Shah Andragoras’s expression hardened further when he saw the prince and the eran enter the tent. He understood at once why his son and senior retainer had come in such haste.
“Father.”
“What are you doing here? I did not summon you,” the shah growled. Arslan’s voice was swallowed, as if it struck an invisible wall that returned it ten times stronger. “This is no matter for you to stick your nose in. Get out and think only of how you will distinguish yourself in the battlefield.”
Rather than a reprimand, it sounded more like a dismissal, and it stirred resentment in Arslan. He supposed his father was right, but he could not understand why he spoke in such a way. The king, after all, was gentle—almost indulgent—toward Arslan’s mother, Queen Tahmineh.
In the army of Pars, beneath Shah Andragoras III and Eran Vahriz, there were twelve marzbans. They were Saam, Qobad, Shapur, Garshasp, Qaran, Keshvad, Manuchehr, Bahman, Khshaeta, Qulp, Khayr, and Dariun. Keshvad and Bahman guarded the eastern border, while Saam and Garshasp defended the capital, Ecbatana. The remaining eight had joined the shah and the eran for the upcoming battle at Atropatene. Each of these eight commanded 10,000 horsemen, and the king’s elite guards, the Athanatoi,[1] added another 5,000, for a total of 85,000 horsemen deployed on the Plains of Atropatene together with the infantry.
Arslan was the crown prince, destined one day to stand above them all as shah. However, status and military authority were separate matters. At present, he was merely a junior officer assigned roughly a hundred cavalrymen. Since it was his first campaign, having any subordinates at all was a major matter, though they were less true subordinates and more like supervisors assigned to watch over him. Still, he wished his father would at least listen to his opinion.
Arslan wasn’t saying anything, so Vahriz stepped in. More precisely, he acted before he spoke. He strode up to his nephew and struck his youthful face with a light slap.
“You insolent fool! How dare you talk back to His Majesty, who has shown you such great favor? Know your place!”
“Uncle, I was only—” Before he could finish, he was struck again.
Dariun heaved a deep sigh, then silently bowed deeply to the king.
Eran Vahriz also knelt and lowered his head. “Your Majesty, I apologize on behalf of my rude nephew. I humbly beg your mercy and forgiveness for his offense.”
“That is enough, Vahriz,” the king replied, but his voice and expression still carried clear displeasure. He had seen through it, the way the old man pretended to scold his nephew while actually shielding him. Still, that maneuver also preserved the king’s dignity. Had the two continued clashing in anger, the situation might have taken an unexpected and disastrous turn.
“Dariun!” the king addressed the young knight, his voice entirely devoid of warmth. “I will not change my decision to strip you of your rank. However, I will give you a chance to be reinstated. You will serve in this battle as a knight attached to the main camp. Depending on your efforts, you may yet atone for your offense.”
“I am deeply grateful, Your Majesty,” Dariun answered with visible effort.
Without even looking at Dariun, the king turned toward the inside of the tent, then stopped and cast a cold glance at Arslan.
“What are you still doing here?”
“I will leave at once.”
Just as he said, Arslan left the tent immediately. His father was displeased, but so was he. It was clear that the king had taken Vahriz’s position into account, yet he felt the same consideration should have been shown to him as the crown prince.
Dariun caught up from behind and bent his tall frame apologetically. “I apologize for causing you great trouble, Your Highness. Please forgive me.”
“It’s fine. You said nothing wrong, did you?”
“No. Marzban Qaran thought the same. I don’t mean to share the blame, but it was he who told me I should offer counsel to the king.”
“I see,” Arslan nodded, but his interest had already turned to someone else who was not on this battlefield. “What kind of man is Narses?”
“He’s a friend. To my knowledge, there is no man more brilliant than he is.”
“A crank,” the old eran cut in, dismissing his nephew’s words in a single stroke.
Dariun gave him a disapproving look. “Uncle, you yourself once admitted his strategic genius was unmatched in the kingdom. Or was that a lie?”
“I was speaking of his character, not his mind.”
Watching the uncle and nephew argue, Arslan felt a faint twinge of envy. He found himself wishing he and his father could speak to each other so openly, yet so warmly. Thinking it improper to cut in, Arslan turned his horse back alone.
After giving a bow to the prince, the eran turned back and scolded his nephew again. “Dariun, even when giving advice, timing matters. His Majesty recognized your achievements and talent and appointed you as a marzban. To throw away such a promotion with your own hands is nothing but recklessness.”
“I agree. Timing matters when offering counsel. You can’t wait until you’ve already lost.” Because he had no choice but to restrain himself in the presence of the king and the prince, Dariun was all the more unreserved when it came to his uncle. “Besides, there’s no guarantee that I will even survive this battle. I’m not skilled enough to offer counsel after becoming a ghost.”
The old eran snorted. “You’ve got a sharp tongue. Narses was the same. When he believed he was right, he’d start sounding less friendly.”
Dariun looked as if he wanted to respond, but he fell silent, thinking his uncle would only outargue him.
The old man suddenly changed the topic. “Dariun, it’s already been sixteen years since I was appointed Eran.”
“When I was born, you were already a marzban.”
“That’s right. It has been a long time. As you can see, my beard has turned completely gray.”
“But your voice is still as loud as ever.”
“You’re terrible at flattery,” the old man said. “Anyway, I was thinking it’s about time I handed the reins over to the younger generation.”
Dariun blinked. The conversation kept jumping from one topic to another so abruptly that he could barely keep up.
The old man said calmly, “The next Eran of Pars will be you. I’ve already informed Her Majesty the Queen before we set out.”
Dariun stared at him in disbelief. “I’m grateful, but that is a matter for His Majesty to decide. And after what happened today, no matter what you say, he would not accept it.”
“Oh, he will accept it. His Majesty knows your ability well enough.” The old man let out a small yawn. “By the way, Dariun.”
“Yes?” Dariun tensed, wondering what else his uncle might say.
“When you saw Prince Arslan again after so long, what did you think of his appearance?”
“He has fine features. In another two or three years, the young ladies of the capital will surely be in quite a stir. But Uncle…”
“In your opinion, does the prince resemble the king or the queen more?” Vahriz pressed.
Dariun was a little baffled. Personal appearance should not matter when it came to a ruler’s qualifications, so why was his uncle so fixated on it?
“If I had to say, I suppose he resembles the queen more.”
Strictly speaking, Dariun thought he resembled Shah Andragoras III less, but his sense of propriety as a subject kept him from saying so outright.
Noticing his nephew’s hesitation, the eran nodded. “I see. So he does not resemble His Majesty the King.”
If he had taken after his father, he would have had a more rugged face that radiated indomitability and fierceness.
“Dariun,” the eran said. “Swear your loyalty to Prince Arslan.”
The young warrior, who had only moments ago been a marzban, stared at his uncle in astonishment. With a war that would decide the fate of the kingdom at hand, the old man was behaving in a way that raised too many questions.
“I intend to remain forever loyal to the royal house of Pars. Why ask me to swear an oath at this juncture?”
“To the prince himself, Dariun.”
“I understand. If that is your wish, Uncle.”
“Do you swear it on your sword?”
“I swear it on my sword,” Dariun declared firmly.
A tight smile crossed his sharp features. His uncle’s insistence felt a little excessive.
“Shall I give you a written oath?” Dariun suggested.
“No. Your word is enough,” Vahriz said gravely, his face too serious for even a bitter smile. Daryun lost all desire to respond with sarcasm. “If anyone’s going to stand by Prince Arslan, I want it to be you. You alone are worth more than a thousand cavalrymen.”
“Uncle.” Unable to hold back any longer, Dariun raised his voice.
These were the words of a man he respected deeply, so he had accepted them, but he still had the right to question what he heard.
A horn blared through the fog. The battle was about to begin.
Vahriz spurred his horse toward the main camp with a vigor that belied his age, and Dariun ultimately failed to grasp his uncle’s true intentions.
1. Parsian term for the kingdom’s immortal unit. Based on the elite infantry unit of the Achaemenid Empire. ↩