‘Charm?’ I recoil.
‘Yes, charm.’ Arezu sidles up to me. ‘With pretty words and your pretty looks. Make them believe you are their next Eskander. Pazktab students are suck-ups to the older soldiers.’
And because I cannot argue with sound logic, a better plan strikes me.
‘You are bribing them?’Arezu screeches the next morning, pointing to the hastily gathered thirteen pazktab children. They line up across the fountain gardens.
Yahya, who insisted on being held, laughs at her and I switch his weight to my other arm.
‘Katayoun inspired this idea. I tried to speak of glory but found it hard to convince children who cannot wipe their own asses properly. Why persuade them on the merits of bravery when we are all cheap and swayed by primal greed? You claimed I should be Eskander – he would approve,’ I explain.
I jangle my satchel, containing my year’s saved stipend. ‘One copper ingot for each child, a low bargain. It hardly matters to me.’ I shrug. In actuality, it does. Due to my Azadnian descent, I receive little benefits from enlisting in Za’skar except for this measly stipend. The senior officials have frozen land benefits from the royal court. This reduced me to borrowing a healthy weight of ingots from Yabghu – whose stipend as an overseer is much grander than my own. I claimed that I wished to buy more prayer garb and I would pay off the debt soon – which I have no intention of doing.
‘Which of you would like an ingot?’ I ask the awaiting students, whose mouths part like gaping fish.
‘They are young,’ Arezu argues.
‘Greed does not discriminate. Besides, you are sixteen, now.’ I place Yahya back down but he reaches for me again.
‘You must stop this horrible habit. You mistake our relationship. I was compliant before but now, I will be firm. I cannot hold you, especially during a battle. It’s disgusting.’
‘Please,’ Yahya insists.
‘You pig, put your arms down.’ I carefully step a hair-width of distance around him. ‘Must I remind you all, we have a Marka to scheme for and enemies to destroy.’ They are not listening.
The corner of Arezu’s left eyelid twitches. ‘When do I receive an ingot?’
‘You are older and wiser. Tell me this.’ I prod her chest. ‘Do the scholars teach greed or have you learnt this on your own? Do you not heed the priests’ sermons on Mondays?’
‘I do.’ A student named Firat perks up.
‘– ten, eleven, twelve...’ I raise the coppers.
‘Wait,’ Arezu says.
‘...thirteen. Arezu, I train you without expecting payment,’ I say. ‘You get no ingot.’
23
On the morning of the Marka, angels gaze down from the Heavens at the white salt-blown desert, its clay cracked open to reveal hideous scars. The whole of Za’skar arises in a bustle for the ancient tournament, bureaucrats scramble into the gated city to place bets, wizened warriors wonder which soldiers would rise to take up their mantle next, and clanhouses scout promising Za’skar strategists to patronise in their armies.
As my squadron pads across the sand dunes, a shock spreads like wildfire through the ranks of the city. Soldiers halt in their trajectories, gazing at the bevy of pazktab students at my back.
‘This is madness! A mockery of Za’skar customs!’ Scholar Hawja squawks out as we trek along the paths of the Easkaria school. ‘Summon the Sepahbad at once!’
‘He would never dare interfere in the customs of the Marka,’ Scholar Mufasa says from an open balcony, staring down at us. ‘Not when he led a Marka not much older than a pazktab student himself.’
Katayoun shifts beside me, ducking her head until her russet braid falls forward, bone-pendants clinking. ‘I told you thisismadness.’
‘I bribed you,’ I remind her.
‘You didn’t pay me to keep my mouth shut.’ Her lips crack into a grin. The humour soothes the nerves fluttering in my chest.
From the bottom of the Easkaria, Squadron Three stands in formation around Captain Madj. At seeing us, the captain nods subtly in my direction.
‘What was that?’ Katayoun asks, bewildered.
‘Captain Madj is Fayez’s rival. A clever strategist sows discord in their opponents before the battle begins,’ I tell her.
