Imperialist: The Voyage

Chapter Three; Complaints

As the highest ranking Muslim in the army, Moutassim led his Muslim troops in the morning Salah-al-fajr or prayers every day they spent on campaign. When the sun broke on the camp, it found hundreds of these troops in the middle of tents, praying in perfect choreography.

Moutassim rose up from the sujud position and sat, saying a short prayer before performing the next part of his daily routine. He slowly turned his head to the right, hundreds of other heads following suit and said in Arabic "peace be upon you and the mercy and blessings for Allah." This step was repeated for the left side.

And then it was over. As the multitude rose up and began rolling up their mats, Moutassim looked around. The majority of his troops followed the traditional ancestral worship. But that didn't stop groups of curious troops from gathering to watch the unified prayer. Moutassim spotted Tigrita and sauntered over to her.

"Enjoyed the show?" He asked, standing next to her. The soldiers passed them on their way to breakfast. Many glances were thrown Tigrita's way.

"Most definitely, although it always bothered me." She paused, as though unsure whether to continue.

"Speak freely, please." Moutassim prodded her. 

"Well… here you are, religious and devout. Yet you killed Bremonians by the pile only yesterday."

Moutassim held his sides and laughed.

"And I would do it again and again." He said. "As long as my people are in danger, I will fight to the death. I did not go looking for war. That was King Farouk, filled with sin and envy and greed. But I make no apologies for finishing it."

He waited for her rejoinder, but none came. Looking sheepish, she changed the subject. 

"So… you speak Mathusian. I assume that was Arabic just now. What else?"

"My native Adregan, for one." He replied. "Gendarian, Sieberon. French and a little Spanish."

She laughed and Moutassim found himself smiling as she loosened up.

"And what do you intend to do with all that knowledge?" 

He smiled at that. In truth, Moutassim was close to making up his mind what he would do. It was just a matter of consulting his Chief Minister, his imperial council… and his wife.

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Prince Khalid and his mother sat in one of the finest carriages money could buy, with hundreds of retainers and the remaining Bremonian troops escorting them. Yet they looked a desolate bunch, the loss of their King and the uncertainty surrounding his successor, weighed heavily on them as they travelled.

Khalid looked down at the jewel encrusted bronze chest at his feet. While they had brought chests loaded with gold, silver and jewelry both for them to live on and for Votrek, they kept this chest with them at all times. This chest contained their plan B in case money didn't work. There was no plan C.

"Nervous?" Bethos asked.

"Who wouldn't be?" He replied, as the Sieberon border towers loomed up ahead like giant sentinels. "Let's hope we find Votrek in good humour."

His mind inevitably returned to his father. They had been extremely close. Bethos was a foreigner from European royalty, her fair skin, blue eyes and long, braided blond hair standing out from the swarthy, black haired Arabs of Bremon. Her son had inherited everything from her, even her hair and small stature and would likely have been treated as a foreigner too.