A tale from the world of Malia by Marco Rubboli
The harbor, the city, and even the hills of the Island of Ischera were nothing more than a distant azure haze. Orione Zanna, gazing at the coastline fading into the distance behind 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 had been the quietest place on earth back then.
The tavern was named for the enormous piece of a ship’s rudder hanging in the hall, as if cleaved by the hands of an enraged giant. The wood was so thick and massive that one wondered what force could ever have 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, fortunately. None of the others had survived. So some years later Kratos had emptied his savings and bought the tavern, 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, permanently infused 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 tavern girls were discreet and unobtrusive at the Broken Rudder.
In the harbor, there were livelier and noisier places, usually frequented by younger and inexperienced folk. 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 exert 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 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 conversation revolved around mundane topics, pleasantly and reassuringly, touching on 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 the four of them entered. They were dressed in white, smiling. An elderly limping man, a child about twelve years old supporting him, and two girls of simple, 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 answer was a calm challenge.
Then the old man averted his gaze, and Orione went back 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 looking at his 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 anyone’s soul, he could advice them to visit a temple and deal with those leech-like priests. But now they had come to the Broken Rudder, his tavern. 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 no way, so 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, nor face the perils of the sea, yet they shamelessly ask for it as a gift from the sinners they despise.”
***
It was late at night when Orione reached the Blue Fin, but there seemed to be a lively commotion on board. Intrigued, he quickened his pace. At the center of a noisy group of sailors stood his young boatswain, Andrea. They were all laughing.
“What the hell 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 in just a couple of strides he found himself face to face with a smiling Andrea.
“Nothing, Captain” Andrea said “we were just talking about a little adventure that just happened.”
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 interesting consequences—for you!” someone shouted. Everyone laughed.
Orione was always irritated when he found himself kept in the dark about something.
“Well, spill it then.”
Andrea, a slender young man, blonde-haired, his hair brushing his shoulders, reported that while the crew was in a tavern, they had witnessed a strange incident: an old man, accompanied by a child and two girls, entered and began preaching. His words enchanted almost everyone, but some reacted angrily. A brute even harassed one of the girls. The poor girl, incidentally very attractive, tried to defend herself, and the harassment escalated into a full-blown confrontation. 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 all had 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 himself against the wind. The light of dawn was already beginning to illuminate the eastern sky through the dark clouds when he decided to grant himself a few hours sleep.
***
Orione stood near the gangway of his ship, negotiating the sale of a portion of the cargo to a local merchant, when a young girl appeared. She made her way through the bustling port crowd, wrapped in heavy white veils, her eyes lowered. The captain observed her as she asked a passerby for directions, then made straight for him. It took him a moment to realize that she was heading directly toward 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 is acceptable to you .”
“Yes, it is” Orione replied curtly “You can go up and find him if you wish.”
He returned his attention to 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, her voice barely audible and soft.
Only later on did he have the opportunity to ask his boatswain what had brought the young woman aboard.
“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 hell they always keep their eyes lowered, those people? Perhaps they’ve done something they should be ashamed of?” Orione exclaimed.
He noticed that Andrea hesitated, stiffening, as if that had not been a casual remark but a sharp arrow.
***
Orione Zanna had decided to spend the winter in Ischera because there had been two whole weeks of bad weather, and by then it was too late to sail safely. Still, he had made this decision reluctantly, with a sense of foreboding.
Every day, that old owl preached in the markets, squares, and taverns. He spoke of goodness, purity, and perfection, using words that seemed to take wing and pierce the heart. But he could also speak forcefully in condemning injustice, vice, and corruption, and his speeches stirred the souls of upright people.
Not only that: his followers truly lived by his teachings, helping the poor, the unhappy, the crippled, and all manner of needy individuals. One of the pretty girls who always followed him—the one playfully called “Andrea’s girl” by the Blue Fin crew —taught children to write without expecting anything in return.
Orione, a shrewd merchant by nature, 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 often turned out to be far more costly than expected.
Sometimes, a scarf given in charity ended up being a noose around your neck, and you realized it only when it was too late.
The old man, a stranger named Akhen, asked for gifts for the poor and gave them away without keeping anything for himself or his companions, save for a bit of stale bread for sustenance. A good soul, they said. But for Orione, he was merely someone who made himself look virtuous by giving away what 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 fool had been enchanted by the sweet girl he had saved, and now hung on her every word, and indirectly, on the old man’s words as well.
“But… have you bedded her, at least?” Giorgio, an old, toothless sea wolf who minced no words, once asked Andrea.
Andrea didn’t even bother to curse him.
***
Orione was surprised by the crowd filling the square: there seemed scarcely room for anyone, 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 visibly moved. A group of young spinners even had tears in their eyes. Everyone stared at the old man and his most devoted disciples, who had climbed onto a cart in the center of the scene. Elena, “Andrea’s girl,” stood beside Akhen. No wooden platform had been set up for them, as was customary when speakers competed for public attention. Yet, the preacher was evidently far more adept at captivating his audience than all those sophists. His fervent voice dominated the scene.
“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 one upon another. No different is the vast sea, populated by fish and monsters, all intent on devouring one another. Lightning, wind, storms, and volcanoes show 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 decay. Yet each of us knows, deep in the sanctuary of our minds, that we belong to another place, a perfect place…”
Orione twisted his mouth into a smirk. “Oh, certainly, we were all born in the land of milk and honey, right? And there I am as handsome as Adonis. Bah. What a nonsense.”
However, most of the audience seemed enraptured. He wondered if he alone remained callous enough not to be moved by old Akhen’s lofty words.
“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 carrying 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 at the end of this path of wickedness and surrender: when we are so bound to our material body that we cannot detach ourselves… 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.
How could they fall for it? It was the same method used by the worst charlatans in Fontanadolce. He exchanged a skeptical glance with Giorgio. The old sea wolf was thinking the same. However, Andrea Capoferro seemed entranced in another world, like most of those listening.
Yet there were others who observed with cold detachment. Orione didn’t miss the city guards—shrewd and watchful. Kratos, the tavern keeper, stood with arms crossed over his powerful chest, wearing a disgruntled expression. Several local dignitaries had come to witness, not to applaud. And the priests of Zeus and Apollo huddled together, their eyes calculating and menacing.
The air was thick with tension.
“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 deprivation. 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, becoming complicit in the great deception. The pleasure we obtain, then, is fleeting and harbors within it the principle of domination, of evil. By rejecting all this, we can free ourselves. We must purify ourselves through renunciation—renouncing the oppression over 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, trying not to listen to him.
“Shut up, Giorgio. I want to hear what the sage has to say!”
“Oh, I’ll stay quiet, but one last piece of advice: if you care for that girl, take her away from that man or you’ll lose her, one way or another. And now I’m serious.”
Andrea didn’t answer.
Orione was genuinely worried for his boatswain. Even more concerning were the evident signs of impatience from the priests of the Gods, 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 insisted that pain is the means by which the Father of the Gods teaches wisdom to men. Captain Orione wasn’t an expert in religion, but for anyone paying attention, it was clear what the man was saying.
***
“What had to happen has finally happened” thought Captain Orione about a month later. It didn’t matter to him whether there was any good in what the old man had said or done. Captain Orione considered himself a no-nonsense type, with little patience for those who indulged in flights of fancy—worse still if they dragged others into their follies. The old man and his closest 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 apprehended them in an alley, immediately covering their heads with sacks to hide their features, and swiftly locked them up in the fortress close to the harbor. End of 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 darkened. He wore a leather breastplate and a belt carrying sword and dagger.
“What the hell…” Orione began to say, then he had to step in quickly, to prevent the young boatswain from descending the ship. Orione positioned himself between him and the gangway. Andrea halted, but his gaze was stubbornly determined.
“Captain Orione, I request permission to disembark.”
Orione had no choice but to invoke the authority of hierarchy.
“Permission denied, boatswain. I’m sorry.”
The young man hesitated, lowering his eyes briefly. Then he bit his lip and raised his gaze, fixing it squarely on his superior.
“Then I’ll go without permission. Step aside.”
Orione stood his ground.
“No.”
“Step aside, or I will kill you, by the Gods!”
“Then kill me. I won’t let you throw your life away so foolishly.”
The boatswain stepped 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 feel sorry for her, but I can’t renounce to my 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 died 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 a fortress… or anything else!”
Andrea drew his sword and pointed it at Orione’s stomach. “Step aside, or you’ll be the first unbeliever to lose his life, Captain. I mean it.”
Orione spread his arms, convinced the boatswain would relent. He knew Andrea well, and had known him forever—it couldn’t be otherwise.
But he locked eyes with him, and suddenly he doubted 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 club. 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 completely unarmed, dressed all in white. They simply stood until they could bear it no longer, 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 the surrounding docks. But how many were there, by the Gods? Orione had the impression that the city itself couldn’t possibly house so many inhabitants. In fact, many had come from the surrounding countryside, where Akhen and his followers had roamed to preach their doctrines. The “Pure Ones,” as they called themselves, not only blocked the fortress entrances but also obstructed the sacred path leading to the Acropolis, the Senate palace, and the city gates. The guards had tried to drive them away, whipping and beating them, but it was all in vain.
On the other hand, the Senate and the Archon wanted to avoid bloodshed, to avoid escalating the situation. Akhen’s arrest had already garnered sympathy from many undecided citizens, and a massacre of his followers would have had incalculable consequences. Inside the fortress, word spread quickly: 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, some 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 Pure Ones, on the other hand, agreed—if it could even be called agreement—but from an opposing perspective. They said that the demons were angry because their deceptions had been exposed, and someone was finally showing to the 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 Pure Ones: “Let them rot in jail, and if they don’t eat, even better—they’ll reach their damned paradise sooner!” Those were his words, as reported. His challenger in the elections, however, was more conciliatory, and the common view was that he would win. The faithful who were stationed at the port took turns going to vote, and Orione convinced himself that there would be a change. Perhaps it was better to find a compromise; otherwise, things could only worsen. Maybe time would soften everything… and he and his ship would finally have the chance to escape that place, at least. Furthermore, perhaps Elena would be released from jail, and he could also set Andrea free. The boatswain was still in irons in the ship’s hold. At least he was eating, but Orione couldn’t wait to see him freed.
He decided to spend the evening at Kratos’s tavern. Surely, news of the election outcome would arrive there sooner. The burly tavern keeper had sided with the old Archon, yet he saw things somewhat similarly to Orione. At Kratos’s, there weren’t many people: merchants, some 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, you hope 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?” Kratos asked, ironic.
Orione shrugged. “We all agree that Akhen is a lunatic. It’s just a matter of how to stop him.”
“Bah! I think you’ve been misled too. You can’t reason with those people, and the only way to deal with them is this!” Kratos exclaimed, pulling a solid wooden club 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 very 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 into 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 acted to prevent it. Now it was too late. At that point, the patrons of the Broken Rudder unleashed 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, yet she walked with her head held high, proud—following her prophet, now the new Archon of Ischera. Waiting for her, amidst a jubilant crowd showering flowers, was Andrea. He, too, wore a long white tunic for the occasion. How repulsive it was to see him like that!, Orione thought. At least he had been allowed to go. That was the only positive aspect of what had happened, Orione reflected, standing on the fringes of the celebration. The two young lovers spotted each other and ran to embrace. Meanwhile, Archon Akhen proceeded with uncertain yet majestic steps, his white beard considerably 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 in glory 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 that name around here—if you don’t strike them from one of those storm clouds with a lightning bolt, nothing else will stop them. Please do it. I’dbuy 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. “So what? What happens now?”
Orione shrugged.
“Now they’re in charge, Akhen and the Pure Ones. Let’s see what they do. As soon as possible, we’ll leave—with or without Andrea. I couldn’t keep him in chains 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, wondering 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.”
“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, Islander-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 recently. He didn’t like to see what Ischera had become. Preachers were in every square, prostitutes had disappeared. Some had converted and joined the Pure Ones sect, while all the 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.
As Orione moved away from the dock, actually 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. Just a few remained, 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 Kratos’ one. The most common destination for Orione’s infrequent visits to the mainland still stood, defiant. Few men could dare to tell Kratos what to do, and the scrawny hoplite accompanying the captain was certainly not one of them, not were his unripe comrades. The Malian captain 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 customary. And now again. Even the children seemed less inclined to play, run, and fight; no one shouted, cried, or laughed. The citizens, as Kratos’ 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 Aristarchos’ shop and saw that it had been shut too. There were wooden boards nailed across the door and windows.
“What about this?” Orione asked, turning to the soldier.
The man shrugged his narrow shoulders in response.
“There’s no need for his services any longer.”
“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 flesh. Better to endure, purify ourselves, and wait for death with joy. If it’s a minor ailment, unfortunately, it will pass on its own. In that case we’dhave 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.”
“What about childbirth? Are midwives enough, or do you still need a phisician?”
The hoplite sighed, and Orione realized he was exasperated by his persistence; he must have considered him a stupid Malian alien.
“Better to avoid birth. 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 you celebrate now?” Orione taunted him.
“For sure!” the soldier replied with a serious expression “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.
Finally they 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. Their 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 Patrician 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 to the city. A sense of foreboding hung in the air, and although the Pure Ones despised violence, perhaps they despised the priests even more. Orione felt little compassion for them: they had amassed wealth at the expense of their unsuspecting followers, exploiting the Gods’ names to enrich themselves without ever working, or risking their own wealth in some trade. But there was no limit to the depths of depravity, and today those scoundrels seemed the lesser evil.
He was ushered in with icy, formal 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 visitors—a room not much different from the Duke of Fontanadolce’s throne hall, after all. The old man sat in regal splendor, surrounded by a small retinue of his most loyal followers and protected by four slim warriors whose armor was absurdly oversized. Among the faithful retainers of the old man 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 and solemn.
“Captain Orione Zanna, from Malia. Speak in the presence of the Archon.”
“How the hell do you dare to ask me to speak to you?” he would have liked to reply, irritated that the prophet 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, Archon, so what? I didn’t ask to speak to you at all. If you have nothing to tell me, I have nothing to tell you either. May I leave?”
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 wished to reach the community of the Pure Ones to which he belongs.”
Orione straightened his back.
“Excuse me if I contradict you, but Andrea Capoferro belongs first and foremost to my crew, not to the Pure Ones community… or toany other community. AT the end 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 of Fontanadolce, he would have been judged for insubordination to my orders.”
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 to, but as long as he’s alive, he must answer to me and to our 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 here, 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 my 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 the Island of 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 silent farewell.
***
As spring approached, the situation worsened 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 anything else, and several goods were in short supply. Theaters, gyms, and public baths had been banned. Fasting and renunciation were practiced, along with the mortification of the flesh. 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 Incubi, those demons who, according to myth, visited women at night and left them pregnant, burdened with monstrous, cursed offspring.
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 holds for a little 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 creaking 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 enough—there were also many young preachers in white robes.
He entered the nearly empty tavern.
Kratos was washing a tankard, standing beneath the wreckage of the rudder that had saved his life so many years ago. He was speaking quietly with a man Orione had never seen before. Despite his attire resembling that of the Pure Ones, the stranger carried himself with the bearing of a nobleman.
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? But 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 could you do here?”
“This is my land, you foolish Malian. Would you leave your homeland, Fontanadolce?”
Orione shrugged. “If it were wasted like here, maybe I would.”
“Not me. I’m not leaving.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t feel comfortable at all, 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 with you. 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 forced a small smile onto his rugged 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 old Malian 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 madman was capable of anything. Instead, the hoplites rushed toward the tavern keeper. The most agile one leaped over the counter, but Kratos met him with a powerful strike of his massive club to the face. The 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 weapon. But before the clash could begin, the stranger who had been speaking to the tavern keeper drew a short, razor-sharp xiphos from under his cloak and thrust it into the commander’s flank. The improvised hoplite had barely the time to cast an incredulous glance at his killer and emit a weak groan before the man decapitated one of his soldiers. The next one turned just in time to meet his demise.
Kratos struck his opponent’s right hand, breaking all the small bones in it. Almost in the same motion, he shattered the soldier’s kneecap, and finally, as the man went down, Kratos sent him to dreamland with a kick to the face.
Orione didn’t hesitate long; he drew his sailor’s knife and jumped at the last standing opponent. They rolled on the ground, and the Malian repeatedly stabbed the young 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 his club.
“There you go, now ascend to the world of Ideas beyond the sky, you fool!” he said contemptuously as he slit the man’s throat.
Then he turned to Orione, gasping and wide-eyed with horror.
“You look like a butcher after a day’s work, Captain. Come here, you need to clean up. Then you’ll 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 explained.
“That’s not an Archon, and these poor wretches here weren’t true hoplites at all, 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, many of the vessels about to depart Ischera are supposed to carry preachers destined to spread the Pure Ones creed to the other islands. But they won’t succeed, not if we can help it. For some time now, we’ve been sending messengers, 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 the 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.” Kratos answered.
Orione cautiously left the tavern, looking around. No one. Then he ran with all the speed his muscles and breath could give him. He slowed down only when he saw the ship, then he tried to compose himself. He crossed the gangway and strode aboard.
Giorgio looked at him in astonishment.
“Let’s go.”
“But…”
“Now! Let’s cut the rope. Literally!” he said.
Then he grabbed an axe, turned around, and with a single blow, severed the rope 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 sail. 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.
“What about Andrea?”
Orione made a sad grimace.
“Every wolf…”
“I see.”
***
The day after, they encountered the first war triremes from Attia, slicing through the waters with their shining bronze rostra and banners displaying Athena’s owl. The hoplites’ shields reflected the morning sun, dazzling the Malian sailors who stared at them in awe. And those were realhoplites—the feared marines of Attia’s navy—not last-minute recruits from the alleys. A true army was approaching.
A few weeks later, in a tavern in the Malian city of Amasia, Orione Zanna learned from a lively group of Islanders that Kratos’ tavern had been burned by the Pure Ones militia before the war, but Kratos himself was alive. The siege 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 would never make it into military manuals; that much 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 had already met that Patrician.
Andrea Capoferro had died valiantly, fighting in the island’s brief defense. “One of the few brave souls among the ranks of the Pure Ones, to be honest.” one of the Islanders said.
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. A grim sight for a man who had claimed he 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 didn’t have the faintest idea how to do it.
_______________________________
A brief Note about the Tale You’ve Read
For this story, I wanted to create a genuine sect capable of seizing power—one that would reject the Gods and the world with all its attractions in favor of the purely spiritual realm. However, it wasn’t easy to devise a sect that could remain consistent with the relatively tolerant pagan setting of the world of Malia, especially the Islands. I drew inspiration from historical precedents to help shape the narrative.
My sources of inspiration included the Orphic and Gnostic sects of the ancient world, Platonism (with references to the hyperuranium and to the Gods as Demiurges-Demons), 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 “Pure Ones” refers to the medieval heretics known as the 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 by transforming it into a monotheistic creed.
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 of the sect. Furthermore, both religious currents operate in ways similar to monotheistic sects but within a polytheistic context.
As a counterpoint to the sect, there needed to be someone entirely hostile to it: a character completely alien to spiritual fervor, with little sympathy for the “weaker classes” or those who favor them. Thus, a skeptical “conservative,” a pragmatic self-made man embodied by Captain Orione Zanna. Orione, the story’s main character, is not lacking in empathy and is not exempt from criticizing the old regime prevailing in Ischera. However, his mindset leads him to see only the negative and dangerous aspects of Akhen’s message, making him resistant and immune to its influence. Other characters share this perspective (such as the tavern keeper Kratos and the old sailor Giorgio), but the majority of the population is not like-minded.
Therefore, every attempt by those who oppose the sect has effects contrary to their intentions, and any arguments, invectives, and forceful actions prove futile. 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 conciliatory approach can defuse the threat, and the Pure Ones end up dominating the island, shaping it in their image.
The triumph of the sect seems complete. However, the final broadening of horizons, where it becomes evident that not the entire world has fallen into the Pure Ones’ hands, pays homage to Ernst Jünger and his masterpiece On the Marble Cliffs. I dedicated an article to this great author and his brief novel, and I enjoyed revisiting this structure for my story. Unlike Jünger, I chose to depict active and decisive intervention by external powers at the end, leaving the reader with both some relief and a final note of bitterness for the lives lost.
This is only one story from the world of Malia. Stay tuned — more stories are coming.