While the caravan struggles along a muddy riverside path, tempers fray, Chen catches fish, merchants risk their necks for pistachios, and Darius waits anxiously for Ahmed and Weili to return.

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* * *

Double Time

Karim blew his horn, giving long, repeated blasts that sent people scrambling out of the street ahead of us.

The caravan was moving at double time, as fast as fifty-three wagons could move without becoming a disaster of its own. Drivers shouted and urged the horses forward. The horses and mules snorted and strained against their harnesses. Wheels hammered over the uneven street. A woman snatched a child out of our path. A man carrying two baskets dropped them as he leaped aside, and one of the wagon wheels rolled straight over them. We were not a caravan but a force of nature, a storm on wheels, and everyone moved out of our way. I did not think that was necessarily a kind or good thing, but it was what it was.

I twisted in the saddle and looked back for Ahmed and Weili. Nothing.

“Come on,” I muttered.

People were pouring south with us now, some carrying bundles, some dragging children by the hand. Others ran east or west through the side streets, while a few actually pushed north, toward whatever families or possessions they could not bring themselves to abandon. No one seemed to know exactly what was happening.

Karim blew the horn again, and the sound echoed off the walls of the buildings around us.

Two young men ran alongside one of our wagons and jumped onto the back. The merchant who owned that wagon shouted at them, but they ignored him and clung to the wooden frame.

Seeing these, several other men and even a few families began running toward the wagon. If something was not done we would be overrun.

“No boarders!” I shouted to the other guards.

I kicked Belly forward and came alongside. One of the young men looked at me, frightened but defiant. I caught him by the back of his tunic and yanked him loose. He hit the street, rolled twice, and stood, shouting curses at me. Seeing this, the second man let go on his own and landed on his feet, running.

Memdooh rode up. “Darius! What are you doing? Don’t be cruel!”

“Our task is to protect the caravan and the merchandise. Do your job!”

Ahead, the Kurdish woman Shireen – she of the Parthian Shot – rode beside Karim, her thick braid bouncing against her back as she pointed down a street and called directions. Karim immediately waved the lead wagons that way. The entire caravan took the corner fast and tight, nearly crashing into an expensive-looking villa with yellow walls and enclosed balconies.

The houses began to thin. The road widened, and almost startlingly, we burst out of the city and into open country. It seemed that Shireen knew her way around. Right now that made her worth as much as any swordsman in the caravan.

I looked back. Still nothing. I reached for the ring beneath my tunic, and rubbed the ruby with my thumb. Behind us, drums were still beating, smoke rose from the city, and thousands of shouts and cries merged into a sound like a wounded dragon’s roar. I prayed that Farhad would survive. I felt that I owed him, though I could not say why, since I had saved his life. But I had arrived in Herat a mere caravan guard, and was leaving… well, still a mere caravan guard, but with a prince’s ring around my neck. I didn’t know what that meant, if anything.

Wheat and Barley

I had expected the land beyond Herat to be barren, but irrigation channels cut through green fields of wheat and barley. There were vineyards too, the vines growing in long ordered rows, and orchards beyond them. Farmers had stopped their work to watch our caravan thunder past. A few families were already traveling south with carts or heavily laden mules, but it was nothing like the crush inside the city.

Then the road crested a low rise, and I stared. A broad river ran before us, east to west, the surface of the water reflecting the sky and adding something of its own, so that it shone grayish-blue like a finely polished sword. For some reason, the river surprised me. Since waking from my opium sleep, I had formed the idea that Persia was a vast desert. I had seen canals and fountains, so I should have known better. But those seemed like things men had made, forcing water through a dry land. This was different. The river was broad and alive, and the water called to me.

Karim sounded a halt. Alhamdulillah! The caravan slowed in a great clattering confusion of wagons and horses.

“Water the horses!” Karim called. “Drivers, check your wagons! Wheels, axles, harnesses, everything. Merchants, check your cargo. We move again as soon as we’re ready.”

I dismounted and led Belly to the river. He was breathing hard, and sweat stained his black coat. I let him drink, watching to make sure he didn’t gulp too much at once, then loosened his tack and wiped the sweat from his neck and flanks.

When I was finished, I crouched beside the river and splashed water over my face. It was wonderfully cool. I scooped up another double handful and poured it down the front of my tunic, then slipped a hand underneath and spread the water across my chest. I closed my eyes for a moment. That felt good.

Proved Your Choice

“You did well back there. You proved your choice.”

I turned. Karim stood behind me.

“With the boarders?”

He nodded. “Could have been a problem. You did what had to be done.”

I looked north again. “Captain, where did Ahmed and Weili go? They’re not going to fight the Afghans, are they?”

Karim exhaled loudly. “Definitely not. We had stragglers. Two of the guards never made it back from the suq. They went to find them.”

“But Weili is -”

He cut me off. “Weili is as tough as saddle leather and can shoot the head off a snake. She made a mistake in Afghanistan, but that doesn’t define her.”

I nodded, liking the sounds of those words. I stood. “Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Is it important?”

“Not really.”

He laughed. “What’s your question?”

“Yesterday, during the evaluations, Zabit, the merchant, started shouting that someone stole his gold. People said it must have been the Persian guards. You took Zabit aside and quieted him down. What did you tell him? Do you know who took the gold?”

“You’re kind of nosey, do you know that, Lee Darius? No, I have no idea who took it. Maybe it really was one of the Persians. Regardless, the money was stolen from a wagon under my protection. Also, the last thing I wanted was to create a sectarian and diplomatic incident.”

Karim stopped and watched me, but I’d already figured it out. “You reimbursed him. You bought him off to shut his mouth.”

“Right.” He knocked gently on my forehead. “Now I have a question for you. How did Ardeshir end up in Chen’s care? I told you to take care of him.”

I opened my mouth, then shut it. “I -”

“You’re not an officer. You don’t delegate. If I give you a job, you do it.”

“Yes sir. Sorry.”

He poked me in the chest. “Rest for a few minutes. Stretch your limbs.”

A Muddy Path

Within twenty minutes we were moving again, heading west on a path that followed the river. Calling it a road was generous. In some places it was barely wide enough for a wagon, and the going was slow. Karim seemed more concerned with keeping the wagons intact than putting distance behind us. Which was fine with me.

“How will Ahmed and Weili know we turned west?” I asked Meilin, who was riding beside me.

She pointed backward with her thumb. “Look for yourself.”

I looked. Our caravan had churned the earth into a broad confusion of wheel ruts, hoofprints, crushed vegetation and dung. A blind man could follow our trail. Unfortunately, said blind man could probably travel faster than us as well. The path was badly rutted, and in the low places the ground turned to mud. Before we had gone very far, one of the wagons sank nearly to its axle. The driver shouted for help, and half a dozen of us dismounted. We put our shoulders against the back while the horses strained in their harnesses.

“Push!”

We pushed. Mud sucked at the wheels. Nothing. We collected armfuls of branches and small stones and laid them down before the wheels to provide traction. When we pushed again the wagon lurched free, spraying mud over my trousers and boots. Memdooh laughed at me until I peeled a chunk of mud off my trousers and flicked at him.

It went on like that. In places reeds and bushes had grown across the path so thickly that we had to stop and hack them back. Still, the river stayed beside us, sometimes close enough that I could see sunlight glittering on the water. It reminded me of my time living beside the river in Deep Harbor. I found it comforting.

Muslimoon?

We came upon a village beside the river.

It was a poor place, though not like Darbi Malik. The houses were small and simple. Fishing nets hung from poles to dry, and narrow boats had been pulled onto the muddy bank. I saw fish hanging from wooden racks, and children with round, healthy faces running barefoot between the houses.

The entire village came outside to watch us.

“Allahu Akbar!” they called. “As-salamu alaikum!”

I waved my hand. “Wa alaykum as-salamu wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh.”

Some of the villagers were thrilled by this, and cheered as if I were a talking bear. Children ran beside the wagons until their mothers called them back. One man shouted, “Muslimoon? Muslimoon?”

“Beleh!” a guard shouted back Yes.

That brought another chorus of Allahu Akbar.

Our arrival in any village became an opportunity for trade. The villagers brought out whatever fish they had to sell, some fresh and others salted or dried. Karim bought all of the dried fish for the caravan stores. With fifty-three wagons on the road, we consumed an astonishing amount of food. We could carry rice, flour and other provisions with us, but they would never last all the way to China.

In one village, an old man stepped onto the road. His clothing was patched, his beard white. He held out one hand and said something I could not understand, but whose meaning was obvious.

Memdooh dropped a silver coin into the old man’s palm. It was not gold, but neither was it a small amount of money.

The man stared at it. Then he began pouring out blessings in Persian.

Memdooh touched his head then his heart – a gesture some of us had picked up from the Persians – and rode on. I watched Memdooh. I knew he had given away all the money he won gambling. The money he’d given the old man was his own money, his own saved wages. SubhanAllah. I barely recognized the angry young man who had thrust his purse at the imam and said, “Take it. I don’t even care anymore.”

He saw me looking. “What? Do I have mud on my face or something?”

“Or something.” I smiled and rode on.

We paused for Maghreb, then rode on. It was a constant struggle, and I began to wonder how long we could go on like this.

Ahmed and Weili were on my mind. I decided to find Karim and suggest that we stop and wait for them. When I caught up with him, he was already having an argument with one of our new Persian recruits. A man named Rostam: early thirties, a good horseman and competent swordsman. I remembered him well from the evaluations. He was not exceptional at any one thing, but steady across every test. Rostam was speaking rapidly and pointing first at the river, then toward the west.

“What are they arguing about?” I asked Chen.

“The recruit says we’re going the wrong way.”

I looked west. “Wrong way where?”

“He says China is east. We’re going west. He thinks the captain’s knowledge of geography may be lacking.”

That sounded like a diplomatic way of saying, you don’t know what you’re doing.

“What did the captain say?”

Chen grinned. “He said the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. He knows the stars. Everything else he can figure out.”

I chuckled at that. One thing I would never call Karim was lost.

We stopped for Ishaa and called a halt, setting up camp beside the river. The cooks prepared a fish feast, and I had to admit that it was delicious, and so unlike our usual fare.

Now that we were on the road again I wanted to get back to my nightly martial arts practice. So much had happened – the Afghanistan raid, the burning of the Silk Store, my whipping, the opium and the assassination attempt on Farhad – that it had been weeks since I’d had time to train. I felt the absence of it like a missing limb.

But it was impossible. This rough daily slog through mud and bracken was so exhausting, that all any of us could do at the end of the day was eat and sleep. There were no card games, wrestling, poetry, archery contests or anything else. Even with my exhaustion, however, I slept poorly.

Rumi and Fishing Poles

The next morning, after Fajr and breakfast, I expected the order to move out. Instead, Karim announced that we would remain where we were for a while. He didn’t say why.

I spent some time with Belly, napped a bit, sat with my back to a weeping willow and breathed in the fresh air. Every now and then I glanced back along the path we’d come, expecting to see Ahmed and Weili.

On a flat stretch of grass in the distance, Shireen was teaching Ardeshir to ride a horse. I had heard that we were going to train him in shifts. Three times a week I would train him in martial arts. Others would teach him swordsmanship and archery.

Chen broke a long branch from one of the trees beside the river and sat down with his knife.

“What are you doing?” Memdooh asked.

“Making a fishing pole.” That attracted immediate attention.

Chen trimmed away the twigs and began working on the branch, explaining what he was doing as he went. Soon a circle had formed, with men and women all sitting on the ground carving fishing poles.

I took the Rumi book out of my pack and began to read.

Come, O drop, surrender yourself without regret,

and for the price of a drop receive the Sea.

Come, O drop, grant yourself this honor:

rest in the Sea’s hand, safe from destruction.

Who has ever been granted such fortune?

The Sea itself has come seeking a drop.

Allah, Allah! Sell and buy at once:

give one drop, and take a sea filled with pearls.

By the time I finished, I had forgotten to breathe. What was it about this man’s poetry that struck my heart thus? I felt myself fading away, becoming insignificant before Allah’s grandeur. I continued reading, until a shout broke my concentration.

“I got one! Look! It’s huge!”

I looked up to see a dozen guards sitting on the riverbank, fishing. One had just caught a gorgeous golden-scaled carp, and was holding it up proudly. I noticed that other guards too already had beautiful fish glistening on the grass beside them. That seemed fun. I would just read a few more poems first…

Following Your Lead

I didn’t remember falling asleep. The next thing I knew, a deep voice said, “That can’t be comfortable.” I opened my eyes to see Shah sitting cross-legged in front of me.

“You’re blocking my sun,” I said. “In fact you’re blocking everyone’s sun.”

He laughed. “Want to know something interesting? You’re not the only one Farhad asked to join his personal guard. There were two others.”

“Really?” I sat up straight, fascinated by this bit of news. “Who else?”

“The Ghost.”

I stared at Shah, then looked around. “The Ghost? But he…” I let my gaze travel up and down the caravan. The Ghost was a veteran guard who kept to himself. He ate alone and rode alone. He had a way of appearing silently behind a junior guard just to drop a correction like tend to your horse, clean those boots, tighten up the girth, oil your weapon or it will rust , and so on. He was precise, efficient, and good at everything, though I wouldn’t say that he excelled at any one thing. And somehow, when he wasn’t standing behind you, he was practically invisible. I’d never had a single actual conversation with him.

“I don’t see him,” I said at last.

“Well, you wouldn’t, would you?”

I laughed. “So where is he?”

“In the citadel. He accepted the offer.”

My mouth fell open. “You’re kidding. La ilaha il-Allah . He’s back there fighting?” I looked back in the direction of the city, though it was far out of sight. I was astounded that a Chinese guard like me was still there, defending Farhad’s life and position. Somehow it made me feel better about my own decision. We, Five Star collectively, had not entirely abandoned Farhad.

“Who was the other person? Did they stay behind too?”

“The other person was me.”

I stared. “Wow! What did you say? I mean, obviously you said no, but why?”

Shah’s expression became serious. “Back in Afghanistan, during the raid, you took charge. You made difficult calls in the heat of the moment, and they were the right calls. You didn’t lead from behind. You and I took point and plunged straight into the attacking force. And we survived. I followed your lead then, and I’m following your lead now.”

Overcome with emotion, I swallowed. I took a deep breath, then extended my hand. He took it and we shook.

“Did you at least get a ring out of it?” I asked.

Shah tipped back his head and laughed so loud that his laughter sounded like hoofbeats. Wait. Those were hoofbeats! I jumped to my feet. Two horses were coming along the river path, each horse carrying two riders.

Ahmed and Weili were back with the two missing guards. All four looked exhausted. Their clothing was dusty and torn, and one of the stragglers had an arm wrapped in a bloodstained bandage. Weili’s hair was disordered, and Ahmed looked ready to collapse.

Ahmed looked past me at Chen, Memdooh and the others sitting along the riverbank with their makeshift poles.

“Who would have thought I’d find a Chinese fishing village in Persia?”

Men laughed, and everyone crowded around them at once.

Karim pushed through. “Give them room! Veteran Guard Ahmed, what happened?”

Waving off help, Ahmed climbed stiffly down from his horse. “We found them. Eventually. They were coming back from the suq when looters tore through, and they had to hide. Later, after we found them, a gang of men decided they wanted our horses.”

“They didn’t get them,” Weili added grimly.

Karim looked over all four of them, lingering for a moment on the wounded man. “What news of the citadel?”

Ahmed looked back toward the east.

“Farhad is holding.”

Mud and Golden Carp

For the next four days, we followed the river west, sometimes so close that the wagon wheels rolled within a few paces of the water, sometimes wandering away from it where the ground was firmer. The path did not improve. We pushed wagons until our legs trembled, chopped back bushes and reeds, filled holes with stones and branches, and once spent nearly an hour getting a wagon across a stretch where part of the path had washed away.

All along, locals passed by us on foot, or riding donkeys or mules, and watched with great bemusement, no doubt wondering how a huge caravan from a far-away country had ended up on their little riverside path. They greeted us, asked questions that I did not understand, and went on their way.

Whenever we stopped, however, fishing poles appeared. Chen had started something. Every day another guard made one, and soon there were men up and down the riverbank, sitting beneath the trees with their lines in the water.

Eating fish every day was such a luxury that I wondered if the ring around my neck had truly made me a prince. For months our daily diet had consisted of meals drawn from the staples we carried with us: rice, millet, flour, dried noodles, beans and lentils, supplemented with dried fruit and nuts, whatever vegetables we could buy along the way, and occasional slim helpings of beef, chicken or lamb. It was filling enough, and I had never complained.

But after three days of fresh river fish, fried, roasted, stewed and grilled over the coals, I began to think I could happily live beside a river forever.

I Caught One

Naturally, I made a fishing pole too. The first few times I tried it, I caught nothing. I kept looking up and down at everyone else, wondering if the fish did not like my smell? Finally Chen took a look, and told me to put a live bug on the hook. Almost right away, something tugged on the line.

“I’ve got one!”

The line jerked hard, and I leaped to my feet, shouting, “I caught one! I caught one!”

In my excitement I dropped the pole. It bounced once on the bank and began sliding toward the water.

“No!”

I dove after it, landed on my stomach and caught the end just before it disappeared. Everyone around me was laughing, which I ignored because there was still a fish on the hook. I scrambled up, hauled on the line and dragged a beautiful golden carp onto the bank.

I stood over it, wet to the elbows and covered with dirt, beaming as though I had captured a sea dragon. That evening the cooks prepared my fish for me, and it was the most delicious thing I had ever eaten.

Money in the Trees

Wild pistachio and almond trees grew among the poplars and willows along the river. Near villages we often saw local women out gathering the nuts, sometimes with children helping them, and I left those trees alone. They belonged to people who lived there. Farther along, where there were no houses or villages in sight, we guards descended on the trees.

Belly liked pistachios. Whenever I found them, I gave him his share. He crunched them happily and immediately nosed at me for more. I picked so many nuts for him I started to wonder which of us was the beast of burden, and which the master.

As for the merchants, they attacked the trees with greater enthusiasm than we guards had ever attacked an enemy. They climbed into the branches with sacks tied around their waists, picked everything they could reach, and poured their harvest into crates and barrels. Silk merchants were up there. Glassware merchants. Men who already had fortunes packed into their wagons.

Meilin stood beneath one tree with her hands on her hips, staring up at a merchant whose wagons were loaded with Syrian metalware.

“What are you doing up there, risking life and limb? You already have a fortune’s worth of metalware.”

The merchant stopped picking long enough to look down at her.

“Do you have any idea how much these pistachios are worth in China? You think I’m going to leave money sitting up here in these trees?”

When one of the merchants fell out of a tree and broke his arm, however, Hakim Yusuf had had enough.

“Down from there!” he shouted. “You are fat middle-aged men, not monkeys.”

“We don’t have to listen to you,” one merchant called back.

Word of this reached Karim, who came striding into the pistachio grove. “Down!” he bellowed. “Before I make you dump all the nuts you’ve collected into the river. An order from Corporal Yusuf is an order from me. You will respect his authority.”

I blinked. I had been traveling with Yusuf for months. He had treated me and taught me. Yet somehow it had never occurred to me that he had rank.

The merchants climbed reluctantly out of the trees.

I looked at the captain thoughtfully, remembering the moment when he’d ordered Shah to haul the doctor away to prevent him from interfering with the whippings. Karim was a good man, but not a perfect one. I supposed I could live with that.

Respect

Later, I found Yusuf as he was in his medical wagon, arranging medicines and supplies. I saw a whole shelf of items I didn’t recognize. Some were roots or leaves, and others were prepared medicines in vials.

“What’s all that?”

He glanced at me. “Medications I purchased in Herat. Rhubarb root as a purgative. Licorice for coughs and throat irritation.” He pointed to the vials as he named them. “Myrrh, camphor, zedoary, opium.”

That last one made me grimace. “I’m sorry I never came to work for you.”

He screwed the stopper on a vial tighter. “It’s never too late.”

“How come you never told me you were a corporal?”

He gave me a contemplative look. “Did you respect your uncle? Zihan Ma?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Why did you respect him?”

I chewed on my lip. “He was smart. Capable. He helped people. And he was good to me. He took me in, he cared for me.”

“So, not because he said, ‘I’m your uncle and therefore you must respect me.’”

I looked out of the wagon entrance at a pair of teamsters inspecting their mules’ hooves for stones. I found myself remembering the day I’d seen Zihan Ma in Deep Harbor, after I’d parted ways from the family. He’d been there looking for me, but I’d hidden from him. I’d seen many types of men in my life. Brutal, greedy, kind, rich, desperate. Men who claimed authority due to nobility, wealth, status, or rank. Zihan Ma had shown me what a noble man truly looked like.

Now, sitting here with Yusuf, it was as if the doctor was saying to me, “See that tall wooden thing with branches and leaves? That’s a tree.” And I was the idiot who had always known that, but never fully understood it.

I stood, saluted Corporal Yusuf, and departed.

Short Tempers

The plentiful food was a much-needed barakah, but the work was exhausting, and by the fourth day, everyone was sore, tired and short-tempered. People began snapping at each other. A driver cursed a guard for not pushing hard enough. Someone accused someone else of taking his place beside a cooking fire. The arguments were stupid, and everyone knew it, but that didn’t matter.

Late in the afternoon, a fistfight broke out. Several of us dragged the men apart, both still shouting and trying to get at each other.

Karim didn’t shout. He didn’t ask what had happened. He simply looked from one exhausted, furious man to the other, then at the rest of us.

A short while later, his horn sounded.

“Make camp!” he called. “We’re stopping early tonight.” No one argued.

Once we had rested and eaten, Karim called all the guards to an assembly. He stood in front of us, tall and straight, with his bullwhip tucked into his belt. That was not a usual thing.

“I know you’re tired,” he said. “This is hard work. But think about what we’ve already done. We crossed mountains so high we could barely breathe. We crossed deserts. We fought off raiders. We made it all the way to Persia, made a powerful friend, and had a successful trading mission. Then we got out of a city with an army coming down on it.”

He pointed toward the mud. “And now this is going to defeat us?”

A few men laughed.

“The mud won’t last forever. Somewhere ahead there’s a proper road, and when we get to it, we’ll be on our way home. Until then, stop quarreling. Do your jobs. Help each other. Remember the words of Allah: ‘And hold fast to the rope of Allah together, and do not be divided among yourselves.’ Be professionals. We’ve been through worse than this. The next time I see men fighting there will be consequences.”

He did not have to touch the whip. The implication was clear.

“Stay strong,” he said finally. “Good things will come. I’m proud to have ridden this far with you. Dismissed.”

He strode away. His words were like sunshine breaking through the clouds. I saw the men’s chins raised higher, their faces less tense. I knew the captain had gotten through to them.

The Road Ahead

By midday the next day, the narrow river path finally joined a broad, well-traveled road. The change was so sudden and welcome that a cheer went up. I joined in. Even Belly gave a loud, happy bray, though I suspected he was only joining the noise and had no idea what we were celebrating.

Captain Karim consulted with Shireen, then blew his horn and called the guards together.

“This is the main road to Mashhad,” he said, pointing along the road toward the northwest. “And yes, I know China is in the other direction.”

Everyone laughed.

“We’re not going back the way we came. We’ve had enough of Afghanistan. From Mashhad we’ll continue north and east into Central Asia. It’s longer than the way we came, but an established route.”

He went on to list the places we would pass through. Merv, Bukhara, Samarkand, Khujand, Ferghana, Osh, and after that I couldn’t remember the names. Some were familiar, others not.

“Listen carefully. Our wagons are carrying one of the largest and most valuable loads of cargo Five Star has ever brought out of Persia. If we bring this caravan in safely, it will be a great boon for the company.”

He paused and looked around at us.

“Five Star has always rewarded the men and women who bring it success.”

That brought smiles.

“Stay alert, but don’t be tense. You already know the routine. Most of the people we meet are ordinary people going about their lives. Be respectful and friendly. Remember that you represent Five Star. Be new Kuangren, not old Kuangren.”

The joke was old, but the men laughed. I glanced at Kuangren and he was shaking his head, but with a smile on his face.

Karim’s expression hardened.

“I joke, but it’s a serious subject. In your interactions with each other and with the locals, you are Five Star guards, not hooligans.”

Karim looked around. “Questions? Comments?”

Bao folded his hands behind his back. Bao said, “The Buddha taught, ‘Walking upon this path you will make an end of suffering.’”

There was silence.

Meilin tilted her head. “I would be satisfied with making a safe end of this journey.”

Karim pointed at Bao, then at Meilin.

“Correct and correct.” He turned away, and the meeting was over. A few minutes later we were rolling again, this time over a broad, firm road.

I settled into Belly’s saddle, but as we moved forward I found myself turning my head to look back. Herat could not be seen from here. As for Persia, it had not been anything like I expected. I had seen blue domes cut from pieces of the sky; buildings so finely decorated they were like poetry grown from the ground; and markets filled with goods from places I never knew existed. In one masjid, I had stood in salat among so many worshippers that I could not see either end of the prayer rows. But I had seen other things too. I had witnessed inequality, starvation and the death of a little girl. I had met a prince who wanted to change those things, and had left him at his hour of greatest need. Yet in doing so, I committed no sin.

Persia could be beautiful and troubled. I could be loyal and disloyal at the same time. It was a strange world.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 32 – Meilin’s Tale

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See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com .

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