Nkoci, the King with No Kingdom

Nkoci the Wanderer. Nkoci the Destroyer. Nkoci the Conquering. I always hated those names. I do not wander, I seek. I do not destroy, I seed. I do not conquer, I help. Those who truly know me know that about me. Young Marcellus the Unwavering knows. The Knightslayer knows. Even that fool Xin knows. Only one epithet fits me in any way, the one used by three people. The Knightslayer, before Knights existed, gave me the name. Back then, he was a warrior without a cause. When I called him this at the fifteen Grand Game, he responded by calling me, “The King with no Kingdom.” To this day, the Fin refers to me as such. It is the truth. I am a king without a kingdom. Accepting who you are is important for achieving true greatness.

Other than the Knightslayer, only two call me by that truest epithet. At the Game around the 137th Olympiad, Yijun, eldest daughter of Xin, approached me. My legs at the time, a young woman who called herself Nit, was distrustful of Yijun and whispered to me, “I believe the young woman wants something.”

I laughed at my confidant. “Of course, Yijun wants something. But I would hardly call her young.”

Yijun feigned insult. “I’ll have you know, I’m younger than you,” she joked, “But in all seriousness, I do want something for you.”

I sighed and leaned in towards my confidant, whispering loud enough for Yijun to hear, “If she tries anything, do stab her.”

“Listen, Nkoci the Wanderer,” she said, whether intentionally to irritate me or out of ignorance matters little, “I want you to join me, as co-leaders of a new faction.”

“I don’t do factions,” I said flatly.

“But we’re not like the Isolationists or the Conquerors. We’re actually following your example, nearly. Leading quietly, in the background. Helping guide people to the best outcomes,” Yijun pressed. Like many, she thought she understood me, even though she did not. I do not care to direct the people through my actions. I learn from their choices of directions, help advise them on how to achieve what they want. No one understood that for near two millennia, until Isabella joined the Game, but that is a different story.

Turning to Nit, I asked, “Did I misspeak? I thought I got the words correct.”

Nit replied with a smile, “No, you were correct. I think this woman is not listening to you.”

“Then I shall repeat myself until she does,” I said to Nit, then to Yijun, I repeated louder and slower this time, “I do not do factions.”

Yijun laughed at me. Then, seeing I was being serious, stated rather bluntly, “I suppose the elder Fin is right about you. You like being a king with no kingdom.”

I laughed at that statement, but made no reply, instead simply gesturing for Nit to leave Yijun’s presence and take me to the wine. I suppose that such an action, in and of itself, is a reply, is it not? Ever since that day, Yijun has always referred to me as the King with no Kingdom, often forgoing my name entirely in her address. I believe out of respect, though not without significant irritation.

Finally, there is young Marcellus. How he learned that I preferred that epithet, I do not know. I also know better than to inquire. There are some things about this world no one wants to know, and one of those is the Unwavering’s ways. I first met him in the Levant, around the consulship of Claudius and Vitellus, the seventh year of Claudius’s reign as princeps. In honest truth, I did not pay him much mind at first. He, however, came to my place of stay during the daylight, and presented himself to me. “Nkoci,” he said, “Great Philosopher King with neither Kingdom nor Creed. I am Marcellus, child of Phonike.” He was and is still the only one who adds the philosophy and creed bit.

I was surprised, partially because I thought Phonike would never create children, and partially because he had walked near a mile from where Phonike would have set up for his stay to my house, in the midday sun. While I stood in shock, he entered the building and, stripping off his cloak, revealed some charred skin beneath. “Hello Marcellus. I apologize, I was unaware of your existence, much less that you would come greet me.”

Marcellus smirked at me. “I have been moving about the world, never remaining in one place. From the carriage last night, I noticed you and him, and a,” he paused for a moment before continuing, “Friend, of a sort, told me that you were, indeed Nkoci. I have the utmost respect for your mind, old man.”

“Well, child,” I replied, “Are you just here to greet me, or do you have something to ask of my wisdom? I shall give you a question, for being so polite.” Marcellus looked curiously at my companion, a young man I’d picked up from the Parthian funeral I’d just attended a month ago. I shook my head. “Farid will keep confidence.” Turning my head to Farid, I said in Parthian, “I know not whether or not to trust the child. Watch carefully but stay silent.”

Farid nodded. Marcellus’s smirk became even more pronounced as he said in somewhat broken and very accented yet still understandable Parthian, “For the record, you should never trust me.” Then, seating himself on one of my stools, he asked me in Koine, “What do you know of our politics? You are old, wise, and have undoubtedly been involved in the so-called Game, no?”

“What about our politics?” I asked him back. There was much less to talk about then, but still more than one discussion could cover. “I will answer what I can, but I tend to stand apart.”

“For you like lacking a kingdom, I am aware,” young Marcellus told me. He had no epithet yet, but I could tell he was not one to trifle with. He shook his head, “I wish to be prepared for my eventual entrance. Make enemies and allies before I join officially.”

“There are several factions and some independents, as you are well aware, what with Phonike being your other source of knowledge. The big three currently are the Conquerors, who have a foothold in the North, as well as the Isles to the far east. There’s the Mythic, who control the eastern mainland. And, of course, the Isolationists, who you’ve undoubtedly met in your Mediterranean wanderings.”

Marcellus, continuing his trend of becoming more terrifying with every line, shifted into Latin to say, “My mater may not be my only other source of knowledge bout the Game. Tell me the beliefs of these people, so long as you do not mind. I am guessing that the conquerors seek to rule over humanity, and the isolationists want to be far from it, but what of the mythic?”

I shook my head. As he seemed more comfortable with it, we continued in Latin. “Tell me who your friend of a sort is, and I can tell you more,” I replied.

“I met with Alexios in my travels,” he told me with a smile, “And we have since become, let us call it, travelling companions.”

“Odd,” I replied, a smile of discomfort plastered across my face, “Alexios is normally quite politically involved, and yet he’s missed the last two Games.”

“Odd indeed,” Marcellus replied with a smile, “Now, I have told you mine, I believe it is your turn.”

I laughed. “Right,” I said, “Well, Yijun believes that we should rule quietly, by becoming like a myth, quietly influencing events and actions.”

“Like the Mythraists,” he replied, “That makes perfect sense.” Then, after a pause, he added, “Why did you not join them, is that not what you have continually done throughout your life, in any case?”

I shook my head. “I believe it is your turn. How’d you make it here during midday sunlight?”

“I walked,” he replied coyly.

I sighed. “I suppose you don’t want to know more. Answers require answers.” In Parthian, I added, “Farid, I believe it is time to rest.” And with that, Farid stood up.

“Wait,” Marcellus said in Koine, then sighed even deeper than I had before continuing in Latin. “Unnatural Philosophy, as I jokingly call it.”

I gestured for Farid to hold. “What’s that?” I asked as Farid sat back down.

“You know the natural philosophers of Greece, talking about the elements of the universe and experimentation?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” I said. We both knew that I knew. He’d called me the Philosopher king for a reason.

“Well, I simply applied logic to our condition, and found that a cloak, enlaced with Leaden and gilded fibers in specific patterns by skilled individuals, can have a slowing effect on the seven minute process of the light of the sun burning through our skin.”

“And how did you discover this?” I asked him.

He smiled. “It is your turn, is it not?”

“I suppose it is.” I prepared for him to ask me the question about my independence or the game in general. I was not ready for the question he asked.

“Why do all of your children hate you so?” he asked.

“How do you know what my children think of me?” I shot back. Farid’s hand moved towards a sword we had hidden under the main table.

Marcellus smiled. “It is your turn to answer. And if your man draws that sword, the roof will light aflame and we will all three die, together.”

“You prepared for that?” he asked.

“Of course,” he answered honestly, “You prepare no endgame options when you negotiate with more powerful or more dangerous opponents?”

“There are no more powerful or dangerous opponents, yet,” I answered, “I’ll give you a few centuries.”

“Unlikely,” he answered, “But answer the question if you will. I was promised an answer for an answer.”

He was right, of course. I had said I’d give him an answer for every one of mine he did. I wasn’t expecting that question. “I need to know something beforehand. Why?”

Young Marcellus nodded, understanding my question perfectly. “I want to know whether I should ally myself with you, befriend you, or make you my hated enemy. Call it, curiosity.”

“Farid,” I said to Farid in Parthian, “Would you fetch the three of us some wine?” Fortunately, he did not yet speak Latin, so while he could likely tell our discussion was heated, he didn’t know exactly what we were speaking about. He set me down on the chair and walked down to the cellar. As he left the room, I replied to Marcellus, “Because I turn them because they’re interesting, use them as my legs, my friends, my confidants for several decades, then undoubtedly, they bore me and I find a new youth to take their place.”

“Which leaves them alone, abandoned in a place they know not,” he said to me, “Efficient, but not particularly prudent on your part. Might I propose a suggestion?”

“Certainly,” I replied, “Though no promise that I take you up on it.”

He laughed and said, “You will.” Then, leaning forwards and growing quiet, he proposed, “Rather than simply abandoning them, why do you not offer to bring them back home, after you have already found your new legs. It would hardly be difficult on your part, but it might give you additional goodwill, so they might find other things to rant about while they sleep, besides murdering you.”

“My turn to ask a question,” I said. He nodded, so I asked, “How do you know what my children talk about in their sleep?” That was the only time I would ever ask him for specifics about his methods of acquiring information, because the answer, despite the boy’s usual coyness, was incredibly unsettling.

He smiled, wickedly, and said, “Because experimentation requires subjects, does it not?” As Farid joined us again with three glasses of wine, Marcellus, who was now quite terrifying to me, said in Koine for both myself and Farid to understand, “No more talk of such depressingly serious topics. Tell me of your eastern travels, and I’ll tell you of mine through Greece and Ionia.” And we did, as it would have been less than ideal to speak of mine other children’s undoubted horrible suffering in front of my newest child. To be fair, Farid lasted longer than most. Near a century. But that is a story for another time.