Zoitharzo delenda est

[Zoitharze]

Zoitharzo delenda est - 1

Foreword :

On the southern coast of the vast continent of Kiahau lies a city whose ramparts have stood the test of millennia without ever crumbling. A city of sailors and merchants, dreamers and philosophers, despots and conquerors. A city of the world’s every desire, whose once-delicate cheeks were washed by the salt of its tears and wrinkled by the vivacity of its laughter.

Zoitharze.

Founded over 5,000 years ago by Phoini Zoi I, it became far more than a mere trading post. Goods from across the continent flooded its docks, and so the small port became a great city. The Zoitharzinians united their people and conquered the sea, consolidating their influence and linking the name “Zoitharze” not only to a city but to a nation and an entire territory.

Zoitharze is ancient not only in its culture but also in its institutions. Indeed, following the establishment of the Supreme Council, successive monarchs lost influence, until the Senators decided to dispense with the monarchy altogether, establishing the venerable Zoitharzinian Republic in 910 BCE. The constitution of this republic, drafted that same year, is known as the Charter (Phoiniz phosophthim, the law of the Phoinis). Each year, the wealthiest citizens elect the Senators of the Supreme Council, then the Senators elect the Phoini (literally, judge), and the Phoini appoints a Co-Phoini. It is under the aegis of this illustrious document, amended many times, that countless citizens have been born, lived and died over several millennia.

The honourable republic, however, has not always enjoyed stability. Cursed with a history strewn with pride and ambition, coups d’état and civil wars, the golden freedom of patrician democracy has nevertheless overcome these obstacles. It flourished during the 19th and 20th centuries, as the patricians – a fundamentally urban class – discovered the riches of their country’s very own land : tobacco, rubber, cotton, and so on. The missile crisis and the ensuing conflict, which in 1963 annihilated the powers of the distant continent, also destroyed the national economy. Two groups emerged. The noble Republicans insisted on protectionism and the revitalisation of the old coastal industry, whilst their Liberal opponents emphasised the importance of subsidizing the plantations and finding alternative trading partners.

In 1978, the Republican Azruba Zomil was re-elected by a very narrow majority. In an attempt to reach a compromise with the opposition, Zomil appointed an obscure, rising liberal figure to the Co-Phoini : general Zorfizio Ziaca, head of the Ziacid dynasty. Zomil’s choice proved fatal. Indeed, the Co-Phoini’s fierce opposition to the Republican’s reforms paralysed the institutions, and so the rivalry escalated, with the issue of the trade unions acting as the catalyst. More specifically, Zomil proposed negotiating the legalisation of trade unions, causing a terrible scandal amongst his compatriots. The tension imploded as abruptly as Ziaca’s coup d’état, when he forced a vote on his opponent’s resignation, whilst preventing the Republican senators from entering the Council. After a futile attempt at revolt, Zomil was forced to leave the country. Thus the Ziacids – Zorfizio and then his heir Zamilcar – fastened the Phoinis’ bronze crown upon their illustrious heads.

The reign of the Ziacids was certainly… disciplined, but it was accompanied by exceptional growth from which many patricians benefited. How? Zorfizio called upon the famous “Eurydicea Girls”, a group of Zoitharzinoise economists trained in liberal economics in Eurydicea. The Ziacidian regime was the ideal testing ground due to its absence of trade unions, strikes and social unrest.

The Ziacidians freed the market from the shackles of protectionism. Tax and customs barriers were torn down just as one knocks down a partition to create an open-plan kitchen, praying that the wall in question is not load-bearing. And so, foreign companies showered the Republic with a golden rain, like a drunkard relieving himself in an alleyway. Wealth flowed, f lowed…

And yet, the flow seemed to stop at the patricians, as dissent swelled, swelled… The arrogance of the young Zamilcar did nothing to stem the growing antagonism. On the one hand, the patricians felt power slipping from their grasp, so a fierce opposition, known as the Constitutionalists, organised itself amongst the Senators, seeking to restore the patrician-led parliamentarism. On the other hand, the popular antagonism gave rise to a movement dubbed Zhibrism (from the term zhibri, “to befriend”). From this movement emerged a flamboyant orator : a certain Zadam Zullarco, friend of the dockers, the workers, the peasants.

The first spark flew shortly after Zorifio’s death during the 2020 elections, forcing the young Zamilcar to take the reins. Fearing an electoral defeat, the young general ordered his main opponent – Senator Phrasco Zaphero – to be failed on the elections’ day, rendering his candidacy null and void. Zaphero, freed by a complicit general, declared the election fraudulent : this was the spark. The Republic split between Ziacidians, Constitutionalists and Zhibrists.

After six long years spent washing this guilty land’s damp ground with tears and blood, the Zhibrist troops finally entered the capital on March 3^rd, 2026.

The revolution was victorious.

They lived happily ever after.

Ever after.

Ever after…

Chapter 1 :

Until eternity collapses under the weight of its own contradictions.

Zoitharze, the dreamer, the valiant, the proud, is bogged down in the storm she has he rself stirred up.

This is no crisis, nor even a revolt. It is, rather, a gangrene. A war creeping through the suburbs, seeping into the narrow alleys, corrupting the docks where the salty air mingles with the metallic scent of blood. In the secondary ports, at Zipho, at Zades, barricades abound, bristling with rifles and cannons stolen from the arsenals by officers determined to safeguard their private interests. The old grudges did not disappear after the Revolution; they simply bided their time, lurking beneath the surface, penetrating minds with their greasy tentacles.

And now they return, riding the ill-fated steeds “Rage” and “Vengeance”. The Constitutionalists had never truly fallen silent, lying low in the secondary ports, unsettling the patricians with the fear of expropriation. Those who had once fought the Ziacids under the banner of law and the Republic now saw in Zullarco an even more dangerous tyrant, a Zamilcar of the masses. As for the Ziacidians, fallen monarchs whom a veneer of decency prevents from asserting themselves as such, their supporters were burning the countryside whilst their leaders bided their time in exile, ready to pounce the moment the Republic faltered.

And falter it does.

Zullarco should have foreseen this descent into hell.

He should have taken action.

But he is not one to weather the storm, preferring to bask in the last ray of sunshine before a rogue wave smashes the ship to pieces.

The Phoinery, that illustrious palace where so many Phoinis had reigned, was now the scene of banquets where the laughter of the revolutionary’s new friends and other such last-minute comrades drowned out the cries of protest rising from the streets. Zullarco sat enthroned there, chatting with his brothers-in-arms. “The people got what they wanted”, he said. “They wanted democracy, and we have seized power. Are we not the people ? What more do they want now ?” Zaragoz Monzano, her Co-Phoini and, above all, long-time friend, sited opposite to him, rubbing her temples desperately, muttering : “They want concrete results, Zadam.” Then the revolutionary exclaimed : “Results, but we’re working on them right now ! Come on, Zara, relax.”

And he laughed. He was always laughing. A vulgar laugh with the stench of alcohol on his breath, which he bellowed with every fibre of his being before firmly grasping the ample breast of the prostitute with whom he would spend the night. He laughed as if all this were nothing but a grand spectacle in which he knew himself to be the hero. He laughed at the Senators, at the rabble, at the threats of counter-revolution. Every time Monzano tried to bring him back to reality, he offered him a carefree smile and a glass of liquor.

In reality, she was the one in charge. She was the one who read the reports, summoned the ministers, and worked tirelessly to plug the gaps in the ancient dam of their faltering Republic. As for him ? He enjoyed a throne whose duties he had never truly grasped. He shunned responsibility just as he shunned boredom.

And when he finally realised that the storm was breaking, that the walls were cracking and that the city would not hold out any longer, he took the only decision th at seemed reasonable to him.

- Gone ? What do you mean, “gone” ?

Zaragoz Monzano raises an eyebrow, her gaze still fixed on the report dating from this morning, may 1^st, which she clutches feverishly in her hand. Then she lifts her face, turning to face the assistant once more. The Co-Phoini’s thick, black, curly hair is barely contained by her pale beige cap of Marshal of the Republic’s armed forces.

- Well… begins Mathero Zamira, barely daring to look his superior in the face. His Majesty the Phoini left the country last night aboard the cargo ship L’Escampette. Furthermore…

- Furthermore ?

- Furthermore… The assistant lowers his gaze, terrified of Monzano’s imminent reaction. He fled with the national bank’s gold reser ves.

- Ha. Aha. Bahahah… hah…

A feverish laugh shakes the marshal’s body. Surely, this is a joke. It’s a joke. It must be a joke. It cannot be otherwise. Abandoning one’s own fatherland, pushing it into the abyss, is not the way of things.Monzano scrutinises the assistant’s face intently, then those of the guards stationed outside the office’s door, desperately searching for the slightest twitch of the mouth muscles betraying a suppressed amused smile, the faintest glimmer of hilarity in the depths of their eyes. At any moment, Zadam will spring from behind a pillar, exclaiming : “Surprise ! So, did I give you a fright ? Come on, stop stressing, Zara.”

And yet, nothing. A guilty, pitiful silence, the shameful admission of failure.

Supposedly, there is an explanation. Certainly, he has good reasons. Undoubtedly, Zadam will return to galvanise the people and save the revolution. It cannot be otherwise.

But, of course, this is not the case. Zadam Zullarco will not return. He will galvanise no one, save nothing. He has left as he has always lived : as a spectator of his own lege nd, without ever bearing its weight.

The stifling silence of the cabinet creeps into the marshal’s throat, trickles sluggishly down her trachea, then freezes in her lungs. She would like to scream, spit, and vomit all at once to purge all the revulsion, the rage, the righteous fury that shakes her mind. And yet, Zaragoz is frozen, breathless with the disappointment of a man in whom she had believed so much, in whom so many had believed so much. True, Zadam had always been cynical and nonchalant, but his sharp sarcasm had always taken on the air of rebellion. Monzano can still picture them, the both of them, in the cellar of some shabby café, sharing a bottle of cheap “ardent water” as they map out the future amidst the curling smoke of hemp-laced tobacco. Her memories are regularly interrupted by darker thoughts, by the venge ful fantasy of strangling her friend.

Monzano’s migraine is getting worse. What of their plans, of the nation they would have rebuilt together ? Does he not give a damn about their country ? Has he never given a damn about their friendship ? But what friendship ? A growing, obscene mass of ever more ominous visions rages within her skull, begging to be torn free, imploring to be expressed not through words but through action. “Shatter your illusions, Zara”, growls the marshal. “You offered him your fr iendship : he wiped his arse with it.”

With a sharp movement, Monzano hurls the document into the hearth. It is quickly joined by various books, maps, paintings, anything and everything. The Republic is burning to the ground, so what does it matter ? What’s a bit more chao s when you’ve already hit rock bottom ?

The assistant, helpless, curled up on the floor, stares in horror at his superior’s devastating fury. The Marshal, panting, has finally calmed down under the weight of the task ahead. The crushing reality has just snuffed out her ardour. Leaning with one arm on the overturned desk, the new Phoini orders , her voice low yet terrifyingly clear :

- Round up what remains of the Republican Army. Arre st the Senators. Prepare for martial law.

The assistant nods obstinately, before rushing out of the office. Monzano turns around, rolls up the sleeves of her uniform and leans against the open window. Then she takes out her packet of cigarettes, pulls one out, taps it against her palm and lights it. With every puff, Zara goz feels the burden of duty grow heavier.

In the distance, the sound of waves crashing against the sleeping boats offers a peaceful spectacle. The eternal city bustles quietly, yet one can make out the somewhat uneven fo otsteps of soldiers leaving their barracks.

- What a tranquil bustle… murmurs Monzano as a wisp of smoke drifts from her lips. “May the go ds forgive me, for I cannot forgive myself.”

The hunt is on. What are they hunting ? Senatorial vermin. No sooner had the order been given by the new Phoini than thousands of soldiers marched towards the sumptuous patrician villas. The last rays of a dying sun crash against the stoic façades of the illustrious buildings, resplendent in the colours of the fire against the backdrop of a waning moon. Behind the carved doors and brocade curtains, entire fa mil i es hold their breath. They know. The y wait.

The verdict will soon be delivered.

In the drawing room of an opulent residence, Phrasco Zaphero gazes at the central fountain where a white lily floats. He can already hear the pounding of boots on the marble. His wife, Alzia, is holding their son close – a boy of barely eleven, trembling and so bbing.

- Phrasco, we must flee, she whispers.

Zaphero offers nothing but a bitter smile in reply. Flee ? Like a frightened dog ? The idea repulses him as much as it tempts him. He has already escaped execution once, when the arrogant Zamilcar tried to silence him. This time, the net closing in on him seems even more dangerous. He turns to his family, strokes his son’s face, then places a comforting hand on his wife’s shoulder.

- Take him, Alzia. Go out through the gardens, seek refuge in Zipho. They need figures, symbols, shocking tales of persecution. I am but a corpse on borrowed time, and the just cause of Constitutionalism needs martyrs.

Alzia’s mouth has barely begun to open when she resigns herself to it. Their union is rare among the patricians for the mutual love of the couple, in a milieu where marriage is above all a political and financial tool. The patrician’s gentle brown eyes, together with her delicate smile, form an expression of wise pride. When he had asked for her hand, twenty-five years ago, she knew that his fight for the Republic’s illustrious freedom would always be his priority. One last embrace, one last glance – the kind one gives before meeting again in heaven – and off she goes with the child.

The wait is crushing Phrasco. He hesitates to surrender, but the fear of being executed leaves him frozen to the spot. At last, footsteps draw nearer. The doors burst open. Soldiers storm into the central room, pointing their assault rifles at the Senator. Phrasco immediately raises his hands. He refuses to be dragged away on his knees like a criminal, ju st as Zullarco dragged the Republic through the mud.

- Gentlemen, I shall not waste your time on futile childishness. I am fully aware that my opinion matters l itt l e to your superiors, nor indeed to Phoini Zul l arco.

- Senator Phrasco Zapher o ? asks a corporal.

- That is indeed me, young man.

- You are under arrest for “counter-rev olutionary activities”, on the orders of Phoini Monzano.

- Surely, yo ung man, you are confusing her with His Majesty Zullarco.

- Not at all, Senator. For reasons as yet unknown, Zadam Zullarco has resigned from his post. As per the Constitution, Her Ma jesty Monzano is therefore indeed our new Phoini, Senator.

The silence thickened, weighing like a shroud upon Phrasco Zaphero’s shoulders. He did not stir; not a muscle betrayed his unease. Zullarco, the carefree one, the drunkard, the utopian… gone, like a fleeting shadow erased by the dawn of an even more terrible storm. But Monzano… Monzano, she, has remained. Not only remained, but crowned, placed at the helm of the ship in the midst of the storm.Here is a woman who will not let the Republic go down without carving her initia ls into it.

- We have orders to take you to her, Senator.

His eyes light up with a brighter gleam, as if he had just glimpsed a slender thread in the labyrinth of Zoitharzinian politics. A chance, perhaps. An opport unity, surely. Phrasco nods slowly before lowering his hands.

- We ll then, there’s no point keeping the Phoini waiting, is there ?

His tone is almost cordial, tinged with calculated resignation. Two soldiers immediately flank him, their grip firm but not brutal. He casts a final glance at the pond, where the white lily drifts gently, indifferent to the chaos devouring the Republic.

Night has fallen when Phrasco is ushered into the grand chamber of the Phoinery. The lingering smell of tobacco struggles to mask the unbearable scent of books, paintings, and many other treasures, burning in the ravenous hearth. Leaning against the window, Zaragoz Monzano awaits him, looking weary, her gaze mesmerised by the long, agonising massacre of the city’s lights under the curfew. The flames in the fireplace cast her elongated shadow onto the wall to her left. Her large, towering frame dominates the roo m, typical of the “northern giants” thinks the aging politician.

Phrasco advances with measured steps . No chains, no humiliation. A simple audience, at least for now.

- Senator Zaphero, begins Monzano, her hoarse voice betraying exhaustion, as well as heavy tobacco use. You’ve always had a certain knack for survival, like a reptile slithering through the shadows, shunning the Sun’s righteous radiance.

- I am but a humble servant of the Republic, he replies with the haughty modesty of would-be martyrs. A mocking sneer briefly twists Monzano’s lips.

- Spare me the empty platitudes, Z aphero. We both know the Republic has never been much of a republic.

- Far more so than it is now, Phoini. But tell me, what place do you have in store for me in this new era ? A damp cell ? A firing squ ad ?

Monzano turns slightly, the left side of her face now visible.

- You are clever, Senator. Too clever, perhaps, for your own good. Your supporters are scattered, but still influential, especially in the eastern coast. If I kill you, I make a martyr of you. If I lock you away, you become a symbol.

- And if you leave me free, you gain an adversary, he concludes. In short, it is better to deal with me immediately, Your Majesty.

A silence falls, broken only by the tapping of Monzano’s fingernails on the window frame. Then she turns fully round, her forearms resting against the windowsill, a cigarette clamped in the corner of her mouth.

- No. I have a better idea. We may be enemies, but we have an even more dangerous common enemy. The Ziacides are just waiting for a misstep to return in force. Zamilcar and all his parasites a re lurking, waiting…

Zaphero raises an eyebrow, completely taken aback.

- Are you asking me to collaborate ?

- I am offering you the opportunity to collaborate, corrects Monzano. You remain under my supervision, but free. You will join the Central Committee that I am about to establish. You will have a voice, influence, and in return, you will help me keep this country together until order is restored.

- And if I refuse ?

Monzano doesn’t flinch, but behind her stiff expression simmers a relentless severity that would love to shoot every single patrician.

- Then, begins the Phoini, you’ll have plenty of time to reflect on your mistake in a cell far less comfortable than this office, in those tiny isolation cells that drive the clever ones madly alone, desperately alone.

Phrasco takes a deep breath, weighing every word, every implication. He has always fantasised about the return of fundamental freedoms, but the radical demands of the Zhibrists – ranging from universal suffrage to the redistribution of wealth – had always led him to refuse any form of alliance with them. To accept the ultimatum would be to betray the very foundations of the Republic ! And yet, the fear of a painful agony, coupled with the irresistible allure of immediate access to some power, drives him towards a temptation he never knew he was capable of feeling until now. Finally, he bows slightly.

- Very well, then. For the Republic. For order.

Monzano nods, a fleeting sense of calm lighting up her face. Zullarco has ruined everything, but perhaps, eventually, thr ough sheer effort and small steps forward, life may become a little less miserable.

[Zoitharze]

Chapter 2 :

The heavy ebony doors slam shut with a dull thud, shaking the palace’s thick stone walls. The moon is divided into neat squares, carefully sliced by the windows, before settling upon the long table in a fantastical glow that lends a fairy-like aura to the dust particles floating in the air. Indeed, in order to minimise the usual costs of public buildings, the electric chandeliers and other lighting have been switched off, plunging the entire palace into a twilight occasionally pierced by the glow of a candle. Fortunately, the five figures around the table, despite some initial grumbling, have grown accustomed to the faint intensity of the moonlight. Hostile, furtive glances are exchanged between the previous day’s adversaries, whilst the incessant murmur of whispered conversations, amplified tenfold by the surreal silence of the night, filled the room. Zaragoz Monzano takes her seat at the head of the table, her impeccable uniform contrasting with the exhaustion etched into her features.

- Ladies and gentlemen, you have been summoned here to save the Republic, she begins. All she receives in response is a jumbled mix of sniggers, coughs and wary glances.

- Well, what’s left of it… mutters General Rhamilco Zakar, standing stiff as a board. Adored by his men, he had initially collaborated with Zamilcar out of a desire for the ideal of the benevolent leader. However, his ardent populism was suddenly quashed by Zamilcar, when the latter aligned his economic vision directly with that of his father. At the time, the general had actively collaborated with the Constitutionalists, notably freeing Phrasco Zaphero, before betraying his new camp in the midst of the civil war, disillusioned by the elitism of his allies. Since then, Zakar has been seen as a sort of political pariah, a colourless chameleon, grudgingly tolerated by the Zhibrist leadership solely for the sheer numbers and loyalty of his men.

- Don’t play the disillusioned one, General, retorts Zezia Thilla. A former labourer from the southern plantations, she had earned the nickname “the Passionate One” after leading a peasant revolt. You’ve always had a foot in both camps, ready to side with the victor, she accuses. Typical of the armed forces, crushing the opposition of the powerful.
Zakar clenches his jaw.

- My only side is the people ! I have always fought for a strong, proud republic ! certainly, but also a magnanimous one, elevating the human condition !
Another cough is heard, more restrained. At the other end of the table, Phrasco Zaphero crosses his arms.

- I see we are being bribed with cups of wine, he says coldly, gesturing towards the vessels placed before each guest. I dare hope, Your Majesty, that you have not wasted the opportunity to poison me.

- If I’d wanted to kill you, you wouldn’t be sitting there, replies Monzano, leaning back in her chair.

- Charming. But tell me, Phoini, why should I believe that this Committee is not simply a charade designed to give the illusion of collective decision-making whilst you concentrate all power in your own hands ?

The words are hurled like an affront, a provocation, a spit in the face of the noble cause of the revolution. Thilla implodes with sudden rage.

- Oh, stop your theatrics, Zaphero. Your dear senators have betrayed the Republic more often than they have served it. You claim to defend civil liberties whilst rejecting any measure that threatens your repugnant little oligarchy.

- And yet, begins Zaphero, a joyless smile on his lips, you need us. You, Monzano, and you, the Zhibrists. Because without us, you have no experience of governance. We know full well, Your Majesty, that even a tyrant requires subordinates. Fortunately, Monzano, you are hardly a tyrant.

A sneering smile crosses his face.

- You seem particularly loud for a parasite, Senator, the general grumbles in the direction of the Constitutionalist.

- We cannot afford such squabbles, the Marshal cuts in, interrupting the heated debate. The Ziacids are waiting for our first misstep. The other ports are rising up. If we carry on playing the fools, in six months’ time, the Republic will be a thing of the past.

A heavy silence falls. No one dares deny the cruelty of the fate Zamilcar has in store for them. Zaphero finally sits up straight, his fingers drumming on the table.

- Very well. Let’s say we play along. How will this “Central Committee” work ?
Monzano produces a document, hastily written but bearing the seal of the Republic.

- Five members, as you know. You, Senator, General Zakar, Miss Thilla, not forgetting Co-Phoini Zaphonizba and myself. Every decision must therefore secure at least three votes.

- An absolute majority ? interrupts Zaphero. And if we’re all opposed ?

- Then we do nothing, replies Monzano. And if we do nothing, we perish.
A shiver runs through the room. As a thousand delightful ideas race through his mind, Zaphero is already imagining how he will furnish the Phoini’s office once he attains that position. After lengthy deliberations, Zakar takes a deep breath.

- We need a vote. Who accepts these conditions ?

They exchange uneasy glances. Slowly, one by one, the Committee members raise their hands. Some do so reluctantly. All with caution. Few trust anyone, but they know they have no choice. Zaphero gives in last, barely daring to raise his arm, as if afraid that his wife, watching from afar, might see him betraying the values he has always proudly upheld.

- Very well, Monzano continues. The meeting is adjourned. I want to see every one of you - and I choose my words carefully - tomorrow at 6 am in this room. We shall discuss the political and economic reforms to be adopted, the military strategy we shall employ, and the suppression of popular discontent. Remember, ladies and gentlemen, that we are doing this for the common good. The people do not yet realise it, but they will thank us.

A murmuring of doubt ripples faintly through the small assembly, but the Marshal remains unmoved.

- Make the most of your five hours’ sleep, she concludes, for you will likely have less next time. Good night.

One by one, the members of the Central Committee file out of the opulent meeting room with the slowness of a funeral procession.

Chapter 3 :

The pale light of early morning filters through the half-closed shutters, casting flickering bands of light across the interior of the modest zoitharzinian flat. In the main bedroom, Thario slowly opens his eyes, stretching beneath the light, coarse sheets. Beside him, his wife Pherina is still asleep, breathing peacefully despite the events of the previous day. He lies still for a moment, listening to the unusual silence of the street. Ordinarily, at this hour, merchants shout out their prices, labourers make their way down to the docks, and carefree children play on the cobblestones. This morning, only a few footsteps echo, too regular to be reassuring, and a heavy silence hangs in the air.
He gets up and runs a hand through his tousled black hair, then walks over to the window. As he half-opens the shutters, he sees what he fears: military patrols are sweeping the streets, rifles slung over their shoulders, their faces impassive… martial law ?!

- Thario ? murmurs Pherina, stretching.

- Wake the children, he says simply.

She can tell from his tone that this is no ordinary morning. In the cramped kitchen, their eighteen-year-old son Zahro and their six-year-old daughter Ismarha settle around the worn wooden table whilst Pherina prepares chojims, small savoury corn-based buns, to go with their morning cocoa. Inflation under the Ziacidian regime had already eroded the purchasing power of middle-income families, and the civil war has only made matters worse.
Thario switches on the small television sitting on the sideboard. The picture flickers for a moment before settling on a morning programme where a presenter in a greyish suit reads out the day’s weather forecast in a dreary voice. But just as Zahro dips a piece of bread into his milk, the screen suddenly goes blank. A heavy silence descends. Then a new image appears. A familiar figure takes centre stage on the screen : Zaragoz Monzano. She is wearing her marshal’s uniform, her face marked by the gravity of the moment. Behind her, the flag of the Zoitharzinian Republic stands motionless, flanked on either side by uniformed guards.

- Citizens of Zoitharze…

Her voice is calm, measured, but her gaze burns with relentless intensity. She draws upon all the solemnity in the world - which is, in truth, very little - to summon the courage to announce the start of several years of deprivation and oppression, crossing her fingers that the citizens will accept it without batting an eyelid.

- It is my duty to tell you the truth. Phoini Zullarco has betrayed the Republic. He fled the country last night, taking the National Bank’s gold reserves with him, leaving us defenceless against external threats.

A gasp of shock catches in Pherina’s throat. Thario, for his part, grits his teeth. He was never a staunch supporter of Zullarco, but, like many others, he believed in his promises of a better future after the fall of the Ziacids. Is he really a traitor ? Or is Monzano lying to consolidate her own power ?

- In these troubled times, it is imperative that we remain united. Martial law has been declared to protect our nation from external enemies and agents of Zamilcar who are plotting to enslave us once more. I know these measures are difficult. I know your lives will be turned upside down.

Her tone grows more solemn, giving the impression that the nation’s thousands-years history has just collapsed onto the Phoini’s broad shoulders.

- I cannot promise you stability. I cannot promise you peace. I cannot even promise you that a flickering light awaits us at the end of the dark tunnel through which our people have been wandering painfully for far too long. But I promise you this : I will not abandon you. I will bear the burden of this Republic ; I will defend it at all costs.

At times, I shall impose measures upon you that you will deem harsh, arbitrary, cruel, despotic - the first example of which is this martial law. Surely, you will hate me with all your heart, with all your mind. Your very being will burn with the fervent desire to see me torn apart by a raging mob, and I shall do nothing to quell that feeling, for it is legitimate. I shall not beg for your love, nor for your respect, but simply for your patience. The patience of a people betrayed, deceived, torn apart by internal strife and broken promises. The patience of a people who have seen their future crumble in the hands of weak or corrupt men. The patience of a people whose blood has too often been shed for misguided causes, for sacrificed ideals, for illusory victories.

I am not asking you to believe in me. I am neither a prophetess nor a heroine. I will sell you neither dreams nor false hope. But I urge you to believe in what we can achieve together. To believe that this Republic, which today is but a smouldering body upon which it is still possible to lie and breathe life back into it, if we have the courage to bear the sacrifices that this entails.

Some of you, no doubt, still harbour the fantasy of the return of the Ziacids, of an ancient order restored, of a strong hand ruling unchallenged. To those, I say : look where the greed of those tyrants has led us, their contempt for the people, their boundless avarice. Look at the price we have paid to rid ourselves of them. Open your eyes and see that the past will not save us.

Others among you wonder whether the Revolution was nothing but a vain mirage, whether Zullarco, by his departure, has not signed the death warrant of the ideal for which so many fought and died. To those, I say : the Revolution is not the work of a single man. It did not die with his flight. It still breathes, still lives, as long as there remains a single Zoitharzian to claim it as their own. I claim it as my own, as do so many other proud compatriots ! But if we want this Revolution not to be yet another tragedy in the history of our people, then we must learn from its mistakes.

The time for divisions, factional squabbles and fruitless revenge is over. The time has come to build, to restore, to strengthen what we have fought so hard to achieve. The time has come to set aside personal ambitions and think only of the survival of the Republic. I will not be gentle. I will not be merciful. But I will be loyal.

To those who seek to plunge us into chaos, who dream of seeing this endeavour fail, who believe their own interests outweigh those of the entire people, know this : I shall fight you with the same determination with which I fought the Ziacids. Martial law is not an end in itself, but a tool - terrible and insatiable. It will be as relentless as necessary, and it will only be lifted when our Republic is strong enough to finally stand firm.

It will be neither easy nor quick. We will have to suffer before we see the light again. But if we stand firm, if we refuse to give in, then perhaps, one day, Zoitharze will finally be able to become what it has always aspired to be : a strong, proud, free nation.

Long live the Republic ! Long live Zoitharze !

The broadcast ends abruptly with an image of the national flag fluttering in the wind. A heavy silence hangs over the family. Zahro casts a worried glance at his father.

- Dad… is it true ? Do you think the new Phoini is sincere ?

Thario takes a deep breath before replying :

- What I know, my son, is that we must always be wary of those who promise to control everything for our own good.

Ismara clutches her amulet between her hand and her collarbones.

- We’ll be all right, Mum ? Won’t we ?

Pherina gently strokes her hair.

- Yes, my darling. We’ll just have to be careful.

Thario places a hand over his wife’s and nods. In a single glance, several years of civil war unfold. The image of the initial mutinous soldiers, led by young, idealistic officers whose eyes burned with an intense desire for freedom, is quickly replaced by the more grim memory of the eye of the storm. Following Zamilcar’s victory over the few constitutionalist troops, the Plaza of the Phoinery and the surrounding streets were littered with some twenty human corpses, interspersed with whinnying horses lying flat on the ground, whilst a few tanks and artillery pieces were still belching out a whitish, powdery smoke. Zamilcar had believed the battle was won, but reports of uprisings began to mount. So, the Phoini, once again, ordered the people to believe in him. The propaganda was, however, less subtle, for Zamilcar saw himself as the very embodiment of the Zoitharzinian nation. What the Ziacid lacked in sincerity, he made up for in dramatic patriotic fervour, piercing the mind through and through and squeezing the heart between fingers hardened by military practice.

- Hearing the sizzling sound of the chojims in the oil grow louder, Pherina stands up to distributes them. The two children and the adult thank her quietly. The four of them nibble timidly at their breakfast as the weather forecast resumes.

As the meal draws to a close, Thario rises from his seat, walks towards the windows and looks out onto the street. A few curious heads have finally emerged, drawn outside by the need to carry on with life despite the trials to come, and are met by the soldiers’ nonchalant, by no means hostile, glances.

- After all, Thario murmurs, flashing a reassuring smile at Pherina, the soldiers aren’t going to just start firing into the crowd for funsies. Well, not without a protest, he adds with a brief chuckle that fails to convince her.

After finishing their snack, everyone gathers their belongings before leaving the flat. The corridors, lit only by small wall lamps, are regularly plunged into total darkness during the frequent power cuts in the modest neighbourhoods of the sprawling city. As they step out of the building, their eyes are assaulted by the sudden sunlight, forcing them to raise a hand to their foreheads, or pull down their caps, to shield themselves. Two soldiers, accompanied by a police officer, are standing on the street corner, leaning against a lamppost.

Thario, Pherina and Zahro kiss each other goodbye before mounting their respective bicycles and setting off in different directions : to the docks, the textile mills and the high school, respectively. After dropping little Ismara off at the local temple, her father cycles at full speed towards the harbour. The white stone buildings are almost immaculate despite the grime of the port district, so much so that they seem to glisten in the morning sun like an ocean of reflections. As the slope leading down to the docks becomes steeper, the bike begins to bounce dangerously over the ancient cobblestones, forcing Thario to keep his weight evenly on the pedals to avoid any contact with the saddle, whose violent, rapid and constant up-and-down movement threatens to strike the family man’s backside. With the exception of convoys of lorries on the main boulevards, the roads leading to the port are free of motor vehicles, so the main danger lies mainly in the throng of employees cycling to work. Seized by a fearful impatience, some hundred thousand dockers, sailors, accountants, merchants, foremen, technicians, and so on, pour into the port like the particles of a single primordial mass which, endowed with consciousness, seeks to regain its unity. What is it that frightens them ? The fear of a fatal delay that could cost them their jobs. Indeed, the megalopolis, with its 104 million inhabitants spread across an area larger than some nations, has no shortage of poor souls scouring the backstreets in search of precarious work.

Thario emerges from the narrow streets, turning left onto Avenue of the Republic, a vast boulevard which, still imposing today solely by its sheer length and width, must have radiated even more arrogance when it was built, over a millennium ago. The avenue begins at the foot of the Phoinery, winding its way downhill to end its course with a dip into the sea amidst the cargo ships. The morning sun, still bearable, warms the backs of the workers, whose endless shadows stretch across the tarmac. After several long minutes of weaving between the lorries, the father’s nostrils are finally assaulted by the lingering stench of salt water mixed with waste oil and petrol, whose irresistibly foul fumes stun the many passers-by. Dozens of colossal container ships are moored along the quays, loading or unloading vast quantities of goods from every continent and every sea. Due to a certain degree of negligence, as well as an overabundance of manpower, it is still the dockers who, by sheer physical strength alone, carry a large proportion of the goods to the lorries.

Thario parks his bicycle in the small area set aside for that purpose before heading towards the port’s administrative office. Indeed, the educational reforms of the Ziacidian era enabled Thario to master arithmetic. As a procurement accountant, his role is to order all the supplies needed by the ships for their next voyage, from food rations to medical equipment and tools. As he prepares to push open the double wooden doors of the white stone building weathered by the sea, the family man takes one last look at the dockworkers, who arrived shortly before him. Carrying sacks of concrete powder on their shoulders, the labourers - clearly not members of the UFW - are sweating profusely despite the mild morning temperature. The sacks, poorly sealed, let out a fine dust which, mixing with the sweat, turns the droplets into a multitude of opaque, cracked diamonds. A thought then crosses the accountant’s mind : a feeling of compassion, of pity, naturally, but also, unconsciously, deep within his psyche, the sweet, selfish relief that there is always, somewhere, someone more wretched than oneself.

[Zoitharze]

Chapter 4 :

The Ministry of Faith, Sacrifices and Feline Healthcare is a purely Zoitharzinian curiosity whose unusual name might bewilder the foreign observer. Built between 498 and 563 AC, the ministry is a building of large, finely cut whitish stones whose floors, narrower at the top than at the base, lend it the appearance of a stepped pyramid. Situated on a hill in the eastern suburbs of the capital, the ministry stands as an immaculate island upon a vast grey sea: the Mathero Zamaz district. Renamed after the famous industrialist of the previous century, it blurs into the clouds of fine dust lavishly expectorated by the far too numerous cement factories, drawn in by the rich calcareous soil like pigs charging at a truffle. Furthermore, the proximity of a small watercourse had for a time allowed industrialists to discharge their wastewater directly: a mixture of cement particles, processing liquids and microplastic fibres. However, the indolent current proved unable to carry the cement out to sea, and it accumulated until it overflowed regularly during periods of heavy rainfall. It was only after the winter of 2011, when most of the Zamaz district was flooded, that the milky river Kajkoj - meaning dark blue - was unblocked. Since then, the cement-makers, much to their displeasure, have been forced to drive two kilometres to discharge their waters directly into the sea. Officially, at least.

Such is the dreadful picture that greets Zaragoz Monzano as the phoinerin saloon car - a rectangular model from the eighties - pulls up alongside the quay. Having stepped out of the vehicle, the marshal could not help but cast a glance over the metal railing, slightly rusted. The Kajkoj flows laboriously, painfully, weighed down by the occasional illegal discharge. Along its banks, cement accumulates in a viscous, pale beige, clay-like sludge upon which rests a thin whitish foam. A fine film of scum flecks the surface, while the more fluid portions of the liquid appear to shimmer with iridescent reflections. As she leans over the river, the fumes desecrate her nostrils : first, a certain chemical sweetness, like a textile detergent, immediately followed by brutal alkaline fragrances akin to lime. Her face betraying manifest revulsion, the marshal raises her gaze. On the opposite quay, whose concrete is coated in a whitish layer of solidified cement, a cement mixer is discharging its contents onto the ground, which then flows down the retaining wall to come to rest in the Kajkoj. Monzano turns around, now facing the small ministerial hill, whose once-rounded edges were nibbled away to make room for a cinder block factory and a concrete plant. She recalls the scandal that had shaken the republic when a foreign industrialist had remarked that the ministry’s hill would make excellent cement.

- Thank you, Phazeo. Please wait for me here, she says to her driver before approaching the carriageway. Aside from the incessant noise of industry, the Zamaz district shows no sign of life but a handful of cement mixers and other heavy goods vehicles whose ponderous loads crack the road’s surface. In the middle of the afternoon, when the workers are toiling away, this comes as no surprise. Having let pass a semi-trailer whose skip, laden with rubble, leaves a fine dust in its wake upon the tarmac, the marshal crosses the street, leaving footprints in the calcareous powder. Once on the opposite pavement, Monzano cannot help but pause to take in the full measure of the 245 steps awaiting her before she reaches the hilltop, 158 metres above. The Phoini, of robust constitution, nevertheless manages to climb the entire long staircase at a brisk trot that impresses the minister posted at the top, more accustomed to portly old men.

- It is an honour, O Majesty, to receive you at last, exclaims the minister, Zashmi Phago, before prostrating herself before the Phoini. Quite unaccustomed to such a degree of deference, Monzano mumbles :

- Well, it is, hm, a pleasure, Madam Minister. You may rise, she adds after a pause. Between the two women, the sartorial contrast is striking. Unlike the marshal’s stiff beige uniform, Phago wears a red and yellow tunic belted by a brown strap braided with white geometric motifs. Behind her floats a purple cape that splits into seven strips at the level of the liver. Her forearms are covered in long, tubular copper bracelets. Finally, her headdress consists of a wide helmet of dark wood engraved with the eye of Zaniph and adorned with multiple quetzal feathers in a polychromatic firework display. The two stateswomen walk at a leisurely pace until they settle on a stone bench, just to the left of the gargantuan doors of the Ministry of Faith.

- You wished to see me then, O Majesty ?

- That is so, yes, replies Monzano with a start, pulled from her attentive study of her interlocutor’s attire. It is certainly not the first time she has seen the uniform — the Minister of Faith’s appearances during the country’s many religious festivities are very frequently broadcast in the media — but this rainbow radiates all the more brightly without an intermediary. As you know, she resumes, we find ourselves in a critical financial situation. The State must cut the fat, down to scraping the bone and sucking the marrow. This unfortunately includes religious celebrations.

- Surely, O Majesty, you cannot be serious ? the high priestess objects with dignified indignation. Her soft hands, rubbing against each other in an anxious gesture, bespeak a life without toil. Indeed, for several millennia, the high priests have almost invariably been the younger children of minor patricians whose fortune is too modest to be divided among their heirs.

- I am perfectly serious, Madam Minister. As Phoini, and therefore head of the Zeshmáazist faith, my directives take precedence over those of the ministry. When the patricians abolished the monarchy in 910 BC, following the vain autocratic aspirations of the last hereditary Phoini, they very clearly reaffirmed, as stipulated in the constitution, the absolute primacy of the head of state in our national faith. Furthermore, I would remind you that the unofficial autonomy of the Ministry of Faith, granted to allow the rest of the government to attend to practical, earthly matters, carries no constitutional guarantee. That is why, Madam Minister, I expect your absolute compliance with the values and objectives of the revolutionary government.

Gradually, the marshal’s tone has grown colder, sharper, betraying her hostility towards the machinations of the Ministry of Faith’s small elite. Jealously guarding their esoteric knowledge, the high priests - and more particularly the high priestesses of Zaniph - constitute a small caste apart, into which one cannot gain entry without an internal contact. Zashmi Phago has taken care to preserve this image. At seventy-one years of age, she is a consummate political chameleon. Appointed by the dictator Zorfizio shortly before his death, she had skilfully navigated both the erratic reign of terror of the despot’s heir and the revolution that followed, championing the strict neutrality of the Ministry of Faith. The high priestess hesitates at length, her obsequious expression now discomfited. Her gaze evasive, she finally resolves to answer with a forced smile:

- Very well, O Majesty, we shall follow your directives. But on one condition only. As you know, our fellow citizens expect a great deal from the very imminent celebration of Zaniph, at the summer solstice. We cannot in all decency deprive them of the opportunity to court the favour of our solar deity.

Monzano grumbles.

- Oh, I understand your reluctance, O Majesty. The rumours are therefore true.

- I beg your pardon ? the marshal says sharply, already knowing the answer and daring the minister to continue.

- It is said that your late mother, coming from the hinterland, was a priestess of Phizothem, goddess of floods, sorrow, but also of rain, rivers and the hope of renewal. Do not be so enraged, O Majesty - it is not in the least illegal to venerate the lesser gods. It is even popular in the remoter, less modern, some would say “less civilized”, regions of our Republic.

- I’d ask you to stop. Immediately, breathes the Phoini through clenched teeth. My mother was an honourable woman who never denied the primacy of Zaniph within the national pantheon. The visions of the North and South are equally valid, one as much as the other, and I intend to favour neither version.

- Very well, O Majesty. This emphasis on unity does you credit, concedes the minister. Heavily influenced by the cythereanist missionaries who came from Eurydicea in the 14th century, the southern clergy had gradually elevated Zaniph to the rank of absolute Queen of the gods, the latter relegated to the position of servants. The rural clergy, a minority, for their part retained the archaic vision of Zaniph as first among equals. At the heart of the centres of power, the southern priesthood truncated the official dogma to their own advantage, at times pressing the central authority into repressing the “heretics of the North,” nicknamed the Old Believers, or Archaists. Although the Zoitharzinian Old Believers have been tolerated for more than two centuries, theological and ritualistic disagreements, along with covert discrimination and a certain contempt from the high priestesses of Zaniph, continue to fuel tensions. The priestess continues, her tone ever more honeyed :

- I believe I know, O Majesty, that you harbour a profound… Let us say disdain, you harbour a certain disdain for our worthy patricians.

- That is a very watered-down formulation, but indeed.

- So be it, I grant you that. Here is my idea which, I believe, O Majesty, will please you. The Ministry could replace its public funding with private donations.

The marshal raises an eyebrow, intrigued.

- By “private”, you mean…

- Of patrician origin, that is correct. Despite some initial grumbling, the pressure of their peers will tell. They will end up applauding the enlightened parsimony of your governance.

Monzano, watched with insistence by Phago, was struck by the singular platinum green of her irises. With her discreet nose, her near-absent lips and her long, narrow chin, the high priestess’s face suddenly appeared to her like the head, seen from above, of those vine snakes infesting the equatorial forests.

- We could thus preserve the celebrations for all the gods.

- That is exactly so, O Majesty ! she confirms with a servile enthusiasm that exasperates the Phoini. This private funding would also cover the management of the feline population which, brave representatives of Zaniph, continues to grow and thus to drain the public finances. We could even, murmurs the Minister, make available small offerings for the needy, so that they too may attract divine favour.

The priestess piles proposal upon proposal, each more enticing than the last, closing in on her interlocutor after the fashion of those fairground mediums. Seized by a feeling of vertigo, Monzano leans against the smooth wall to collect herself: the Ministry’s all-too-obvious opportunism has just landed a straight right to her liver. And yet… To claim such an ally, however unreliable, presents obvious advantages. Having straightened herself, Monzano raises her hand in a gesture commanding her subordinate to be silent.

- You have convinced me. Our government will gladly work with the Ministry of Faith. Then, anticipating Phago’s question, she adds: I am willing to let you retain your position.

In a movement she believed discreet, the high priestess relaxes her features, relieved. Then she resumes her obsequious expression, which she inaugurates by rising from the bench to perform an excessively deep curtsy. Lucky her headdress is fastened, otherwise it would have been even more embarrassing, thinks the Phoini with a discomfort she struggles to conceal.

- Very well, Madam Minister, Monzano concludes, rising to her feet. Hm, you may rise, she indicates with an irritated unease to the high priestess. It is most gratifying, but there is no need to smother me in quite so much affability. I am not a Ziacid, after all.

- I beg you most sincerely to forgive me, O Majesty, for having given you the vile impression of treating you like those wretched tyrants.

- No such thing, let us move on. I thank you for your time, Madam Minister. Good day.

The high priestess heaps one final curtsy upon the Phoini before watching, eyes fixed, as her superior strides away from the entrance of the Ministry and then hastens down the many steps. Once alone, a cynical serenity passes through Phago.

The Ministry bends but does not break.