The high priest came to the king at the hour when the sun stood above the city and the shadows had drawn close to the feet of pillars and men.
The king sat on a raised seat in the open hall. Tablets, documents and reports from the borderlands lay before him. He had touched none of them. He watched a band of light between the curtains. Dust drifted in it.
The priest bowed. “My king.”
“Speak.”
The priest told him of the widow Arsa, of the field left by her dead husband, and of wealthy Urat, who had moved the boundary stones, sown the soil and built two granaries upon it.
“What did she do with the field before?” the king asked.
“Nothing.”
“Did she sow it?”
“She had no grain.”
“Did she work it?”
“She had no oxen.”
“Then the field lay fallow.”
“But it belonged to her.”
The king looked at the dust in the light. “Now it bears grain.”
“Born of injustice.”
“The grain does not know that.”
“A human being must.”
“Why?”
“Because a human being knows good from evil.”
“Who showed them?”
“God.”
The king was silent for a moment. “And the boundary stones? Did he show those too?”
“The law comes from him.”
“The scribes wrote the law.”
“According to the words of the prophets.”
“And the prophets heard them from God.”
“Yes.”
“In dreams?”
“That too.”
The king smiled faintly. “Then I should be a prophet.”
The palace whispered about his dream. Since that night he had remained silent during the rites and had ceased asking for signs before his campaigns.
“A dream can deceive,” said the priest.
“It can.”
“What did you see?”
From the courtyard came the blow of a hammer. Then a second and a third.
“Darkness.”
“That is not uncommon.”
“It was not night. There was no temple in it, no city. No human being.” The king lowered his eyes to his palm. “And yet something was there.”
“What?”
“I do not know.”
The priest waited.
“I heard two words.”
“Which words?”
“I am.”
“And what did they mean?”
The king raised his eyes. “If I knew, I would not need to ask you where the prophets find the rest.”
“In Scripture.”
“Perhaps.”
“Not perhaps.”
The king rose. “Since that night I have waited for it to speak again. It is silent.”
“God is not silent.”
“You brought him a bull. The blood drained away and I heard nothing. We marched against the city in the north. I asked for a sign of who should triumph. We did.”
“By his will.”
“We had more archers.”
“That too may have been his will.”
“And if we had lost?”
The priest did not answer at once. “His purposes are hidden from man.”
“And yet you speak of them without end.”
“I came because of the widow.”
“Do you want her field returned?”
“God wants it.”
“I am asking about you.”
The priest hesitated. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it is wrong to take a weak person’s property.”
The king nodded. “You said that.”
“I said what God wants.”
“Perhaps. But for one moment you did not hide behind him.”
The priest’s face darkened. “I warn you, my king.”
“I, too, am afraid of my words.”
The king raised a hand to his crown. “You say that God established my power.”
“Yes.”
Slowly he removed the crown and placed it on the table. “Take it.”
The priest did not move.
“You know what God wants. I do not. You should rule.”
“Do not tempt me.”
The king watched his eyes. They had settled on the great clear stone above the brow of the crown.
“You are looking at the diamond.”
“At the sign of royal dignity.”
“For a moment you forgot the widow.”
“You cannot judge my heart.”
“No. I can only see your eyes.”
The priest looked at the crown again. “If it were God’s will, I would have to accept.”
The king smiled without joy. “How easily the will of God is born.”
He drew his dagger, slipped its point beneath the first stone and prised. The gem struck the floor. Then the second. The third. Stones rolled across the hall.
When he had removed the last, a scratched band of gold remained, its settings empty.
“Now take it.”
“You have desecrated the symbol.”
“I have removed what you were looking at.”
The king began gathering the stones into a leather pouch. From a chest he added several bars of gold to his bag.
“Those are the treasures of the kingdom.”
“Then let the new king judge me.”
“You cannot leave.”
“The land needs a ruler.”
“It has you.”
“A man does not become king because you hand him an empty crown.”
“That is precisely how I became one. Only then it was not empty.”
The king slung the bag over his shoulder.
“What will you do with the widow’s field?”
“I will return it to her.”
“Why?”
“Because it is just.”
“And what do you want?”
The priest opened his mouth, but no answer came.
“When you decide,” said the king, “do not hide your hand.”
“A human being cannot determine good and evil alone.”
“And yet a human being decides.”
“God decides through him.”
“Perhaps.”
“What did that dream do to you?”
The king looked at the empty crown. “It took away my certainty.”
“And gave you pride.”
“Perhaps.”
The king turned to leave.
“Stop. You cannot carry away the treasure and place yourself above the law.”
The king turned back. “My last royal command is this: from the moment I leave the palace, no human court in this land may judge me. Not the council, not a priest, not the king who comes after me.”
“Then who will judge you?”
The king was silent for a moment. “That is what I intend to find out.”
“You are stealing even now.”
“Perhaps.”
“I will stop you.”
The king stepped towards him. “Then it will be you.”
The priest did not raise his hand.
The king placed the empty crown in his palms. “Return the field to the widow. Or leave it to Urat. Do whatever you can bear as your own act.”
“And what does God want?”
The king looked into the light where the dust was still dancing. “I do not know.”
Then he left.
At the gate stood a thin woman in dusty clothes.
“My lord. A wrong has been done to me.”
“Yes.”
“Will you obtain justice for me?”
He looked back towards the palace. “There comes your new king.”
“And who are you?”
The king considered the question. Then he bowed before the widow so deeply that the bag of jewels slipped from his shoulder.
“That is what I am going to find out.”
He passed through the gate and took the road east.