An owl’s cry broke the silence, rippling through the cold night air.
“So you never saw Narses again after that?” Arslan asked.
Dariun nodded. They rode along a mountain road beneath the half moon. Pale blue-silver light filtered through the branches of the pine trees, washing over the two riders and their horses.
“Still,” Arslan said, “I can’t imagine Father banishing him from court forever over that alone. Something else happened, didn’t it?”
“Y-Yes.”
When Narses fled the court, he left a letter behind for the shah. According to Dariun’s uncle Vahriz, that had been a needless mistake. Narses had filled the letter with criticism of the corruption spreading through the government. He urged the king to forbid moneylending by priests, to place the karezes under the management of representatives chosen by the farmers, and to enforce the law fairly regardless of rank or birth.
He ended the letter with these words: “Your Majesty, I ask that you open your eyes and take a broad view of the true state of the realm. Not only upon what is beautiful, but upon what is ugly as well.”
“That insolent wretch! I raised him up, and now he dares lecture me?”
Enraged, Andragoras tore the letter to pieces and ordered Narses hunted down and arrested. Vahriz managed to calm him, and when Narses surrendered his lands in Daylam, the shah’s anger cooled somewhat. Still, the exile remained in effect. Narses himself was pleased by it. He withdrew to his mountain villa, where he spent his days painting and reading books from foreign lands in peace.
“Narses likes painting?” Arslan asked casually.
Dariun’s answer, however, came with visible reluctance. “Well… everyone has flaws.” When he saw the puzzled look on the prince’s face, he added wearily, “To put it plainly, he’s one of those people who loves something despite being bad at it. The man knows everything—astronomy, foreign geography, history—but when it comes to his own skill as a painter, you could say he is blind.”
A sharp hiss tore through the night air. A thin silver streak flashed past their eyes and struck the trunk of a pine tree. The horses snorted nervously. As they soothed their mounts, Dariun and Arslan spotted an arrow buried deep in the tree trunk, quivering in the moonlight.
“If you take one more step,” a boy’s voice called from the darkness of the forest, “the next one goes straight through your face.” He sounded about Arslan’s age. “Beyond this point lies the residence of Master Narses, former lord of Daylam. Uninvited guests are forbidden to cross the boundary. Leave now while you still can.”
“Is that you, Elam?” Dariun shouted back. “It’s me, Dariun. I’ve come to see your master for the first time in three years. Will you let us pass?”
After several seconds of silence, the darkness stirred, and a figure emerged as though cut from the night itself.
“It’s been a long time, Master Dariun. My apologies. I didn’t recognize you.”
The boy bowed. A quiver hung across his back, and a short bow rested in his hand. His hair gleamed black beneath the moon.
“You’ve grown taller,” Dariun said. “Is your master well?”
“Yes, very well.”
The boy made a thoughtful face. “I couldn’t say whether his paintings are good or bad. I simply follow my late parents’ last wishes and serve Master Narses. He was the one who freed them from slavery.”
The boy led them along the mountain trail. He must have possessed remarkable night vision, because his steps remained light and certain even in the dark.
A stone-and-timber mountain lodge with a gabled roof stood at the edge of the forest and grasslands. Somewhere below the meadow came the murmur of a mountain stream, while above them countless stars blazed across the sky.
As the three approached, the door opened, and light spilled out onto the ground. The boy ran ahead and bowed to his master.
Dariun dismounted from his black horse and called out, “Narses, it’s me. Dariun.”
“There’s no need to announce yourself, you noisy brute. I heard you from a farsang away.”
The master of the mountain lodge stood nearly as tall as Dariun, with a well-proportioned build and an intelligent, pleasant face. His sharp tongue contrasted with the warmth in his smiling eyes. He was a year younger than Dariun. A short blue tunic and matching trousers gave him a youthful, unpretentious appearance.
“Narses, this is—”
“Arslan, son of Shah Andragoras,” the prince said. “I’ve heard plenty about you from Dariun.”
“I hope none of it offended your ears,” Narses laughed softly and bowed. Then he turned to the boy. “Elam, sorry to trouble you, but kindly prepare a meal for our guests.”
The hardworking boy led the horses behind the lodge before hurrying to the kitchen. In the meantime, Arslan and Dariun removed their armor. It did nothing to relieve their exhaustion, but their bodies felt noticeably lighter.
Soon the redak[1] returned carrying a large tray. The rich aroma of nabidh,[2] chicken stew, flatbread glazed with honey, skewered lamb and onions, cheese, dried apples, figs, and apricots filled the room, stirring the appetites of the two travelers. They had never exerted themselves so much in a single day, and neither had eaten anything since breakfast.
The two sat at a low wooden table and devoted themselves entirely to eating for a while. Elam served them quietly while Narses sipped nabidh from a goblet, watching their appetites with apparent admiration.
Once every dish on the table vanished into his guests’ stomachs, Elam cleared away the plates, served green tea, bowed to Narses, and withdrew to his own room.
“Thanks to you, I feel alive again,” Arslan said. “You have my gratitude.”
“There’s no need for thanks, Prince Arslan. Your father once rewarded me with ten thousand dinars. Tonight’s meal wasn’t worth even a single drachm.”[3] Narses smiled, then turned toward his old friend. “Now then, I understand the general situation, but let me hear the details. Our army suffered a crushing defeat at Atropatene, didn’t it?”
As Dariun recounted the story of the battle, Narses listened quietly over his cup of green tea. Qaran’s betrayal made his brow twitch slightly, but the tactics of the Lusitanian army did not seem to surprise him.
“The advantage of cavalry lies in mobility. If you want to defeat them, the only answer is to pin them down. Dig trenches, build barricades, set fires, use the fog. Even make use of traitors. It seems the barbarians possess a few clever minds after all.” You are reading on novelping dot com, the official source.
“That they do,” Dariun said. “That’s exactly why I want to borrow your wisdom for Prince Arslan’s sake.”
“Noble of you, Dariun, but I have no desire to involve myself in worldly affairs again.”
“Surely that’s better than hiding in the mountains scribbling terrible paintings.”
The moment Dariun mentioned terrible paintings, Narses’s face darkened. “I can easily imagine what this fool has told you, Your Highness. You best not believe a word of it. Dariun is a warrior without equal in our kingdom and well-versed in the ways of the world, but he lacks appreciation for art. A truly tragic flaw.”
Dariun started to protest, but Narses raised a hand to silence him.
“Art is eternal. Civilizations rise and fall in an instant,” Narses said solemnly, though the words failed to inspire his guests.
Arslan sat there bewildered into silence, while Dariun abandoned his usual dignity and merely grinned to himself. Apparently, laughing was the only possible response.
Collecting himself, the prince said, “If that instant is now, then we can’t just sit idly by. Narses, please, I want your opinion.”
“I’m not certain what you want to hear,” Narses said slowly. “The Lusitanians worship the one absolute god, Yaldabaoth.[4] From what I hear, that god preaches equality among believers while commanding them to wipe every other faith from the face of the earth. A traveler from Maryam once told me about it. Every field and mountain all the way to Ecbatana will likely be filled with the corpses of what they call heathens.”
“I won’t allow that to happen. What do you think we should do?”
“It’s pointless to say it now, Your Highness, but His Majesty should have abolished slavery long ago. How can people oppressed by their own country fight willingly for it?” Heat seeped into Narses’s voice. He no longer sounded like a hermit detached from the world. “I can already see what comes next. The Lusitanian army will urge the ghulams to convert to the faith of Yaldabaoth and promise freedom to those who do. If the ghulams rise up with weapons in hand and join forces with the invaders, Pars will fall. After all, ghulams vastly outnumber the nobles and priests,” Narses finished his grim prediction in a mocking tone.
Arslan felt unease swelling inside him, but he forced himself to argue back. “Ecbatana won’t fall. When the Misr army besieged it years ago, the royal fortress never even wavered.”
Narses looked at the prince pityingly. “Your Highness, Ecbatana will not hold much longer either. True, those gates won’t break easily, not by fire arrows or battering rams. But attacking from the outside is not the only way to wage war.”
“You mean the ghulams inside the city will side with the Lusitanians?”
“Exactly. The Lusitanians will call out from beyond the walls: ‘Ghulams, rise up and overthrow your oppressors. Yaldabaoth promises you freedom and equality. The land and treasure will belong to you.’ I’d say that message will be very effective.”
Arslan fell silent, deep in thought.
1. Parsian term for a page. Based on the Middle Persian term rēdak, meaning a beardless youth or servant boy. ↩
2. Parsian term for wine. Based on nabīdh, a historical fermented drink of the medieval Middle East. ↩
3. Parsian term for a silver coin. Based on the historical drachm, a silver coin used throughout the ancient world. ↩
4. Based on the Gnostic demiurge and false creator god who rules the material world. ↩