by Barry Sadler
He rode long that night, without stopping, and was successful in reaching the city wall before first light. His thin hawk-nosed face was familiar to the guards and they granted him immediate entrance through the gates reserved for the nobility and members of Shapur's royal court. Rasheed was the Vizier, advisor to Shapur, and the second most powerful man in the Empire.
His horse died of a ruptured heart before it could be led to the stables.
THREE
Casca slept until after cock's crow. Rested, he rose, washed, and finished dressing. Taking from his pack a robe of blue silk trimmed with gold thread, he placed it over a light shirt of chain mail. The robe reached to mid-thigh over the leather trousers he had traded for. They were soft and flexible, having been chewed to the suppleness of fine cloth by the teeth of the tribeswomen and then dyed a dark blue. He put a wide leather belt set with large brass rings around his waist and slung his sword from a leather halter, to hang by his right side in the Roman manner. His face was as tender as a baby's fanny after the scraping, cutting, and tugging required to get rid of the scruffy inch-long beard that had sprouted on his face. Fanning his hand over his jaw, he winced at the memory of the barber they had sent him. The man could have qualified for a position as a torturer with any of the better dungeons and slave camps.
Finally satisfied with his appearance, he went down the rickety wooden stairs to the main room. His new appearance of wealth, as represented by the robes of silk, properly awed his obese host.
Beshar fawned over his new guest and tried to get him to eat at his establishment, but after testing the menu from the previous night, Casca decided to pass and try to get something better inside the city of Nev-Shapur. He knew it would be long before the local authorities rounded him up. He was thankful that he had the letters from Tzin in his pouch and his own decree of nobility. Those should serve to give him a good welcome. From what he had heard, those from Rome were less than welcome in the lands of the Sassanids and he had a long way to go before reaching the Mediterranean. It would be best if he could do that as a free man and not as a slave.
He didn't figure there would be too many problems finding someone to translate the letters he carried, for Nev-Shapur sat directly on the silk road, and on his way he had seen many caravans with merchants from Chin carrying goods to the west. He wished he had been able to learn to decipher the wriggling block script that served as writing for the people of Chin, but it had been too much for him to figure out. He felt lucky to have even a knack for spoken languages. Stepping out into the full light of day, he entered into a throng of people lined up to enter the gates of the city. There were merchants, farmers, tourists and pilgrims, and women carrying vases and packs on their heads who walked with long, graceful steps. The clothing styles were as varied as the people. Nomads from the steppes in their leather trousers blended among those in the almost universal peasant dress of a simple gray or brown homespun waist-length shirt, tied with a rope or piece of cloth about the waist.
Perfumed ladies, with elaborate headdresses and silken wear, reclined in their slave-borne litters beside the women of the fields. All waited quietly in line for their turn to be admitted through the walls of the city. There was no disorder or shoving, each awaited his turn, for such was the word of the King. The nobles of higher rank entered through one of the gates reserved for personages of noble lineage, but all others entered there passing through the inspection of the household guards, brilliantly dressed and armored warriors in the purple tunics of Persia that covered a scaledjazerant of armor, rippling in the morning sun like the scales of a carp.
Horses and pack animals were not permitted within the city walls. Only the warriors of the King rode through the streets; the rich and noble were carried on litters. Wheelbarrows and carts, pulled or pushed by human muscle, took care of such items as needed to be brought inside. The King disliked the odor of animal waste on the streets and it was also unsightly, therefore it was forbidden. When it was Casca's turn to pass before the inspection of the gate guards, he held out his packet of papers from the Son of Heaven Beyond the Wall That Runs Forever. The Guards inspected the sealed packet closely and questioned him as to its contents. Casca explained that it came from the Emperor of Chin to the King of the Persians and that he was its courier and a noble.
The guards conferred among themselves for a few moments and then took Casca inside a small room that served as a resting place for the different guard shifts. Inside he was told to wait. Their attitude was formal and correct. There was no sign of discourtesy, and if they were curious about why a man with blue eyes would be carrying a message from Chin, they didn't show it. He was told that he would be taken care of soon and was left alone under the watchful eye of one guard who had the look of Arabistan about him. Dark, piercing eyes over a hooked nose and thin lips were set in a face that was all angles, as weathered dark as aged leather. Casca had to cool his heels for about an hour before a court official showed up with his packet of papers in hand. Following him was a middle-aged Oriental who questioned Casca about his mission to the court. It satisfied the official's inquiry as to the validity of Casca's papers when Casca showed him his seal of office, the Chu Hou Wang of the Baron of Khitai, as ordained by the Son of Heaven, the Emperor Tzin. The official told him he would be given an audience with the King on the following day. Until that time he would be moved from his quarters at the inn and shown to facilities set aside for such purposes. When Casca asked about returning to get his gear and horse he was told that all things would be taken care of for him. He was to come now. Casca was smart enough not to argue, even though his stomach was starting to growl. He hadn't had a chance to get anything to eat, but maybe he could get something wherever they were taking him.
Leaving the guards' shack, he found a military escort was waiting for him, and to his surprise, there was a slave-borne litter in which he was to be carried to whatever destination his host had in mind. "Why not? Might as well enjoy it." He settled himself in on soft padded cushions and drew the curtains partially closed to keep out the bright sun.
The slaves raised the litter off the cobble stoned street smoothly, with no jerking, and the escort formed up on both sides with a mounted horseman in front to break trail through the swarms of people crowding the morning streets. Casca reclined on one elbow and watched the passersby between the curtains.
At least he was off to an auspicious beginning.
At the horseman's command the streets emptied to either side of the litter and its escort, leaving a clear path for them to travel. This was a city that obeyed without hesitation. In due course, after many turnings and twistings, he and his bodyguard came to the inner city where the King and his court resided in opulent Oriental splendor reminiscent of Xerxes the Great. Tall columns and walls decorated with glazed bricks depicting hunting scenes and mythical animals brightened up the way. Once inside the walls of the inner city, the hubbub of the outside was effectively cut off and only came through as a distant murmuring. A light thump and the litter was set down. With some regret, Casca eased himself from his transport, and made a note to buy one for himself one day.
The Persian court official who had come for him showed him into a hallway lined with tall pillars of carved stone that held a massive roof painted with the glories of Persia's past. The Persians loved color almost as much as did the nobles of the court of Chin.
Only the Romans seemed to have an affection for sterile cold edifices. He supposed that it gave them the illusion of being firm and righteous, not giving in to frills. Passing numbers of the beautifully armored Warriors of Shapur, he admired the discipline in them, there was no sign of ass-grabbing at all. These were professionals who took pride in their profession. In short time he was completely lost in the maze of halls and passages that they passed through until they came at last to a halt. Casca's escort opened a door admitting him to a large, comfortable room with a sleeping cot made soft with down-stuffed cushions of red. On a table food waited; obviously his arriva
l had been anticipated. His host bade him take his ease, that he would be sent for in due time. The letters from Tzin were not returned. His host explained that a formal translation would have to be made of them and a copy entered in to the court records, at which time the King would look them over before deciding to receive the emissary from Chin.
Before leaving, Casca was requested to surrender his sword, though allowed to keep his knife. He was told that there was nothing personal in the disarming of him, it was just policy and his weapons would be returned afterwards. Backing his way out, Casca was left to attack with eagerness the rack of lamb cooked in mint and sage. There was nothing he could do now but wait for the King to send for him and who the hell could tell how long that would take. Kings moved in their own peculiar time-frames and the urgencies of lesser beings were seldom worthy of any consideration.
But then, kings, priests, and whores all wanted to do everything their own way. Kings, because no one else was really important to them; priests, because they wanted you to think they were important; and whores, because time was money. Cascaappreciated the whores' reasons more than the others.
After about an hour, the door to his chambers opened and a slave girl entered to take out the dirty dishes. Not a bad-looking piece. He eyed her up and down; she smiled back shyly at the scar-faced, blue-eyed barbarian who was leering at her with such obvious interest. As his eyes moved down to her thinly covered breasts, she could feel the nipples harden. A little reluctantly she left with her dishes and wondered if the stranger would send for her this night. As she went out of the door Casca noted that two sentries had been assigned to his room, one on each side, and from the looks on their faces neither one had much of a sense of humor. Well, he knew the type. There would be no use in trying to get any information out of them. Their minds were so locked up with being what they thought was the epitome of the good soldier that they probably went to the crapper by the numbers.
He spent three days in his chamber with his meals being brought in by the same girl. He did manage once to talk her into a quickie, which, though fast, was still quite satisfying. The rest of his possessions had been brought to him the day after he had been taken to the palace. Since that time he had not been permitted to leave his rooms or even go out into the hallway. So like all men in forced isolation, he did the only thing one can do- he slept, waking for a time to eat and stretch, then, after a few hours, dozing off again. Anything to help use up the hours until he would be sent for.
On the morning of the fourth day an official, wearing a high-ridged plumed helmet of steel overlaid with bronze, came for him. The two sentries formed up, one on either side, with the officer leading. He was again taken through a labyrinth of hallways and corridors until he was admitted to an antechamber where a number of other visitors, diplomats, and emissaries were lined up, giving their names and their business to the court scribe who interviewed them. Casca waited his turn in line behind a Median governor who was trying to get a government subsidy to build some new public office buildings.
Casca wore the best of his two silk robes he'd brought with him. He knew that they would give him some stature in the eyes of the court officials; they were worth their weight in gold. When his turn came he stated his business as being ordered by the Son of Heaven, the Emperor Tzin, to deliver his message of good will and affection to His Royal Highness, the King of Kings of Persia, Shapur II. Also, to advise his royal cousin of the new threat developing from the savage tribes who inhabited the great wastelands of the steppes. The Huns were on the move again. Casca made sure the scribe included in his notes that he was a noble of the court of the Peacock Throne.
After he and the others had waited for some time they were finally led through one last corridor of the massive carved stones that reached ten times the height of a tall man, passing even more of the palace guards until they were finally admitted to the presence.
The Magnificent Hall of the King of Kings outshone anything Imperial Rome had ever conceived and was only second to the Court of the Imperial City at Chang-an. Massive carved bas-reliefs of winged bulls combined with vividly painted frescoes of kings hunting lions from chariots. Others depicted the kings of Persia and their conquests over the barbarian tribes. One showed the Emperor Valerian being forced to kneel, head bowed before his captor, Shapur I, Shahan shah Eran ut an Eran, King of Kings of Persia and non-Persia, one of the greatest of the line of Aryan kings.
In the hall, a thousand nobles lay prostrate on their faces before the throne; Casca and the new supplicants were made to do likewise. The feel of the stone floors was cool to his chin. Bronzed braziers gave off aromatic wisps of incense to be whisked away by the black slaves fanning the royal person, while his Vizier performed the ritual to open this day's hearings. In a high nasal voice, Rasheed cried out the glories of his master and called down from the sky the blessings ofAhura-mazda upon this proceeding and all those herein. Shapur II waved his hand and permitted those prostrate before him to rise and set eyes upon him.
Shapur sat upon a throne of alabaster; on either side the winged bulls of Assyria guarded the royal person from evil spirits. Casca whistled under his breath-Shapur was one hell of a man by anyone's standards. Instead of a staff of office, he held a sword whose point rested between his gold-sandaled feet. His sword arm was bare and Casca had the feeling that it wasn't too unusual for the King to administer justice himself, as he kept his sword clear from the robes that covered him to the knees. His robes were of woven silver thread and purplesilk, fringed with tassels of braided gold. His legs were bare except for a set of boots similar to the Romancaligulae. Both arms and legs were strong and knotted with muscle. The face of Shapur rested not under a crown, but under a warrior's Helm of Iron, set about with silver bands. A nasal guard raised to rest on the crest of the helmet.
Shapur's face was dark from years of campaigning: lean, with the muscles in his jaws constantly working; a thin, yet sensuous mouth with no humor in the lips. He watched everything and everyone with the gaze of a predatory bird. Unblinking, pitch-black eyes missed nothing. When he spoke his voice was not loud, but every word could be clearly heard to the farthest extremities of his court. It was the voice of one born to lead, the voice of Shapur II, King of Kings, and you could bet your ass no one who ever saw him would argue about it.
Casca stood silently as one petitioner after another was led before the King, his case to be disposed of in short order. Casca quickly learned the King had no time for the long flowery greetings and blessings so common in the Chinese court. When the petitioner started to drone he was quickly cut short and made to move on to his case without any hesitations. Shapur gave his judgments in the same voice, and each man who stood before him could not help glancing repeatedly at the bared sword in his master's hand. Several were sentenced to death for one offense or another. These thanked their lord for his kindness and went off to an appointment with the headsman's ax.
One who had stolen from the taxes was given anunusual sentence. Shapur, eyes piercing through to the soul of the thieving tax official, spoke softly. "You, who I have trusted, love gold more than me. When you came to me and asked for my favor your words were like gold and that shall be your punishment." The thief was led off, sobbing, to the torture chambers, where the royal inquisitors melted down ingots of pure gold, forced open the man's mouth, and filled it with the molten metal…
Casca waited beneath the bas-relief friezes depicting the glories of the Persian kings, listening carefully to the dialogue taking place between the hawk-nosed ruler and a thin, mild-mannered man from the Nile.
Imhept stood, head bowed before the King of Kings. He wore his thin robes of linen with an unmistakable dignity that seemed out of place in one so slight and mild in manner. Imhept's eyes were deep brown and behind them lay a sparkle that belied his advanced years. Shapur's Vizier had sent for him to come to Nev-Shapur to advise them on the construction of new edifices and also to aid them in their new program of expanding the networks of irrigat
ion systems that had fallen into disrepair.
Shapur was somewhat puzzled by the Egyptian. He was used to overawing everyone about him, not only by the virtue of his throne, but also by his own strong personality. He was not just a king, but a warrior to be reckoned with.
But this calm, elderly man with his shaved head showed no sign of fear or apprehension. Shapur had known few that had not feared him and they were either mad or one of the holy hermits wholived in the trackless wastes of the desert. This man, like the holy ones, was at peace with himself. Shapur knew that here was one who would speak the truth, though it may cost him his head. And that was a man to be valued or destroyed-there was no middle ground for such as the Egyptian standing before him.
Shapur stroked his square-cut beard with long, graceful fingers. "Egyptian, it is told me by my Vizier that you are a man of great learning and wisdom who has devoted his life to study. Now I would pose a question for you."
Imhept raised his face to look in the eyes of Shapur. "I will answer if able, Lord."
Shapur pursed his lips, thoughtful for a moment, phrasing the question properly in his mind before speaking. "Scholar, the question is this: Of all the achievements of mankind throughout the ages, from all the known races and lands, what has been the single most significant achievement of man since his beginnings?"
Imhept closed his eyes and nodded slowly- once, twice-then opened his dark eyes and smiled as a teacher would to a beloved but wayward child. Shapur shifted uneasily on his throne. A small smile played around the lips of Imhept. "Lord of Hosts, King of Kings. The single greatest achievement of man, that has permitted all else to come forth is-the plow."
Shapur shook his head as if throwing off a bothersome thought. "Do not take liberties with me, scholar."
Imhept bowed his head again. "I do not say this in jest, Lord."
