word had spread: Akhen and the arrested disciples had embarked on the path of perfection and were refusing to eat. The news had been leaked by a city guard who secretly sympathized with them. Even among the guards, someone had converted to the new beliefs.
Orione couldn’t wait to set sail and leave. But winter was only halfway through, and the weather was dreadful. Day and night, the fiercest winds blew over Ischera, bringing intermittent rain and storms. The priests claimed that Zeus was showing his wrath toward the inhabitants and their folly. The Puri, on the other hand, agreed with this analysis—if it could even be called that—but from an opposing perspective.
It was said that the demons were angry because their deceptions had been exposed, and someone was finally showing lost souls the truth and the way. Meanwhile, elections were held for the most important office on the island—the position of Archon. The old Archon, loyal to the priests, held a very harsh stance toward the Puri. ‘Let them rot in jail, and if they don’t eat, worse for them: they’ll reach their damned paradise sooner!’ Those were his words, as they were reported. His challenger in the elections, however, was more conciliatory, and it was thought he would win. The faithful who were ‘on guard’ at the port took turns to go vote, and so Orione convinced himself that there would be a change. Perhaps it was better that way, better to find a compromise; otherwise, things could only get worse. Maybe time would soften everything… and he and his ship would finally have a chance to get away from that place, at least. Furthermore, perhaps Elena would be released from jail, and he could also set Andrea free. Because the boatswain was still in irons in the hold. At least he was eating, but Orione couldn’t wait to set him free. He decided to spend the evening at Kratos’s tavern. Surely news of the election outcome would arrive soon there. The burly tavern keeper sided with the old Archon, yet he saw things somewhat similarly to Orione. At Kratos’s, there weren’t many people: merchants, some of them foreigners, off-duty guards, and a few local artisans.
Everyone was waiting for news, with little hope. Orione sat at the counter to chat with Kratos and ordered a fish soup with black bread, accompanied by a small jug of local red wine. ‘So, do you hope that your candidate, that fool, wins so you can free your man? Are you truly convinced it’s the best course of action? Yielding to the old madman?’ Orione shrugged. ‘We agree that Akhen is a lunatic. It’s just our difference of opinion on how to stop him.’ ‘Bah! I think you’ve been misled too. You can’t reason with those people, and the only way to get rid of them is this!’ Kratos exclaimed, pulling a solid wooden mallet from behind the counter and slamming it hard on the surface. Orione didn’t flinch; a couple of patrons did, while others chuckled. The captain shook his head. ‘It’s not that simple, I’m afraid.’ ‘It’s simple: if the wood is harder than bone, the skull cracks, and the pure spirit is set free!’ More laughter. Just then, a young boy rushed in and whispered something in Kratos’s ear before disappearing. ‘Damn it!’ the innkeeper exclaimed, slamming the mallet on the counter again. No one asked questions; in truth, no one spoke at all, but all eyes were fixed on Kratos. ‘They’ve elected… Akhen! The madman is our new Archon!’ Orione slapped his hand to his face. He couldn’t believe it. But yes, it was obvious. They should have expected it. Everyone should have expected it and done something to prevent it. Now it was too late. At that point, the patrons of the Broken Rudder let loose with their tongues. They continued into the late night, cursing and agonizing over the future.
Elena was released from prison, of course. Along with everyone else. She was pale, frighteningly thin. She walked with her head held high, proud—following her prophet, who was now the new Archon of Ischera. Waiting for her, amidst a jubilant crowd showering flowers, was Andrea, front and center. He, too, wore a long white tunic for the occasion. How repulsive to see him like that. At least he had been allowed to go. That was the only positive aspect of what had happened, Orione reflected as he stood on the fringes of the celebration. The two young people spotted each other and ran to embrace. Meanwhile, Archon Akhen proceeded with uncertain yet majestic steps, his white beard much longer than when he had been imprisoned. He seemed the embodiment of ‘the just unjustly oppressed, finally receiving justice.’ The same hoplites who had arrested him now escorted him, perplexed and intimidated. The procession moved gloriously toward the Archon’s palace. However, Orione had no desire to follow. Instead, he returned to his ship. Thick clouds raced across the sky, driven by a tense wind, while tiny, sparse raindrops fell diagonally, almost horizontally. ‘Jupiter, or Zeus, if you prefer to be called that around here—if you don’t strike one of those storm clouds with lightning, that one won’t stop anyone anymore. Please do it. I’ll buy you a jug of the good stuff, I promise.’ As soon as he stepped onto the wooden deck, he felt a little better. Not much, just a bit. Giorgio approached him, fear in his eyes. ‘And now? What happens now?’ Orione shrugged.
“Now they’re in charge, Akhen and the Puri. Let’s see what they do. As soon as possible, we’ll make our escape, with or without Andrea. I can’t keep him prisoner forever. After all, every wolf has its own path.”
“Captain Orione Zanna?” the hoplite asked.
“Yes, it’s me,” Orione replied, wiping his sweaty hair with his hand. He leaned the sail he had been examining against something. He wondered what the soldier wanted from him.
“The Archon requests your presence. You must come with me.”
“Akhen?”
The man raised an eyebrow. “Archon Akhen, yes.”
“And what does he want from me?”
“He’ll tell you in person.”
The hoplite was lean, and the weight of his weapons seemed to burden him. He wasn’t one of the previous guards, who were muscular and trained in heavy athletics, Isolan-style. Akhen had changed many things, starting with replacing most of the military. But that was just the first of many changes.
Orione sighed heavily. Some sailors joined him and glared at the hoplite, but the captain dismissed them with a gesture.
“If the Archon wants to see me, he’ll see me,” Orione said. Dirty and sweaty, he followed the soldier alone toward the Archon’s palace.
Walking through the city streets was painful. Orione had left the ship only a few times and briefly lately. He didn’t want to see what Ischera had become. There were preachers in every square, while the prostitutes had disappeared. Some had converted and joined the Puri sect, while others had simply vanished. Orione hoped they had found some daring sailor willing to give them passage to a nearby island, or better yet, a distant one. Or maybe they had sought refuge in smaller villages. But he wouldn’t swear to it.
As Orione moved away from the dock, he didn’t find the usual cheerful chaos of the port area. Many shops had closed, starting with the luxury ones: jewelers, silk merchants, spice traders… Akhen disapproved of luxury, believing it distracted immortal spirits from loftier thoughts. Even the butchers had been driven away, as they caused pain to poor souls imprisoned in lesser bodies. Finally, it was the turn of the wine and liquor vendors. They, too, were unwelcome: they led to the damnation of souls through intoxication. A few remained, no more than a couple, to supply those people and taverns that stubbornly continued to live in error. The impure ones. One of the taverns still serving wine—and worse—was naturally Kratos’s. The most common destination for Orione’s infrequent visits to the mainland stood defiant. Few men could tell Kratos what to do and what not to do, and—for example—the scrawny hoplite accompanying the captain was certainly not one of them. The Malian was pleased to see the painted wooden sign still hanging, swaying in the bite of a gray wind. Even as they continued toward the city center, the streets were nearly deserted. The few passersby were all dressed in white, women with their heads covered by veils as was once the custom. And now again. Even the children seemed less inclined to play, chase, and fight; no one shouted, cried, or laughed. The citizens, as Kratos’s patrons had heard, were encouraged to monitor each other, to report behavior inconsistent with a healthy spiritual life. Orione was surprised when they passed by the apothecary Aristarco’s shop and saw that it, too, was shuttered, wooden boards nailed across the door and windows.
“And this?” Orione asked, turning to the soldier.
The man shrugged in response… which came naturally to him, considering his shoulders were hardly powerful, Orione thought.
“What about this?”
“There’s no longer a need for his services.”
“No one gets sick in your paradise anymore, then?”
“Yes, but people no longer seek healing. If higher powers send a serious illness, it’s to give us a chance to escape the mortal embrace of matter. Better to endure, purify ourselves, and await the end with joy. If it’s a minor ailment, unfortunately, it will pass on its own. We’ll have to wait for the next opportunity and be patient. That’s what Akhen taught us.”
The captain tried to keep his composure and remain cool.
“Even if it’s a child?”
“Even better. It’s best to leave this world before we’ve stained ourselves, before we’ve become too entangled in material desires.”
“And childbirth? Are midwives enough, or do we need a doctor?”
The hoplite sighed, and Orione realized he was exasperated by his persistence; he must have considered him a complete ignorant Malian.
“Better to avoid it. Every birth is a loss; it means that a pure spirit has allowed itself to be drawn into this world, ending up in a prison of flesh. There won’t be many more children born in the future.”
“And when someone dies, do we celebrate now?” Orione taunted him.
“Certainly,” the soldier replied seriously. “If someone dies in purity, we assume they’re on the path to return to our true home, in the world above the sky.”
“By Neptune!” Orione burst out, equally exasperated.
“Please refrain from mentioning opposing spirits.”
“I’ll be silent,” he retorted.
They had finally arrived at the palace. From there, they could see the acropolis high above. It resembled a besieged citadel. All access roads were guarded by armed hoplites. The gleaming metal shields reflected the sunlight. The Senate had been stripped of power as soon as it opposed Akhen’s initial decisions, and the notoriously corrupt noble senators had all been sent home. Consequently, the largest palace within the acropolis stood abandoned. Followers of the traditional religion could still access the temples, but their names were meticulously recorded by the Archon’s guards at every passage. As for the priests, most dared not descend. A sense of foreboding hung in the air, and although the Purists despised violence, perhaps they despised the priests even more. Orione felt little compassion for them: they were people who amassed wealth at the expense of the unsuspecting, exploiting the gods’ names to enrich themselves without ever working or risking their own. But there is no limit to the depths of depravity, and today those scoundrels seemed the lesser evil.
He was ushered in with icy courtesy by makeshift soldiers, traversing long corridors and passing through once-luxurious halls now stripped of all adornment. Finally, he reached the chamber where the Archon received applicants—a room not much different from the Duke of Fontanadolce’s throne hall, truth be told. The old man sat in regal splendor, surrounded by a small retinue of his most loyal followers and protected by four little warriors whose armor was comically oversized. Among the faithful were Elena and Andrea. Orione hadn’t seen the boy in quite some time.
“Andrea…” he began to say, but the prophet interrupted him, his voice artificially deep.
“Captain Orione Zanna, from Malia. Speak in the presence of the Archon.”
“How the hell are you speaking?” he would have liked to reply, irritated because it didn’t allow him to speak with his man. Among other things, he had plenty of reasons to be angry. Instead, he remained silent.
“So?” Akhen insisted.
“With all due respect, sir, so what? I didn’t ask to speak with you. If you have nothing to tell me, I have nothing to say to you either. Can I go?”
The old man smiled at him in an unsettling manner.
“Oh, but I do have something to tell you. I know very well how you treated this young man here, and how you held him against his will for many days on your ship, even though he wanted to reach the community of the Puri to which he belongs.”
Orionestraightened his back.
“Excuse me if I contradict you, but Andrea Capoferro belongs first and foremost to my crew, not to the Puri community… or any other community. Then I let him go willingly, but it would have been my right to detain him and hand him over to my Duke, to whom he is a subject. And there, before the Duke, he would have been judged for insubordination.”
The prophet raised his eyes and hands to the sky.
“This young man belongs to his home above the sky, to the world of spirit from which he comes and which he should never have left. His first duty to himself is to ascend again.”
The captain put his hands on his hips.
“I don’t doubt that his spirit will ascend or go wherever the hell it pleases, but as long as he’s alive, he must answer to me and to his Duke before he answers to you.”
A spark of repressed fury flashed through the seer’s gaze.
“Take heed, captain! You find yourself on Ischera, my island, where wickedness doesn’t have an easy game. You won’t lay your hands on my protected ones again, whether they’re Malians or Islanders. Or you’ll answer to me personally.”
Orione took a deep breath, trying to quell the fire rising from his chest to his brain.
“We find ourselves on your island, that’s true. But not for long. I assure you I can’t wait to set sail and never return, and I have no intention of lifting a finger against the boatswain Andrea Capoferro, even though I would have the right to do so. Nor do I want to bring him back home: if he’s comfortable here, let him stay. But my ship and its crew are under the authority of the Duke of Fontanadolce. I hope the Archon is aware of this. While you may be lord and master of the spirit world beyond the sky, here on Earth, my Duke has more soldiers under his command than all the men, women, children, dogs, and cats Ischera can count. I’ll remain on my ship… or at most, I’ll go have a glass of wine in the port area. And this will continue until I find a way to depart.”
“Go,” Akhen said darkly.
Elena sighed with relief and approached the boatswain slightly.
Andrea, on the other hand, gave Orione an almost imperceptible nod. It was a farewell.
As spring approached, the situation grew sadder every day, Orione judged as he leaned against the ship’s bulwark, admiring the sunset. Every task proceeded slowly because meditation and preaching always took precedence over everything else, and several goods were scarce. Theatrical performances, gyms, and public baths had been banned. Fasting and renunciation were practiced, along with the mortification of the body. Consequently, the citizens’ appearance had become increasingly wretched. Now they all resembled beggars, like the group of Akhen’s followers on that accursed evening when they had appeared out of nowhere in Kratos’ tavern. Like nightmares, those demons who, according to myth, visited women at night and left them pregnant, burdened with monstrous larvae. Cursed.
Orione pounded his fist against the hard wood and stood up.
“I’m going to have a drink at Kratos’, Giorgio. Start getting ready. If the weather continues to be nice for a little while longer, one of these days we’ll leave with the high noon tide.”
“That’s good news, Captain. I couldn’t take it anymore,” smiled the toothless old sailor.
“You’re telling me, my old friend.”
Orione stepped ashore, the planks of the gangway echoing under his boots.
The tavern wasn’t far, and he didn’t have to walk much. There was a lot of activity in the port. Soldiers and sailors were preparing many ships for departure, and—strangely—there were many young preachers in white robes.
He entered the nearly empty tavern.
Kratos was washing a tankard, standing beneath the famous wreckage of the rudder that had saved his life years ago. He was speaking quietly with a man Orione had never seen before. Despite his attire resembling that of the Puri, the stranger carried himself like a noble.
The captain paid little attention and leaned on the counter.
“How’s it going?” asked the burly innkeeper.
“Bah. How do you think it’s going? There’s a lot of activity out there.”
“They’re getting ready to leave. Malians like you, Gallessans, people from Alba. And Islanders from other islands. They’re all leaving. And most won’t return. Including you, I suppose.”
Orione shook his head. “I’m sorry, but that’s true. But why do you stay? Come away with us, won’t you? What are you doing here?”
“This is my land, foolish Malian. Would you leave Fontanadolce?”
Orione shrugged. “If it were reduced like this, maybe I would.”
“Not me. I’m not leaving.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t feel at all comfortable leaving you here. Are you sure you don’t want a passage? A free passage, I mean—for you, your family, and everything you can take away. I truly mean it.”
Kratos hesitated. “Thank you, but no. We’ll be fine, don’t worry. They won’t harm us.”
“Very well… I won’t insist.”
Kratos stamped a kind of smile on his tough face.
“But yes, what was that saying you Malians have about wolves and paths, that everyone has their own, something like that…”
Orione didn’t even have time to open his mouth to recite the proverb when the tavern door swung open, and the city guards burst in.
“It’s him, arrest him!” the commander shouted.
Orione stood halfway up, thinking they meant to take him. After all, he had defied the old madman, and that man was capable of anything. Instead, the hoplites rushed toward the tavern keeper. The most agile one leaped over the counter, and Kratos welcomed him with a powerful blow to the face using his massive mace. The incredibly hard wood of the mace shattered the man’s skull, and he fell dead on his back, convulsing. The other five guards and the commander, who lagged behind and urged the others forward, wisely decided to go around the obstacle. Kratos confronted them, wielding his formidable mace. But before the clash could begin, the stranger who had been speaking to the tavern keeper earlier drew a short, razor-sharp xiphos from under his cloak and thrust it into the commander’s flank. The improvised hoplite had barely enough time to cast an incredulous glance at his killer and emit a weak groan before the man beheaded one of the other soldiers from behind. The next soldier turned just in time to meet his demise. Kratos struck his first opponent’s weapon hand, breaking all those small bones. Almost in the same motion, he shattered the soldier’s kneecap, and finally, as the man went down, Kratos sent him into dreamland with a kick to the face. Orione didn’t hesitate long; he drew his sailor’s knife and lunged at one of the surviving soldiers. They rolled on the ground, and the Malian repeatedly stabbed the soldier until he stopped screaming and moving.
“It was over.”
Kratos grabbed a kitchen knife and bent down to finish off the man he had stunned with the mace.
“There you go, now ascend to the world of Ideas beyond the sky, fool!” he said contemptuously as he slit the man’s throat.
Then he turned to Orione, who was gasping and wide-eyed with horror.
“You look like a butcher after a day’s work, Captain. Come here, you need to clean up and then run straight back to your ship. You’ve never been here. And don’t set foot on land again, understood? Set sail immediately.”
Orione spat on the ground. “Understood. But what the hell is happening? Can you explain? Why are the Archon’s hoplites after you?”
As Kratos wiped the Malian’s blood off his hands with a wet cloth, it was the stranger who had been speaking to the tavern keeper earlier who explained.
“That’s not an Archon, and these poor wretches here weren’t hoplites, just fools picked up along the way. I am a hoplite, by Zeus! There’s no time to tell you everything in detail, but I’ll say this: aside from merchant ships like yours leaving, many of the vessels about to depart Ischera are supposed to carry preachers destined to spread the Puri creed to the other Islands. But they won’t succeed, not if we can help it. We’ve been sending messengers for some time now, including Kratos’ eldest son. The rest of his family is safe; don’t worry about them. The other Islands will intervene. We’ll hide in the city and open the gates to invasion. It will be a massacre, and I’m sorry for all those foolish dreamers, but the infection must be stopped now before it spreads. Now go, Malian, and don’t look back.”
Instead, Orione, now less bloody but more soaked, turned around.
“Good luck, Kratos. And to you as well. May the Gods be with you.”
“May the strength of Heracles be with you. Get out of here; we have work to do.”
Orione cautiously left the tavern, looking around. No one. Then he ran with all his might and breath. He only slowed down when he caught sight of the ship and tried to compose himself. He crossed the gangway in long strides and pulled it aboard.
Giorgio looked at him in astonishment.
“Let’s go.”
“But…”
“Now! Cut the rope. Literally,” he said.
Then he grabbed an axe, turned around, and with a single blow, severed the line that held the ship tied to the dock.
Giorgio rushed to do the same at the stern. Other sailors hoisted the sails, and the Blue Fin set off. It didn’t take them long to reach open water.
Orione, lost in thought, went aft to watch the island recede into the past.
That’s how things had gone, and that’s why he had that bitter lump in his throat that he couldn’t swallow. Now it was almost completely dark, but it was better to get as far away as possible before dropping anchor and waiting for morning.
The old sailor joined him.
“And Andrea?”
Orione made a sad grimace.
“Every wolf…”
“I understand.”
Already the day after, they encountered the first war triremes from Attia, slicing through the waters with bronze rostra and banners bearing Athena’s owl. The hoplites’ shields reflected the morning sun, dazzling the Malian sailors who stared at them in awe. And those were real hoplites—the feared landing troops of Attia’s navy—not last-minute recruits from the alleys. It wouldn’t be a true war.
A few weeks later, in a tavern in Amasia, Orione Zanna learned from a lively group of Islanders that Kratos’ tavern had been burned by the Puri soldiers even before the siege. The war had been short, and strangely (but not too strangely), it had taken a turn when someone inside the walls opened the gates to the besieging army. The Battle of Ischera wouldn’t make it into the manuals of military tactics and strategy; that was certain. The Broken Rudder was already being rebuilt, thanks to the interest-free loan from a local noble that Kratos had secured. Orione was convinced he knew that noble’s face.
Andrea Capoferro had died valiantly, fighting in the island’s brief defense. One of the few brave souls among the ranks of the Puri, truth be told.
Archon Akhen, on the other hand, had tried to slip away, but the Attian soldiers found him crawling, hidden in a field of fava beans. They butchered him on the spot as he begged for mercy. Quite a sight for someone who—by his words—feared no death!
As for the lovely Elena, her fate remained unknown.
Now, Orione had to face the worst, the most painful task: he had to go tell his old friends, Andrea’s parents. He –truly didn’t know how to do it or from where to begin.
A Note on the Tale You’ve Read
For this story, I wanted to create a genuine sect capable of seizing power—one that would reject the world created by the Gods and its attractions in favor of the purely spiritual sphere. However, it wasn’t easy to devise a sect that could be consistent with the relatively tolerant pagan setting of the world of Malia, especially the Islands. I drew inspiration from historical precedents to help shape this narrative.
My sources of inspiration included the Orphic and Gnostic sects of the ancient world, Platonism (with references to the hyperuranium and the Gods as demiurges), and Pythagorean influences (faithful followers ready to grant political power to their leader, the prophet’s death in a field of fava beans). The name “Puri” refers to the medieval heretics known as Cathars (“Pure Ones” in Greek): their doctrine bears some resemblance to that of the mysterious Akhen, the old man who came from the South or the East to bring wisdom. As for Akhen’s name, it alludes to Pharaoh Akhenaton, who attempted to revolutionize ancient Egyptian religion.
The focus on the poor and the act of begging to help them can be attributed to certain currents within Judaism and, above all, early Christianity. Additionally, some early readers of the story (thank you!) pointed out similarities with the “Sparrows” sect in George R. R. Martin’s “A Song of Ice and Fire” novels and series, particularly regarding the pauperist aspect. Furthermore, both religious currents operate in ways similar to monotheistic sects but within a polytheistic context.
As a counterpoint (and the losing side) to the sect, there needed to be someone who was entirely hostile to it: a character completely alien to spiritual fervor and with little sympathy for the “weaker classes” of the population or those who work for them. Thus, a skeptical “conservative,” a pragmatic self-made man embodied by Captain Orione Zanna. Orione, the protagonist of the story, is not lacking in empathy for others and is not exempt from criticizing the regime prevailing in Ischera. However, his mindset leads him to see only the negative and dangerous aspects of Akhen’s message, rendering him resistant and immune to its influence. Other characters share this perspective (such as the tavern keeper Kratos and the old sailor Giorgio), but they are not in the majority.
Therefore, every attempt by those who oppose the sect has effects contrary to their intentions, and arguments, invectives, and forceful actions are all in vain. Thanks to its doctrine and proximity to the indigent, the sect seizes power, overwhelming the stagnant institutions of Ischera—both civil and religious. Neither a hardline nor a soft approach can defuse the threat, and the Puri end up dominating the island, shaping it in their image.
The triumph of the faction opposing the protagonist, followed by the final broadening of horizons where it becomes evident that not the entire world has fallen into the enemy’s hands, pays homage to Ernst Jünger and “On the Marble Cliffs.” Recently, I dedicated an article here to that great author and his brief masterpiece, and I enjoyed revisiting this structure for today’s story. Unlike Jünger, I chose to depict active and decisive intervention by external powers at the end, leaving the reader with some relief and a final note of bitterness for the lives lost.
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