[h1]13th day of the month of Mihr, 5th year of the reign of the Shahanshah Mazdak, on the road outside Ctesiphon, Persia, Sasanian Empire[/h1]




“If a man cannot mount his horse, then he might as well fall on his sword, or offer up his ass in a bordello, for he is a man no longer. I’ll not ride in a palanquin even if I [i]die[/i] in the effort, do you hear me, you impetuous imp? Eh? Have my horse saddled or may Ahriman smite you! Posthaste!”  

Despite the fact that autumn was proceeding as usual, and that the day was yet young, the sun bore down on the Shahanshah host as relentlessly as a slavemaster’s whip. In two day’s ride from Ctesiphon, they had covered little ground---it seemed as if, each hour, an endlessly variety of incidents mired them in the muck, making their progress towards the Zagros lethargic at best and nonexistent for the vast majority of the time.

Within an hour of putting Ctesiphon’s walls behind them, an axle on the Shahanshah’s carriage’s twisted and broke; in an unfortunate albeit predictable stroke of unluckiness, a suitable replacement was not forthcoming, and thus the Shahanshah’s [i]pushtigban[/i] themselves, along with one of the royal engineers, were forced to find a blacksmith of sufficient skill in a nearby village to forge a new one, most likely frightening the entire township half to death in the process. 

By the time that the axle was procured, the sunlight was already failing, and thus it was decided that the Shah’s train would halt for the day. A great feast was set out: potted calf’s meat with vinegar; young tender kid with [i]āb-kāmag[/i] and cloyingly thick [i]kāmag[/i]; quince [i]khoresh[/i] with peacock; herbed lavash and boiled quail’s eggs; stewed spinach, fried eggplant, pickled cucumbers; a curious grain that was in the process of being introduced on the northern coast and purported to hail from the east, called “rice”, which was tossed with herbs, butter, walnuts, and dried cherries; milk pudding, walnut sweetmeats, and a spoon sweet of Chinese ginger and cherry plum, all washed down with wines from Babylon and Ḥolwān. 

After their sup, a chapter of the [i]Memorial of Zarer[/i] was read---which put the Shahanshah, young as he was, to sleep---and some of the compositions of the esteemed Barbad were played (by a [i]çārtār[/i] player who was by no means Barbad’s equal), followed by more poetry, at which time it was realized the Shah had been slumbering in his seat for hours and that he should be taken to his quarters to retire for the night. And thus, in one day they had covered a distance from Ctesiphon that could be walked by a hermit in an afternoon. 

That first day, Alanda had nearly fainted in his saddle. His gout was acting up again, and biding time in the hot sun did nothing to mollify the situation. Nor did the rich food, none of which he was able to partake of; instead, he choked down barley gruel with butter, and a decoction prepared by his physician, the ironically named Iraj of Khorasah, who, although a graduate from the great Academy of Gondishapur, had proven himself a neophyte in the realm of gout treatment. “My first love was dentistry,” he had explained, with a shrug. Alanda would have beaten him had he had the strength to stand; instead, he ordered him to pore over every medical tome that could be procured, to test every possible treatment of gout that could be found, even if they were Greek or Roman---no, [i]especially[/i] if they were Greek or Roman. 

Every cure of Persian provenance had been amply tested; barbers from the great emperor of Chīnī had administered their poultices and unguents to no avail; he had been given a bath of yogurt, honey, and rosemary by a Turkic shaman, which had sufficed only to make him sticky, although the pleasing aroma of the rosemary persisted for some days; healers from as far as Shule, Shanshan, Khotan, Jingjue, and Dunhuang had paid him court; monks from the hoarfrosted mountains of Tibet had called upon the powers of their Buddha, yet even that heathen god had not the temerity to rid him of his ills. It was thus with great reluctance, and no small amount of repugnance, that Alanda had reneged, and looked to the barbarian westerners for deliverance. 

“Cure me of this fucking affliction and you shall have a harem of Armenian whores and a palace of your own,” he had sworn to Iraj in bated breath, his eyes stinging from sweat and blinded by pain and tears, “If you cannot I will send your head back to the Academy in a pickle jar.” 

Thenceforth, knowing Alanda, “The Spear of Mazda”, to be a man of his word, the physician had plumbed the archives of Ctesiphon with renewed vigor, scouring the city for the tomes his master sought. An entire carriage had been filled with the spoils of his efforts, and the man, with his curious waxed mustachios and bug-like eyes, had, even before the Shahanshah’s train had departed from the imperial compound, been seen to be scrutinizing over the books, rapidly sketching his findings in a notebook, sweat beading at his brow. Alanda watched him with an air of self-satisfaction. 

The second day had passed been almost as eventful, and lacking velocity, as the first. The Shahanshah awoke late, and thus they embarked late, for it was necessary for the Shah to be made-up and swathed in his silks and well perfumed for the road; at noon, they paused for luncheon by a particularly scenic pond, where the Shahanshah wished to play among the water lilies, despite the protests of his councilors; and, of course, while the Shahanshah played, some poetry and music was in order; and, after he was done with his sport, another wardrobe change, for he had, naturally, sullied his vestments with pond mud. 

Following that, the caravan actually did manage to make some headway, before a pair of highwaymen had the misfortune to be caught holding a family hostage as they ransacked a small date orchard with a pointed stick and a handful of stones (how they were able to manage such a feat is unknown), and were summarily delivered the Shah’s justice, with all the pomp and circumstance of an imperial tribunal. On top of that, they were Nestorians, and there were few things that entertained the [i]mowbedan mowbed[/i], Pouraj, more than administering punishment unto heathens. 

Luckily, after that incident, his appetites sated, and in a rare moment of sanity (perhaps he was delivered a revelation from Ohrmazd), Pouraj suggested to the councilors, the Shahanshah, and the [i]wuzurgan[/i] that they press on despite the failing light. Even the more frivolous of the company, sweating in their ornamented silks and lavishing themselves with Chinese fans, heaved a collective sigh of relief, though none more so than Alanda. Finally, an hour after nightfall, the Shahanshah protested that he was hungry, and they halted for the day. 

They travelled to Susa, the winter capital; however, it had been determined that, since the Shahanshah had not yet made the traditional pilgrimage of kings to the great fire of the warriors, called [i]Adur Gushnasp[/i], in Media, this would be the perfect occasion to avail themselves of the opportunity. Furthermore, he would be entertained at the citadel of the Karenas in Nahavand, and an autumnal boar hunt would be organized. For Alanda, this was a great honor, but at the same time was driving him mad with stress, not to mention his troubles with gout. He only hoped that his wives, particularly his chief wife, Pari, had the means of making the proper preparations. 

He was an intelligent enough man to know that the House of Karen was in a somewhat precarious position. He was getting on in years, and wracked with illness, notwithstanding gout; he had estimated once, as dryly as though he was speaking of the weather, that he had not three years to live. He had long ago resigned himself to death---he did not fear it, but rather welcomed it with open arms, wished to embrace it like a long-lost lover. He was satisfied with what he had accomplished in his life, and even believed himself to have lived up to the standards set by his forebears, and said so with no small amount of pride. 

Yet he was uneasy about the fate of his house. His first son, Vushmigr, was more sickly than he, and likely was fated for an early death. The family had resigned themselves to that, and Vushmigr had given up his claim on the title long ago. His second son, Bavand, however, was the fruit of a concubine, a bastard; and while he had been recognized by Alanda, it would be scandalous for the offspring of a “Latin cunt”---though he despised the Latins, his cock was not so discriminatory---as Pari had once put it, to inherit so venerable a title as the patriarch of a Parthian house. Alanda thought that that was regrettable, for although the boy was a mutt, it was he, in his heart of hearts, that he regarded as his heir. He had grown up a boar---Alanda had commented on his “strong shoulders” the moment he had come out of the womb---and seemed to have a sensible head mounted thereon; he was a crackpot with bow and spear, an adept rider, and an amateur, albeit mediocre, poet, which was more than some of his [i]wuzurgan[/i] cohorts could claim. 

Thus, the inheritance had fallen to the last son, Valash, who was yet a boy. And a strong boy at that! Intelligent, inquisitive, full of spirit...but a child. And subject to the snares that are wont to nip children in the bud in their years of vulnerability. He had learnt from his mistakes with Vushmigr: from birth, Valash had been attended to by the most premier physicians that could be found, to annihilate any illness the moment it manifested itself. Thus far the [i]fravashi[/i] had watched over them, and Mazda had shown clemency.

But the adder is not the only menace of the forest; wolves there are also, and tigers. And the lot of them, if given the opportunity, will avail themselves on the bleating lamb, and pounce. Though the [i]wuzurgan[/i] of the court hid their intentions behind layers of paints, veils of taffeta, fans of silk, and, most repugnant in Alanda’s eyes, obsequious smiles and pedantic “pleasantries”, their eyes betrayed their malice.

He once remarked, upon being introduced to the heir of the House of Mihran, “That prince of Mihran might as well have vented wind from ass and walked away, for in his folly he has said as much as nothing and left a smell of rotten eggs.” 

He trusted no one in the nest of vipers that was the court. Alanda thought that he had been far too long at Ctesiphon, sweltering in the heat and kowtowing to the vagaries of the boy-shah, smelling the shit of the Latins and the mud of the Tigris. Mehrgân had come all to slowly, but he had smiled through the awkward mumblings of the Shahanshah’s first speech, knowing that it would be only a matter of days before he quit the place forever, and could finally die in peace beneath the snows of the Alvand. 

That was, of course, before the agony of his gout assaulted him once more. He had felt it in his bones, the moment a great autumn wind from the east had swept up the avenue of plane trees while he lounged in the Bagh-i Hinduvan. From then on, it began, that grinding sensation that made his every movement a quiet and flaming anguish. Though not a devout man, he believed in the healing power of the [i]airyaman ishya[/i], for he had chanted it in the worst times of Vushmigr’s illness; in those moments when it seemed as though the conflagration of his pain consumed his body entire, he murmured it silently, endeavoring to imagine himself as a small votive candle that subsisted despite a great gale. A priest had taught him that, once. 

The third morning of their journey from Ctesiphon, the pain had awoken him early, and he found himself unable to stand. He had Iraj, who was still slumbering, called and had him administer some new antidote which he had been researching, while the ailing prince stared languidly at the canvas of the tent ceiling. 

“This is a compress which I discovered in one of the more obscure works of Herophilus, the anatomist,” the physician explained, wiping sleep from his eyes and fumbling through his chest, “It was purported to have cured the gout of some Athenian sophist or other. We shall see...we shall see…” 

“The damnable Latins,” Alanda murmured listlessly, while Iraj worked, “Did you know, Iraj, that they’ve one in Syria who calls himself ‘Arabicus’? He thought he could tame the goat-fuckers in the desert and their new god. But he was gobbled up the moment he got there. Fuck him and fuck the emperor.” He coughed, sending daggers of pain through his legs, and mouthed the [i]airyaman ishya[/i]. “Are you done yet, you mangy goblin?” 

The compress did nothing to alleviate Alanda’s woes; neither was he able to stand. Indeed, this morning the pain was particularly ferocious, so that, almost without knowing it, tears streamed down his cheeks relentlessly. Iraj advised that, at least for the day, he be carried in a palanquin, since going on horseback would put undue strain on him; of course, Alanda, proud as he was, stubbornly refused. 

It was at that moment that a messenger announced himself, somewhat impudently, at the [i]spāhbed[/i]’s tent. Reluctantly, Alanda allowed him to enter. The tent was dark, and fragrant with incense and the acrid must of medicine. “Why do you call upon me at this hour?” Alanda asked, trying his very best to give the appearance that he was not wracked with spasms of pain. 

The man was a Lur, and, judging by his finery, had come from the mountains. “My lord of Karen, I bring two messages,” he began, removing his helm, "May I speak?" "Yes, yes, damn you," croaked Alanda, sitting up in his cot, "Out with it." “The first is this," the Lurish said, obviously uncomfortable at seeing the [i]spāhbed[/i] so unhinged, "The Arabs have made attack on the Ghassanids, and put them to rout. They move now to take Mesopotamia, and make inroads on our holdings. I learned this when I came into the Shah’s camp, and, being the [i]spāhbed[/i] of the West as you are, it was deemed to be of significance to you.” 

It was not something that Alanda could think of at present; he absorbed the information almost without care, nodded, and waved his hand, blinking back tears. 

The messenger, taking the cue, continued in his report, “The second I bring as courier, in the form of a letter from your wife, Pari. I was instructed to deliver it unto you, and to allow no other man to look upon it.” He procured a scroll of Chinese paper from his traveller’s cloak, knelt, and presented it to him. 

With trembling hands, and with some difficulty, Alanda broke the seal. It was a short letter, written in a brutalized calligraphy smudged by tears, and its contents pummeled him as surely as he had been an iron beneath Kāve’s hammer: 

[indent][i]My Lord,[/i][/indent]
[indent][indent][i]There has been an attempt on the life of your son and heir, Valash. The culprit has not been found, but a search has been mounted and an inquisition begun. The boy yet lives.[/i][/indent][/indent]

The letter ended without signature. 

Something stirred deep within the man. In a moment of frightening lucidity, Alanda set aside the parchment, grasped his mace, which lay beside his bedroll, shot up, and smashed the weapon into the messenger’s face, spattering blood, gristle, and bone onto the incredulous Iraj and all over the walls of tent. 

An instant after performing the deed, his legs failed him, and he collapsed, overcome by swells of blazing pain such as he had never felt before. His screams echoed far in the desert air, choking with dust and the promise of heat to come. 

The messenger's screams, however, were buried beneath a spout of blood, clogging his throat, drowning him. Bits of smashed teeth and brain could be seen in the thin streams of hot blood that coiled about the remnants of his eye sockets. Iraj, still peppered with gore, moved quickly to extinguish the Lurish man's life with a mercifully deft thrust to the heart by means of small surgeon's knife. 




The Shahanshah, asleep against his mother’s breast, was awakened by the distant cries, and, thinking it to be the howling of a [i]daeva[/i], wrapped his arms around her neck and was comforted by the pleasant, but faint aroma of the orange blossom perfume that still imbued her silks. He closed his eyes, and thought of the mountains.

[hider=Summary][list]
[*][b]Alanda, the patriarch of House Karen, travels with the Shahanshah and his court on their way to Susa, the winter capital[/b] 
[*][b]There are numerous setbacks, and in three days, the caravan has made barely any progress[/b] 
[*][b]Alanda is plagued by gout, and has his personal physician, Iraj, working around the clock researching cures for the ailment[/b] 
[*][b]Some information about Alanda's sons (he has two daughters as well that are not mentioned): the first, Vushmigr, is sickly and close to death, and has renounced his inheritance. The second, Bavand, is the son of a Roman concubine, and thus ill-fit to earn the inheritance, despite the fact that he is most likely the best suited. The third, Valash, is yet a boy, but shoulders the weight of being the heir.[/b] 
[*][b]On the third day of their journey from Ctesiphon, Iraj recommends that Alanda go in a palanquin for the day, after a particularly bad attack of gout, a suggestion that Alanda refuses in the first passage of the post.[/b]
[*][b]A messenger arrives from Nahavand, and informs Alanda that the Arabs have attacked the Ghassanids and won. He also delivers a letter from his principal wife, Pari.[/b] 
[*][b]The letter reveals that there has been an assassination attempt on Valash.[/b] 
[*][b]Alanda murders the messenger with his mace[/b] 
[*][b]More gout ensues[/b] 
[/list] 
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