There is no victor but God — dominion belongs to God, eternally.
Ali Pasha Bey lay on his sickbed. The fever had lasted nine days. The physicians had bled him, cupped him, packed him in herbs. The fever broke at dawn. Now he lay propped against cushions, his skin the color of old parchment, his voice reduced to a whisper.
Two young men stood at the bedside. Mahmoud was twenty-one, the son of the deceased Mohamed-El-Rechid Bey, his claim written in blood and law. Ḥammūda was eighteen, Ali’s son, his claim written in capability and five years of training.
The room waited for Ali’s decision.
“Mahmoud,” Ali whispered. “You are the eldest. Your father was Bey before me. By blood, by law, by custom — the throne is yours.”
Mahmoud stepped forward, his emerald robes catching the lamplight. “I am ready.”
Ali turned his gaze to his son. “Ḥammūda.”
“Ḥammūda is more accustomed to the management of affairs,” Ali said.
The words hung in the air. Mahmoud’s face darkened. He had spoken those words in private a week before; he had not expected them to become his sentence.
“A word spoken in private,” Mahmoud said, his voice tight, “should not become a public sentence.”
“It is not a sentence,” Ḥammūda said. “It is an offer. Be my advisor. Be my brother. Rule with me.”
Mahmoud was silent. He looked from Ḥammūda to Ali, from the uncle who had made the decision to the cousin who would reap the benefit.
“Rule with you,” Mahmoud said. “But not after you.”
“I will wait,” Mahmoud said.
Ali’s eyes closed. His breathing steadied. The fever had broken, but the decision had exhausted him. His hand lay still on the blanket.
Mahmoud looked at Ḥammūda. “And I am… what?”
“You are the dean of the family,” Ḥammūda said. “You are the advisor.”
Mahmoud nodded. He walked from the room, his emerald robes sweeping the stone floor.
The silk whispered against the threshold. The door closed.
Beyond the lattice screen, the call to evening prayer rose from the minarets of Tunis.