his feet creating twin puffs of dust as he landed in the soft sand. Brushing the dust from his abba, he leaned close to the small wizened man who was alternately plucking his sleeve and bobbing his head in earnest speech.

"Slowly, Bel-Asur," the Cappadocian prince soothed his father's chief advisor, "one step at a time."

Barates' fingers pressed warmly on the gnarled hand of the old man. "Tell me, wise one, how is my Father. Was the despatch true?"

The old man's watery eyes looked at the face of the prince, seeking the intent of the question. Finding nothing there but the ordinary concern of a son for his father, the old man's agitated plucking ceased and he stood quietly before delivering the sad news.

"Your father will be a God before morning, my lord," he said finally. The old man looked into the distance, blinking back his tears, unable to find comfort in the thought that although his Master would soon leave this life, he would enter an everlasting one.

The burly Cappadocian gripped the advisor's arm more firmly and peered closely at the distraught man. "Is the succession in order? Has my Father decreed it?"

"Yes," Bel-Asur nodded emphatically. "All has been done properly and legally. When your Father draws his last breath you will be King of Cappadocia."

Barates' face relaxed and he took heed of the fragile man's grief. "Then come, Bel-Asur," he gently coaxed the old man along the path to the Palace. "Come with me and help me prepare for the ascension of a God."

© 2003 Marshall Tromans