Before he left him, the conqueror reminded the bard of the creation myth of Thebes. When Amphion first raised your walls, Iskandar said, he played the kamancheh and sang, and his music bound the stones and mortar and plaster of your city. Tears slithered to the bard’s lips. The kamancheh dropped from his hands. What music once did, Iskandar said, now music has undone.
5. MUSK DEER
Iskandar and his army happened upon the continental silence of Russia. When his soldiers came to the rare interruption of a town, they sacked it, clubbed the men, and added the women and children to the pens of slaves. Iskandar marveled at the emptiness of the country. Its trees stood so still. Its streams mourned beneath ice. His army marched on. They made their own landscape of sound, carpeting the taiga in brass and leather.
The siege of the Russian capital took only a few days. His men managed to pull down the stockades and sweep away the resistance. Iskandar allowed the ritual three days of pillage. By the middle of the first day, his men had run out of things to steal and people to rape. They turned to the palace of the Russian king. Normally, the loot of a royal residence was reserved for Iskandar. But it was only a shabby pile, a low stone structure with a long-beamed thatched roof, so he opened it up to his rank and file.
When they burst through the doors, they found a hall brimming with hundreds of musk deer. The smell was overpowering, and Iskandar’s men struggled to press their way in. There were deer everywhere, chewing the tapestries, nursing fawns beneath the royal dais, defecating in the rushes, rutting against the boards, a whole civilization of deer jumbled in a warlord’s hall. His soldiers uncovered a servant cowering in the cellar. They asked him about the deer. The man looked at his toes. We thought you had come to Russia for the perfume of our musk deer, he said, so we hid them here. Hid them? We emptied the forests, the man said, we thought that if the conqueror doesn’t find any of these deer, he won’t bother with Russia … he’ll just leave us alone.
6. THE LATITUDE OF NUSHABAH
For some time, Iskandar’s favorite wife was Nushabah. He won her north of Khurasan and spent an autumn with her in Gilan. They were married when he settled her in Barda, near the Caspian Sea. He renovated a large garden home, stuffed it with all the luxuries of the known world. She was fond of astronomy, so he constructed an observatory in the lawns. After dinner, the couple spent time together alone. Nushabah would search the night sky and record the positions of stars and planets. Iskandar studied her and tried to write poems. He’d get distracted by her rigor, the plodding way she took notes, the repetitive turn of her jaw and chin, and soon he would be kissing her neck. They’d have sex, and afterward he let her trace the muscles beneath his chest hair. What’s the point, Nushabah would say, don’t go to war.
Iskandar could never be confused for a romantic. Love for him was an arena. Like war, it had its pageantry, its rules of engagement, its rewards and spoils. He knew nobody could match his prowess, but he still had to go through the motions of the contest. Sometimes, a victory filled him with a passion that seemed far larger than the moment itself. That feeling would pass. For each territory he conquered, he had several concubines and at least one wife. He loved them as kings must, as he loved a well-planed road or a strategic watchtower, all embodiments of his sovereignty over land and people. Yet with Nushabah alone the clamor of war receded. The stars and their quiet stretched without end.
The spring thaw approached. Advisors came to Iskandar with updates on the muster, the recruitment of mercenary light cavalry, the state of provisions. He waved them away. Later, later, not now. At the festival to mark the beginning of the new year, Nushabah and he leapt over the fire together, offering the darkness inside them to the flames. In the following weeks, generals told him about grumbling in the camps, about how the men itched to go on campaign. It’s not time yet, Iskandar said. He completed a poem for Nushabah and read it aloud to her one night. She grabbed the page. You march all over the world, she laughed, but you can’t write one straight line.
Spring edged into summer. Aristotle pulled Iskandar to his feet. Your time is short, the sage said. Everybody’s time is short, Iskandar replied. Conquerors have even less time, and you are wasting it. This isn’t wasting time … this is exactly how time should be spent. It’s how men spend time. Yes, it is. Aristotle arched an eyebrow. Aren’t you more than a man?
Iskandar told Nushabah it was the season of war and that he had to leave Barda. She was incredulous. Why fight this year? Just take a break for once, she said. If we don’t campaign, he explained, then my enemies will think that I’ve weakened … they’ll redouble their efforts against me. Which enemies? The Turanians. I thought you defeated them ages ago. I did, but they always need defeating. Anybody else? The Chinese. But they’re so far away. Women have a different understanding of distance than men. Oh, do we. I also have to worry about the heathen Greeks, the restless Dacians, conspirators in my own camp, Indians who don’t want to pay tribute, the Amazons raiding for young men, the giants eating our sheep. These problems will remain no matter what you do. Stop protesting … it doesn’t make any difference for us anyway … your tent will be closest to mine and I promise to visit you four days out of seven.
Nushabah held his face in her hands, stroking the temples. I’m not coming with you. What? I’m going to stay right here. You can’t do that. Of course I can … isn’t this my home? You’re my wife, you’ll go where I tell you to. Against my will? Yes, even if it’s against your will. I don’t think you’ll want me near you if it’s against my will.
Iskandar considered her face, its honest resolve. Some of his women plucked their eyebrows every day before he came to them, but Nushabah seemed to do it only once a month. Little hairs crept above her nose. Does your army march in a straight line parallel to the equator? she asked. No, he said, it’s an army, not a road. So I can’t come, I need to see out the year in Barda … if you make me leave this latitude now, my astronomical observations will only be partial. So? If you must complete your work, that’s fine … but won’t you let me complete mine?
The evening after Iskandar and his army left Barda, Nushabah went to her observatory. She found it full of flowers and honeyed sweets. Strewn everywhere were crumpled bits of paper, all the aborted couplets that Iskandar had written for her and could never throw away.
Some months later, a messenger reached Iskandar on campaign. Varangian raiders had come down the rivers. They sacked Barda and torched the palace complex, the observatory included. Nushabah was gone. No one could tell Iskandar if the Varangians had taken her or if she had been left to burn in her home. The astrologers gave various explanations for the calamity, but whenever Iskandar looked to the stars, he found them illegible.
7. IN THE EYES OF A QUEEN
Before he conquered a new country, Iskandar would sometimes visit its king disguised as a messenger. This way he could judge for himself the ruler’s manner, the spirit of his courtiers, the resolve that might make invasion difficult. Iskandar also enjoyed the acting. Claiming to be his own envoy, he appeared at the court of the king of Andalusia. He was welcomed with typical courtesies and brought into the royal audience, only to discover that the king of Andalusia was actually the queen of Andalusia. She was skinny by the standard of monarchs and had round eyes that glowed like coins. Unfazed, Iskandar delivered the normal blustering message. She smiled and then invited him to her private quarters.
This was not the normal way to treat messengers, but Iskandar had to obey. What does she want from me? he thought. He felt an unfamiliar nervousness, sweat on his palms and neck. When they reached her private wing, she dismissed the attendants. He looked around for a window or a weapon. Don’t worry, she said, I know who you are. I’m but the humble messenger of my lord Iskandar, Iskandar said. Oh please, stop with that preposterous voice—you’re the great conqueror, the man we all fear. That is a very strange idea. Not as strange as that beard you’re wearing.
The queen pulled him into a side room full of paintings. E
ach was a portrait of him. Your real facial hair is much better trimmed than this, she said, and ran her fingers through his fake beard. Iskandar stared at the depictions on the wall, the framed images leaning against chairs and desks. There he was on horseback in a green caftan. There he sat on his imperial dais receiving tribute from the Yemenis. There he consulted with Aristotle in the sage’s cave. There he punished the heathen Greeks. There he was hunting, admiring falcons, supervising the design of cannons, sharing a cup of wine with a slave, glass-eyed watching a military parade, resting cross-legged beneath a tree fat with apricots, pardoning criminals on a Friday. I know who you are, the queen said, my spy in your court is a painter … he sends me these images of you as his reports.
Are you going to kill me? Iskandar asked. Prayers in twelve languages rebounded through his head. Even if I killed you, the queen said, your army would still cause problems for me and my people … so no, I won’t, but we’ll make a deal … you will accept provisions and safe passage through my lands, and in return you will leave in peace. Iskandar sighed. I accept. One more thing, the queen said, you will stand perfectly still as I paint you. Dressed like this? Exactly like this.
Iskandar had no choice. The queen produced an easel and canvas. He stood motionless for her in his shabby messenger’s outfit, trying to form his false eyebrows into a dignified line. At the end, she showed him the work. He flinched at the shameful blush on his cheeks, the beard slipping off his jaw, his hands clenched in front of him, the expression of his eyes like those of a guilty teenager. Don’t I have a deft brush? the queen asked. Doesn’t it look just like you?
8. THE WATER OF LIFE
Iskandar brought his army to the Land of Darkness. The enormous mountain Qaf blocked the sun, so the region’s inhabitants—an apocryphal people—led the entirety of their lives in unlit days. Iskandar was told that in this remote place he would find a magical spring. If he drank from the spring, he would remain forever young. Its discovery was important to the conqueror. Oracles, seers, omen-readers, dream-interpreters, prophets, and storytellers all warned him that his life was half unspooled. In a few years, they said, he would be resolutely, irrevocably dead.
Everything grew dimmer near the Land of Darkness. The army moved more slowly than usual, dragging tanks of lamp oil and whale fat. After making camp one night, the soldiers woke to discover that they were beyond the reach of any morning. Fires stayed lit, torches were distributed among the men, brass lamps floated between the tents of the nobles. Iskandar asked Aristotle how best to go about the search for the magic spring. Inch by inch, the sage said, and on all fours.
For weeks, Iskandar’s army crawled over the earth. For the sake of efficiency, they split up into separate groups. Iskandar looked out from his camp to another in the distance, speckled by the small lights of soldiers drifting to and fro. It was like watching faraway fishing boats from the shore. Iskandar preferred to remain inside his tent and the certainty of its lamps. Nobody, not even the conqueror, could expect how tiring it was to see the world always wavering in flame.
The soldiers found nothing, just blank earth and rock. On occasion, a man stumbled on a damp patch on the ground and he would press his face to it in excitement, only to discover that it was a puddle of piss left by another soldier. They all felt quite small in the vast darkness. Imaginary shapes gathered beyond the circles of light, all hard and serpentine, scaled and clawed, swarming on the verge of attack. The soldiers shivered. Instead of looking for the magical spring they strained their eyes in the shadows, searching for the forms of their doom.
Aristotle reported to Iskandar that the provisions of oil and firewood were running low. If they stayed in this land much longer, it would swallow them. Age is just a number, Aristotle said, and like words, numbers can be made to mean what we want them to mean. Iskandar sighed, accepting that this quest would fail. If indeed I am to die, let it be under the sun.
He ordered an end to the search. Like a saintly procession, his army vacated the Land of Darkness. When they reached its border, they saw morning flicker blue to the west. Soon, real sunlight fell upon them. The men were surprised by each other’s faces, the clambering fuzz of their beards, the sharp-ridged cheeks, the round, pale eyes. It seemed impossible that they themselves had these parts.
One soldier missed the retreat. Drunk, he lurched into the dark and collapsed. When he woke, the army had gone. Oh shit, he thought. His torch had blinked out. Scrambling around, he felt a dampness on the ground. His fingers tore into the mud, digging deeper until he reached the oozing, pumping spring. Reason demanded that he restrain himself, but his hangover pushed him to drink. He cupped water into his hands. It tasted sulfurous and vindictive. If this water was the water of life, then not only would he be lost in the Land of Darkness with no way out, he’d be lost there forever. No, the soldier thought, no no no no.
He removed a little dried fish from his pack and lowered his cupped hands into the water. For a few moments, he could feel the dried fish limply floating in his hands. Then, with a wriggle of its salted tail, it leapt out of his grasp.
9. THE ENEMY BENEATH
At last, Iskandar won the war against the fairies. He reclaimed for mankind the four cities they had stolen. The fairies were driven into the sea or enslaved to do human work. Even the fairy queen Araqit found herself enrolled in Iskandar’s harem, where the concubines made jokes about her hairy legs.
Many people had lived in the four cities before the fairies took them. Iskandar invited those residents back. Refugees poured in from all over the world, amazed that fate had allowed them something rarely felt: the joy at the end of exile.
Gingerly, they entered their old homes. For many of the returnees, it was hard to tell what, if anything, had changed since they left. A weaver walked between the looms of his workshop, enshrouded in cobwebs. Old thread still hung fixed to the machines. A teenager found the toys on her moth-eaten bed arranged in the exact formation she’d left them as a toddler. A baker opened his ovens and extracted a calcified cake from a veil of dust. In the libraries, none of the books had been unwound from their scrolls. Apparently, the monsters did not care to read.
The absence of any trace of foreign occupation was distressing. It was hard to imagine that gnolls and pimply ogres could lumber about these homes, trade magic goods in the bazaars, or race horses through the squares without leaving some imprint of themselves, some sign that once upon a time a horned hobgoblin undid his stinking boots here and stretched out to snore. If not, what was the point? Why drive us out, why take our homes and our cities if you had no need for them in the first place? Perhaps these creatures had a way of being wholly separate from the observable plane of human life. They could sleep in beds and eat from plates without touching anything at all. But in that case, why bother waging war on humans who until death exist only in the here and now? It was unconscionable. The returnees were appalled by the idea that they had gone into long exile only to have their houses remain empty and their towns entirely unused.
Over time, the fairy past surfaced in different ways in each of the four cities. The first city was on the sea, where all magical creatures come from, and so it had always harbored a kind of intimacy with the other world. Its people knew that a sudden squall was the work of vicious spirits, that every beached whale was driven to sadness by nymphs. In the market, though, the returnees began to notice inexplicable events in their affairs. A vegetable seller would pile twenty ears of corn in her stand only to discover that she had forty instead. Coins of dubious value would, on second glance, be appraised as pure silver. A merchant unraveled a bolt of cloth and found that it was many times as long as he’d imagined. The silk spilled from his table out the door and into the street. Anywhere else in the world, people would celebrate this unexpected wealth. The returnees couldn’t help but feel uneasy nor shake the sense that they had received blessings meant for others.
In the second city, people began seeing reflections of monsters in their mirrors. Frenzy gri
pped the populace. Mobs tore through the street of the mirror makers and made a pogrom of glass. For a whole day, the city was filled with the sound of mirrors and windows being shattered.
The returnees in the third city started dreaming the insensible dreams of fairies. Wives and husbands would shake each other awake, checking each other’s faces and private parts. Children slumped into their parents’ bedrooms and babbled in magical words. Cats barked in their sleep. Everyone trembled at the approach of dusk. But while the returnees feared the possession of the night, they found that their sleeps during the day were untroubled. So the city flipped its habits and became nocturnal. Only the night watchmen resented this change.
In the fourth city, the returnees wanted to build a temple to Iskandar, the liberator and conqueror, the man-god who restored them to their homes. Architects laid out a plan for a soaring structure. Their temple would need a solid base. At the selected site, they demolished the existing buildings and dug up the grounds. Out came the guts of the city, the old drainage pipes, the foundation stones inscribed in barely readable script. They dug even deeper and were startled to find more strata of human life, a layer of ash on top of a layer of waste on top of the ruins of a stone building, strewn with shards of pottery. The city marveled at the excavation of this forgotten era. See how timeless we are, the citizens said, see how we have endured! Digging a little further, they unearthed bones, lifted with reverence out of the mud. Look, the bodies of our ancestors!
On closer inspection, it became clear that the bones were not human, but belonged to a bestiary of other beings. There were the delicate rib cages of elves, the heavy foreheads of ogres, the long toes of water nymphs. The city rested on the remains of other peoples.
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