The Usurper
In the wake of the coup, in an attempt to consolidate power and put any doubts the populace might be harboring in regards to who, in fact, is in power, to rest, a ceremony is being held in honor of the vanquished, who were buried hastily in a mass grave in a forest meadow outside the capitol under shovelfuls of lime. It is so soon after the coup that there are still bullet holes in the walls of the rotunda like bright unblinking eyes. Under their leaden gaze the usurper has risen to read a statement about unity and courage and honor and sacrifice and loyalty. He pauses often to allow the assembled to stand and applaud his words. The marble dome echoes as if invisible hands are clapping high in the air, congratulating those below for having made the right decision in throwing their lot in with the usurper. The deposed leader was dragged out of bed by the military in the dead of night, his hair awry, his wife crying, but remained in surprisingly good humor the whole time, as if he’d been expecting it to happen. Those who were given the honor of killing him had only pretended to. Instead of being executed he was taken to a villa where, surrounded by close friends, he sat on a sunny terrace, his shirt unbuttoned to the sternum, reading Catullus and drinking white wine, restoring his strength and giving his enemies time to grow complacent. Word was sent to his wife that her husband was still alive. She’s been feigning mourning ever since. Today is the day he has chosen to reclaim power. Even while the usurper is speaking of unity and courage and honor and sacrifice and loyalty he is riding towards the capitol, followed by growing legions he picks up like a magnet dragged through iron filings. Even the peasants have joined him, old women with knives rolled up in their dresses, old men with scythes they’ve spat at and whetted. While the usurper stands at the podium, basking in the applause, a nervous young officer approaches and whispers that the beloved old man is still alive and is approaching with a force of thousands. The usurper raises his hand, ensconced in white calfskin gloves, and presses a finger to his thin, bloodless lips to quiet him. Can’t he see how these gathered here adore him? The officer takes a few steps back and begins to clap, slowly at first, then steadily more rapidly. And for a long time after the usurper has said all he has to say about unity and courage and honor and sacrifice and loyalty, invisible hands go on clapping in the high echoing air of the dome, while the bright unpaired eyes stare out of the walls like the last glance the slaughtered gives the slaughterer.