The ghazis dragged Alexios through the dust behind their galloping horses, the legs pounding the earth ahead of him and flashing in and out of dark clouds. But after just minutes of this—an eternity for Alexios—the Shirvanshahzadeh ordered them to stop. Perhaps he only did this because the road was rending Alexios’s flesh, and these wounds would make the prince’s new slave worthless. But who knew? Regardless, the laughing ghazis heaved Alexios onto Isato’s cage. But when the giant hyena inside nearly took his face off, they pulled him back down again, and tossed him onto a supply carriage, forcing him to squeeze between wine barrels. He lay there gasping for breath, his whole body screaming with pain. Pebbles were lodged in his bleeding wounds. It was impossible to think.

  At some point, Alexios must have passed out, for he woke lying on a mat. The pain had lessened. Now it only throbbed faintly in his flesh. People were talking, though they were some distance away, their voices echoing against walls. It sounded like he was inside a huge room. He opened his eyes to sloping walls of glowing sandstone, so much geometry flowing into itself, complex architecture and colorful arabesques. Mandelbrot sets. Other mats lay on the floor against the walls in rows, and some men reclined on them. A bearded man in black robes with a black turban was standing at the room’s far end arguing with the Shirvanshahzadeh (whose arms were crossed) and gesturing to Alexios. They were speaking Persian. Alexios had always found this language friendly, elegant, civilized, yet they kept repeating the word “gholam.” This was a term referring to servants, slaves, or slave-soldiers.

  They’re talking about me. That’s what I am. I’m a gholam, now.

  Alexios had trouble seeing. Something blocked his sight. He touched his face. Cloth bandages were there. As he felt his body, he found bandages everywhere. He was wrapped in bandages like a mummy, his wrists and ankles still manacled in irons. It almost made him laugh.

  Then he remembered. Where were Isato, Kassia, Basil, Rakhsh? Alexios sat up, and pain flashed across his body as though a lightning storm was trapped inside his skin. Crying out, he fell back to the mat. Now the bearded man in the black robes with the black turban was hovering over him, his face knitted with concern.

  “Khasteh nabashid,” the man said. Then he switched to Roman, speaking with a heavy accent. “You must rest. You are hurt badly. We have done what we could for you, cleaned your wounds with maggots and alcohol, but it will be some time before you can move about.”

  “Where is Isato?” Alexios groaned.

  The man leaned in closer. “Who?”

  “The hyena,” Alexios said. “The big dog in the cage.”

  The man looked to the Shirvanshahzadeh, still standing at the room’s far end. Then he looked back to Alexios. “That beast has been sold.”

  Alexios clutched his head. “Where did they sell her?”

  “Pardon me, but why do you care so much about a dog? I saw this creature myself, it was most unpleasant to behold, a thing unlike any we have seen in—”

  “Just tell me where they sold her!”

  The man shrugged. “Across the sea. To Daylam.”

  Alexios narrowed his eyes inside his bandages. “What the hell is Daylam?”

  “Daylam and Elam. Daylamites and Elamites. South of here. Maybe you would call it northern Persia. A land of warriors. Good fighters. Mountain rainforests rising above the lilies of the Mazandaran Sea.”

  “Great, that’s just what I need,” Alexios said. “Where am I? What is this place?”

  “You are in the city of Darband,” the man said. “In the great citadel of Naryn-Kala. This is our humble bimaristan, a hospital.”

  “Naryn-Kala,” Alexios repeated, still clutching his head. “What the hell is Naryn-Kala…who are you?”

  “Muhammad Khorasani,” the man answered. “I am your pizishk, your physician.”

  “Too many words,” Alexios groaned.

  Khorasani leaned in. “You are now the gholam of the Shirvanshahzadeh. When you are mended, you will serve him. But for now, you are too badly hurt to be of much use to anyone.”

  “I need to save my strength to be his slave.”

  “Each man is the slave of another, for even the Shirvanshahzadeh must serve his father the Shirvanshah, the Shirvanshah must serve his subjects, and we are all the slaves of God.”

  Not in the mood to argue.

  Khorasani continued. “Your name is Alexios, is it not? And you come from Hrōm, land of the Kēsar-i Hrōm. You are far from home, Alexios-jan, quite far. We do not meet so many Romans here these days. We hear even less about them—aside from Trabzon, of course. But that is not such a bad thing, for the Romans used to terrorize the people living here. These days all the news is about the Turks. They conquer this place, they conquer that place. Truly we live in a Turkish age.”

  Alexios said nothing. Khorasani went on. People here were sometimes so talkative that they would keep chatting with you even if you fell asleep right in front of them. They didn’t care.

  “Your name sounds to me like Eskandar. You are like Eskandar Dhul-Qarnayn, the two-horned one. Some say he built this city, and built the Iron Gates here, the Gate of Gates, to keep at bay the monstrous Gog and Magog, heralds of the apocalypse from the north…”

  As Khorasani kept rambling, Alexios fell asleep. He saw his children leaving him, screaming as they were dragged away, stretching out their hands, tears in their eyes.

  Now Isato as a hyena was pacing behind bars, trapped in her cage—trapped in her form—or chained to a stake in an arena, where she fought bears, dogs, even warriors with swords and spears, as the audience of men screaming in the surrounding rafters bet on who would win.

  Alexios woke to darkness.

  Where am I?

  He remembered. It was all real. It had all happened.

  The pain was too much. He didn’t want to exist anymore. He had done this. Like a fool, he had listened to the witch doctor’s ravings, and now his family was lost.

  Alexios wanted to die. But how could he kill himself when he was chained up and could barely move? Aside from death, the next best thing was sleep. He drifted off again, his manacles ringing around him, and woke to the azan echoing in the distance. Many muezzins were singing from many minarets, their calls to prayer mixed with the wavelets lapping at the beach, the placid ocean. Seagulls laughed, carriages groaned, horse hooves clopped, conversation murmured.

  I told them it was too dangerous. I told them not to come with me. They wouldn’t listen. Why, why, why wouldn’t they listen?

  Now he was asleep again. He dreamt of pomegranates bleeding into white cloth. Grass sprouted from the tall sharp conical cupolas of Georgian and Armenian churches. Inside, books in monasteries were soaked in thunderstorms because of the ceiling holes, the grass growing in the tiled rooftops. Lightning flashed on the wall carvings of ancient saints, Saint George on his leaping horse, a halo around his head, a spear in his hand stabbing at a worm-like dragon.

  Ride the dragon, Hawajat had said atop Mount Minthrion all those ages ago. You must ride the dragon with your last breath!

  In the morning of this dream, when the storm had passed, the monks squeezed the rainwater from these books, which they then spread out on sunny rooftops so the pages would dry as the wind turned them.

  Cherish books, the teacher in Alaverdi had said. For a book is both life and soul…without books, all would be lost in ignorance. Each person is a library of thought and memory, and with each death, it is as though an entire library is burning. But books preserve the library of a man for ages upon ages. Even the words and deeds of our forefather Adam live on after thousands of years because of books.

  Shining red pomegranate seeds poured everywhere, floods of them rushing in tidal waves. Long narrow gleaming scimitars lay in the sunny vineyards and apricot orchards. Isato rested on his lap, eating pomegranate seeds from his hand, her blue eyes reflecting the sky.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Alexios woke. A youth was unrolling the bandages. This was awkward, since the manacles had yet to be removed.

  Another morning in this place. The world is a desert without them. What is the point of trying to be good, of trying to help people, when they take so much from you? When so much evil exists?

  Alexios stared into nothingness for a long while. Eventually, however, he forced himself to sit up, like a robot being activated for the first time. He found that moving was easier than before. His arms and legs ached, but were almost back to normal. The youth watched. He looked liitke Basil.

  Alexios lay back, turned over on his mat, and covered his eyes with his hands. Someone else approached and spoke to the youth, who answered with the word “bah-lay”—which meant yes—and addressed the physician as “Jenab-e pizishk.” Then the youth left.

  “You have mended a great deal, Eskandar-jan.” The voice speaking now was Doctor Khorasani’s. “I am under orders to return you to the Shirvanshahzadeh when you can walk and ride.”

  “I’m never going back,” Alexios said. “Let them kill me, imprison me, whip me. I don’t care.”

  “Now why would you say such a thing? You are young, the whole world is ahead of you. It always confuses me, the despair of the young, for youth itself is richness, it is wealth. These wounds of yours would have broken most other men, but you are strong and healthy. Your healing has impressed even me. I’ve seen nothing like it, for when first you came here, you were quite a mess…”

  “What’s the point?” Alexios blurted. “I’ll never see them again.”

  “Yes, yes, I heard. You were separated from your companions. And yet you must know that the story is not over. ‘The rose and the thorn, and sorrow and gladness are linked together.’ I am a pizishk, death is my boon companion, never leaving my side as I make my rounds each day. It is like an invisible wave, the great flood that washes over everything, knocking everyone down sooner or later, often in the prime of life. One moment they are dancing to the song at the fair, the next moment the invisible wave has washed over them, and they fall to the ground. It is as though they have fallen asleep, peaceful with their eyes shut, but they neither breathe nor dream, and they never rise again. Waves upon waves wash the world like this each day. One day each of us will fall asleep and never wake up. And yet for every death, there is life. Roses may blossom from the bodies of the dead. Bees drink the nectar of the flowers, birds eat the bees, and men eat the birds, building their bodies with their flesh. These waves of death and life swirl around one another eternally, like the battle between light and darkness spoken of by fire-worshippers.”

  Alexios kept quiet.

  “I have never seen a dead man free his friends from slavery, Eskandar-jan. But living men—that is something they can do.”

  “I’ll never find them. They’ll be tortured. Murdered.” He thought of the way Adarnase had looked at the children. “Or worse.”

  “You are young. There is nothing you cannot do. The young, birds in the trees, they never know how strong their bodies are, how sharp their intellects. Oftentimes the old do not wish them to know, for the young frighten the old—the young are stronger, faster, smarter, and yet the old depend upon them. If not for the doubt and ignorance and inexperience and petty disagreements of the young, it is they who would rule the world, not the old.”

  Silence from Alexios.

  “Whatever troubles you have known, Eskandar-jan, you will overcome them. You will triumph. You will have revenge. The world may even remember your name in ages to come. There is a chance that all of this will be. And it could happen before you know it, for ‘the world is two days’—life is short. But it will never happen if you allow yourself to die when you are still so strong. Wars and battles, they are often won with supplies, yes, access to water, proper sanitation to avoid disease, and the strategy and experience of the generals, the merit and ability of the officers, the whims of weather, but they are also about will. Does the army have the will? Do you wish to win, Eskandar-jan? If you desire it more than your foes, you can still defeat them, even if, at the moment, they stand over you, and look down upon you, and laugh at your misery.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk,” Alexios said. “Are you sure this is the right career? You might make more money as an influencer.”

  “My Roman is not what it was, so I cannot follow you. But I am a pizishk. I tend to the bodies of my patients, and their hearts and minds and souls. They are all woven together in the spiderweb of life, none can function well without the others. As for you, your body is mostly healed, but your spirit still suffers from deep wounds.”

  Alexios thought of Adarnase taking his children. “I can only heal with his blood.”

  “Ah, the medicinal balm of vengeance. If that is what will make you rise, then let it be so. You will have revenge. You will achieve it. Nothing has ever stopped you before, and nothing ever will.”

  Alexios turned over, sat up, and looked at Khorasani. “Thank you.”

  Khorasani placed his right hand over his chest and bowed. “Truly it is nothing. I am only performing my duty.”

  He helped Alexios stand, and said “eyval” when he succeeded in doing so. Yet Alexios wobbled on his legs, which felt weak and thin.

  “How long have I been here?” Alexios asked.

  “The Shirvanshahzadeh brought you over a week ago,” Khorasani said. “And I gather you came from Gurjistan, several journeys away. Yes, it is important to walk, else your legs will simply wither.”

  Khorasani and his assistant, a youth named Zakariya—the one with Basil’s face—helped Alexios stagger through the hospital in his manacles. There were many mats on the floor, many male patients lying on them, many physicians and workers of all kinds tending them. The nurses here were all men—they were called “assistants.” Alexios guessed that the hospital wards were segregated by gender, that the women patients lay elsewhere in the bimaristan, and that female nurses cared for them.

  Through the windows, Alexios looked out over the green hills sloping down to the flat city of Darband below, the endless blue Hyrkanian Ocean, the red sun rising beyond.

  It’s called the Caspian Sea in the old world, isn’t it? Alexios thought.

  He laughed at the sight of the Caspian. Never in his life did he expect to see such a place.

  “I was just some kid growing up in the middle of nowhere,” he explained, when Khorasani asked why he was laughing. “Not a penny to my name. I never thought I’d see a place like this.”

  “The Khazar Sea?” Khorasani asked. “The Mazandaran Sea? For us, it is normal. We see it every day. Does that then mean you were a peasant? A serf?”

  “Not really,” Alexios said. “I was a student. I came from a workers’ family.”

  “A student from a family of day laborers?” Khorasani looked at Zakariya. “Forgive me, but that is the lowest of the low, is it not?”

  Zakariya nodded. “Peasants have land. Slaves have a roof over their heads, and their master is responsible for them. But what do day laborers have?”

  “Not much.” Alexios smiled. Khorasani’s pep talk had improved his mood. It was also hard to feel bad while looking at the Caspian Sea for the first time.

  He told himself that Khorasani was right: he would bide his time, find out where his family was, and rescue them. Soon enough, they’d be on their way again.

  Everything back to normal. Right as rain.

  Khorasani ordered him to rest, and so Alexios rested. He ate, drank, and recovered his strength, for day after day. At times it was hard to believe that he was even a slave to begin with. Out of boredom he sometimes attempted to chat with the other patients—the ones who looked well enough to talk—but they never spoke Roman, and his own knowledge of Turkish, Arabic, and Persian was insufficient. Nonetheless, the other patients always offered him their food, if they had any while he was speaking with them, though they also eyed his ringing manacles.

  Plenty of Armenians, Georgians, and Jews were working in the hospital and the enormous citadel, but he was also hopeless with their languages. There hadn’t been time to learn. Other ethnoi lived and worked in and around Darband, people Alexios had never heard of—Nogays, Kumyks, Laks, Cherkessians, and more, all distinguished by differing customs, languages, religions, modes of dress. Khazari were not unknown here, either, scattered after the khaganate’s destruction, and Varangians sometimes dragged their longships from the quietly flowing Don to the Volga and then sailed them here, singing boatmen songs in the harbor. How did the lyrics go?

  Once more, once again, yo, heave ho!

  There was supposedly even a fire temple in Darband. A nickname for the Kingdom of Shirvan was the Land of Fire, since flames sometimes leaped from the ground here if farmers kicked their fields too hard. Alexios gathered that Shirvan itself consisted mostly of Azeri people, who, like many others around these parts, were Turkish-speaking Muslims. Yet Pagan Turks still sometimes swept down from the steppe, and plenty of pagans belonging to other ethnoi dwelled in the mountains. They could be seen dancing around their flickering village bonfires at night.

  Persia’s influence was also strong here. One felt drawn to the Persian way of doing things. This would have seemed more unique in the old world, but the Persian ethos was widespread even far beyond Persia. Everyone was family—you addressed every man as uncle or brother, every woman as aunt or sister. Everyone also shared what they could, and would take offense if you refused to accept their offerings, meager as they might be. But people sometimes didn’t just address you as a family member; they would go out of their way to treat you like that, even if they were strangers and had nothing obvious to gain from their sweetness. In the old world, everyone was an individual floating alone in an infinite void; here, everyone was connected, whether or not they liked it.

  The time came, at last, to meet the Shirvanshahzadeh. Khorasani announced to Alexios that he was well enough to meet his master, and added that there would be an audience with him the following day. Alexios said that he was confused since he thought being a slave meant working in the mines or fields. Why then was a royal audience necessary?

  “Of course it can be like that, Eskandar-jan,” Khorasani said. “Prisoners are often used for jobs which no one else wishes to do—which no one will do for any amount of land or money, like hacking metal out of the Earth. But other slaves are scribes, warriors, even generals. From the look of you, I think you are not fit to be a miner or laborer in the fields. You are a warrior, a great warrior, are you not? A regular Rostam reborn. And Shirvan has need of such people, for we are always at war with someone. And there is always glory, booty, and opportunity to be found for those who search it out.”

  “You’ve got a pretty positive outlook on life, don’t you?” Alexios said.

  “I’m grateful for the opportunities which God has granted me,” Khorasani said. “For me, there is nothing better than having the knowledge to help people, and using it to make a positive difference in their lives. So shall it be with you.”

  The next day, they went together to Naryn-Kala’s royal chambers.