‘Eyes forward –no,stop flinching,’ he snaps.
My world blurs, studying the tortured bodies.
‘Of course she would flinch. These are her people, after all,’ Cemil says carelessly.
A hush ripples through the crowd of thousands enclosing the amphitheatre.
A figure descends into the steps, the gold embroidery of his dark tunic beaming in the dawn, the raven curled upon his shoulder. The crowd bow their heads, lifting their clawed knuckles parallel to their chin, and I follow the salutation sluggishly. My breaths rattle in my throat; my eyes sting. My shoulders hunch as I press my knees harder into the sand to remind myself not to flee.
The Sepahbad nods at the officers to string up the tortured bodies by their feet, upturned in the sand-rimmed pit. Two date palms growing on the perimeter, surrounded by pointy cacti, have been tied together at the top by a flax rope, and the men’s legs are suspended at each end.
It happens quickly. They snap the rope, using sheer force to tear the bodies in two, red remains scattering among the jagged cacti below. Planks of flesh slew off in sloppy chunks, immediately attracting red wasps.
The Sepahbad’s inflection is gentle, but it carries firmly across the flanks. ‘Live for the dead but bring death to the living.That is what it means to be a Za’skar warrior to our enemies. Here, two spies from our own ranks dared sell intelligence to an Azadnian governess, costing the lives of garrison soldiers at another Arsduq melee. We have no mercy thus, for traitors.’ His gaze roams through the onlookers. Impossibly -kneeling so far from him – for half a beat, our eyes meet: his cold, and mine shaken, my fears unspooled between his fingers. I reach toward my waistband, brushing the blade he bestowed me and then my melted Zahr blade.
Young warriors enter the pit, carrying baskets of food scraps. They unceremoniously dump them upon the corpses. Worms and fat maggots wiggle through the decay; more red wasps dive in, the meat of the deadin the happy bellies of the creatures. Rot unfurls in acidic fumes under the heat, stinging my eyes.
Everything blurs and the scattered corpses are no longer faceless but terrible imaginings. The emperor’s onyx eyes stare lifelessly at me from a torn face. My throat clenches with the urge to vomit. On the other corpse, I see henna-stained hair strewn around a face gnawed on by crows; sorrow reflecting in her green eyes so like my own.
Uma, my lips mouth, but I stab my nails into the dirt. The corpses return to being merely corpses.
Then I take in the calm, almost eager, eyes of the surrounding warriors. Another violence stirs amongst the army. Their violence to defend this empire and mine to destroy it.
The Sepahbad bows, and the ranks are dismissed.
Now I look not at the corpses, but at the black shadow that bounds down the amphitheatre pillars and crawls eagerly into the pile of decay, nibbling at entrails with a hunger that makes my own stomach echo strangely in answer.
Yabghu stands and brushes his trousers of dirt, grim-faced. ‘Not the first day I imagined for you, rukh, but welcome to Za’skar.’
Despite the morning heat, a cold sweat breaks along my neck. Thousands of Za’skar warriors stamp their feet of sand and return to their assignments, with murmurs about the spies and Azadniabad flying between the ranks. Ignoring the shadow, I rub at my forearms as Yabghu leads our trifecta out of the sand pits.
‘Hiding fresh blood, Fourth-Slash,’ a razor-sharp voice mocks across the dispersing crowd.
‘And what of it, Negar?’ Yabghu doesn’t spare a glance back.
A young woman who must be Negar steps forward with a dark glare, long russet hair swinging with bone-pendants. Her clothes are like Katayoun’s except in pale shades of linen. Appraising me with a long look, Negar raises a marbled blade with four slashes by way of a greeting. At her heels, three other low-ranks study me in equally matched curiosity. They must be her trifecta.
‘More like tainted blood,’ another voice adds with a rough laugh. It belongs to a tall, burly woman – another overseer, perhaps, judging from the low-ranks behind her. Other trifectas pause at this, but my overseer yanks me away roughly, toward sandstone tunnels.
‘If you value your life, keep walking,’ Yabghu hisses.
‘You cannot hide her forever, my overseer. The captain must have told them.’ Cemil shakes his head.
Yabghu ignores him and leads us toward a patch of courtyards behind a cluster of illuminated crypts and ochre stone mausoleums.
When we’re a safe distance away from the amphitheatre, I say, ‘Surely in this city, I’m not the only,’ my voice drops, ‘Azadnian. There must be other warriors descending from its clans.’
‘Yes, perhaps a dozen here; the others are stationed at outposts in our provincial garrisons. There could be more who’ve lived in Sajamistan for over a generation and assimilated quietly and neatly.’ He slows as we approach a garden of fountains. ‘Outside of the forces supplied from clanhouses, Sajamistan’s monarchy controls three standing armies of normal mortals. There is onlyonebattalion for Eajiz. For that, Za’skar City looks past clans and tribes in its recruits.’
A flutter interrupts his explanation, as a large, white-feathered wing sweeps past my face. I stumble back into Cemil. Unfazed, Yabghu continues, ‘Beware of the Heavenly ababil birds; they linger here in the Little Paradise gardens. On that note, look at the trees full of all kinds of berries. The bounties are forbidden to eat, the reddest berries descended from the Eden.’
Cemil looks slightly amused before shoving me away with the hidden strength of a Za’skar warrior. I straighten with a scowl. He will be a problem.
‘Roughhousing a rukh on her first day. I taught you better than that.’ Yabghu whacks Cemil.
Before us, little jewels of crisp oases, perhaps once fed from the Great Flood, spread across cracked sediment, rich fig and orange trees surrounding the glassy waters. Geometric fountains trail through the glistening foliage, emerald vines climbing wayward up pristine stone reliefs of jinn kings and ancient serpent beasts. Horned beasts slumber between the shrubs. Cheetahs prowl and human-headed peacocks splash water with their talons. Desert monkeys shriek through the poplars around the ponds.
Yabghu points at a walled crypt. ‘The tombs of Prophet Adam and Hawah, his wife. Because of that, many jinn-folk and beasts are attracted here to greet them in peace. But the karkadann grow boredand well... ramming their horns into our sides is their version of play. For the monkeys, yanking your hair clean from your scalp is another. I suggest you carry incense with you, and a tongue full of prayers.’
