The Chronicles of Amon book 2 The Sea of Marmara

  Chapter 6.

  “Your Highness, I am still very much concerned that the American delegate may have been compromised. His request for an audience only lends weight to my suspicions.” Amon spoke to the door, then turned to face the dark-skinned Arab, now seated comfortably on one of several devans spaced in a rough circle in the center of the room.

  He walked toward the circle slowly, head slightly lowered, browns furrowed in thought. He paused at the perimeter of the circle, and stood unmoving for many moments.

  The king scrutinized every movement he made.

  “Come! Sit, my friend! You can relax now. No one will see you if you let your hair down for a moment.” Amon looked to be nervous for some reason. Still he just stood there, his eyes seemingly glazed over, his focus so intense. He didn’t seem to have heard what was said.

  The king felt strangely uneasy, noticing Amon’s lack of response. He had always appeared to be intently tuned in to what was going on around him. It wasn’t like him to show hesitation over anything, for any reason.

  “Very well then. Suit yourself.” The king grunted as he leaned forward in his chair. Gripping the arm of the divan for support, he stood slowly and carefully. The rush of relief his legs had felt when he first sat down, now trickled back in as he strained to lift the great bulk of his body. He turned and gripped the divan arm with both hands, carefully kicking off the shoes he was wearing.

  “Your majesty! Please. I can get a servant here to help you undress.” Amon broke from his concentration and took a step toward the king.

  “Nonsense! Please. Allow me to indulge myself. It is so seldom I’m actually alone. There is always someone within earshot, if not actually visible around me 24 hours a day. I can’t even relieve myself without someone hearing the water splash.”

  He chuckled to himself, shuffling slowly toward the bed in the adjoining room. When he turned to continue speaking, there was Amon, standing only an arms length away. Startled, he barked.

  “God . . .!,” then sucked in his breath reflexively. Composing himself, he let it out slowly. “Allah be praised that you are so stealthy.” He smiled at the tall figure, then continued walking toward the bed.

  Sighing as he sat down on the edge of the bed, Abdullah pulled the heavy cloak from around his shoulders. He loosened the sash around his waist and let it slip quietly to the floor. Then he reached up to begin untying his turban.

  “May I assist you, my king?” Amon said, but did not move closer. He knew what the response would be.

  “No, no. I’ve been doing this since I was a child.” His finger fumbled for and found the end of the finely woven black silk. Pulling it out of its fold, he slowly unwound the material.

  His long gray hair fell nearly to his waist. He was past his prime by many decades. Noticing Amon’s stare, Abdullah said: “Ah, so you see from my hair! I am Sikh, not Muslim. I wear my Turban as a Muslim would, but only for show. After all, my people are mostly Muslim. It just wouldn’t do to let them see that I am not of their faith.”

  “It is not for me to judge, my King.”

  “Ah well,” said Abdullah. “The turban is for the Muslims to see. The hair is for the Sikhs. As for me, neither is of any consequence. I bear allegiance to no particular god. Besides, I like my hair long.”

  Amon watched in respectful silence. When Abdullah let down his façade, the strain of leadership was easy to see in his demeanor. The furrowed brow, the crows feet at the corners of his eyes, the drooping eyelids. There was a deep-seated fatigue there behind those eyes. Amon could sense it. He had seen the signs so many times before.

  Maybe that was why he had chosen this man instead of one of the two other members of the Triumvirate. The others were both men of stature. Each had risen to power much as had king Abdullah. Each had commanded respect around the world.

  But when Amon had gotten close to each of them in turn, he had sensed something wrong, virulent. Each wore the same facade as Abdullah . . . an air of detached indifference so typical among those of the ruling class. But upon closer inspection, Amon saw them for who they really were. These men were . . . amoral. They seemed to take perverse pleasure in forcing their will on others.

  King Abdullah was different, but only in subtle ways. He lusted for power, just as did the other two. And his public demeanor was almost identical to the others, detached, aloof. But upon closer inspection, Amon saw in him an air of quiet confidence which was lacking in the other two. Privately his humor was frequently self-deprecating, never at the expense of someone else. He seemed to see himself in others, and was not above placing himself at their level, at least philosophically, if not physically.

  When dealing with others he was attentive and focused, never condescending or arrogant. He was assertive without being harsh. He was persuasive without being pushy. On rare occasions when someone found the courage to be critical of him, he strove to remain calm and objective, endeavoring to see himself from their perspective. Though he was not a religious man, he strove to be moral and ethical in his dealings.

  Amon had recognized these traits early in their relationship. He had watched carefully for these many months and was confident that Abdullah was a man who could be trusted and respected.

  Amon stepped closer and knelt before him. He removed the king’s socks and began massaging his feet.

  “Bless you, my trusted friend,” Abdullah sighed as the tension in his feet and calves melted away. “Now. As for this issue you bring up . . . what you say may be true, but we cannot yet be sure. The ‘west’ has lost so much status of late. It may well be that this new leader (Grismon is his name?) has been instructed to gain as much support as he can before the council convenes. If I were him, that’s what I would do.”

  Amon nodded in agreement as he finished the massage, then washed and dried the kings feet before responding.

  “Grismon is an opportunist. He is here only as window dressing. He doesn’t have the delegates to have any serious influence. I think he knows this and is doing all he can to swing things in his favor.”

  “How can you say that?” The king was surprised at Amon’s response. “He represents the most powerful army in existence. He knows that no major world policy can be implemented without the support of the military.”

  “That is true, but only on the face of it. It is commonly known among those who matter that he will align himself with whichever group is most likely to succeed politically. That way he can use his military to ‘win friends and influence people.’“

  “An interesting turn of phrase, young man. Interesting that you would use it in this context. And I trust you are not suggesting that what I say is of no consequence.”

  Amon sensed a slight uneasiness in the king’s response, suggesting that the question he posed was more probing than might at first be suspected. Amon believed he knew the king well enough that he could possibly ignore the comment, thus dismissing it as nothing more than a subtle challenge. To do so would strengthen the king’s resolve that he had made a good choice taking this young man into his confidence, while knowing very little, if anything firm, about his background.

  “My king, the plan you described seems well thought out. The Americans are truly as you describe them. They will sell their wares to the highest bidder.”