Daniel Galef
In the summer of the ninth year of the reign of Hyperbolus the Faithful, an assassin slipped through the monumental lazuli gates of the palace in Nammi-Shur like a petal slipping under the surface of still water. His hand was stayed even as he brought down the knife, and the fist encircling the fiend’s wrist was that of a palace steward, Decimus. In gratitude the emperor rewarded this loyal servant with a boon amounting to one of every thing. The phrase was figurative, a traditional poetic formula; however, the scrupulous monarch now insisted, much to Decimus’s gratification, that his gift was to be executed both literally and precisely.
The imperial treasuries were combed for one ruby, one chalcedon, one heliotrope, one diadem, one encrusted ciborium. More exotic treasures were lifted from Hyperbolus’ personal collections and from the coffers of conquered neighbors. Unique artifacts Hyperbolus relinquished without qualm. For his retirement, Decimus was constructed by the palace builders one house, possessing itself one garden, one fountain, one labyrinth, one wind-tower, one courtyard decorated with one mosaic of one scene from one poem. This house, a curious contrast between palace and hovel—grandiose without being grand—was further furnished with one bed, one altar, one slave, one reflecting-pool, one window.
There were confusions, but confusion has been the state of the world since the first man had the first two thoughts and those thoughts were at odds. The tabulators of the realm squabbled over how to award Decimus both one horse and one stable of horses, one wine bottle but also one wine cask, one wife and one harem.
The emperor was consulted, in the secret hope that he would wave away such trivialities and allow them to consider the boon granted. But the emperor was wise, and thought himself wiser. As if listing the names of the gods to a child, he explained: A stable is an artificial composite invented by men who ride and gamble and barter; a stable does not exist in the eyes of Heaven, unlike a single horse. Likewise, a bottle of wine is but a supervening consequence created from altering (by means of a spigot) a cask, which is the natural and complete unit of wine. You may be assured his reasoned conclusions on the harem followed similar logical lines.
Decimus never left the king’s favor, exactly, but the sovereign’s philosophy grew stronger than his generosity; Hyperbolus commanded that “one of everything” was incomplete applying only to what is pleasant and praiseworthy. So too Decimus must receive one burden, one lashing, one pox—and one death, although the emperor acknowledged that this gift must, as it is for all men, be the last granted.
At last, when it was agreed that every boon and every misfortune had been visited upon Decimus, he still possessed redundancies outfitted by Nature in impudent defiance of the will of the sovereign. Nature was whipped in punishment, and the tabulators again convened. Decimus must have a single eye, a single tooth, a single foot, a single testicle. They thanked the numerical spirits the king had not granted ten of all (as Darius awarded to Mandrocles the Samian), for subtraction was easier than addition. Decimus looked like an old soldier who has returned, just barely, from war but left a great deal of himself on the battlefield.
Finally, the emperor was struck by the thought that he had circumscribed what Decimus possessed, but not what he experienced. If he had a cup of tea one afternoon, he could not have another the next but instead a cup of milk, or water, or vinegar. Before Hyperbolus began pondering one sleep, one hour, one breath, Decimus fled.
He is a man who has lost all communication with number. Meaningless to him is the distinction between fifty and five, or five hundred. When blessed with a generous alm by a copper merchant, it is said Decimus, having no shoes, purchased twenty-nine. I have watched him boil four grains of rice.
In the bazaar of Ur-Qirash or the dirty backrooms of the Zaggani stables where invalids and poets are bedded on pallets of horse-straw, there are many one-footed beggars who will eagerly claim to be Decimus. Perhaps these are simply liars and madmen. Or, perhaps, in his final confusion, Decimus himself knows not whether he is one man, or a hundred, or none at all.
DANIEL GALEF exists at the shimmering nexus of art and technology, on the bleeding edge of innovation and a cheesy corporate mission statement. His flash fiction has been featured in Juked, Jersey Devil Press, Bewildering Stories, and the 2020 Best Small Fictions anthology.
