Stories and Articles

The sign of the rose ...

by Ean Lawrence

The king, in the measure of pomp and majesty expected for such an occasion, was sat in council.  The sun, having reached its highest empyreal point for that day, forced its light through the window of the chamber and gilded, as if with a layer of burnished gold, the exalted presence, and animated the gems and pearls that adorned the king, adding a chromatic radiance both to them and to him.  About the king sat his privy councillors in order of seniority and, as it so happened, of wisdom.  Under the stewardship of the king, abetted by his trusty advisors who offered the king wise counsel, the land had been blessed with concord and prosperity, with all the king’s subjects benefiting from the peace that had so far lasted twenty-five summers.  The kingdom was not only at peace with itself but also in amity with its neighbours.  It was a golden time.

As the king grew restive, ready to draw the meeting to a close, a steward approached the king’s chancellor and whispered in his ear.  The chancellor turned to the king: ‘There is a messenger at the castle’s gate who seeks an audience with you, your majesty’.  The king bade that the messenger be brought to him.

On entering into the king’s presence, the herald made obeisance to him and, on rising, said: ‘May God continue to bless you, your majesty, and your loyal subjects.’

The king graciously acknowledged the salutation and bade the herald deliver his message.

‘Your majesty is well known for the victories over your enemies that have resulted in the glorious peace that has brought happiness and prosperity to your faithful subjects’.

The king smiled; he was inured to such flattery.  He did not allow it to influence him either for or against the source whence it came; he had been schooled in the precept, which had been reinforced by experience, that one should place greater store in deeds rather than in words as the measure of a man’s trustworthiness, and reserved judgement on all men, of whatever degree and condition, until they had proved themselves to be worthy of the king’s trust and condescension - or otherwise.  As the mellifluous words were poured into the king’s ear, he turned the plain, gold band - a cherished gift from his mother - that encircled the little finger on his left hand and voicelessly recited the inscription that ran around ring’s inner circumference:  Hominem te esse memento!  Memento mori!  The example of his father meant that he could never forget that he was but a man and that, like all men, he would die. The messenger bowed low and was bidden by the king to rise once more.

‘I come as the humble messenger of your brother’.

The king’s brother, who was a prince as great in valour as his brother but, sadly, not as great in wisdom or virtue, had grown envious of his older sibling. Yet it was not the king’s wealth that he coveted – the king had been most generous in the distribution of lands, tributes and sinecures – but, rather, the fame and renown the king enjoyed and received; and a festering resentment had made the king’s brother indurate, selfish and indifferent to the common weal.

‘”Seek an audience of the king”, spake my master,’ resumed the messenger, ‘”and repeat this to his majesty: his might is great, his wisdom profound, his friendship steadfast, and in all the vicissitudes of mortal life remains true.”’

The king’s councillors directed anxious eyes at their sovereign lord when they heard this fulsome praise; a vague presentiment filled their hearts.  While sad, foreboding thoughts began to fill the king’s head, to all the observers present in the privy chamber who sought to discover what his thoughts were by the narrow observation of the countenance he presented to the assembled courtiers, the king remained inscrutable; even the lord chancellor, the king’s closest confidant and advisor over many years, was unable to divine what the king was thinking; but he could hazard a conjecture.

The messenger continued: ‘My master instructed me as follows: “Seek from the king one word that will be the answer – and he will be taken at his word, as if it be a sacred oath, and not violated – will it be peace or war? Trusting his honour, I bid him choose, and that which he chooses, so will it be.” – thus did my master speak, my lord.’ 

Maintaining the outward appearance of regal composure, the king rose to leave the chamber. His councillors rose to follow the king, but he bade them remain where they were, even declining the company of his faithful and learned chancellor.  When the king needed to reflect upon some subject - whether it was some momentous matter of state, or some more personal matter, or, indeed, if it were to find distraction from the cares and concerns that burden a great potentate - it was his habit to repair to the royal garden.

Here the birds sang, sometimes merrily, sometimes plaintively; here the wind played through the leaves of the trees, sometimes producing sighs of contentment, sometimes of melancholy; and here, too, the wind undertook the duty of bearing the sweet perfumes of the flowers far and wide to bring solace to a soul afflicted with fear, doubt and uncertainty.  The king prayed to his god to vouchsafe him an answer.

If it be peace, O Lord, let it not be a coward’s peace to allow a vain man to hold onto worldly glory; nor let a tyrant’s anger, provoked by ingratitude, bring destruction and desolation, the ineluctable concomitants of war, to a fruitful land. Send me a sign, O Lord, to guide me to the right and just answer.’

As the king, with a heavy heart, continued his ambulation around his little Eden, he absent-mindedly drew his sword from its jeweled scabbard.  Despite its lack of use in exacting vengeance, or imposing reparation, or dispensing mercy, the king had kept a keen edge to the weapon as a reminder that a king needs to be ever vigilant.  In the act of drawing the sword, a rosebud was severed from the parent stem and fell on the path in front of the king. The king bent down and picked up the rosebud. He stared at the intricacies of its blood-red volutions.  The king’s cheeks became moist with tears of anguish, as the velvet petals of the rose are bedewed with the tears of heaven.

‘This is war,’ bemoaned the king.  ‘When once the sword is drawn, be the intention good or bad, it is the innocent that suffer first and are the first to fall’.

The king dropped the sword, as if it had suddenly turned into a burning brand in his hand. He looked at the instrument of death lying on the ground with a new perspective, as if perceiving it for the first time with an understanding of what it represented and symbolized. He hastened back to the council chamber.

Those persons occupying the chamber that were not already standing stood as the king entered; all bowed their heads towards their lord. The king resumed his place on his throne. He summoned the messenger to come forward.  With but a moment’s hesitation, the king declaimed one word to the messenger: ‘Peace!’

As the people heard, with great relief, the king speak the glad word, the Lord Chancellor noted that the king held within his left hand a half-blown rose, while at his side a jewelled sheath hung empty of its lethal mate.