Reclining on the silken cushions of his golden couch, the god-king surveyed his kingdom from the highest terrace of his palace. It sprawled far and wide to the four horizons, across lush green fields, criss-crossed by crystal-clear irrigation streams that sparkled under the sun.
He glanced at his chalice bearer who knelt before him, lifting the jewelled vessel to his lips so he could sip the rich ambrosia. He dipped his finger into the liquid then held his hand out for one of the peacocks that strode about the hanging gardens to lick.
The servant watched the bird enviously from the corner of his downward gaze, eyes ever averted from the god-king’s countenance.
Across the plain, he watched his future mausoleum being constructed. Lines of slaves filed up and down the scaffolding under the eyes and the whips of the overseers.
Once completed, he reflected, the monumental pyramid would dwarf even this palace in size and splendour. One day, his body would lie in its secret chamber and his spirit would ascend to join his brother gods amongst the stars. While his concubines wept, his hundred sons would fight amongst themselves to replace him.
His people prospered, but a darkness overshadowed him. He wanted more.
He sighed.
The vizier, prostrate on the floor before him, dared to speak.
“Does something trouble your magnificence?” he asked.
“Walk with me,” the god-king commanded.
*
“The season of war approaches,” the god-king said.
“And your armies are ready and your borders will be secure,” the vizier replied.
“That is not enough. I require conquest, tribute… More.”
“Your empire is the greatest in the fertile crescent. The neighbouring city-states are subjugated to your munificent will…”
“More. I have spoken.”
His gaze returned to the bustling hordes scurrying around the mausoleum like ants. “Why are so many of my soldiers wasted guarding slaves? Another army is right there.”
“It is necessary, my lord, lest the slaves escape or rise in revolt.”
“And yet one shepherd controls a hundred goats.”
“Men are not animals, my lord. Goats are content to feed on grass.”
“They are such a burden. They are taken care of: meat and cheese that could better feed my soldiers fills their ungrateful bellies.”
“Slaves cannot be fed on grass and grain like cattle.”
“Why not? And if they were, would they not be less troublesome?
“Find me a way.”
Although the command was spoken softly, the vizier knew that failure to provide a solution would result in his execution. He vividly remembered the screams of his predecessor, torn apart by the jaws of the river devils, fed to them for contradicting the god-king on a much lesser matter. He was left with a hopeless dilemma. The request was impossible but to suggest so meant death: he had no alternative but to try.
*
He summoned the multitude of cooks from the palace kitchens and asked them for a solution. They laughed at him, some called him mad.
He spoke to the animal herders and the growers in the hope of enlightenment but they dismissed him.
Finally, he called forth the legions of palace scribes and set them to scour the libraries’ papyri and clay tablets. His time was running out.
The fateful day came when the god-king demanded the vizier’s presence on the morrow. As he wept and pulled at his beard in frustration, a young acolyte came forward.
“I have found a legend from a land called Hyperborea, where the sun only shines for half the year.”
“We need answers not children’s tales of lands that cannot exist,” he cried.
The acolyte persisted. “It tells how a tribe was abandoned by their gods. Their livestock died and their stores were used up long before the sun returned.
“In desperation they took the grains meant for their animals and ground it to powder.”
“How does that help?”
“It didn’t, it was still inedible but a helpful spirit inspired one of their wise men. With a mouth full of aele (it seems to be some kind of wine), he chewed the powder until it became a paste which he spat into the fire. It bloated in the flames, and when he fished it out it had become like manna. He told the rest of the tribe what he had discovered and it sustained them until the spring returned.”
The vizier was about to dismiss the acolyte but he realised that he had no other ideas and no time left to come up with any.
He went to the washer women and had them dry their rows of stone basins and set them to grinding grain from the animals’ feed.
Next, he ordered the vintners to provide much wine from the cellars which the washer women churned with the powder in their washing tubs, sieved from the recalcitrant husks that failed to grind.
Finally, he ordered the cooks to take the unappealing grey paste and fire it in their ovens.
The ovens burned for hours and the paste was tested. At first, they produced flat, burnt circles that crumbled like coal. He commanded variations of temperature and cooking times, gradually using up the paste.
As the sun set, he regretted believing the fanciful tale and prepared to abandon all. Then, a cook noticed some paste left on the bench had began to grow. When it was baked, the result was astounding. Inside the brown exterior was a light, fluffy substance.
The vizier pulled out a chunk and put it in his mouth. It was tasteless apart from a slight bitterness but not unpleasant. He swallowed it and it stilled the grumbling in his neglected stomach.
*
When the armies returned from the border wars, fields had been cleared and planted with tall grasses whose seeds would fill the new granary which towered above the city. It almost rivalled the mausoleum where the slaves still toiled, but now with full bellies, dulled senses and little strength or will to do aught but sleep at the end of the day.
I’m guessing toast discovered by early liberals during the enlightenment…
Nice little tale there man👍🏻