“You will make a fine King, Erec son of Nor,” he said. “A fine King, indeed.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Darius walked through the camp of his growing army, joined by Raj, Desmond, Kaz and Luzi as he went from man to man in the sprawl of villagers, checking on the wounded, meeting each new man face-to-face, helping to remove shackles, looking into their eyes and shaking their hand. He saw hope welling in each of their eyes as they looked to him, each shaking his head and not wanting to let go, each looking to him as if he were their savior.
No one had ever looked at Darius this way in his life, and it felt surreal. In his eyes, he was just a boy, just a boy who strived to be a warrior, just a boy who had a hidden power which he could never use, didn’t want to use, and which he could never reveal to the others. That was all. Darius had never expected to become a leader of men, to become someone that others looked up to, someone whom they turned to for leadership and direction. His entire life, he had been told by others that he was going to amount to nothing, that he was the least important of the bunch; his grandfather had always kept him down, had told him he was not worth much, that that was why his father had left him. All of the village elders, all of his trainers, particularly Zirk, the commander of the boys’ troop, had told him his skills were average, at best, and that his size was too small. They told him to never dream too big.
Darius had always known he was not the largest of the bunch, or the strongest. He knew he was not the best looking, that he didn’t have any wealth, and that he didn’t come from a noble and illustrious family. And yet Darius had always had heart, conviction, passion, and a determination, one which he felt was stronger than others. Somehow, he always felt that that would carry him through, and even enable him to rise above other boys and other men, even those supposedly better than he. He felt things more deeply, and he refused to see himself as others saw him. He had insisted in his mind on painting a strong mental image of himself, as a hero, as a leader of men, and on clinging to it, regardless of how others tried to keep him down. They could crush his body, but they could never crush his spirit—and they could never touch his imagination. And his imagination, he felt, was what was most precious of all. It was the ability to see himself as someone else, to see him rising above his position. And it was that very
sight
—not size, not strength, not wealth, not power—that enabled him to do it.
Now, as he walked through the ranks of his new and ever-growing army, Darius could see how they all looked at him, and it was like watching his own imagination come to life, unfold before his eyes. He knew, he just knew, that it was his tenaciously clinging to his imagination, his vision, that had caused this. It was his ability to drown out all the voice of negativity around him that had tried to keep him down, had insisted on telling him what he could never be. To rise to power, he knew, he felt, all depended on one thing: how strong you can block out the voices of others, block out the sea of negativity that tries to tell you who you are, tries to tell you what you can never do in this lifetime. It is a sea that pounds at you every day, from every angle, Darius realized, like fresh waves washing up on the sands. Those who could block it out, who could cling to their own visions of themselves, could, Darius knew, rise above anything.
As Darius walked through, looking at all the new faces, his own friends following him as a leader, he saw that it was important, for their sake, that they thought of him as a leader. They all needed and craved a leader, someone to navigate them through these uncertain times. He gave them hope, confidence, direction, however bleak the picture might seem. He knew he had to give it to them. He owed it to them, even if he didn’t entirely feel it yet within himself.
“Thank you, Zambuti,” one of the freed men said, rushing forward and grabbing Darius’s hand with both of his. “You have freed us all. You have given us life.”
Darius was shocked at the expression of reverence.
Zambuti
was only reserved for the highest possible respect, a term that meant
beloved leader
, of such endearment that even the village elder did not receive it. As long as he had known, the slaves had had no real leader. Not a true one.
Darius shook his head.
“You gave
yourself
life,” Darius said. “And I am not your Zambuti.”
“You are,” another freed man replied, rushing forward, shaking Darius’s hand, too.
“It is a duty!” echoed another man, as more and more men gathered around him. “You are our leader now! The only true leader we’ve ever had. The only who has stood up to them. You’ve given us back our lives. Now it is up to you to lead us slaves!”
There came a cheer of approval.
“You are not slaves any longer!” Darius called out to the growing crowd. “Do not call yourself that again! You are free men. You have chosen your fate, you have chosen your freedom, and for that I am very proud of you. I shall lead you—if you shall lead yourselves!”
There came another cheer of approval.
There came a sudden commotion, the sound of men cheering, agitated, and Darius, curious, turned and walked through the crowd, thick with people, all parting ways for him.
As he reached the far end of the crowd, Darius spotted a small clearing, the center of the commotion, and inside he saw the village elders congregating, addressing the new slaves.
“We have won a victory here this day,” an elder called out. “We have been graced by the gods. And yet, do not be emboldened to think this should lead to more victories. Now is not the time to fight more. Now is the time to try to negotiate peace with the Empire.”
“There shall be no peace!” one of the villagers yelled out.
“The days for talking peace are over!” yelled another.
“How dare you defy your elders!” one of the village elders, a thin, stern man whom Darius recognized from his village, yelled back.
“You are not our elders!” yelled back a freed man from the new village. “We have not survived here today to listen to your commands. We have not thrown off one slave taskmaster to place on our heads a new one!”
The villagers cheered.
Zirk suddenly pushed through the circle, jumped up onto a large boulder in the center, and faced them all, demanding attention.
“I am commander of our forces!” Zirk yelled. “It is
I
who trained all the warriors here today! And I am the eldest among these warriors! It is
I
who will lead you to our next fight, wherever it shall be. You are now all under
my
command!”
Darius stood there, watching it all, irate. Zirk had always been threatened by him. And now here he was, the same man who had tried to keep him down, to stop the insurrection, claiming credit for it.
Darius watched as there came a tense silence among the crowd. He wanted to call out, to set wrongs right—but he realized it was not for him to seize power. It was up to these men to want him.
Slowly, the silence broke as a group of slaves stepped forward into the center, and pointedly ignored Zirk, turning their backs to him. Instead, they turned and faced Darius.
Darius was shocked to see them all looking his way, pointing right at him.
“You are not our leader,” they said to Zirk. “Darius is.”
There came a cheer amidst the villagers.
“Darius is the one who led the battle here today. Darius is the one who freed us, and our families. It is to Darius that we owe our allegiance. Zambuti!”
“Zambuti!” the others echoed.
Darius felt a rush of gratitude as he stood there—but suddenly, Zirk, indignant, jumped down from the boulder and rushed between them.
“You cannot take him as leader!” Zirk yelled, desperate, looking at Darius with envy and jealousy. “He’s just a boy. A boy who
I
trained. He is not even the greatest of our fighters. He can lead no one.”
One of the villagers stepped forward and shook his head.
“It is not the age of a man that makes a leader,” the man replied, “but the heart within him. It is he who shall lead us.”
The villagers erupted into a great cheer.
“ZAMBUTI!” they cried, again and again.
Zirk, outraged, scowled and stormed away, pushing his way through the crowd and disappearing.
Several slaves rushed forward, grabbed Darius, and to his surprise, placed him atop the boulder. As they did, all the other slaves cheered, and they all looked up at him, rejoicing.
Darius looked out at the sea of faces, all looking up to him in adulation, and realized how much he meant to them. How much they needed him. How much they needed someone to believe in. Someone to lead them. He could see in all their eyes that they would go anywhere in the world he would lead them.
“It was the honor of my life to fight by your side today,” Darius called out. “It was an honor to witness your bravery. You are free men now and the choices are yours. If you wish to join me, I cannot promise you life—but I can promise you freedom. If you wish to join me, we will not sit here and cower in fear in the desert, but, come what may, we will carry this fight all the way to the Empire cities!”
The men cheered wildly, rushing forward and embracing him, pulling him down off the rock, and Darius knew the great war was just beginning. He knew that he now had his army.
“ZAMBUTI!” they cried. “ZAMBUTI!”
*
Darius walked through the camp, concerned, as he was being led by Loti. She held his hand as she weaved in and out of the camp, and he could not stop thinking of the news she had just given him.
“Is he dying?” Darius asked her.
Loti shook her head sadly.
“I don’t know, my love,” she said. “But it’s best to hurry.”
Darius’s heart pounded as they weaved in and out of the camp, wondering if this was it. His grandfather, she had informed him, lay gravely wounded. He had been injured in the last skirmish, even though he did not fight, a random spear thrown through his spine, and he lay unmoving. Loti had stumbled upon him, tending to him as she had made her rounds of the wounded, and had come right to Darius.
Darius’s emotions swirled with mixed feelings as they marched toward him. He thought of how his grandfather had treated him so harshly his whole life, recalled all the resentment he had against him. Yet at the same time, he was also his grandfather, had been present when his father was absent, had raised him and given him a place to live. He was also his only living relative, aside from Sandara. That counted for something. As upset as he was with his grandfather, he had to admit he had some love for him too, this fixture in his life. And Darius could not help but feel as if his being injured in the skirmish were all his fault.
They finally reached a clearing, filled with the wounded and the sick, and Darius’s heart fell as he spotted his grandfather amongst the bodies, lying there, a large wound through his spine and into his stomach, covered in bandages, already seeping blood. His grandfather looked weaker than he’d ever seen him. He looked to be on death’s door.
Darius felt overwhelmed with grief, and he did not want Loti to see him like this.
“I would like to see him alone,” Darius said.
Loti nodded, seeming sad but also seeming to understand, and she turned and walked away, giving them their privacy.
Darius hurried over to his grandfather, knelt down, and held his hand.
“Potti,” Darius said, using the affectionate term he had always used for his grandfather.
His grandfather opened his eyes weakly and looked up at Darius. Darius could see the light in them fading.
“Darius,” he said, with a weak smile. Darius could see how much it meant to him that he was there.
“I waited for you,” his grandfather continued, weakly, his voice hoarse. “I waited for you before I die.”
Darius squeezed his hand, fighting back tears as he clutched it, hating the idea of his dying. There had been so much tension between them all their lives, such a battle for control—and yet there had also, Darius had to admit, been so much love. His grandfather was a stern man, but at least he had been dependable, always there for him. He felt overwhelmed with guilt, feeling that perhaps he, regardless of how he had been treated, should have been more respectful toward him, less defiant.
“I’m sorry,” Darius said. “I’m sorry I was not here to receive this blow for you. I am sorry that you lay dying.”
His grandfather slowly shook his head, eyes welling with tears.
“You have done nothing to be sorry for,” he finally replied, his breathing shallow. “You are like a son to me. You have always been like a son to me. I was harsh with you because I wanted you to be strong. I wanted you to learn. I didn’t want you to rely on anyone but yourself.”
Darius brushed back tears.
“I know, Potti,” he said. “I have always known.”
“I did not want you to end up like your father,” he said. “And yet, deep down, I knew it was your destiny.”
Darius stared down at him, confused.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
His grandfather coughed, blood coming up, and Darius could feel him dying in his arms. He was burning to know what he meant, what he had to say about his father. His father’s disappearance had been a mystery that had been gnawing at him his entire life. He was dying to know who he was, when he had left, where he had gone, and what had become of him. But his grandfather had always refused to speak of it.
His grandfather shook his head and fell silent for a long time, so long that Darius did not think he would reply.
Finally, though, he spoke, his voice hoarse.
“Your father was no common slave,” he said, his voice nearly a whisper. “He was not like the others. He took after my father.”
“
Your
father?” Darius asked, confused.
He nodded.
“A great warrior,” he said. “The man after whom you were named.”
Darius’s heart stopped at the news.
“A warrior?”
His grandfather nodded.