The sun sank, painting the western horizon in gold.
With every passing moment, the clear sky deepened into richer shades of blue as flocks of birds tore through it in long streaming lines on their way back to their nests. Fields rippled in golden-brown waves with wheat and oranges. Far to the east and north, mountain ridges caught the last light on their perpetual snow, scattering iridescent glimmers across the path of travelers. Along roads lined with elm, cypress, and poplar, people came on horseback or on foot, hurrying to reach the gates of the royal capital, Ecbatana, before they closed.
That was what an autumn evening in Pars should have been like. But now the wheat fields were choked with black smoke from blazing fires. The roads were piled with the corpses of slaughtered peasants. The air itself carried the stench of blood.
After the crushing defeat at Atropatene, the capital of the Kingdom of Pars, Ecbatana, fell under siege by the Lusitanian army.
Ecbatana was not only the capital of Pars. It was also the most important hub of the Continental Highway that stretched east to west across the vast continent. Caravans came from many lands, bringing silk, porcelain, paper, and tea from Serica; jade and rubies from the Principality of Farkhar; horses from the Turan Kingdom; ivory, leather goods, and bronze ware from Sindhura; olive oil, wool, and nabidh from the Kingdom of Maryam; and carpets from the Kingdom of Misr. The city teemed with commercial activity.
Along the Continental Highway, dozens of languages mixed with Parsian, the official language of the route, as people, horses, camels, and donkeys moved along the stone-paved roads. In the taverns, blonde Maryami women, black-haired Sindhuran women, and beauties from many lands competed in charm as they poured choice drinks from their homelands into the cups of guests. Illusionists from Serica, circus riders from Turan, and magicians from Misr delighted the crowds with their arts, while musicians from Farkhar filled the air with flute music. And so Ecbatana had enjoyed three hundred years of prosperity.
But now the streams of travelers had ceased, Shah Andragoras was not in his throne, and a cloud of unease shrouded the royal capital.
The walls of Ecbatana stretched east to west for 1.6 farsang, north to south for 1.2. They rose twelve gaz high and reached seven gaz in thickness at the top. Nine gates were protected by double iron doors. Even when the great army of Misr besieged the city, it had never shaken.
“But back then, Shah Andragoras was inside.”
Two marzbans, Saam and Garshasp, were present, but the shah’s whereabouts were unknown. Anxiety among the people in the city—including Queen Tahmineh—only grew.
Then something strange happened. At the front of the Lusitanian siege lines, a roofless wagon rolled forward, escorted by about ten mounted soldiers. Two men sat in it besides the driver. When they finally made out the taller figure beneath the reddening sky, the Parsian army was shaken.
It was Shapur, one of the marzbans of Pars. A thick leather strap was wrapped twice around his neck, and his wrists were bound behind his back with more leather cords. His body was caked in blood and mud. His forehead and right side were badly wounded, and blood seeped through the bandages, spreading further with every moment. The Parsian soldiers fell silent as they stared at the horrible condition of the famous marzban.
“Hear me, godless infidels of the city!” A loud voice in heavily accented Parsian boomed, and the soldiers on the walls turned their attention to the small, black-robed man standing beside Shapur. “I am Bodin, servant of the one true god Yaldabaoth, archbishop and inquisitor. I have come to deliver His will to you unbelievers. And I will deliver it through this heathen’s body.”
Bodin looked up at the gravely wounded Parsian warrior with cruel eyes. “First, I will cut off the little toe of his left foot.” He licked his lips. “Then the next toe, then the middle one. When I’m finished with the left foot, I will move to the right. Then the hands. I will show the city what becomes of those who defy God.” Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
The soldiers on the wall cursed the priest’s cruelty. But what truly angered Bodin were the voices of criticism coming from within his own ranks. They were faint, but clearly audible.
“Curse you!” The archbishop glared at his own troops, then threw his chest and shouted in Lusitanian, “This man is a heathen! A servant of the devil who refuses to worship the one true god, Yaldabaoth! He was born and raised in darkness, a cursed beast who turns his face away from the light! To show mercy to a heathen is to defy God himself!”
The eyes of the marzban, his face smeared with blood and mud, gleamed. “You have no right to lecture me about my faith,” Shapur spat out. He did not understand Lusitanian, but from the archbishop’s wild gestures, he could guess what was being said. “Just kill me already. I’d rather go to hell than be saved by your so-called god. And from there, I will watch your god and your kingdom destroy themselves with their own cruelty.”
The archbishop leapt forward and struck Shapur hard across the mouth with his staff. His lip split, his front teeth shattered, and blood sprayed.
“You heathen! Blasphemer!” He struck him again across the face. The staff snapped.
Shapur’s cheekbone was likely broken, but he still forced his bloodied mouth open and shouted, “People of Ecbatana! If you can hear me, shoot me down with an arrow! I’m beyond saving! I would rather die by your arrows than be tortured to death by Lusitanian savages!”
The archbishop screamed again, and two Lusitanian soldiers rushed in. One drove his sword into Shapur’s thigh. The other lashed his chest with a whip. Cries of rage and pity rose from the walls of Ecbatana, but there was nothing anyone could do to save the ill-fated warrior.
Then a sharp whir of wings cut through the air.
Everyone saw it, Lusitanians and Parsians alike. An arrow flew from the walls of Ecbatana and struck Shapur between the eyes, putting an end to his suffering forever.
A groan swept through the crowd. Given the distance from the walls, to kill him instantly with a single shot showed terrifying skill. Ten arrows flew back from the Lusitanian camp toward the silhouette standing on a section of the wall, but none struck their mark. Indeed, not even one arrow reached the ramparts.
All eyes turned to one point. A murmur of admiration and curiosity spread.
The one who had fired the arrow from the ramparts was a young man, not an armored soldier. Though he carried a bow and wore a sword at his waist, he looked like a traveler, wearing an embroidered cap and a similarly embroidered coat. An oud[1] rested at his feet. Two soldiers quickly approached him.
“Her Majesty the Queen summons you,” one of them said. “She wishes to grant a fitting reward to the person who freed the brave Shapur from his suffering.”
“Ah, so I am not to be punished for murder?” the young man said with a touch of sarcasm.
Queen Tahmineh waited in the audience chamber for the unknown master archer.
On either side of the throne stood the remaining high officials in the capital—Framadar Husrav and the marzbans Garshasp and Saam. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
The queen, thirty-six years old, looked younger than her age. Or rather, her beauty made her age impossible to guess. Adorned with jewels and silk, her black hair, black eyes, and ivory skin glowed all the brighter.
About ten gaz away from the throne, the young man knelt reverently on the carpet. The queen studied him curiously.
“What is your name?” she asked.
The young man raised his head and answered melodiously, “My name is Giv, Your Majesty. I am a wandering minstrel.”
He looked about twenty-two or twenty-three. His hair was a deep reddish purple, and his eyes were a dark blue. His tall but slender build and delicate features drew admiring whispers from the court ladies, but his expression as he looked back at the queen carried an almost shameless audacity. His earlier display of archery skill suggested he was not a man who simply made a living as a wandering minstrel.
The queen tilted her head slightly, and the lamplight seemed to flicker in response.
“You call yourself a minstrel,” she said. “What can you do?”
“I play the oud, Your Majesty. I also play the flute, sing, compose poems, and dance. I’m skilled with the lyre as well,” he said without a trace of modesty. “And I should add that I can wield the bow, the sword, and the spear better than most people.”
Saam frowned slightly, while Garshasp let out a low, mocking laugh. In the presence of these two valiant warriors, it sounded like a boastful exaggeration.
“I saw your archery from the western tower,” the queen said. “You have my gratitude for relieving the loyal Shapur of his suffering.”
“I am honored,” Giv replied, though his eyes clearly expected something other than words of thanks.
It seemed like reverence, or perhaps yearning. It was the kind of feeling a young man might readily harbor toward the queen’s stunning beauty. Tahmineh was accustomed to receiving such gazes.
But that was not quite it. His was the brazen look of someone appraising the queen of a nation as a woman, and one that showed dissatisfaction with mere verbal praise, waiting instead for some tangible form of reward as a token of gratitude.
1. The oud is a Middle Eastern short-neck lute-type, pear-shaped, fretless stringed instrument usually with 11 strings grouped in six courses, but some models have five or seven courses, with 10 or 13 strings respectively. ↩