I follow Katayoun to the Easkaria institute for our halqa on martial history and strategy, while Cemil splits off for his Second-Slash classes.
Inside the musty, intimate chambers, the flooring is tiled in ivory shielded by embroidered rugs and silk cushions stuffed behind teak book rests called rahle. Cedar walls are plastered with camel-skin maps. The smog of myrrh incense fills the room, tickling my nostrils.
As we enter, Katayoun turns to me, her tawny eyes flat as always. ‘I will say this once. Speak as little as possible to Scholar Mufasa.’
A leathery scholar sits cross-legged on a tall cushion at the front. I stop short. The same one who openly mocked me during the evening meal.
Scholar Mufasa has beady dark eyes, a stern mouth and severely clipped grey hair. Over his pale tunic, a pleated emerald robe bears a white pattern, the overgarment stretching to his ankles, slit sides slit, and girded by an embroidered belt. Stretching across his forehead is a black-threaded pictogram of an indented line with a teardrop – an esteemed symbol indicating his scholarly status. Behind him sit two apprentices on floor cushions.
‘A quarter of an hour,’ Scholar Mufasa announces softly without even sparing me a glance. He points to a rahle towering with goatskin scrolls. ‘Any longer and you fail this assignment, resulting in punishment. The material from this week’s texts was on the battles of the Camel Road. You must translate a prompt from old Adamic linguistics and then answer it through a discourse. Begin!’
Removing my sandals and sitting behind my desk – a rahle – it takes me two tries to unroll my parchment. The script is jumbled letters of ancient Adamic.
After using a flat stone to weigh down the parchment, I cut the nib of my reed pen and dip it into a pot of dissolved gum, honey and lamp soot, remoistening the ink, which wastes ample time.A quarter of an hour.He hopes to fail us.
Translating the glyphs into standard Sajamistani is a trying task, as I am no native in its language. ‘Ten minutes,’ the scholar says gruffly. Sweat beads down my neck. He begins tapping his fingers against his rahle, a music of damnation.
I finish decrypting the language. It reveals a simple prompt – to explain the clan alliances of the Camel Road. I glance up and the scholar stares at me, calm. This feels intentional.
But in history, I cannot fail.
‘Time is up, rukhs!’ Scholar Mufasa raps his staff against his desk. ‘By the Easkaria code, examinations separate the studious warriors – the ones who aspire to be true intellectuals – from the indolent novices who assume being a warrior simply constitutes throwing a fist or wielding a blade. Each scroll shares a common theme – the art of reducing the enemy’s will, a worthy lesson in our history.’
He paces before us. ‘Pupils must learn the essence of warcraft. War isthe art of reducing the opponent’s will physically and mentally until an aim is achieved. It’s countering an opponent’s strengths and exploiting his weaknesses by out-positioning him in peacetime or warfare. And thus, we start after the Great Flood by understanding its themes in every major onset that fractured peace, beginning with Azadniabad and Sajamistan.’
He scans the first row. Initiates straighten their backs, fearful of becoming the target of his temper. I can sense it congesting the air, a living thing waiting to pounce.
‘Rukh.’ He points at an initiate. ‘Present your answer.’
The boy crumples his parchment. ‘Scholar Mufasa, I did not finish translating it.’
Mufasa stalks to the boy. ‘Emirhan, tell me your answer.’
Emirhan pales to a waxy complexion. ‘I said I didn’t—’
Mufasa snatches the scroll, smoothing the creases. He emits a displeased sound before ripping the parchment to shreds. ‘You did not read this week’s material. Stand at the front. Do you not know better than to neglect your readings?’
‘C-certainly, my scholar.’
‘Your excuse is what?’
‘I have none, my scholar.’
Scholar Mufasa gestures at his tunic. Complying, Emirhan unfastens the gold-buttoned latches, revealing a thin undergarment. With little preamble, the staff strikes his back. The room jumps.
Emirhan’s mouth opens, to cry, curse – I cannot be sure except that his teeth sink into the meat of his tongue, red staining his teeth – but still, no sound escapes.
Scholar Mufasa flogs his back quickly, neatly. My hands tuck under my thighs, resisting the urge to clamp my ears against the din of slapping skin.
It’s not the flogging unnerving me – such a punishment was frequent in the monasteries from my childhood. It’s Emirhan’s lack of protest. There is no whimper. His submission stirs my curiosity – like looking at a dead body in fascination even when you should not.
After fifteen lashes, Mufasa gestures to the entryway. Emirhan shuffles like something is wedged between his legs, drawing attention to the yellow on his pale trousers, the piss odour permeating the room.I glance away in mortification as if I can erase the incident by not looking.
Mufasa sighs. ‘Mark my words, that’s the last you will see of him,’ he says before he resumes checking parchments of the rukhs named Yima, Sharra Aina. Finally, Mufasa’s sandals reach my kilim. ‘You, Azadnian.’
I rise to my knees before inclining my head. ‘Yes, my scholar.’
He glances down at my inked parchments. ‘Explain the alliances of Tezmi’a.’
