Naryn-Kala’s courtyard was the size of several football fields. It was here that Alexios began training his students. The pizishk Muhammad Khorasani accompanied Alexios and translated for him, since no one else in Darband spoke Roman so well—aside, apparently, from a Samian slave boy working in the kitchens.

  “But he is unsuitable,” Khorasani said.

  At the same time, Khorasani was ordered to teach Alexios Persian whenever possible, enough so that the youth could express basic needs, understand commands, ask the names of things, and so on. Persian, like Roman and English, was an Indo-European tongue, which meant that it felt more familiar than Alexios had expected—more familiar than languages like Arabic or Georgian, for example, in its grammar, phonology, and vocabulary. But it also came with the annoyances of Indo-European languages, like irregular verbs and endlessly complicated past tense conjugations. Learning Persian was not really a question of intelligence or talent in Alexios’s opinion—it was just something that needed to be done to survive. One day he would break free from this place, find his family, and continue the journey east, and the people he met along the way would speak Persian as a lingua franca for thousands of kilometers, all the way until the deadly Taklamakan Desert, that wilderness gripped by the Kunlun and Tien Shan mountains.

  Back in Naryn-Kala’s enormous courtyard, the Shirvanshahzadeh had chosen his ten best warriors to become what he called “his loyal Zhayedan.” These men were all battle-hardened fighters who had spent their lives training and warring. Each was tall, strong, and fearsome. Alexios reflected that Hollywood would have quickly cast any of them as a terrorist, flinging them a few bucks if they would charge the camera screaming “Allahu Akbar!” before getting gunned down.

  Sometimes I really miss Hollywood, Alexios thought, shaking his head.

  The odd thing about these men was that they were all slaves, though they had plenty of money and property, owned slaves of their own (and had wives and children to do their domestic chores for free), and were treated with deference by almost everyone except the Shirvanshahzadeh himself. The old world had its labor aristocracy—workers who were paid much more than they needed to survive, who owned property, who had a decent shot of owning a business or profiting from private investments, who did little actual labor in comparison to the vast majority of the world’s workers, who gained the psychological wages and super-profits of settler-colonialism and imperialism, and whose ideology was indistinguishable from that of the ruling class. It seemed that the game world also had its slave aristocracy: slaves who were treated like kings, and who might even seize the throne one day. This was all so different from where Alexios came from, it confused him a great deal. In the old world, slaves were whipped to death in cotton fields, or locked up in maximum security prisons, or trafficked out of Eastern Europe, or forced to bake bricks or raise poppies for occupation soldiers in Afghanistan, but here nobody laid a finger on the luckier slaves, and they were more or less free to come and go as they pleased, at least so long as they heeded the Shirvanshahzadeh.

  The question was: how to teach such people that the society which benefited them needed to be destroyed? When they arrived to be taught on that first summer morning, Alexios had no idea what to say. The Zhayedan Fighting Manual might have helped, since it contained a chapter on how to radicalize people of all sorts, but Adarnase had taken the manual from Alexios (along with almost everything else) and tossed it into flames, which would now conceal its secrets forever. Alexios was also unable to demonstrate the farr, since he had none himself. To run upon a wall, leap into the sky, or turn the world on its head—that might convince them. But he had nothing. He felt like a comedian who had run out of material, standing on a stage, bombing before an angry audience.

  Nonetheless, he greeted his students when they arrived. Alexios had some experience as a teacher thanks to his time in Trebizond—he was a Novice teacher (3/10)—and was not completely hopeless. He introduced himself as Eskandar al-Rūmi—Alexander the Roman—since that was what everyone called him in Shirvan.

  The Shirvanshahzadeh’s beardless son Prince Ifridun bin Manuchehr was the first student who arrived, along with his advisor, a kindly-faced whitebeard named Sharif Ali al-Rashid—not one of Alexios's students, only present as the prince’s chaperone. A tall, muscular, handsome man named Faramarz bin Husayn al-Dimashqi was the students’ leader and the Sardaar or commander of the Shirvanshah’s Pasdaran, or royal guard. A man named Ishaaq ibn Musa al-Hijazi was his Sotvan, or lieutenant. Next came Abu Hamza al-Tiflisi, the Aspbed or Master of Horses, and Hushang al-Hashimi, a Tahmdar or captain in the army; and Jalaluddin Abdullah, the Argbed, or commander of Naryn-Kala. There were also four Marzbans, or border lords—equivalent to the Akritai of Romanía—who had come to Darband to bring Alexios’s teachings back to the marches: Gurgan Kiskasi (“the swift”), from Georgia; Artam Artvadios, a bald Daylamite with a topknot and a mustache; S?kmen Tegin, from the Turkestan reaches; and Senekerim-Hovhannes, from Armenia.

  Dipping a pen into an inkwell, Alexios took down their names phonetically in the blank Seran notebook provided for this purpose. The notebook lay beside the inkwell atop a low wooden table, itself positioned on a low platform, where Alexios sat with his students, all of them on cushions of green silk.

  The curious Prince Ifridun leaned forward and watched Alexios write, marveling that he was scrawling their names in Roman, which was a novelty in Shirvan. Alexios wrote Ifridun's name at the bottom of the page, tore it off, and handed it to him, but his elderly chaperone Sharif al-Rashid slapped the paper out of the prince's hand and growled that royalty was forbidden to receive mere scraps. Watching al-Rashid for a moment, Alexios turned the page of his notebook, wrote the prince's name in large letters on a blank page, then pulled the page out, careful to keep the tear as even as possible. Prince Ifridun accepted this, thanking Alexios and bowing and smiling, while al-Rashid crossed his arms and turned his head away. Alexios then asked his other students if they would also like their names written in Roman. None accepted.

  “We did not come here to bear witness to the writing of the infidels!” Jalaluddin Abdullah grumbled under his breath.

  Although they were all fearsome men, and would have killed Alexios without question at the Shirvanshahzadeh's command, Alexios was unable to keep from feeling affection for each of them in their own way. Each man had a beauty of his own, as well as a vulnerability hidden beneath all those layers of steel, leather, muscle, and bone. Prince Ifridun was the only one who seemed interested in the class, however—and he likewise seemed annoyed with his chaperone, the wizened al-Rashid.

  Having written the list of names and titles, Alexios next asked his students what they knew about the farr. Al-Dimashqi, the leader, confidently answered that the farr was a term from the old days of Jāhiliyyah—of ignorance—before the coming of the Prophet (sallallahu alayhe wasallam), and that it meant “luck.” Alexios said that was true, but added that there was more to it.

  “I’m going to explain as best I can, so just bear with me,” Alexios said through Khorasani, who himself needed a little help to translate that last expression.

  Alexios took a deep breath. Here we go. Guide them to science. Don’t force it down their throats. Ask open questions.

  “This is supposed to be a kind of wrestling class,” Alexios said. “But we need to do the proper work here, first.” He pointed to his head for a moment. “Before we can get to beating each other up. Now tell me: who here knows what stars are?”

  His students stared at him.

  “They are adornments,” the chaperone al-Rashid blurted. “Made by God to aid in timekeeping and navigation, like the sun and moon.”

  Would you like to join my class? Alexios wondered. “Very true,” he said. “But can we be more specific? What are they, exactly? Are they distant candles? Or something else?”

  No answer. Were Alexios’s questions too hard? Prince Ifridun, as before, seemed intrigued, but the warriors still looked bored. Had they ever asked themselves about this? Al-Rashid, meanwhile, was acting like an older student, in that he eagerly answered every question the teacher asked.

  “They are also gaps in the heavenly firmament,” he said. “In the final celestial sphere—through which the divine light of the empyrean shines.”

  “Perhaps,” Alexios said. “And yet a careful examination of astronomical texts will show that some stars have moved very slowly over the centuries, while others called novas can sometimes appear and then disappear. Why might this be?”

  Silence.

  I’m bombing. “Could it be,” Alexios said, “that the stars are actually suns, that suns themselves have life cycles, and that our own sun is just another star that happens to be very close to us?”

  “Ah, but these are merely the ideas of the ancients,” al-Rashid said. “Anaxagoras pondered such things, if memory serves, but he was never able to prove his ideas. What, may I ask, is the point of this discussion, and how does it relate to a warrior’s prowess? We are here to study fighting, not astrology and lunar mansions and such like!”

  “I’m trying to help students find their own way,” Alexios said. “I’m not trying to—”

  “Dispense with this Socratic poppycock!” Al-Rashid said. “We are here to be lectured in the farr, not to answer useless questions as to the nature of the stars!”

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  Alexios looked at this man for a moment, then looked at the other students. “The sun is a star, the stars are suns.”

  “You cannot prove such a thing.”

  I only think scientifically and dialectically when my own preconceived notions are challenged. “You’re right,” Alexios said to al-Rashid. “I would need a big telescope with very finely grained lenses. I would also need an understanding of atomic spectroscopy—the idea, you see, that different elements reflect light at different wavelengths. I would also need to know that light is a particle and a wave at the same time, and that it has a speed. Then I could prove to you that the sun is made of the same elements as the stars—mostly hydrogen and helium—which are also in our own bodies, while heavier elements were produced in novas and supernovas.”

  “You must slow down,” Khorasani said. “Half of these words you utter, I do not know and cannot follow.”

  “Here’s the point,” Alexios said. “We’re all connected—to each other, socially; to all life, biologically; and to the Earth and the sun and stars and the rest of the universe—chemically. Any differences between us, any separation is just an egotistical illusion.”

  Khorasani asked what the word egotistical meant.

  “It’s a way for us to feel good about ourselves,” Alexios said. “To make us feel special and unique, when in reality each of us is both utterly unique and utterly ordinary at the same time.”

  Knitting his brow with confusion, Khorasani nodded slowly, then translated.

  This is where Mazdakism veers a little toward the more philosophical aspects of Buddhism.

  Prince Ifridun had been watching Alexios with eager eyes. Other students were yawning.

  Can’t win ‘em all. “We are formed out of dust for a moment in eternity, and when we die, we become dust again—”

  “This is Christian nonsense,” al-Rashid grumbled. “I will not have the prince’s ears poisoned with these pagan superstitions. At best, it is a waste of time.”

  Alexios chuckled. “No one’s accused me of spreading Christianity before—”

  “And the world is not an illusion,” al-Rashid continued. Other students were sighing, looking away, rubbing their weary faces with their hands. “What we say and do and believe in life determines our destiny in the hereafter—whether we burn in eternal hellfire, or enjoy the grapes of paradise in the company of the dove-eyed houri, according to the judgment of the almighty. Earth, in short, is very real.”

  Alexios looked at Khorasani. “I’m not sure I can teach this class if this man is going to be accusing me of heresy whenever I open my mouth.”

  Khorasani shrugged. “What do you wish me to do? If I may speak freely, what you just said did seem a bit on the heretical side of things…”

  “If the Shirvanshahzadeh wants his men to learn the farr, this is how it’s done,” Alexios said.

  “So we must shirk our duties?” Khorasani said. “We must become hypocrites, turncoats, apostates, in order to become great warriors?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “But that would mean becoming that which we purpose to destroy.”

  “We aren’t Christians, if that’s what you’re talking about,” Alexios said.

  “It isn’t,” Khorasani said. “We have no issue with the Christians, so long as they pay the jizya.”

  “Trebizond tolerates worshippers of all faiths, so long as they take it easy and follow the rules.”

  Al-Rashid was speaking rapidly, at this point, with Khorasani, who nodded and turned back to Alexios. “Perhaps we must discuss the matter further with the Shirvanshahzadeh.”

  “I warned him this would happen,” Alexios said.

  Khorasani turned to the students and spoke Persian. They stood from their cushions on the platform, thanked Alexios for the class with a “khasteh nabashid”—meaning “don’t be tired.” Then they said “yallah”—“let’s go”—to each other, and left. Most seemed relieved that the class had ended, but Prince Ifridun looked disappointed as Sharif al-Rashid herded him back inside the palace.

  Shortest class ever.

  Back in Naryn-Kala’s throne room, Alexios and Khorasani found the Shirvanshahzadeh sitting beneath his golden canopy that dangled with glittering pearls ringing in the warm breeze blowing from the sea. He was dispensing wisdom to his wazir as well as a coterie of aged ministers, every one of whom was dressed in white turbans, with long colorful gold-embroidered silk coats that stretched down to their pointy slippers. One of these ministers—who was standing second-closest to the Shirvanshahzadeh, aside from the wazir—was Prince Ifridun’s tutor, Sharif Ali al-Rashid, who had not only beaten Alexios and Khorasani to the throne room, but had also somehow found the time to throw on more formal clothing before his arrival here.

  As the Shirvanshahzadeh spoke elegant phrases and languidly waved his right hand, which was decked with jeweled rings, the ministers bowed their heads and told him how profound his utterances were. They all stopped, however, and looked at Khorasani and Alexios when they entered. Bowing on their knees, Khorasani and Alexios rose at the Shirvanshahzadeh’s command.

  “We have heard something of interest,” the Shirvanshahzadeh said, glancing at al-Rashid. “The first Zhayedan training class with our dear gholam went poorly. It has not even finished, and yet you are here rather than in the company of your students.”

  Khorasani bowed, then nudged Alexios to do the same. “As always, you are correct, o padshah.”

  “My son’s royal tutor has informed me that heretical and disloyal statements were made during this all-too-brief class,” the Shirvanshahzadeh added. “That sundry asides concerning the nature of the stars and the zodiac were made.”

  “That is also correct, o padshah,” Khorasani said.

  “Pardon me,” Alexios said. “But your majesty—padshah—I told you this would happen. I told you that the farr could not be taught to the material beneficiaries of an exploitative socioeconomic system.”

  “I grow bored with these repetitions of yours, gholam,” the Shirvanshahzadeh said. “I have barely seen you at all, and yet the mere sight of you wearies me.”

  Alexios thought of how Prince Ifridun seemed to be the only student with a genuine interest in the class. The boy reminded him, as almost every boy did, of Basil, since Basil never left Alexios’s mind, and the more Alexios struggled to avoid thinking about him, the more Basil asserted himself in other ways—showing up on the faces of people who looked nothing like him, for instance. Prince Ifridun lived in luxury, yet seemed aware that there was more to life than chasing treats.

  “Padshah,” Alexios said. “Allow me to start just by tutoring your son in private. Once we have made some progress, we can teach other students together. Perhaps we can also find more willing students elsewhere.”

  “He will turn your boy against you, o padshah,” al-Rashid said. “These Romans are not to be trusted. It is not worth the risk. How many thousands perished seeking the liberation of our people from such like?”

  The Shirvanshahzadeh turned back to Alexios. “I must think over this matter before I make my decision.”

  “Very well, o padshah.” Alexios bowed. “What am I to do in the mean time?”

  “Relax,” the Shirvanshahzadeh said. “Enjoy yourself. But stay within Naryn-Kala’s walls, and spread none of this polytheist nonsense. I warn you, my dear gholam, that the penalty for pushing others to apostasy is death.”

  Alexios bowed. “I understand completely, padshah. Thank you for your time.”

  “Waste no more of it.” The Shirvanshahzadeh waved his jeweled hand. “Begone from my sight until I call upon you later!”

  Khorasani and Alexios bowed and departed.

  “I suppose that could have gone worse,” Khorasani said as they walked along the hallway outside. “I need a break. It is exhausting, translating so much from one tongue to another, and you do not make it easier, speaking such odd terms, discussing such odd things!”

  Khorasani had already turned and walked away without waiting for a response. Alexios followed at first, but the pizishk told him to stay back.

  “I will find you when the time has come to hear the Shirvanshahzadeh’s verdict on your teaching,” Khorasani said.

  “But where are you going?” Alexios said.

  “For a drink.” Khorasani spoke loudly, as he was now some distance from Alexios, and his voice was echoing off the walls and into the ears of the guards flanking the doorways.

  Alexios was left alone for the first time since his arrival in Naryn-Kala. For days he had been in the bimaristan among the sick, wounded, and elderly, speaking with them to learn Persian whenever they were willing to talk. Now he was by himself. He glanced at the guards flanking the entrance to the Shirvanshahzadeh’s throne room, but neither met his gaze. Both stared forward beneath their steel onion helms, their right hands clutching the scimitars sheathed at their left sides. Silent and still, these men were unlike the Georgian gamblers from Alaverdi who were unable to resist any chance to roll dice. But Alaverdi was too painful to think about.

  Brother Kyril was right all along. We endangered the monastery. We destroyed it. Methodios really was too kind to us. I wonder if he managed to escape, if he found some way to ransom his brothers…

  Alexios pushed these thoughts out of his mind.

  Unsure of what to do, feeling neither hungry nor thirsty nor tired—it was midmorning, he had already breakfasted with Khorasani—he did the only thing that was left: he walked. Yet he was afraid of where the doors and stairways in the palace led, and mindful of how he was considered an outsider here, a slave assumed to be a Christian. He therefore found himself walking the battlements outside in the wind and sun, at least to enjoy the weather and the sight of the city, the sea, the mountains. In the huge courtyard, some of his students—if they could even be called that—were training without him. Abu Hamza al-Tiflisi was riding a horse while loosing arrows at a target—backwards—as Gurgan Kiskasi and Artam Artvadios hurled their gleaming swords at one another. These two men were already drenched in sweat, laughing and taunting each other. Alexios became so distracted watching their warrior’s dance that he failed to notice young prince Ifridun approaching in the company of an even younger boy who was wearing a dirty kitchen apron.

  “You must bow to the prince,” the younger boy said to Alexios in Roman, speaking with an Aegean accent.

  Alexios looked at him for a moment, then did as he commanded. “Sorry.”

  Prince Ifridun spoke Persian, and the boy translated.

  “Our class was interrupted today,” the boy said. “This was most unfortunate. I wish to continue learning in your company.”

  “But majesty—grace—padshah.” Alexios was unsure of how to address him. “Your father commanded me to—”

  “I do not care what my father commanded. And I am glad to be rid of my minder, the tiresome al-Rashid.” Prince Ifridun reached out his hand. “Come, Eskandar-jan, we have much work to do!”

  Alexios took his outstretched hand, and Prince Ifridun guided him to his chambers.