Sleep Escapes Us

Chapter 3 – Zalmoxis

Zelmis was expecting Muka to be one of the peltasts waiting for him when he emerged from the catacombs, but his cousin was nowhere in sight. The hunter was still so dazed from the drugs that Cerzula had fed him that he did not realize he had not retrieved the cloak he had shed as he had launched himself upon her, his lone article of clothing. The guards hustled the shivering shorn man into the room where the eunuchs had prepared him for his encounter with the witch, to fetch his discarded clothing. The naked male form was considered an offense to Hecate, a virgin goddess, and had no place within her hallowed walls, with the exception of what was necessary for certain rituals.

“Where is Mukaburis?” Zelmis demanded, amidst the chattering of his teeth. The temple was draughty and he was still bathed in his own sweat. His leggings were adhering to his skin, as he tried to pull them on, and he struggled to do so groggily.

“Your cousin has the honour of dining with the king, since he was forced to be absent from his own father’s funeral in order to accompany you here. He did so at the king’s request, and since he is missing the celebratory feast for his father’s elevation, the king is showing his gratitude by feasting with him here,” the older of the two peltasts told him.

Muka had passed the responsibility of hosting the feast to his younger brother, providing the man with barter to seek out proper game to feed his guests. He would have to secure that from other hunters in the village, since he would no longer be able to count on Zelmis’s contribution. Zelmis realized that his own stomach grumbled and his limbs were heavy with fatigue. He needed a meal and a bed. It would be easy enough to find either once he was dressed again. As the man selected in the lottery, he would be an honoured guest in any home, even if it meant tolerating the presence of his constant peltast escorts.

“You will see him again soon,” the younger guard added. “The king has requested that he travel with you to the Bucagi Mountains, and Mukaburis has agreed.”

Zelmis shook his head at the absurd statement – as if his cousin would possibly refuse. It was not uncommon for members of the sacrifice’s family to be asked to make the journey with them, a reminder of why they were being asked to give themselves over to Zalmoxis, especially if that family member were a soldier or one of the peltast. Anyone who faced likely death every day would possibly be seeking Zalmoxis’s assistance at the Crossroads sooner than others. Keeping the deity strong was important to them, most of all. Muka wanted his spirit to ascend to the heavens as much as anyone else in his position did. He aspired to the elevated status and power, especially if he had to give his life in service to his king.

“I would prefer he stayed behind,” Zelmis said without thinking, still dwelling on the fact that there was bound to be trouble when he was brought before Zalmoxis. He did not want Muka to be a part of that.

The older peltast snorted.

“What you prefer has no bearing on whether he goes or not. The king gets to choose which of his guard will escort you, and Mukaburis is bound to obey. Think of it as an opportunity to share any last

words with him that you would want him to take back to the ones you love. Remember, you do this for them as well as for the rest of us.”

Zelmis said nothing and made his way out of the temple and into the streets of Lagina. Selecting what looked like a comfortable place to rest, at least to his befuddled mind, he struggled over to one of the homes there, followed closely by his keepers.

The citizens of the settlement made him feel welcome eager to provide him hospitality. They fed him a lavish meal before offering him a warm bed for the night. Zelmis slept like the dead, still under the influence of Cerzula’s concoction and the hunter did not rouse until late in the morning. The peltasts did not sleep at all and had changed shifts overnight while Zelmis lay immobile in his drugged slumber.

Morning did not bring with it any new sense of relief. In addition to the fact that the various parts of him that had been shaved itched incessantly and there was a stiff soreness to his muscles from a vigorous and uncontrolled work-out, his head was now clear and his thoughts sharp. The events of the day before had ripped open fresh scars and deepened the wounds associated with them. Along with that, Zelmis now faced a frighteningly real confrontation, one that would have terrible consequences for him no matter which way it ended. He accepted the breakfast offered by his hosts in sullen silence, without much appetite.

The peltasts attending him led him to the outskirts of Lagina when he had finished with his meal. Muka was waiting for them there with the horses that they would need to make the arduous journey to the Bucagi Mountains, across the plains of Gatae. There were armies encamped there on the flatlands, waiting to be called to reinforce those who were warring with the realm’s enemies along their borders. There were also hospices run by the armies’ healers, for the soldiers who had retreated because of their wounds. Lastly came the rows upon rows of the dead, lying in state after having been prepared appropriately by acolytes of Zalmoxis, no time to send them back to their families for their funeral rites.

Zelmis took all of this into consideration as they passed through. He would have to avoid this place if he ended up a fugitive, sure to be captured and taken prisoner by the soldiers if the peltasts had already alerted them to his treachery and flight. He fidgeted atop his mount as the soldiers cheered his passing, already feeling guilty over what he was planning to do. Those who fought for his kingdom especially valued his anticipated sacrifice, as they would supposedly reap the most benefit from it. They saw him as a martyr and a saviour, giving his life for them as much as they were offering up theirs for the sanctity of their people.

All of this did not make Zelmis’s path or his choices any easier. He might have changed his mind and allowed the sacrifice to proceed as expected, feeling much more obligated to do so, had he not caught sight of a young woman amongst the healers, a redhead with a gentle touch and a warm smile, tending to the wounded. His thoughts immediately went to Alina and his resolve to avoid the sacrifice returned, as strong as ever.

Muka rode at his side most of the way, but he did not elicit conversation, feeling awkward in the presence of his cousin because Zelmis had been requested to descend into the catacombs. The supposed benefit of having Muka accompany him was therefore lost, and Zelmis was fairly certain he could have used the distraction if he really had been prepared to journey to his death. The Bucagi Mountains were

now looming before them, an intimidating symbol of doom. After a long silence, since that they were finally nearing what he assumed would be Zelmis’s final resting place, Muka spoke.

“We must ascend to Zalmoxis’s temple in the mountains first, to sit vigil overnight with his high priests. They must pray over you and bless you to make sure you will in no way desecrate Kagaion. I will stay with you while you endure this, so you can share with me anything that needs being said. That was the reason the king asked me to escort you here. Anything you think Dentys needs to know about Alina, any boons you wish to ask of me - I’ll listen to all you have to say and do my best to respect your wishes once you are gone. I promise you that your daughter will grow up in a secure home, wanting for nothing.”

“Kagaion?”

“Zalmoxis’s subterranean chamber within the Ialomicroaia Cave - a very sacred place. Nothing unholy must enter there.”

That had Zelmis worried. He had hidden Cerzula’s parchment, the one intended for Alina, in the pouch he kept beneath his tunic. Would they strip that from him? Was he in for another painful scrubbing? He supposed he would find out soon enough, and would have to deal with it then.

Zelmis figured it must have taken almost the entire trip for Muka to build up enough will to say those things. Speaking from the heart was not his way, but the hunter could tell that his cousin meant them in earnest. Zelmis once again felt wracked by guilt, knowing how disappointed Muka would be once he realized that his cousin had been planning revolt since the catacombs, and had never intended to give up his life for the sake of his people. He could imagine the temperamental man choosing to take vengeance on his deceitful kin, not allowing himself to rest until Zelmis had paid for his misdeed. That thought frightened him almost enough to make him think twice about fighting his fate. He took solace in the fact that Cerzula had assured him that this was how his future truly was meant to play out, so he was not really fighting fate at all. Wasn’t it Muka who had insisted that he accept what the gods had chosen for him?

As they reached the base of the mountains, Zelmis tried to distract himself by hypothesizing as to why he would be given the opportunity to strike down Zalmoxis. Had the God of Death angered his peers? Did they resent him because he had once been a mortal? Had he grown too powerful and therefore was viewed as a threat? The Getae were practically a monotheistic people because of Zalmoxis, many abandoning the worship of what were now considered lesser deities. He could see how this might make the others jealous.

On the other hand, this might not be about Zalmoxis at all. Perhaps this was a means of punishing the people of the realm, for becoming too arrogant and too complacent. Zelmis could see that as well. His people had once taken responsibility for their own spirituality, but now that was all left in the hands of Zalmoxis’s priests, the common folk merely sheep who were content to be herded mindlessly about. Despite always objecting to the lottery, Zelmis had been one of those sheep as well, remaining silent and obedient until it was his life and his daughter’s future at stake. Only now, when he had nothing left to lose - or so he thought – was he willing to defect from the herd. If only he had been willing to voice his protests sooner...

“There, up ahead, on the path. The priests have come to greet us,” Muka declared, breaking Zelmis from his state of contemplation.

The peltast was pointing to a procession of men, and a few women, garbed in dark robes and descending towards them. Zelmis couldn’t understand how anyone would choose to worship death. Because of his chosen profession, Zelmis had faced death on many an occasion but had never grown comfortable with it, always saying a small prayer for every creature that had fallen victim to his spear. The priests seemed peaceful, however, and satisfied with their lot in life. They did not take issue with leading an innocent man to his death.

The leader of the procession, no doubt the authority amongst the holy men and women, walked up to Zelmis’s mount on his own when the others had stopped a few feet away.

“You are Zelmis, hunter of Gil-Doba, the one that the gods have selected via the lottery?”

When everyone sat in silence for several seconds, he realized that he was the one expected to respond. He nodded hesitantly, eying Muka with despair.

“And this has been validated by the seers of Hecate at Lagina?”

Zelmis chose to speak this time, shuddering at his memories of Cerzula’s den.

“Yes.”

“Then we must prepare you for the sacrifice,” the high priest announced, his tone reverent and official. “You must follow us.”

The temple had actually been built into the mountainside, chambers carved into the rock, their entrances sheltered from the elements by thatched wooden lattices. The construct was simple for a place of worship, unlike the ornate design of Hecate’s temple and Zelmis found the ritual pits that edged the entrances, still bearing the bones and ash from the last animal sacrifices, repulsive. They were shallow rock niches, hewn outside of the temple walls for easy access. In a morbid way, Zelmis felt a kinship with the beasts that were victimized to pay homage to Zalmoxis. If he chose not to resist, he would be just another sheep led meekly to the slaughter.

After supping on a bland lentil and cabbage mash, in a chamber whose furnishings were as simple as the temple’s exterior, Zelmis was shuffled into a tiny room of suffocating dimensions. Muka was allowed to join him, for company, along with the four priests who squeezed in with them. They insisted on burning a heavily perfumed incense as they chanted and doused the hunter with a mixture of water and wine that had been blessed specifically for the ritual. The smoke from the incense made Zelmis’s throat burn and his eyes tear up, and left him light-headed.

Muka stayed with him the entire time, enduring the same sufferings. It was the first time since they had been young children that Zelmis had actually welcomed his presence, his mood more subdued than it normally was and his posture more relaxed. He spoke openly with Zelmis, offering him quiet reassurances that Dentys was a warm and charitable woman who truly loved Alina and already considered her one of her own. He also vowed to protect the girl for everything he was worth, and when he could not

be there for her because of his duties as a peltast, she would have multiple older brothers to share the task amongst them. She would live a blessed life, treasured by all.

Zelmis thought he detected both sadness and regret from his normally gruff cousin. Muka didn’t actually want him to die, and as a father, he could understand Zelmis’s reluctance to leave Alina in the hands of people other than him and Iulia. The conversation turned to fonder memories from their childhood and by the time the sun was cresting the horizon the following morning, despite their fatigue and sadness, they were chuckling quietly together. Zelmis wished they could have preserved that sense of camaraderie from their youth into adulthood, but it had been lost with Muka’s condemnation of his cousin for turning away from the family trade and marrying an outsider. All of that was forgiven now, at least until Zelmis would make his desperate move for self-preservation.

The priests left Zelmis to sleep for a few hours, planning for the trip to the Ialomicroaia Cave to begin at noon. After the sun had inched its way high up the sky, he was awoken by one of the few women at the temple, the disciple who would be accompanying him to Kagaion. She clasped a white tunic and leggings in her hand, the former fashioned from lynx pelt and the latter woven from the wool of the mountain sheep that inhabited the area.

“White is the colour of purity,” she explained. “It is the holiest of hues. You will change into these so you can present yourself to Zalmoxis appropriately. I will wait, and when you are done, we will go.” She turned away from him, averting her eyes. Zelmis shed his clothing and scrambled into the garb she had brought him, making sure she did not catch sight of the pouch that contained the scroll for Alina. He would need to have it on him when he made his escape, as he would not be returning to the temple, not even to retrieve his belongings.

Zelmis tried hard not to fidget as he, Muka, the primary high priest, the disciple and two other peltasts made their way a short distance farther up the mountain. He was so nervous that his palms and the back of his neck were coated in sweat, but not for the reason the others would suppose. Panic, that he would not be fast enough to snatch up the weapon in time nor strong enough to wound the living god sufficiently, shook Zelmis to the core. His anxiety made it difficult for him to breathe or swallow.

There was a short plateau where the rock dipped inward and an ornate doorway had been embedded into the stone.

“The Ialomicroaia Cave – this is where we part ways,” Muka said solemnly, clamping a broad hand upon his shoulder. “Go with the gods, cousin. You’ll be in a better place, elevated to a higher status. We will think of you and celebrate your death at this time every year. You’ll be remembered as a hero; we will pray for your blessings.”

After the disciple had opened the door, Zelmis gently shook off Muka’s grasp, moving forward into the tunnel that descended into the cave and Kagaion. The disciple and high priest stepped in after him, barring the door behind them so that there would be no means of escape if the object of sacrifice suddenly panicked and attempted to flee.

Zelmis trembled violently as he moved deeper into the cave and the tunnel gradually opened into the chamber. He wasn’t sure what to expect, meeting Zalmoxis in person, an experience reserved to the god’s high priests, disciples and sacrifices. The god stood atop his altar, hewn into the rock with as

simple a design as his temple on the mountainside. Zalmoxis had never been a lofty god with fanciful designs. His was a raw power.

There was little to distinguish him from an ordinary man, his beard and hair dotted with silver and his brown eyes ablaze with his divine might. Zelmis felt his knees go weak as he looked at the man-god. He steadied them by envisioning his Alina and speaking her name inwardly. This was about her. The heinous thing he was about to do, he told himself, was forgivable because it was for her.

Zelmis noted the three-pronged spear grasped in the god’s hand and a wave of apprehension rushed through him. That would be his weapon, his tool of death if he followed Cerzula’s directions. It was hard to believe that something so ordinary could bring down the living god.

No words passed between Zalmoxis and his followers, the silence of Kagaion considered to be sacred at that special moment. The high priest and disciple braced themselves. This was normally the point where the sacrifice would be seized by fear and attempt to flee, if they did not step up to the god and the altar that would spell their end with a sense of acceptance and calm. When he did not try to run in terror, the disciple urged Zelmis towards the altar, with gentle prodding. He was to lie wordlessly and receive the fatal blow from zuuster, a wormwood club that Zalmoxis would wield. Zelmis watched with tension and reluctance as the man-god set down his spear, in order to take up the club. He gestured for the hunter to lift himself onto the altar in order to complete the ritual.

While Zelmis did not run, nor did he climb docilely onto the altar and expose himself in a prone position to await Zalmoxis’s blow. Instead, he mustered every ounce of courage he had, clinging to his love for his daughter, and remained in place to challenge the god.

“No - I do not wish to do this,” the hunter confessed. “I do not give myself over willingly. This is wrong, demanding sacrifice from people who are not ready to ascend to the heavens, especially when there are those who would gladly stand in my place, voluntarily. I’ve never agreed with the lottery, and I should have voiced my protests long ago, but I was afraid. The opportunity presents itself, and I now have nothing left to lose. Truthfully, I have something very important to live for. I do not want to die, and I won’t go obediently if it is my time.”

While some had tried to run and had been lifted screaming and flailing onto the altar by Zalmoxis’s two followers, this was the first time that anyone had ever had the audacity to speak out against the sacrifice. The silence of the chamber now broken, the high priest cried out in outrage.

“Blasphemer!”

None of the sacrifices before now had ever dared address god directly let alone defy him. They had voiced their terror and reluctance with tears and screams and pleas, but had never stood calmly before Zalmoxis and quietly said “no.”

That was when chaos erupted in the chamber, as the high priest made a grab for Zelmis and the hunter swivelled to seize up Zalmoxis’s spear. The weapon felt very natural in the hunter’s experienced hand and he hoisted it up effortlessly, plunging it into the man-god as easily as he would have penetrated his prey while on the hunt.

The shocked expression on Zalmoxis’s face was suddenly very human, realizing that Zelmis had been aware of his one and only weakness and had stripped him, with one simple act, of his divine invulnerability. The disciple screamed shrilly in horror as she watched her deity slip to the floor, his life blood spilling into the cracks and crevices of the rock. The high priest was paralyzed with disbelief, gaping at the scene and clutching at his chest, making grief-stricken choking sounds.

When the holy man looked over at Zelmis with murder in his eyes, the hunter realized he would have to be prepared to defend himself, or all of this would have been in vain. Not wanting to take the chance that removing the spear from the body of Zalmoxis, the body that jerked and twitched on the floor in its death throes, for fear that this would somehow restore the god, he instead pulled the zuuster from Zalmoxis’s lifeless fingers and swung with all his might as the high priest lunged for him.

The club met the man’s skull with a solid and audible “crunch”, jarring free bits of blood, bone and brain matter. Zelmis was sure he had killed the holy man, not intending to do so, but wanting to assure his escape, especially after the terrible deed had been done, and there was no turning back. The priest dropped to the floor, convulsed for a few seconds, and then went still. His blood began to pool with that of his fallen god in one single, large crimson puddle.

Zelmis turned to seek out the crevice in the rock at the back of the chamber that Cerzula had described to him, fearing that Muka and the other peltast would soon be forcing their way in, in response to the disciple’s screams. He could already hear them calling out with great concern and rattling and banging at the barred door. Zelmis lurched forward but something had him affixed in place, and he went nowhere. He glanced down and found that the disciple, who had been kneeling at Zalmoxis’s side, had grabbed the edge of his blood-soiled tunic and was holding him there with all of her strength.

Zelmis did not want to hurt her, but he also did not have the time to fight. He struck her in the head with the zuuster as well, hoping to only knock her senseless so that she would release him. The amount of force he used, however, was not very well controlled, pumped with adrenaline because of his outburst and his frantic desire to flee. She dropped to the ground like a stone, her body limp and unmoving.

Free from her grasp, Zelmis dashed to the back wall, located the crevice that allowed barely enough room for him to squeeze through and made his escape. From there he ran, avoiding the civilized areas of the temple, the mountain passes and the open plains. He sought out the wilderness instead, the one place that he truly felt comfortable and the place where he would remain until he could return to Gil-Doba and retrieve his Alina.

Considering the guilt he would have to live with because of what he had done, it was a fortunate thing that he had not lingered at Kagaion long enough to watch Muka and the other peltasts finally break through the barred door and rush the chamber. The dead vessels of the high priest and the disciple had already risen, reanimated by their restless souls that could find no release because the only god who could bring that to them was now dead. The coating of blood, a sea of red, disguised the severity of their wounds and the peltasts ignored them, instead frantically focussing their full attention on the fallen god. They crouched over Zalmoxis, mortified by what Zelmis had done and trying to revive the god who was far beyond their reach, his spirit having ascended to the heavens long ago when he had been granted divine status.

The reanimated corpse of the high priest fell viciously upon the stooped and unaware Muka, tearing into the large man’s flesh with tooth and fingernail, the tortured spirit trying desperately to find a way into the living vessel before him. The zombie disciple attacked a second peltast with equal vigour, tooth piercing skin and muscle, and puncturing his jugular as she tore away a sizable morsel of flesh. The third peltast staggered back not sure how to react to the unexpected assault and his comrades desperate struggles. None of his training had prepared him to deal with the walking dead and upon witnessing their violent and incessant onslaught, both his will and morale failed him and he ran screaming from the cave.

When this last surviving peltast finally recovered his senses and his breath, he descended to the temple to warn them of what had happened. But the priests already knew, having felt that connection they had with god dissolve upon his death. They turned the peltast away, the temple now closed to all outsiders as they mourned the loss of Zalmoxis.

The peltast decided his next duty was to inform his king of the terrible happening, but he made the mistake of passing through the army camps on the plains en route to Seuthopolis.

The dead there had already risen and begun massacring the living, slaying whole and wounded soldiers, healers and any holy men or women who had not been faithful enough to heed the summons back to the temple as soon as their god had fallen.

The last peltast never made it back to Seuthopolis, swarmed by the undead upon the plains of Gatae, and eventually joining their ranks.