“You will bow when you meet him,” Khorasani said to Alexios as they walked the long battlements to Naryn-Kala’s far end, passing the occasional guard on patrol.
This was the first time Alexios had seen the fortress from the outside since being brought here, and he was so stunned by its size he hardly heard Khorasani's words. Alexios knew nothing about Gog and Magog—to him they were no more than funny names—but Naryn-Kala was so huge that it seemed like Alexander the Great had actually built this place to protect all the lands to the south from titanic monsters lurking in the north. Though the citadel was built high up in the forested hills, its long massive walls—twenty feet tall, ten feet wide—stretched all the way down to the sea, and extended back into the mountains. His old world self believed that only the Chinese were capable of such feats, but it seemed that foreign devils like himself were not always as useless, petty, and incompetent as he had supposed.
This place was one of only two gaps in the Kaukasos, the other being the Darial Gorge, which lay hundreds of miles to the west, a green sunny river-carved gap cut into the razor-sharp, skyscraping Greater Kaukasos mountains, themselves functioning as a wall between the Euxine and Hyrkanian seas.
“You will not embarrass me,” Khorasani added, startling Alexios from his reverie as he shuffled in his ringing manacles.
Bowing, he's talking about bowing to the Shirvanshahzadeh.
“Why should I?” Alexios said. “He helped Adarnase take my family, take everything I—”
“Listen.” Khorasani stopped and jabbed his finger into Alexios’s chest. “I did not heal you just so you could commit suicide via a foolish act of disrespect. Not everything can instantaneously be the way you wish it. Were it my choice, you would be free with your family right now. But God has other plans. We must make the best of them.”
Alexios watched him lower his finger. “The question is when to compromise, and when to fight, isn’t it?”
“Only fight when you have no choice, Eskandar-jan. When they have backed you into a corner.”
Alexios raised his manacled wrists. “Like right now?”
“Things could be worse. You are far from the bottom, far indeed from the lowest depths.”
“And what would those be?”
“The prison of the ones condemned to die. No place is worse—no place except Jahannam, except Hell, the Fire whose fuel is men and stones.”
“Maybe soon I’ll be able to tell you if you’re right. I’ll get a taste of prison, get a taste of execution, get a taste of hell—”
“Don’t joke about it. The Shirvanshahzadeh is a prince, yes, but his father in Shamakhi is old and sick, and thus it is Prince Manuchehr who rules these lands for hundreds of parasangs in every direction. He is an active ruler, as you saw, for he even rode out to meet you, having heard that one of the fabled Trabzon criminals had entered his lands. It would be wise to make him your friend rather than your enemy.”
“He already made me his enemy by helping the man who took my children. By selling Isato.” Alexios’s voice trembled, and he barely managed to complete this sentence. Her fate was so horrible, it was all he could do to keep from covering his face and bursting into tears.
“I still do not understand why you are so distraught over the loss of a dog. Dogs, you must know, are filthy creatures. The mere sight of one during prayer nullifies that prayer—”
“She was a person, once. She used to be a person.”
“Are you serious? How can that be?”
“I don’t know. But it’s true. You believe Alexander the Great built this fortress to keep out monsters, but you don’t believe that a woman can transform into a dog?”
“Let us change the subject.”
“Let’s not.”
“You may see her again if you do as I tell you. But you will never see her again if you ignore me. Now come!” Khorasani shielded his eyes, and squinted at the sun. “The hour is late. It is not wise to keep a prince waiting.”
He walked away, refusing to check if Alexios was following. But Alexios—after frowning and rolling his eyes—did indeed follow, at least as quickly as the manacles around his ankles permitted. The clanking iron shackles forced him to take only small (and ridiculous) steps, like a lady-in-waiting of Cipangu.
Khorasani and Alexios strode along the usual array of gates, doorways, halls, and hallways. Naryn-Kala was a fortress, which meant that at least in the outer areas by the walls, everything seemed sturdy, thick, practical. Decoration was rare, though Alexios saw that stone reliefs had been chiseled away in some places due to the Islamic proscription against idolatry. He stopped for a moment and narrowed his eyes at the sight of one relief which was still in decent condition. It depicted a bearded man wearing some kind of globe-shaped headdress. Alexios was no art historian, but he recalled that Alexander the Great was usually shown as a handsome beardless youth. This figure must have been someone else. The figure was also standing on a bearded man lying flat on his chest, his face turned toward the viewer, eyes bulging, eyebrows uplifted, mouth grimacing.
A Persian Shah triumphant atop a Roman emperor, Alexios thought. Could be Julian, the big-brained rationalist who invaded the east and got owned fast. But that was also Alexander’s fate, wasn’t it? Eventually he had to turn around, go back home, and poison himself to death with alcohol. The east was just too sharp, too strong.
Khorasani’s black robes swirled around him, while Alexios walked in a tunic with baggy pants which he had donned some days ago. (His adventures had destroyed his Romanían clothing.) This was the first time he had worn pants since arriving in the game, and he found them strange and annoying. It was uncomfortable the way they clung to his legs whenever he took a step; he had gotten used to the freedom of long belted tunics. The pants were combined with leather boots, which seemed to be “the thing” in Shirvan, while Romans still preferred sandals even when it was cold enough to freeze your feet to icicles.
The colors and patterns in the citadel interior grew more vibrant and complex as Alexios and Khorasani approached the Shirvanshahzadeh’s chambers. At last they reached their destination, and found an enormous room where the floor was covered in spectacular carpets. Elegant arching windows and pillared balconies of white marble overlooked the Hyrkanian Ocean, and roses and tulips sprouted from gigantic pots. Some of these pots also contained flames that blossomed from earth made of black rock oil; water from a fountain flowed around them in stone channels.
Elemental. Leaping flames beside flowing water. The traditions of Zoroastrianism live on.
Even a few palm trees were growing in the prince’s chamber, the sunlight falling from thick leaded glass windows in the ceiling onto green drooping leaves. There were, however, no statues, nor artistic depictions of any living thing: only shapes and patterns. Roman rulers would always have an old crumbling marble bust or two of Caesar or Cicero or some pig-faced emperor from a thousand years ago, but the Shirvanshahzadeh’s throne room was untroubled by such outdated art forms.
The Shirvanshahzadeh himself was sipping from a steaming cup of Seran cha. He sat cross-legged on a low couch which was covered in silk pillows, the sight of the latter summoning painful memories of Alexios’s family joking about stealing such things from Kutaisi. Above the couch was a canopy glittering with gold and pearl. Two gigantic muscular warriors stood at attention at either side of the throne. There was also the wazir, of course: an elderly bearded gentleman in plain-colored robes and turban sitting on a comfortable chair to the right of the carpeted steps leading to the Shirvanshahzadeh’s couch. A youth on the other side of the carpeted steps was reading from a book of elegant Persian poetry which he had placed on a low table, before which he was kneeling.
In front of the throne was a huge thick carpet covered in vibrant blue and red geometric patterns, and on this carpet was spread a white cloth, and atop this cloth were bowls piled with dates, apricots, cucumbers, apples, and pomegranates. There were also plates of fresh-baked lavash flatbread, roasted lamb kebab, smoked fish, rice pilaf sprinkled with saffron (and topped with a crispy cooked layer of rice called tahdig), and little bowls of jam and cream—enough for ten hungry people to fill their bellies.
Alexios was so amazed at the sight of this banquet that he stopped and swore.
Khorasani glared at him. “Be silent!”
When the youth reading from the poetry book concluded the quatrain he had been reciting, the Shirvanshahzadeh dismissed him. Then he placed one hand on his hip, regarded Alexios up and down, and spoke Persian to Khorasani, who translated.
“The Shirvanshahzadeh welcomes you to Naryn-Kala and invites you to sit and eat,” Khorasani said.
This man helped Adarnase, Alexios thought. I can’t do this.
Yet his stomach had other ideas, and was rumbling so loudly that Khorasani looked at him. Alexios told himself that he was building up his strength to free his family. Then he removed his boots, sat before the banquet, and began to pile his plate with food—for only a moment, however, because Khorasani nudged him and ordered him to stop.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“What manners have you learned in Romanía?” he asked, before bowing to the Shirvanshahzadeh and apologizing.
In the mean time, a servant had brought a small low wooden table piled with empty but elegant porcelain plates that might have been from Sera. He unfolded the table’s folding legs, set the table beside the banquet, then heaped the plates with food before bringing the entire table to the canopy and leaving it before the Shirvanshahzadeh.
Shrugging, Khorasani looked to Alexios’s plate of food. “Nooshe jan,” he said. “May it nourish your soul.”
“Thanks.” Alexios devoured the rich food, his manacles clinking around his wrists. “It’s definitely going to nourish something, that’s for sure.”
Khorasani took smaller amounts, and ate more slowly than Alexios, who himself was eating as though he had never eaten before. A servant poured them both cups of steaming Seran cha. The cups were porcelain, and painted with Seran symbols.
Then the Shirvanshahzadeh spoke, and Khorasani translated.
“His Majesty hopes that you have fully recuperated from your wounds,” Khorasani said. “He says he will remove your bindings if you pledge him your loyalty and convert to Islam—if he can trust you, in other words.”
“Maybe we should talk business after we eat,” Alexios said with a nearly full mouth. “This food is really something else. Top five meals of my life, right here.”
“When the Shirvanshahzadeh speaks, we must answer,” Khorasani said.
“Alright.” Alexios wiped his face with a silk napkin, dropped the napkin into his lap, then looked at Khorasani. “Tell him he can’t trust me because I’m his sworn enemy.” He burped quietly through his nose. “At least when it comes to everything except this food.”
Khorasani glared at him.
“Go on,” Alexios said. “Translate.”
Khorasani looked to the Shirvanshahzadeh, then spoke Persian to him. The Shirvanshahzadeh nodded and responded with such nonchalance, Alexios suspected Khorasani’s translation.
“The Shirvanshahzadeh knows of your exploits,” Khorasani said. “That is why you are here. He knows what you can do. He has heard of the troubles wrought by the faraway city of Trabzon—how the ideas of Mazdak, one of our very own homegrown Persian philosophers, have caused so many problems for our distant enemies. The Christian lands are in turmoil, are they not? For we hear so little of them these days—not that we are complaining.”
“They have sinned in the eyes of God,” the wazir said. “Now they get their just comeuppance!”
“It’s not because of Mazdak,” Alexios said. “Romanía is under such incompetent leadership, it would have been falling apart on its own without us.”
“Regardless,” the Shirvanshahzadeh said through Khorasani. “The historians and storytellers both have told us of the abilities of the Zhayedan. They were once a problem even here, and only finally destroyed after much bloodshed. Just a handful escaped to Chīnī in the east. But that was long ago.”
“The monks of Tiger Mountain,” Alexios said. “My friend met them and told me about them.”
“Their knowledge was lost,” the Shirvanshahzadeh said. “Destroyed. All their books were burned. And perhaps for the better—since they often endangered us. The Zhayedan always fought for the poorest and most wretched of the earth—peasants with hardly a parasang of land to their names. They fought even for orphans and loose women, for beggars, nomads, day laborers, for peoples who had lost their countries, like the Armenians.” He waved his soft bejeweled hand. “When such groups trained and worked together, they were strong. One Zhayedan alone could bring down ten good fighters before being brought down himself.”
“If only that were true.” Alexios was thinking of his fight at Alaverdi.
“You are my gholam,” the Shirvanshahzadeh said to Alexios. “Won by right of conquest. I can dispose of you as I please. Easily you could end your days in the darkness of the mines, at a word from my lips. But you are far more valuable to me in other ways. But I cannot force you to fight. Nor can I make you love me. And the Gurjistani infidel prince Adarnase told me to never remove those shackles of yours, else you would slaughter us all without mercy, like a slavering wolf unleashed upon a flock of innocent lambs. But I would grant you whatever you desire—in exchange for that which I desire.”
“Help me find my family,” Alexios said. “Free me so I can find them.”
The Shirvanshahzadeh looked at Khorasani and laughed. “Teach ten of my men the ways of the Zhayedan, and I will free you, and give you sufficient money, horses, and supplies to find your family, wherever they may be.”
Alexios shook his head. “The farr doesn’t work like that. It’s like a sword that only cuts one way. It can only be wielded by the exploited against their exploiters.”
The Shirvanshahzadeh crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “Are you not exploiting me now, by insulting me and wasting my time in such fashion?”
“You can end this discussion whenever you please,” Alexios said. “There is an objective scientific reality to exploitation. I am your slave, not the other way around. The exploited can use the farr, but their exploiters must rely upon more earthly methods to retain their power.”
Alexios refrained from mentioning the way Narses got around this issue by drinking people’s souls. This was a power so terrible, Alexios would never speak of it—not even if the Shirvanshahzadeh offered his family in exchange. Alexios would do anything for his family—almost anything—but to unleash such a power upon the world would destroy how many other families? So far as Alexios knew, Narses was the only one who could do this, and just by himself he was already causing enough trouble for the world.
Besides, Alexios was unaware of how to perform this awful feat in the first place, although he had his suspicions. Miriai had once moved his soul into Basil’s body to save the boy’s life when the gelu had stolen it away. The draining sensation remained in Alexios’s memory. He suspected, even as he looked at the Shirvanshahzadeh, that he could seize the man’s life energy and use it to burst open the shackles around his wrists and ankles before the enormous guards managed to stop him. But the move was risky, and also terrible. Then the Shirvanshahzadeh would be right: Alexios truly would become the exploiter. The hunter. Narses himself committed such crimes all the time. These flames of life burned so harshly that they melted and disfigured his soul, reducing him to the pathetic state of fighting to aggrandize his own petty wealth and status.
So many paid the price for his selfish delusions. Alexios would never allow himself to become something so awful.
Why stop there? Why not then be a rich merchant or a king? Drain people’s souls, fatten your belly on their blood. That’s all it takes. All you need to tell yourself is that they don’t matter—they’re all lazy fools, they’re nothing without you, they’d do the same in an instant if they were in your place—and they’re all going to die anyway. That’s where that path leads. Violence is a legitimate way to stop exploiters, but some forms of violence are too extreme. We don’t torture our enemies—when we capture them, it’s enough to disarm them, then we teach them about empathy—and we don’t drain their souls.
Solidarity with the poor could be harder to pull off, but it was so much more powerful and worthwhile. The poor were the underdogs, the heroes of history, and one day they would triumph. They would not only hold the strings—they would cut them so that no one could ever hold them again.
“It seems we have reached an impasse,” the Shirvanshahzadeh said. “Perhaps we should forget this project. I had hoped that we could work together, but it might have been better to entomb you in the mines after all.”
“There’s no point in my teaching your men the farr,” Alexios said. “It won’t work. It can only be used by the poor to destroy the rich.”
“But am I really so rich?” the Shirvanshahzadeh said. “I am but a humble servant of God, not to mention a vassal of the Turks.”
His wazir covered his mouth and tittered with laughter.
“Imagine the work a single peasant has done in a field during our conversation here,” Alexios said. “Sitting in this beautiful palace, sipping tea, relaxing on these carpets. Have you ever worked in a field the way the peasants do?”
“Have you?” the Shirvanshahzadeh asked.
Alexios remembered when he had first arrived in Byzantium: The Game. At the time, he had opened his eyes to fields of sunny golden grain, working them alongside his aunt Eudokia and uncle Eugenios.
May they rest in peace.
“As a matter of fact, I have,” Alexios said.
“What difference have you made with this power of yours?” the Shirvanshahzadeh said. “How have you made the world better? How have you helped anyone other than yourself?”
This question almost tripped up Alexios because he was still so distraught about his family, but he soon found an answer. “I helped build a city where workers and peasants could be free.”
The Shirvanshahzadeh nodded. “A noble achievement. But a foolish one, destined to be consigned to dust like everything else. Put your faith in God, my dear gholam, and in the sovereigns he has chosen to rule in his name here on Earth. This is the way to eternal paradise, and also the greatest possible difference you can make.”
At this point, Khorasani spoke to Alexios. “You can see how magnanimous a figure the Shirvanshahzadeh is. Few princes would tolerate these insolent mannerisms of yours. Perhaps you could repay his patience and generosity.”
“How?” Alexios said.
“Give him a chance at least,” Khorasani said. “Hear him out, rather than debating every last point with him. I am so annoyed, I can barely stand it…if only I had known better, perhaps I would not have worked so hard to save your life! Besides, what else are you going to do? You can either work with him, and possibly see your family again; or die in the mines, and never see anything again.”
“Alright.” Alexios turned to the Shirvanshahzadeh. “I want a guarantee. I teach ten of his men, he lets me go—regardless of the results.”
Khorasani explained this to the Shirvanshahzadeh, who nodded. “After one year’s time,” the Shirvanshahzadeh said.
Alexios’s shoulders slumped. “One year?”
“If you have done your best to make my men into loyal Zhayedan,” the Shirvanshahzadeh said, “I will grant your freedom, and gift you a good horse, and arms, and armor, and money, and wish you well on your journey to finding all that which you seek.”
“It takes a matter of months to train our warriors in Trebizond, majesty,” Alexios said. “A year is unnecessarily long.”
“Do not bargain with the Shirvanshahzadeh,” Khorasani said, after refusing to translate.
Alexios looked to the Shirvanshahzadeh. “Deal,” he said.
The Shirvanshahzadeh nodded to Khorasani, who retrieved a set of keys from one of his pants pockets and unlocked Alexios.
“You were carrying the keys I needed the whole time?” Alexios rubbed his raw wrists.
“Forgive me,” Khorasani said. “I have a family too, you know. And I don’t wish to lose them. We are the hostages of our children, are we not? For every drop of blood my son sheds, I shed ten.”
“We all have our own problems,” Alexios said. Then he looked at the Shirvanshahzadeh. “Yet some of our problems are the same.”
Now that Alexios was finally free from his manacles, he was tempted to escape, to stretch out his hand and seize a guard’s scimitar from its sheathe twenty feet away. But Alexios had done the last thing he was supposed to do—he had let the farr fade. There was no energy left inside him. This in itself was exhausting and depressing. It also meant that he was at the mercy of his enemies—the kind pizishk Khorasani, and the less kind Shirvanshahzadeh. What could Alexios do except follow their commands?
