Aetherius - Hahaha, well, I don't know if you'll want to do that after you see what happens to some of the people I'm introducing.
videofan - I don't know as of this time. I've only played the game through 1092 so far.
hawaiiansteven - Thank you! I hope this one turns out as well as some of the other ones in the past!
January 26th, Anno Domini 1090
Khosrau sighed, letting his mind drift away from the red and blue colonnades that stood sentry all along his path. As the footfalls of an army of servants cascaded off the gilt lions and eagles that climbed those colonnades and perched on the ceiling, Khosrau filled his mind with the more mundane. Vellum, papyrus and paper filled his thoughts, smudged words covered his mind. Smudged words and disappointment.
That was the last copy of Falafsa
in my personal collection! Khosrau fumed. The glared at his left hand, black ink brazen on his once powerful fingers that even now shook slightly.
I'm an awkward fool! he fumed.
An aged imbecile! He'd known his fingers were sure when he was making his edits, and now, three full pages of Muslim philosophy, gone! Familiar voices of doubt rose in his mind.
If I can't control my inkwell and quill, how can I...
The rumbling thunder of Khosrau and the retinue that followed behind slowed to a halt, and Khosrau took a moment to look up at the enormous bronze doors, built by his great-grandfather. On the left, a lion rose into the air, claws extended in fury. On the right, the boar, long a symbol of
E-Ran, leaped airborne to challenge. From their sapphire and ruby eyes, three centuries of glory spoke to Khosrau.
Ahura Mazda, yazatas, give me strength this new day, Khosrau whispered to himself as metal screeched against metal, and those great bronze doors swung open.
The light of a thousand candles greeted Khosrau's eyes, a brightness that always reminded him of where he
truly was—one man, one part of something much grander, much more important than his quills, his breath, his knowledge. The room was a sumptuous red, its walls decorated in beautiful calligraphy taken from the palace of the Empire's Abbasid predecessors. Ahead sat a throne of ebony and gold, a mighty lion festooned with jewels rising behind it, as if to protect the man who sat in that seat. Banners of silk and gold hung depicting cities from Egypt to the Hindu Kush hung over head, all of which had fallen beneath the gaze of the mighty Saffarid family.
“His Imperial Majesty,” the chamberlain's familiar booming voice intoned, “Khosrau, Third of His Name,
Padishah and
Shahanshah of
E-Ran, Khan of Khans,
Badshah of Arabia, King of Egypt and Lord of India!”
“Lord and Refuge of the World, we bow before you!” rumbled from the ornate ceiling of the throne room.
“Watch me,
yazatas,” Khosrau said to no one but himself, the strode past the Doors of Ardavan, and into a sea of color, prostrated to the floor. Some of these great men wore the red capped turbans of the
Wurzugan, others the the white caps of the Great Houses.
Mobads, priestly gowns glowing white in the light, bowed before his path.
Rajas from the Indus knelt in their strange clothes, and Greeks from Antioch bowed in their cloaks as Khosrau climbed up the dais, and into the Seat of the King of Kings. As soon as he sat, as one the vast assemblage rose. Khosrau's fingers gripped the boar headed arms of his throne so hard he could see the white of his knuckles.
No shaking, not here, not in front of them!
“Let any who wishes to petition the Lord and Refuge of the World,” Khosrau intoned the same words he'd called for over two decades, “step forward, that in the light of
Ahura Mazda his words can be heard, and justice dispensed over the world!”
For a moment, silence hung over the hall, until a strong, powerful voice boomed over the hall.
“Father of Peoples, I bring news from the Hindu Kush!” The crowds of caps and turbans parted for a man dressed in bright blues and golds. “I bring news of your son, Bakhtiar, Lord of Multan!”
“Speak!” Khosrau gestured the man to come forward, years of practice keeping his face calm.
Another setback? he wanted to ask.
How many men this time? When will my son learn he is no Bahram Parviz?
“
Shahzada Bakhtiar begs to report that Multan has fallen, and the great kings of Sindh are in full retreat!”the herald bowed. “He sends these gifts, Oh Great King, as trophies to display your power and might!” The herald clapped his hands, and the sea of people in the throne room moved as twenty servants materialized on each side, carrying elephant tusks and boxes made of beaten gold.
“May the world see this tribute,” the herald continued, “and know the power of the King of Kings! Great King, your son begs your blessings to continue his campaign, raising levies from Baluchistan and Afghanistan, to press on the heels of the
rajas as they flee to Lahore!”
More blood, so he'll stand apart from his cousins. Khosrau barely fought off a grimace.
My father made many mistakes, but impressing on the young the value of the sword.... Khosrau shook his head. The Empire had added the banners of Egypt to the rafters only ten years before.
E-Ran needed peace, not more bloody campaigns!
“What is the state of his army?” a voice asked. All eyes turned towards the entrance, as a tall, powerful man strode into the room, white robes traced with gold thread streaming behind him, green turban with the symbol of Sistan intricately woven into the fabric. As one, the gathered great and small of Persia bowed once again to the only man in the Empire that could rival the Lord of Hosts.
Varshasb,
Framadar of
E-Ran, son of Khosrau's prior co-ruler, Shahruz II, and the greatest claimant to the throne outside of Khosrau's own son. For the past four years, the 22 year old had been recognized as the head of the House of Sistan, a cadet branch of the Saffarid line that had nonetheless claimed the throne twice in the last century—once when Khosrau's father was a minor, and then again when Khosrau himself was a child.
Khosrau watched as the mass rose from their bow. The Justanids and the Karenids all glanced uneasily up towards the
Shahanshah. So did the Saffarids of Khorasan.
They think I should do as they advised all those years before, and uproot Varshasb and his family... Khosrau knew they wondered, they questioned why he let such a great threat to his and his own not only live, but thrive to the point Sistan now held the post of
Framadar, the head of the imperial bureaucracy and the eyes and hands of the Great King.
They ask me to strike him down, but... Khosrau looked at his white knuckled hands, and felt a familiar pang tear through his heart.
...I can't...I could never...
“Well?” Varshasb asked as the ringing of bells on the man's feet stopped when he reached the herald.
“I...” the herald looked over at Khosrau. “Lord Varshasb, I...”
Yes, now you don't know who to answer. Tell us, Khosrau nodded.
“The
Shahzada's army fought valiantly, my Lord
Framadar,” the herald said uneasily. “The
Rajas outnumbered them by four to one, they say, but the
Shahzada plucked victory from the jaws of defeat with his personal bravery in the field!”
“You did not answer the question,” Khosrau leaned forward, his heart sinking.
If the herald is avoiding the answer... “If my son's victory was so crushing, why does he need more levies?”
“The
Shahzada lost five thousand men in the battle,” the herald finally said. “Rest assured, Lord and Refuge of the World, they slew five times that number! The Indus ran red with the blood of the
rajas and their men!”
“Five thousand men?”
Framadar Varshasb's voice cracked throguh the colonnades in the throne room. “
Five thousand! Majesty,” he spun to Khosrau. “I advised you, and your son, that it was unwise to campaign past the Indus! And now, Your Majesty's Army of the Boar has been mauled, with only a city to show for it!”
“His Majesty still has the Army of the Eagle and the Army of the Lion!” the herald shot back. “If the Lord and Refuge of the World would see fit to lend us the
Shahzada one of those two armies, we could make His Majesty Lord of Delhi and the Ganges!”
“I... will consider my beloved son's request,” Khosrau said carefully. It wouldn't do to publicly embarrass Bakhtiar, no matter how foolish his son's efforts to cover himself in glory were. For a moment, rather than sitting on the throne, Khosrau felt the throne's weight sitting on him. He caught a concerned look on Varshasb's face.
I will resume business tomorrow. I need to ease my mind...too many worries, too many troubles...
“Leave us!” Khosrau called, “
Framadar, you remain.” The chamberlain's voice boomed that the imperial audiences were over for the day, and with a murmur the great host of people began to file out. Some twenty minutes later, all that remained of the multitude was the noise of the great doors closing, leaving Khosrau and Varshasb alone.
“I never thought they would leave,” Khosrau sighed. He felt his fingers tap against the metal of the throne as he relaxed his grip.
“Neither did I,” Varshasb climbed the dais. There was a time, long before, when the young man would have nervously looked around the throne room, checking for errant prying eyes. Now, he walked, no, slinked up the steps, until he was looming over the
Shahanshah. “But now, they are gone. Khos,” the young man leaned over, a hand touching the white beard of the old ruler, “Bakhtiar is a problem.”
“I...I know,” Khosrau sighed at the touch of those fingers. In thirty-five years, no touch of his wife had been able to elicit the same reaction as the slightest touch from the
Framarad. “He thinks we have an endless army.”
“We do,
if we call the
satraps and
marzubans to our banners. And the last time that happened...” Varshasb was now so close Khosrau could feel the young man's breath on his neck.
“
Shahanshah Morteza was deposed,” Khosrau felt a slight shiver run down his neck.
“So,” Varshasb whispered, “I think, that we should instruct Bakhtiar to stop his campaign to 'consolidate his rule.' Give him some baubles as a thank you for his triumph.”
“Yes...that's a good idea,” Khosrau nodded, his heart racing.
“There were also reports from the West,” Varshasb's breath hovered over Khosrau's ear, “the Christian Pope is calling for a war on all non-Christians. It's no threat.”
No... the Arabs swept the Christians aside, and we swept the Arabs aside...
“You should also visit your
harem this afternoon” the fingers traced down Khosrau's chin, then his neck as Varshasb's check brushed Khosrau's. The young man's breath was hot in his hear. “The
wuzurgan are talking. They say a
Shahanshah needs as many sons as possible, especially since your second eldest joined the Immortals...”
“But I have eight other sons,” Khosrau's complaint came as a tortured whisper. “I wish to be in your chambers.”
“Make it nine,” Varshasb's lips barely touched Khosrau's ear. The old king closed eyes his eyes, but as suddenly as there was warm breath, it was gone. When he opened his eyes in confusion, he saw Varshasb backing away from the throne, a mischevious smile on his lips.
“Come back,” Khosrau said.
I'll make you my heir!
“Khos, you may command the armies and peoples of the world,” Varshasb smiled, “but you do not command me. Visit your harem, and later tonight, I will visit your chambers!”
As Varshasb bowed, turned and left, the old
Shahanshah could do little more than pray that night came quickly.
In game: I am playing Persia in this tale. I had elective succession for the Persian monarchy, and for the last two generations, it'd bounced between two sides of the Saffarid dynasty. When one of my emperors (Ardavan II the Fat) died unexpected at at age 34, the crown passed to his cousin, who became Shahruz I. After Shahruz died, the crown went back to
Ardavan's now adult son, who became Bahram VII. When Bahram died from wounds sustained in battle, the crown when to
Shahruz's son who became Shahruz II. When the second Shahruz passed of old age, the crown then went to
Bahram's son, who became Khosrau III.
This dynamic obviously makes it very politically volatile if Khosrau is discovered romantically involved with Shahruz II's heir, especially when Khosrau's own son is of age and the presumed next
Shahanshah... and all while, unbeknownst to them, Christendom is preparing for war...