The Great City of Paradise

Mwanza Faro Oweh ran his fingers through his oiled beard. He checked over his reflection in the silver mirror of the antechamber one last time.   Tucking his dark, shoulder-length hair behind his ears, he replaced his cap to ensure the thick curls would stay out of his face. His eyes, the colour of the setting sun, glanced out of the window behind the mirror to survey Baraji-Awanna, the Great City of Paradise. He had only been in the city for a few weeks, his first visit to the imperial capital in his whole life.   The sun beating down on the mudbrick buildings gave the city a rich, earthy smell. Mixed in with the sweet perfume of the orchids rising from the palace gardens, the gentle aromas briefly soothed Mwanza's nerves. Breathing deeply, he moved over to the small glazed basin and pitcher that sat on a stand by the mirror.   Pouring cool water into the basin, Mwanza washed his hands and turned back to the room. He helped himself to the small meal that the attendant had left for him. Pinching off a piece of soft bread and dipping it into the bowl of soup beside it, he hoped the food would settle his stomach. In all his years of military service, he had never been as nervous as he was today. Taking a moment to kneel down, Mwanza said a quick prayer to Awa, pausing only briefly to wonder at the futility of his effort. If Awa meant for him to succeed in this meeting, xe would make xir intentions known soon enough.   Mwanza had known that the God-Emperor handpicked all new governors xirself, but in all of his life, he never truly believed he would be granted an audience with the divine leader. He had been informed of his promotion by letter, which had summoned him to the capital from his previous role, suppressing a revolt in one of the empire’s northern provinces. The journey south had been the longest of his life, but it was less than half the distance that he would be travelling to his new post on the island of Slèitear. That is, if the God-Emperor was as impressed by him in person as xe had been with the tales of his deeds.   A faint cough from the attendant signaled that it was time to find out.   The attendant ushered Mwanza to the great double doors that led through to the grand audience chamber of the Imperial palace. As the doors swung open, Mwanza felt his heart jump to his throat. Twelve great lionesses rested on two large pillows on the other side of the door and they quickly stirred and rose to their feet. Bowing his head, so as not to meet any of the dire cats' gaze, he moved slowly between the two pillows. The sound of the doors closing behind him made him jump, and he took another deep breath as he finally passed the last of the lions.   Raising his eyes, the would-be governor surveyed the beautifully decorated chamber beyond. Sunlight streamed in through the many windows lining the walls, bouncing off the polished stone floor and illuminating the ornately painted columns either side of him. The columns supported a large domed ceiling above the imperial throne which sat on a raised dais at the centre of the room.   Ten knights on horseback lined the path from where Mwanza now stood to the central dais, The knights' horses were dressed in the finest of gold-embroidered materials, and the knights themselves wore golden mail, which shone brightly from beneath their red silk robes in the light of the sun.   As Mwanza approached the central dais, he found himself struggling to gaze upon the God-Emperor directly, averting his eyes and taking in the deity’s entourage instead. Encircling the imperial throne stood ten pages, holding spears and shields decorated with gold and precious stones. To the right of the throne, on beds of ivory were seated the Children of Heaven. They were dressed in splendid garments the colour of wine, and their hair was braided with golden thread. They were the first born children of the eighteen noble houses of Maba, sent to the imperial court for tutelage.   The governor of the capital territory sat to the left of the throne, on beds of polished satinwood and behind her, seated likewise, were the twelve court ministers, elected by the senate to keep Awa informed on the will of the people. Beside them sat the five most senior priests of the imperial cult, ordained to keep the people informed on the will of Awa.   And in the centre of it all, the great Masa Aljanna, the Sarki of Soli, the God-Emperor Awa. Awa sat, quietly contemplating Mwanza Faro Oweh as he reached the bottom of the dais and dropped to his knees in reverence. Only when Awa eventually spoke his name aloud, did the would-be governor finally raise his eyes and dare to look upon his God.