The chanting had begun anew. "Omay! Omay! Omay!"

He didn't respond. A speaker system had been installed when the Fishbowl was first built so that his voice could carry out across the square. He rarely used it. An address by the sultan generally brought a more hostile reaction from a crowd than his security people liked.

Below, the people were packed into Rebellion Square like cigars in a humidor. They looked up at him, eyes alight with patriotic fervor. Guns were raised defiantly. A few shots rattled in the distance.

They chanted not for him, he knew, but for the glorious revolution against the West, now thirty years gone. The recent anniversary was cause for national celebration. But if given half a chance they would gladly turn their weapons on him.

In spite of the threat they represented, Omay longed to go down among his people. But his was a life of imminent danger. More so since his latest doctor's report.

In spite of the healthy life-style he had been living, the cancer had recently returned more than a decade after he had been assured it was gone for good. And this time it was far more virulent than before. This time there was no hope. He had only a few months to live. Perhaps as much as a year. But this, he had been assured, was unlikely.

When the reality of his physical situation had sunk in, a fresh realization dawned on Sultan Omay sinKhalam. He finally saw the truth. He had sold his nation's soul for a few more years of life. The sultan himself had betrayed his beloved Ebla.

This thought had occupied much of his time of late. It clung to his consciousness now as he stared out over the rowdy throng of revelers.

People screamed. More guns rattled in triumph. A new wave of raised assault rifles rippled through the crowd, a sign of obeisance to their ruler high above them.