Chapter 11 – The Translators’ Tale

Aragorn, Faramir, Gandalf and Erkenbrand exchanged glances at the translator’s astonishing announcement, and there was much mumbling among the other Gondorians present. For the translator to declare himself as Haradrim was curious indeed. Clearly, there were more tales to tell than that of Shahzad’s four-times great-grandfather’s Stunted One. The translator though was not yet finished with his rebuke.

“You dare to make such accusations of my Sultana and Sultan?” he asked. “On what basis do you speak such words?”

“What is happening, Soroush?” Farzana asked calmly, though she was greatly alarmed at her translator’s harsh words. That he should speak out of turn could mean only that the Pale King had provoked him terribly.

“I aim to discover it, Your Majesty,” Soroush said, forcing himself to speak calmly to his queen. He returned his glare to Aragorn. “Well?”

Aragorn bowed his head in apology to Farzana and Ashraf. “Peace, my brothers,” he said to Soroush and the other translator,  who also looked ready to join the rebuking. “I regret the need to speak so harshly of your king and queen. You must know, and so must they, that there have been rumors in the city for weeks prior to their coming that they would be returning prisoners with them as part of their negotiation strategy. It was believed that they would hold the threat of the prisoners’ lives against me and my people. When the scouts brought back word that there were no prisoners to spy amongst your ranks, a second rumor began that they were hiding the prisoners in some manner that was yet to be seen. Then you and your friend arrive, both clearly of Gondor, looking so much as one of them that this second rumor is regrettably even now taking root in the hearts of my people. I needed proof that you were not being held against your will.”

“Couldn’t you have simply asked?” the second translator asked.

“He did,” Gandalf asked in return. “You mean, why couldn’t he have asked politely? The answer to that is simple: a calm question, a calm reply. It would not dispel the suspicion of a lying tongue. Harsh words bring harsh responses, heated with passion, and in such a moment only truth may be spoken.”

“Indeed, we learned more by your response than what your words told us,” said Aragorn. “You are not afraid of your king and queen, to speak out of turn, even if it be on their behalf. Nor did you take the opportunity to hint at a desire for release from their service. You are not prisoners, nor are you held against your will, for even the most kindly treated slave may reserve some resentment for their masters. In turn, the king and queen are not reprimanding of your actions, but instead were distressed at your anger and concerned for your agitation. There is love here, and that is good. I trust there is no more doubt among any in this room that your words are true, and those in the city will soon learn the truth also. Alas, it will not entirely dispel the rumors, but it will guarantee the safety of your people while they dwell below.”

The translators stared in astonishment for several moments, until Ashraf finally asked, “What is being said, Soroush?” He spoke kindly enough, but there was a sharp edge to his voice that demanded an explanation, and now.

“I am sorry, Your Highness, and I beg apology,” Soroush replied, bowing his head graciously. Down the table, the other translator was beginning to reiterate all that had been said, and Soroush rushed to do the same. “The king Elessar asked how many prisoners you have among the company, besides myself and Ashtir. I was offended for your honors, Your Majesties, and spoke out of my turn, telling him there are none. I told him we are Haradrim and asked him the meaning for speaking so unjustly of you. It was but a ruse, Your Majesties. He wanted simply to see how things truly stood between Your Majesties and myself and Ashtir, if we be prisoners, slaves or free men. He is satisfied now that we are in your service willingly.” He then paraphrased the last of Aragorn’s explanations and ended with, “I will go to my room now to await punishment, if that is your wish.”

Then something remarkable happened. Farzana and Ashraf laughed. It was the first time any there had seen the queen smile, and it transformed her from a statue of hard beauty to a being of radiant light, lifting the hearts of all who saw it and heard her sweetly lilting laugh. Ashraf’s booming laughter filled the corners of the room, astounding everyone but Gandalf and Aragorn, who had been near enough last night at the feast to appreciate its full vibrato.

“You have stones!” Ashraf said. “I like that.”

“A well-played hand, my lord,” Farzana agreed. She often believed that diplomacy would only get one so far, which was not very far at all.

Soroush forwarded their sentiments and Aragorn laughed in his turn. “I am honored, and much relieved, that you do not take offense,” he said, and in that instant, all tension in the room was broken. Everyone settled further into their chairs, postures still upright but relaxed, no longer posed for an outbreak of instant mayhem.

“My punishment, Your Highness?” Soroush asked, head bowed.

Farzana flipped a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. Who will speak for us if you go? Do not think you have escaped punishment altogether though.”

“Shall it be my other hand then, Your Highness?” Soroush asked, a small smile on his lips. Ashtir, Shahzad and the others chuckled at this.

“It would be your tongue if that did not render you useless to me,” Farzana said, but she too was smiling and her soft words were in jest.

Even so, Shahzad shuddered, for he knew what the translators did not. In some Houses, such a crime as they had just committed was in fact punishable by the swift removal of the offender’s tongue. Thankfully, in his mother’s House, the sentence was only a hundred lashes of the whip and removal from the office. But surely his parents would not dismiss Ashtir and Soroush, nor yet whip them for defending their Sultana and Sultan! After all, they were not in their own lands. Perhaps this incident could be overlooked somehow.

“As for your hand,” Farzana continued, “perhaps I could find suitable use for it. You will not be so loose with your opinions if you are weary.”

“I will do any task you put me to, Your Highness,” Soroush said.

“Your Highness, there is a required punishment for their crime,” the Grand Vizier Faheem whispered.

“They have committed no crime,” Farzana said, speaking so all could hear her.

“Naturally, they have not, your Graciousness,” Faheem said. Shahzad beamed.

Ashraf looked across the table to Aragorn, Gandalf and Faramir. “You must later thank your Sultana for your pardons, my sons. For now, tell King Elessar that surely if we had brought prisoners-of-war with us, we would have handed them over immediately as a sign of good faith, just as he so graciously released our men from his bonds after the war. However, our House being in its position of servitude during the War, we were ourselves prisoners until the Dark Lord was destroyed: we still wish to know how this was done.”

Soroush nodded and addressed Aragorn. “Sultan Ashraf says that they would gladly hand over any prisoners in their keeping, if they had any, just as you yourself did. However, the House of the Moon was itself held prisoner during the War. We have only recently been freed by the destruction of the Dark Lord, and they are most eager to discover how this victory came to be.”

Aragorn held the eyes of the king, queen and vizier, then addressed the translator. “Just as we wish to discover how our soldiers came to live in their lands. The two of you cannot be the only ones. What of the Houses of the Eye? Do they yet hold any of our men as prisoners?”

“He wants to know about the other Gondorians in Harad, and the prisoners taken by the Eye,” Soroush told his king and queen.

“That is a fair question,” Farzana said. “The ones who dwell in my lands, and the lands of my cousin Semira and our ally Sultan Cothos of the Sun, came to us as refugees. We sheltered them against discovery from the Eye, and those who wished to return to their homes after the War were escorted to the northern borders of Near Harad. Of your soldiers taken by the Eye, I cannot say, though I doubt their fate was better than that of our men and women taken for their means. They would have been worked to death. It is rumored that those who yet lived were slain when the Great Eye was defeated. If, however, there are any who remain alive when we go to reclaim our own, we will free yours as well. Gladly will we nurse them back to health and return them to you if that is possible.”

“I will gladly send soldiers to aid you in this effort,” Aragorn said.

“Why wouldn’t you want to return to your home? Your families?” Faramir spoke up suddenly, voicing the opinions of many in the Hall. “Surely there are those who would be worried for you, who would fear you dead and be eased by knowing your fate.”

Soroush forwarded these comments to his king and queen, which began a quiet discussion between them and Ashtir that went on for some time. Finally, Farzana held up her hand and spoke in her clear, commanding voice. She bowed her head to Ashraf, ignored the comments of Faheem and smiled at Soroush. She waved a graceful hand towards Aragorn and spoke a few simple words that did not require translation, for their meaning was clear. “Tell them.”

At a similar nod of consent from his king, Soroush looked first to Ashtir, who shrugged consent. They both then addressed the Gondorian court. Soroush began. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes briefly, then opening them commenced to tell their tale as briefly as he could.

“I was born Methedos, son of Beregos of Belfalas. My Haradrim name is Soroush,” he said. “This is my cousin, Sador, son of Tangor, my uncle. We came to Harad as soldiers in my father’s company, commissioned by Denethor to intersect a regiment of Southrons moving through Near Harad on their way to Mordor. This was at a time when such movements were rare and easier to stop.

“That being so, we went with confidence that many of us would return to fight another day. However, our efforts were thwarted. The regiment we met was much larger than reported and they were ready for us. Nearly everyone in my company was slain in battle. Those few of us who survived were tortured for information, and failing to give them any, we were left for dead in the summer heat of the desert. We later learned the regiment we fought were from the Houses of the Sea and Earth, allies of the Great Eye, traitors of Harad.”

Ashtir took over the story now. “Three of us survived that first day. Only three. The third was Xantos, the son of my father’s body servant, and even we would have died from heat stroke the next day had a small band of nomads not passed through that night on their way to the sea. They were but one of hundreds of such bands, survivors of attacks from the Sea and the Earth on their homelands, traveling remnants of their once great Houses. They took us to the home of Lala, the niece of Sultana Taja of the House of the Stars. She called a wise-man to heal us, but alas Xantos was beyond his skill. Only Soroush and I survived and that was a near thing. I was dehydrated terribly; they could not give me enough water, and Soroush’s hand was diseased with infection. It had to be removed to save his life. He was not happy about it when he finally woke from his fever dreams a few nights later.”

“I was not,” Soroush agreed. “I did not understand where I was, or how I came to be there. I remember little between being left for dead and waking in Lala’s home. It took me many weeks to trust them.” He chuckled. “I even devised an escape, thwarted by the cooks, who came to bring us traveling provisions at their mistress’s behest. It was then I realized that we were among friends.

“We planned then to come home once we were healthy enough to travel; to remain there against Denethor’s orders would have been treason. They conceived a way to remove us from the country over the bay, but the scouts of the enemy saw us approaching the sea and sent a small company to disband us. We managed to return to the House of the Stars without losing too many people. Sultana Taja learned of our difficulties and proposed to keep us hidden within the palace until it would be safe to try again.

“A month passed before a small company from the House of the Sea came to the sultana and demanded that any Pale Skins, for so they call us, kept in her house be turned over to them within a week. Lala devised a scheme. We were Pale Skins, but we didn’t have to be, if they made us Haradrim. We had to choose: committ treason against Gondor for our lives or surrender to the enemy and go to our deaths. We chose to stay.”

“It was a heavy choice for me,” Ashtir said. “I was betrothed at the time and thought I might still be able to return in time to assure my family of my survival. I thought over it, looking at it from every conceivable angle. Surely, there must be a way to attempt one last escape. Alas that the roads and paths to the sea were heavily guarded by the allies of the Eye, hoping for just such a foolish attempt. It has vexed me to think of my family grieving my life when I still lived, and my lovely Ingeltrude, mourning the husband she would never know. I have felt often a coward for staying, but I hoped that by remaining, some other opportunity might yet present itself to allow me to return. It took rather longer than I feared. Seven years longer.” His smile was bitter and sad.

Soroush moved as though to take his hand, but the distance between them was too far. Still, the motion eased some of the grief from Ashtir’s face. They smiled at each other, then Soroush continued.

“I, however, had no reason to return to Gondor; I had no family left. I did though have reason to remain in Harad: Lala’s maid servant, Karima, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I thought if I became Haradrim, I would be permitted to court her and, once I secured a job and some holdings, to marry her. So I stayed happily and we both swore allegiance to the Faithful Houses of Harad. Lala’s plan worked in that their enemies were not able to force us from her home, but we were forbidden by the Enemy to ever set foot outside of the lands of the Faithful Houses, lest our lives be forfeit.

“As for Karima, being Lala’s maid servant, she was not permitted to marry. To remove the temptation, they sent me and Ashtir to the House of the Moon where we were to serve the sultana as tutors, teaching her the ways of the Pale Skins. Seeing our loneliness, we were both eventually given a freed slave to marry. Ashtir politely refused; he still hoped to return home. I took for my bride a cook in the palace named Razeena, a beauty and a delight to me in every way. It was not long before we had a family of our own, two robust sons of Harad, and she just informed me last night that we are to expect another child, a daughter this time we hope. That is our story, as we can bear to tell it.”

“Soroush!” Ashtir exclaimed, slipping into Haradrim in his excitement. “Your Razeena is giving you another child!”

Similar regards were spoken by the Haradrim. Soroush beamed. Farzana raised a hand for silence. “I am pleased to hear this. I worried about her when she did not return to the Hall of Feasts last night.”

“She took ill, Your Majesty. She always gets her sickness at nights,” Soroush said. “She is well now.”

“Congratulations,” Aragorn and Faramir said as one. Gandalf grinned, mirroring the expression of the rest of the court; all men were united in their celebration of new life.

Ashraf patted his translator on the arm but looked down the table to Ashtir, who was sitting now in contemplation of the events so briefly recalled. “Do you require refreshment, my son?” he asked.

“If you will allow, Your Highness,” Ashtir said.

Ashraf raised his arm and one of his servants stepped forward to pour juice into Ashtir’s cup. Ashtir drank slowly, savoring the cool, sweet taste of the juice but wishing it were mead.

“Do you require a break?” Aragorn asked.

Ashtir shook his head. “No, it is only that we have never told this story to anyone, not since it first happened. I will be all right. You may continue with the rest of your proceedings.”

“Your tale is fascinating, full of sorrow though it is,” Aragorn said. “I see that your unique perspectives may be of help to us in understanding our new friends the better. I would like to speak with you further of your experiences in Harad, if you both wish.”

“We are not traitors to you then?” Soroush asked.

“You are not,” Aragorn assured.

“Then we may talk, if my sultana allows,” Ashtir said.

“It will be arranged. Now, is it known how many other Gondorians such as yourselves there are in Harad?” Aragorn asked.

“In the sultana’s palace, there are only us,” Soroush said. “As my Sultan already told you, many of the Gondorians who were being hid from the Enemy were taken to the northern borders of Near Harad. Admittedly, that number was not as great as it could have been. Many still remained for fear of persecution for treachery, yet there are others such as myself, who wished to remain for they have lives there now and have come to love the people as their own.”

“Then I shall write down the edict that they are pardoned and may return safely to their homelands,” Aragorn said. “A monument shall be raised in honor of the lost soldiers of Gondor in Pelargir, where their more fortunate brothers met their retribution in the Battle of Corsairs. I am satisfied that in the Houses of the Moon, Sun and Stars we have faithful allies.”

Soroush translated these sentiments to Ashraf and Farzana, who both nodded in agreement. “So too shall we build a monument, to all those lost so that we may hope for more peaceful days ahead,” Sultana Farzana said. “Now, perhaps, you would be willing to share a tale, that of the Eye’s destruction.”

Gandalf cleared his throat, Faramir drummed his fingers on the table and Aragorn met the queen’s curious gaze and nodded. He would gladly tell her anything she wanted to know about the Ring-bearer, except his identity and race, for now.

“Perhaps you have heard in Harad that long ago, Sauron, as we call the Great Eye in our lands, forged a Ring of Power and into it he bled much of his power and strength…”  

Gimli yanked the glove off his right hand and ran his fingers through the latest batch of cement powder. For this batch, they had used clay dug up from the quarries south of Osgiliath and from lands approaching the western branch of the Emyn Muil north of the city. Both samples had been promising from the moment the carts had been unloaded the day before. A group of masons now stood around him, eagerly awaiting the verdict. Did they go back to the start or move on to the next phase?

When he initially told the rest of the Fellowship of his intentions, they had all wondered at the wisdom of hunting all over Gondor for clay and sand. To them, one type was the same as any other, and they saw little need to go so far and wide for something that could be found right outside the city gates. Only Pippin had been foolish enough to voice this opinion, thus dooming them all to an impassioned lecture on the many intricate differences of not only clay and sand, but rock, dirt and stone as well. By the end of their lesson, they were all sitting with eyes glazed over and mouths hanging open in mollified boredom. And they had thought Merry long-winded when one of the Rangers dared to ask the difference between Old Toby and the vile weed the Rangers smoked in the wilds!

Gimli raked the powder with his fingers, then sunk his hand into the fine but gritty mush. The powder pooled around his hand, soft as flour but hard as dirt. He withdrew his hand, flicked it once to remove as much excess powder as he could, then rubbed his fingers together, feeling the many miniscule particles trapped between thumb and forefinger. He brought his fingers to his nose and smelled deeply; most people believed that sand, rock, clay and stone did not have their own scents, but Gimli knew otherwise and the aroma he sniffed now was faint and familiar.

He felt a thrill run up his spine, raising goose pimples, as the hobbits called them, on his skin. This was it! He knew it beyond doubt. They had rediscovered the beauty of cement, strong as the foundations of the earth!

He dipped his hand into the bucket of water that stood nearby and wiped them clean with the rag that hung from it. He grinned up at his companions, teeth flashing brightly through his beard, and nodded at the master mason, who stood with the notes for all the receipts attempted thus far.

“We have cement, my friend!” Gimli said. “It was the sand from Emyn Muil that did it. I’d bet my mother’s beard on it.”

This gave everyone pause. The master mason eventually blinked and put a check mark on the sheet with the winning receipt. “I’ll get to writing up a clean copy for everyone,” he said.

“Tell the diggers to pick up their trowels, Valcamir! We’ll need more, lots more,” Gimli said. “We’ll move onto the next round of experiments with the powder we have now. Start with the same measurements required for the lime mortar and we’ll make adjustments from there. We’ll have this mortar perfected by the end of next week!”

The masons and soldiers cheered and patted Gimli on the shoulder and back. Gimli allowed them a few minutes of congratulations before sending them back to work, following a few down to the kilns to inspect the bricks being unloaded. He wanted to have a gross of bricks at the ready to use in their experiments.  

Legolas slipped into the house and listened to make sure he was alone, though he knew already that everyone was occupied elsewhere today. There were no sounds within, no sense of another’s presence. He checked the rooms as he passed them and found them all empty as they should be. He climbed the stairs on silent feet, his passage a mere whisper down the hall to Merry’s chamber.

He let himself into Merry’s room and headed straight for the wardrobe, opening it with ease. At once, he spotted the bag he had seen Merry carrying out of the thrift shop the day before. He picked up the bag and dumped its contents onto the coverlet. Just as the girl had reported, there was nothing in the bag but a pair of pants, a shirt, a waistcoat and smallclothes, all the perfect size for Frodo or Sam.

He laid out the clothes, inspecting them thoroughly for some deficiency. Yet the material was fine, the clothes well-made. The colors even matched nicely, as hobbits reckoned such things, and the pattern and texture of the waistcoat was a compliment to Frodo’s features. There was absolutely nothing wrong with the clothes at all, which only worried Legolas more.

Stumped, Legolas put the clothes back in the bag and put the bag in the wardrobe. He was careful to place it in the exact same spot and position as it had been in before; Merry would notice if it had been moved even the slightest bit. He closed the wardrobe door and went back downstairs, his mind racing.

Could Elladan have been right and Merry was simply hoping to surprise Frodo with a new outfit? Frodo had been complaining that the clothes made for him and Sam after the Quest were too big, and while they had started to fill them out, they were both tired of having to constantly readjust the sit of the shirts on their backs.

Was that what was troubling Legolas? If Merry had intended the clothes as a gift for such a purpose, then why only one set of clothes? Surely, he would have bought something for Sam as well, unless his social status prohibited him from doing so. Legolas huffed in frustration, wishing Boromir were here. Boromir had understood the hobbits far better than he ever had, and the captain-general was no slouch when it came to pranks either. He could have had this riddle figured out with little difficulty.

But Boromir wasn’t here. Legolas would have to make do with those who still remained. Gandalf knew more about hobbits than anyone, but he felt the pranks were a good distraction for them. Perhaps he was right, but that didn’t mean Frodo had to be unprepared for what was coming his way. Aragorn had spent years watching over the Shire and guided the hobbits from Bree to Rivendell nearly single-handedly, but there had been little time during that journey for casual chit-chat. Aragorn knew just as much about the hobbits as Legolas himself did, and he was quite busy enough running his kingdom to be bothered with such a trivial matter anyway. Gimli would gladly help him, but the hobbits would suspect him immediately.

“Oh, Boromir,” Legolas muttered. “If only…” But wait! Faramir might not have his brother’s temperament or inclinations, but he was close to both Pippin and Merry. Pippin had helped to save the prince’s life, and Faramir and Merry had become quick friends during their convalescence in the Houses of Healing. Faramir was his black horse.

Legolas sprinted out of the house, just barely remembering to close the door behind him. He headed for the citadel to await Faramir, hoping the council with the Haradrim would not last overlong.

To be continued…

GF 3/30/09
Published 5/25/09