The Cremation

When the slumbering city heard the rams’ horns blasting after midnight, they figured the late-night revelers were squeezing the last few hours of fun out of the royal wedding day. They had no idea the horns were sounding high alert. It wasn’t until dawn that they awakened to the terrible news. Word of the murder reached Amaal and the family by way of a neighbor who’d heard it from a member of the royal staff.

“It’s a disaster,” Hannu said, pacing the floor. “The gods will be furious when they find out Acerbas—the Melqart!—has been murdered. They’ll throw the city into chaos, and we know what happens next—innocent children die.”

“Calm down, Hannu,” Manu said.

“The Princess, Mom,” he urged. “Don’t you see? The Hyena will try to kill her, too.”

“Keep your opinions to yourself, Hannu, or you’ll get us all into trouble.”

Hannu mumbled a few words and stomped out of the house.

By mid-morning, Pumayyaton had ordered a search for the assassin. He sent his bullies into the streets. They discovered no viable suspects but found cruel delight in harassing a lot of innocent people. The citizens of Tyre weren’t fooled, but even in private conversation, no one dared whisper what they were all thinking: the king was behind the murder of Acerbas.

It was late afternoon when the city gathered again in the market square for a hastily-planned cremation ritual. As High Priestess, Elishat would preside over the ceremony. The same guests who had celebrated together on the previous day greeted one another in hushed tones. Amaal entered the market square with the family. The sight of the rose petals scattered on the stones touched her with sadness, but she was glad that no one had swept them away. In front of the Temple, where the wedding thrones had stood the day before, a funeral pyre, piled high with dried palm fronds and cedarwood had been erected. To the slow, steady boom of a single drum, the temple priests processed down the central aisle carrying the tightly-wrapped body of Acerbas on a plain wooden board. They stopped in front of the temple and carefully slid his body onto the pyre. The people turned away. Many wept. Others whispered that they knew this could happen and should have done more to protect him. Some dared to ask: who would do such a thing? To everyone, the answer was disturbingly clear.

Pumayyaton sat in the royal box surrounded by his henchmen. Amaal watched him from afar. The corner of his mouth twitched as his sister, the high priestess, took her place at the center of the dais. Barca’s lieutenant stood nearby, his dagger at the ready, but Amaal wondered if it would be enough should the King dare to have his sister arrested or even assassinated in broad daylight.

Following mournful prayers and the sacrifice of a ram, Elishat announced the offering of the temple treasure. Pumayyaton sat up in his chair at the chance to set eyes on the riches that had been stashed away by his uncle. In a smoothly scripted incantation, Elishat asked the gods to bless the passing of the Melqart and accept the temple treasure as a gesture of gratitude for his life from the people of Tyre. She prayed that the gods would accept his spirit to live among them. With her ram’s head staff in hand, Elishat directed everyone’s attention to the southern harbor.

The crowd strained to see the ship anchored a good distance away where the sea floor dropped off the coastal ledge, the deepest part of the sea. Few among them had lived long enough to have witnessed the cremation ritual of the previous Melqart, so no one objected as they watched a team of acolytes drop the heavy sacks into the water from the ship’s deck. Amaal glanced at the royal box. Pumayyaton was gripping the arms of his throne. The veins in his neck bulged as he looked furiously from one henchman to the next in search of an explanation. They shook their heads and shrugged. None of them could deny that the sacrifice of the treasure was required in the cremation ritual, and Pumayyaton knew it would be an act of extreme defiance, even for him, to interrupt an offering to the gods. Elishat returned to the dais and gave a nod to the temple priests. They stepped forward with their torches alight and set fire to the pyre. In a great whoosh, the body of Acerbas, the Melqart, was engulfed in flames.

Which was worse, the screams and wailing of the crowd, or the reek of the smoke coming off the funeral pyre, Amaal couldn’t say. People scrambled for the exits, overcome by grief and shaken by fear for what might be coming next. In the rush, Amaal lost track of the family. She stood stock still at the center of the market with chaos swirling around her.

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