Nezzar

Part One: The Gift and A Rift

Nezzar's army of over seventy thousand soldiers, war horses, and chariots had gone ahead of them to Babylon two weeks before. Now, Nezzar along with a few over five thousand men would arrive at the gates of Ishtar before dusk. They would not be bearing news of a successful attack on Media, but with the news that the Kingdom of Babylon now had a Queen.

Nezzar's gaze drifted to the polished wooden box to his left as the cushioned wagon sped on. His sword lay upon his thighs in case of an attack. Though flanked by his men at all sides, it would be foolish to be at ease even so close to Babylon. The rumour of his treaty with Media must have reached the ears of his enemies. Some may deem the move weak and think to attack. He wished they would.

His fist clenched harder around the hilt of his sword as his focus returned to the box once more. Carved from Achia wood, the black surface of the foot-long box shone to reflective perfection. Indeed, the Median princess had taken him by surprise. Something about her sparked a heady kind of curiosity in him.

On the night of their wedding, Amytis had done something none had been able to achieve. She had banished his anger in a single moment. The excitement of receiving her gift had conquered his rage in a swift move.

When a guard announced the princess' presence, Nezzar remained seated at the open terrace of his chambers. In his right hand was a goblet of wine, and he swirled its content as he thought up battle strategies. Every instance he advanced against the enemy with a unique battle formation, a sudden flash of the princess's fake smile would attack his mind. It ruined his concentration, mocked him, and muddied the painstakingly crafted formations. A steady flow of anger and irritation he was unable to shake off hummed at the back of his mind. It would be wiser not to see her in his current black mood, but he permitted her presence anyway.

"Let her in, and make your presence scarce."

The guard bowed and retreated, leaving Nezzar to himself once more. When he returned to his chambers earlier, he had dismissed every servant and guard. He needed the bliss of his own company and good wine. Sitting at the terrace and taking in the evening breeze that rolled off the surrounding hills and mountains had helped calm his rising rage. The city was spread before him, dotted with lit lamps, shadowed swaying trees, and the background sound of merriment. It would seem his wedding party was still in full swing at the palace's great hall.

As Nezzar waited, he topped his goblet with aged spiced wine before placing the jug on the stool next to him. His appetite was dead, but the wine was good, very good in fact. He brought the cup to his lips and took a healthy gulp. As he had ordered, several lamps shone in every corner of his chambers and the terrace. He wanted every spot exposed, no room for one to hide and make him combat for his life half dressed. Would the princess mind his appearance? His feet were bare, he hadn't bothered to drape his fringed shawl over his shoulder so it remained wrapped around his waist, and he wore no tunic. Too bad; he had never been one to soothe the sensibilities of others.

Soon the sound of soft footfalls reached his ears. Nezzar kept his gaze fixed on the landscape as he swirled the dark content of his goblet. He was concerned that if he looked at the princess, the thunderous expression on his face might send her running. Or would it? Even Nebuzaradan, his topmost general and captain of the guards, had to avoid him whenever his sour mood showed on his face. His mother was another matter though; Nezzar doubted anything scared her.

Finally, the footfalls stopped. She stood to his left, well out of arms reach. "My king," her soft voice carried over to where he sat, still brooding. "I apologise to have sought your presence without an invite."

Nezzar drowned his wine in a big gulp, dropped the goblet with a solid clunk, and relaxed more into the plush chair. "What can I do for you, princess?"