smelled it elsewhere in this room, great lord. Before I put the herbal scent to the fire."
There was a silence.
"I thought that might be so." Shirvan the Great looked coldly up at him. "Where?" One word only, hard as a smith's hammer.
Rustem swallowed again. Tasted something bitter: the awareness of his own mortality. But what choice did he now have? He said, "On the hands of the prince, great king. When he bade me save your life, at risk of my own."
Shirvan of Bassania closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, Rustem saw a black rage in their depths again, despite the drug he had been given. "This… distresses me," said the King of Kings very softly. What Rustem heard was not distress, however. It suddenly occurred to him to wonder if the king had also detected
kaaba
on the arrowhead and shaft. He had been ingesting it for twenty-five years. If he had known the poison, he had allowed three physicians to handle it today without warning them, and had been about to let Rustem do the same. A test of competence? When he was on the brink of dying? What sort of man…? Rustem shivered, could not help himself.
"It seems," said Great Shirvan, "that someone besides myself has been protecting himself against poisons by building up a resistance. Clever. I have to say it was clever." He was silent a long time, then: "Murash. He would have made a good king, in fact."
He turned away and looked out the window; there was nothing to see in the darkness. They could hear the sound of the wind, blowing from the desert. "I appear," the king said. "to have ordered the death of the wrong son and his mother." There was another, briefer silence. "This distresses me," he said for a second time.
"May these orders not be rescinded, great lord?" Rustem asked hesitantly.
"Of course not," said the King of Kings.
The finality in the quiet voice was, Rustem would later decide, as frightening as anything else that day.
"Summon the vizier," said Shirvan of Bassania, looking out upon night. "And my son."
Rustem the physician, son of Zorah, wished ardently in that moment to be home in his small house, shuttered against the wind and dark, with Katyun and Jarita, two small children peacefully asleep, a late cup of herbed wine at his elbow and a fire on the hearth, with the knocking of the world at his door something that had never taken place.
Instead, he bowed to the man lying on the bed and walked to the doorway of the room.
"Physician," said the King of Kings.
Rustem turned back. He felt afraid, terribly out of his depth.
"I am still your patient. You continue to be accountable for my well-being. Act accordingly." The tone was flat, the cold rage still there.
It did not take immense subtlety to understand what this might mean.
Only this afternoon, in the hour when a wind had arisen in the desert, he had been in his own modest treatment room, preparing to instruct four pupils on couching simple cataracts according to the learned devisings of Merovius of Trakesia.
He opened the door. In the torchlight of the corridor he saw a dozen tired-looking courtiers. Servants or soldiers had brought benches; some of the waiting men were sitting, slumped against the stone walls. Some were asleep. Others saw him and stood up. Rustem nodded at Mazendar, the vizier, and then at the young prince, standing a little apart from the others, his face to a dark, narrow window-slit, praying.
Vinaszh the garrison commander-the only man there that Rustem knew-raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry and took a step forward. Rustem shook his head and then changed his mind.
You continue to be accountable,
the King of Kings had said.
Act accordingly.
Rustem stepped aside to allow the vizier and the prince to walk into the room. Then he motioned for the commander to enter as well. He said nothing at all, but locked eyes with Vinaszh for a moment as the other man went in. Rustem followed and closed the door.
'Father!"
cried the prince.
"What is to be has long ago been
There was a silence.
"I thought that might be so." Shirvan the Great looked coldly up at him. "Where?" One word only, hard as a smith's hammer.
Rustem swallowed again. Tasted something bitter: the awareness of his own mortality. But what choice did he now have? He said, "On the hands of the prince, great king. When he bade me save your life, at risk of my own."
Shirvan of Bassania closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, Rustem saw a black rage in their depths again, despite the drug he had been given. "This… distresses me," said the King of Kings very softly. What Rustem heard was not distress, however. It suddenly occurred to him to wonder if the king had also detected
kaaba
on the arrowhead and shaft. He had been ingesting it for twenty-five years. If he had known the poison, he had allowed three physicians to handle it today without warning them, and had been about to let Rustem do the same. A test of competence? When he was on the brink of dying? What sort of man…? Rustem shivered, could not help himself.
"It seems," said Great Shirvan, "that someone besides myself has been protecting himself against poisons by building up a resistance. Clever. I have to say it was clever." He was silent a long time, then: "Murash. He would have made a good king, in fact."
He turned away and looked out the window; there was nothing to see in the darkness. They could hear the sound of the wind, blowing from the desert. "I appear," the king said. "to have ordered the death of the wrong son and his mother." There was another, briefer silence. "This distresses me," he said for a second time.
"May these orders not be rescinded, great lord?" Rustem asked hesitantly.
"Of course not," said the King of Kings.
The finality in the quiet voice was, Rustem would later decide, as frightening as anything else that day.
"Summon the vizier," said Shirvan of Bassania, looking out upon night. "And my son."
Rustem the physician, son of Zorah, wished ardently in that moment to be home in his small house, shuttered against the wind and dark, with Katyun and Jarita, two small children peacefully asleep, a late cup of herbed wine at his elbow and a fire on the hearth, with the knocking of the world at his door something that had never taken place.
Instead, he bowed to the man lying on the bed and walked to the doorway of the room.
"Physician," said the King of Kings.
Rustem turned back. He felt afraid, terribly out of his depth.
"I am still your patient. You continue to be accountable for my well-being. Act accordingly." The tone was flat, the cold rage still there.
It did not take immense subtlety to understand what this might mean.
Only this afternoon, in the hour when a wind had arisen in the desert, he had been in his own modest treatment room, preparing to instruct four pupils on couching simple cataracts according to the learned devisings of Merovius of Trakesia.
He opened the door. In the torchlight of the corridor he saw a dozen tired-looking courtiers. Servants or soldiers had brought benches; some of the waiting men were sitting, slumped against the stone walls. Some were asleep. Others saw him and stood up. Rustem nodded at Mazendar, the vizier, and then at the young prince, standing a little apart from the others, his face to a dark, narrow window-slit, praying.
Vinaszh the garrison commander-the only man there that Rustem knew-raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry and took a step forward. Rustem shook his head and then changed his mind.
You continue to be accountable,
the King of Kings had said.
Act accordingly.
Rustem stepped aside to allow the vizier and the prince to walk into the room. Then he motioned for the commander to enter as well. He said nothing at all, but locked eyes with Vinaszh for a moment as the other man went in. Rustem followed and closed the door.
'Father!"
cried the prince.
"What is to be has long ago been
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