Even King Innocentius VII, who usually justified everything with talk of God and destiny when dealing with his generals, could not bring himself to appeal directly to God on this matter. He sat alone in Shah Andragoras’s bedroom, which was still not fully cleaned of the traces of bloodshed, brooding in silence.
He did not drink wine, so the silver cup on the Serica-imported sandalwood table held sugar water instead. That was one of the reasons Guiscard could not stand his brother. When Guiscard gathered himself and said he supported the marriage between his brother and Tahmineh, however, the king’s pale face lit up with joy.
“Oh, is that so? You approve?” Innocentius VII said.
“I do,” Guiscard replied. “But not for your sake alone. If the Queen of Pars marries the King of Lusitania, it will strengthen the bond between our two nations.”
“Yes, yes, just as you say,” the king agreed. He took his younger brother’s strong hands in his own soft, fleshy grip. “There was unfortunate bloodshed, but we must put the past behind us. Lusitanians and Parsians must join hands under the one true God and build a paradise on earth. For that, this marriage with Tahmineh is indeed necessary.”
Guiscard stared at his brother in disbelief as the man immediately settled into self-justification. Join hands, he thought bitterly. Easy words for a man like him. After everything that had been done to the people of Pars, how could they possibly put the past behind them?
But what he said was something else.
“Brother, there are a few problems with your marriage,” Guiscard said.
The Lusitanian king’s eyes darted nervously. “What problems, dear brother?”
“First, there is Archbishop Jean Bodin. The Queen is a heathen. That fussy fellow will never agree to it. What will you do about him?”
“I see. Then we will simply order the archbishop to convert her to the faith of Yaldabaoth. If he wishes, we can donate as much of the Parsian royal treasure as he likes. And if that is not enough, even our own royal treasury.”
Spare me the nonsense, Guiscard thought. The king had no idea how many lives had been spent just to seize Pars’s royal treasury.
The prince ended the conversation and withdrew. Once he returned to his own chambers, he began drinking nabidh glass after glass. His stomach felt queasy, as though he had drunk too much sugar water.
Just then, the man in the silver mask appeared, and Guiscard recounted how the meeting went.
“That is well,” the silver-masked man said, his poisonous words seeping straight into the prince’s ears. “If His Majesty gives too generous a donation to Bodin, the generals will only grow more discontent. And if Bodin stubbornly clings to doctrine and obstructs the marriage, His Majesty will surely come to resent him. Either way, Your Highness does not lose.”
“That is true. That’s good,” Guiscard said. “But my brother understands nothing at all. There are still many enemies within Pars. The movements of Misr, Sindhura, and Turan are also troubling. Marriage is the least of our problems. If those nations ever joined forces and attacked…” He stopped mid-sentence and shifted his gaze toward the silver-masked man, recalling something. “Come to think of it, during the battle of Atropatene, you helped me in many ways.”
“I am honored,” the masked man replied.
“There are those who say that the impossible fog on the Atropatene plains was the work of sorcery.”
“That fog was certainly too convenient. No matter how good the plan was, we could not have defeated the Parsian army without it.”
“In the faith of Yaldabaoth, sorcery never triumphs over God. It was divine protection.”
“Hmm.”
Guiscard still looked unconvinced, but perhaps the wine had dulled his suspicion. In the end, he dropped the matter and allowed the man to leave.
The man in the silver mask walked at a brisk pace through the palace’s long, winding corridors without the slightest hesitation. Ignoring the uneasy glances cast at him by passing Lusitanian soldiers, he muttered to himself in his habitual manner, “When the Principality of Badakhshan fell, that woman survived. When the Kingdom of Pars fell, she survived again. But when the Kingdom of Lusitania falls, it will not be the same. Once she arrives in the underworld, I wonder what she will say to the men who died for her.”
He stopped in a wide corridor overlooking a courtyard that had been ravaged in a short time. After confirming that no one was nearby, Qaran approached and bowed.
“Qaran, has that whelp of Andragoras still not been captured?”
“I am truly sorry. I have ordered my men to commit all their forces, but his whereabouts are still unknown.”
“Too slow,” the silver-masked man said.
His tone was not especially sharp, but there was something in his voice that silenced Qaran. Moreover, that voice was perfectly natural, in stark contrast to the carefully polite tone the man used with Prince Guiscard. Qaran was remarkably deferential it would have surprised any observer.
“I can only apologize. I have failed you.” He bent his large frame in a manner unbefitting a marzban.
“No, it’s fine,” the masked man said. “I doubt you would have been careless. Pars is vast. A single boy could hide anywhere, even behind an orange tree. A single boy…”
His voice trailed off, followed by a short silence and a small chuckle. The light of the setting sun, filtering through the orange leaves in the garden, kissed the mask at an angle.
The next day, a knight pale from the bleeding of his spirit more than his body, rode in haste from Qaran’s domain to his liege in Ecbatana.
“I am truly ashamed beyond words,” the man said as he groveled. “Prince Arslan and the traitors aiding him escaped our encirclement and vanished.”
Qaran looked down at his subordinate with eyes blazing with something close to murderous rage. He had always been fair and generous toward his men. That was why they had followed him all these years. But at that moment, he had to struggle with the overwhelming urge to kick the man’s head in.
The subordinate understood that a lengthy excuse would only unleash his master’s anger. He therefore recounted the events as clearly and concisely as possible.
Since Arslan remained hidden on Mount Bashur and showed no sign of descending, Qaran’s men had decided to conduct a sweep of the mountain. Then a woodcutter appeared and told them that he had recently heard voices inside a cave that was supposed to be deserted. According to the woodcutter, the men hiding there were communicating with allies outside the mountain by tying messages to pigeons’ legs. They planned to coordinate an attack from both inside and outside the mountain and break through the blockade on the night of the fourteenth.
Qaran’s men were delighted by the news and prepared themselves for the appointed night. And then on the night of the thirteenth, while they slept soundly, the fugitives broke through the blockade. The soldiers sprang from their beds and tried to defend, but none could match Dariun’s ferocity. Command collapsed into chaos, and in the end the fugitives escaped.
To make matters worse, a man believed to be Narses reportedly said to one of Qaran’s soldiers, “When you’re holed up in the mountains and don’t have a calendar, it’s easy to lose track of the date. My apologies.”
“So they made complete fools of you,” Qaran said. “That woodcutter was probably bribed.”
“Y-Yes, sir.”
“Dariun and Narses are no ordinary men. I warned you again and again to exercise caution. Useless fools!” Qaran lashed out at the incompetent subordinate. His anger masked something else—anxiety and fear.
What would happen if Arslan, accompanied by Dariun and Narses, gathered Keshvad’s great army on the eastern border and marched on Ecbatana? The defeat of the Lusitanian army was one matter. Far worse, it would ruin that man’s grand ambition.
The thought of facing Dariun gave Qaran pause, but circumstances left him no choice. He would have to take the field himself.
He hurried through the corridors to obtain Prince Guiscard’s permission to mobilize troops. As he walked, however, he could not help overhearing the comments of the passing Lusitanians.
“Hmph. Look at that traitor strutting around.”
“A conquered heathen who hasn’t even converted yet, and somehow he takes part in matters of state.”
“Seems it’s easier to rise in the world by being born a heathen and betraying your own people than by risking your life fighting heathens. Ah, what a pity I was born in the wrong place.”
They spoke loudly on purpose, making sure he heard every word.
The marzban offered no reply. His cheeks stiffened from the humiliation.