Well before dawn, as the city of Rey dreamed of fires long since put out, the governor's mansion was alive with frenzied activity. Dozens of servants filed in and out of the compound carrying sacks of jewels to be loaded into the large wagons lined up outside for the procession. Others carried weapons and shields for the Prince's guard, others led horses from the stables to tack them with bejewelled bridles and the finest leather saddles.
At the centre of it all was Firaz himself, beaming with confidence in every movement as he directed the complex dance of servants, soldiers, and lords, all silhouetted against the marble halls by the flickering firelight torches. His royal purple robes shimmered as he glided between the pillars from one group to the next, finally stopping in front of a demure, solitary maid. She carried a jewel encrusted box, but this was not a part of the alms to be given to the people of Rey.
Firaz flicked open the latch and lifted the lid just enough to peek inside, then closed it swiftly and nodded.
"Take it to him at once."
The girl bowed and skittered away from the main courtyard where people milled, led only by moonlight filtering through the honeycomb panels and open archways as she made her way up towards the palatial chambers. As she ascended the spiral stairwell, the mosaic patterns on the walls grew visible under faint torchlight trickling down from above.
The landing was empty, the door firmly shut. She carefully lifted the latch and pushed it open, head swivelling to find the recipient of the trove she carried. She stepped through another door, and there he was.
He stood bathed in dawnlight, facing the open archway with his chin tilted up to the sky. She had never seen the Prince before, but she knew this was him, tall and bare chested, an ornate sword strapped to his hip, and a necklace of glittering diamonds adorning his neck. The silver armour strapped to his forearms and shoulders gleamed almost pure white.
He slid his eyes to her, and suddenly she could breathe again.
"Sayyidi," she murmured, bowing deeply and raising the box to him.
He took it and opened it to reveal its contents, and a pensive look stiffened his features. He spun the open box back towards the girl, and tilted his chin down.
"Would you?"
The girl was perplexed and unsure, her movements shaky as her fingers grasped the crown on its velvet cushion. It was fashioned as a pair of silver wings on a band emblazoned with jewels.
Slowly, she lifted the crown to the Prince's bowed head, and it shimmered faintly as the earliest rays of sunlight mingled with the stars still dotting the dawn sky.
When he stood, it was as if a great, dark phoenix had risen from its ashes, the silver threads woven into his black cape like veins of slowly reforming wings.
"Lead the way," he said.
They descended into the clamour, and as he stepped into the firelight, all movement ceased. Firaz turned to him, and the old man's chest swelled with pride and emotion and a breath held for too long. The sleeves of his robes grazed the ground as he kneeled before his future king.
"Long live the Caliph."
And all of them, as if seized by some phantom hand, fell to their knees before him.
Rehan smiled softly, and put a hand on his shoulder. "God willing, Firaz." He turned to survey his people, even the girl who had presented him his crown had her head pressed into the floor. The fires seemed to flicker in response to the power he radiated.
"Rise, all of you," his voice boomed, just as the sun's rays finally cut through the clouds and poured into the courtyard, setting his armour and crown ablaze with golden light. He gathered his thoughts in the brief silence, searching for something rousing, something poignant to say. But Firaz had other plans, and quickly waved a hand to those gathered to dismiss them to their tasks.
"Sayyidi, your steed awaits. Quickly now, we are almost ready," he said, leading the Prince through the throng to the western gate of the residence, where the procession would begin.
They emerged into the clearing before the gate to find it swarming with armed guards dressed head to toe in black, their gleaming silver shields bobbing like fallen moons in a sea of ink. Rehan recognised some familiar faces as he and Firaz strode on, finally stopping in front of what one could only describe as a mythical beast.
The horse, a stunning Akhal-Teke stallion, towered over them. Its cream coloured coat shone so brightly Rehan could almost see his own reflection in it. He reached a tentative hand out and patted the stallion's neck as it bobbed its head up and down, impatient.
"That one is far better suited to a Prince than that mangy mare you have back in Baghdad," called Sharan from behind them. He rode on a jet black gelding, with Yahya close behind on a similar looking horse, but for a white star on its forehead.
"Don't blaspheme so early in the morning Sharan," added Yahya, "Or he'll set his mangy mare loose on you when we get home."
The mention of home lightened the weight in Rehan's chest, and he let himself laugh for the first time in a long time. For a brief moment it did not feel like he was about to march across the city and call to them against rebellion, with the weight of his father's expectations, the safety of his people, the lives of his friends on his shoulders.
The moment passed, and Rehan mounted the horse in a swift, decisive movement. From his high vantage point he could see beyond the black blur of soldiers, where dancers and musicians mingled. They were dressed in ruby red garments adorned with mirrors which reflected the purple-blue of the dawn sky, adding a smatter of colour to the procession.
The two Barmakis drew up alongside him, while Firaz barked orders as he mounted his ceremonial chariot.
All about them soldiers mounted their horses and arranged themselves in neat rows as instructed by Firaz. Every position had been meticulously planned by him and Sharan. Some soldiers carried tall pikes bearing black flags, while others donned garish silver shields. The select few that flanked the Prince brandished long curved sabres, and thick, gleaming steel armour. They had no jewels on their sword hilts, no adornment on their horses' bridles.
A horn sounded from the front, and a response rose from the back within moments.
It was time.
X
The black flags of the Abbasid dynasty loosed from their bindings and fell from the minarets, spires, bridges, and mosques, forming the spots of the great slumbering leopard that was the city of Rey.
The procession moved like dark blood through the beast's veins, all red and black and silver glowing, slowly travelling to its heart. Alms flowed out from the carts like healing ambrosia. Solid gold coins spilled from their sacks and chimed against the stone where they fell in heaps for people to collect. Young women passed dates fat with sweetness to children, whose eyes glittered in glee and delight. People rushed to the ramparts to behold the sight of the divine Prince in his royal regalia, their gazes drew to the centre where his winged crown sparkled and shone with every tilt of his head. Something seized them, bubbled in their lungs as their voices rose and clashed like swords against steel.
"Long live al-Mahdi!"
And the leopard awoke.
Word spread across the city like water fast flowing down the aqueducts, and soon the Reyan people were flooding the streets, dressed in their plushest garb— if not royal black then slate grey and ruby red to honour their kingdom's colours. The sight warmed Rehan's blood, which had been slow flowing since dawn with anticipation and fear for the day ahead. The veins in his neck bulged from the effort of holding up the solid silver winged crown, its edge dug into his temples where it curved around his scalp. The swathe of darkness around him was a comfort, like night embracing a tired soul for restful sleep.
So, he beamed at his people despite his discomfort and crippling fear, as any true prince should. He thumbed coins from the hefty pouch slung on his horse's saddle and tossed them as far as he could, he smiled wide and opened his mouth, though no words he spoke in the clamour would reach further than the two Barmaki Emirs riding beside him.
Yahya's eyes crinkled as his lips splayed into a laugh. The joy he exuded sparkled like the early morning sun on the Tigris, and for a moment Rehan could not stop looking at him. Was this a mask, or true exuberance? Only they knew the grave state of affairs hidden beneath this charade of power, how little they truly knew of the rebellion, and what further costs the city of Rey would have to bear before it was over.
Still, Yahya waved to the onlookers as if the city had been cleansed and they marched to their victory. On the left, Sharan mirrored him, a wide grin contorting his normally serene face.
As the procession rode past the blue mosque, Rehan tilted his chin up to see the black flags draped over the aqueduct walls. It was as if there had never been a fire, never been bodies floating in the current or a complete shut off of the water system. The city glittered with joy and awe at his presence, at the sight of the black procession erasing the memory of the white flags.
The world suddenly had colour again.
They trudged on slowly but steadily through the meandering main road as it wove through the western and into to the southern quarter. It would take far too long to traverse the entire city, however Rehan knew the importance of going to where the people were, not just his Emirs. He resisted the urge to adjust his crown as he waved a hand at the onlookers, driving them into a fervent frenzy. Even the women were out in droves, their veils fluttering in the salty breeze as their wide eyes searched for him, the only man they could openly look at with no fear of shame.
Soon the sun had reached its zenith, its blazing rays beating down against the red brick and blue tiles. Rehan's bare chest was covered in a faint sheen of sweat by the time the procession finally changed its course from south to north, up to the square where Rey's minaret stood tall and unwavering. There was a shadow of archers lining the balcony with their arrows relaxed into their bows, waiting, watching.
They finally turned into the square and were met with an uproar of shouts and cheers. Now, this close to the people, he could make out their words.
"Glory be to God!"
"Blessed be our Prince!"
"Long live the Caliph!"
Rehan stood in his stirrups and waved with more vigour, spread his arms wide to receive the blessings they showered upon him. Yahya and Sharan followed the gazes of the crowd, briefly transfixed by the image of their Prince in his silver winged regalia. All at once the dancers and soldiers fanned around the square, pushing back the people to make way for the royals.
Rehan, the Barmakis, and a handful of soldiers dismounted their horses and followed the path carved by the procession to the pulpit, while Firaz's chariot remained in the centre of the square among the masses. The soldiers closed their ranks, and the people suddenly had room to breathe.
The pulpit rose several meters, so from this height the Prince could be seen by all who had assembled. Their voices continued in a cacophony of praise and fidelity, and Rehan's chest swelled to bursting at the sight of them—their heaving mass of singular devotion. He knew this was the first time many of them, if not all, had set eyes on him, and yet they held such trust in him.
A trust he could not break.
His cape fluttered behind him in the passing breeze, and suddenly the crown felt light as a feather, as if it were pulling his spirit free from his mortal bonds. Every waking hour since Sharan and Firaz had proposed this plan he had spent thinking about what he would say in this moment. Every word, every phrase and sentence he had rehearsed in front of the mirror in Firaz's residence dissolved into sand when he looked down at the faces of his people now— wide eyed with wonder and hope, not fear.
He could not bring his fear here, no matter how much he truly felt it behind his eyes, beneath his crown. He raised his hand, and they watched it as a cat watches a bird perched on a tree, waiting to see what it would do.
He lowered it, and their voices lowered with it until there was nothing but uneven breaths and the shaking heartbeat of a city waiting for its freedom.
"People of Rey, you honour me with your presence today," said Rehan. He did not know how loudly he was speaking, or how many could even hear him, but still he spoke, "You know what lurks in your city and still you left the safety of your homes, the shelter of your mosques to honour me today. That is how I know you are strong."
The sinews in his heart tightened with a sudden nervous energy. They were here, too, he could feel it— their gazes trained on him from the shadows.
"The fallen dynasty of the Umayyads have returned seeking vengeance upon us. They fly their white flags on our burning mosques like badges of pride, they killed our people and threw their bodies in the aqueduct in the name of liberation."
The faces in the crowd grew grave, some pulled their scarves over their eyes to shield themselves from his words. Others' eyes glazed over as they relived the very visions he spoke of.
"But I brazenly ask this of you, Rey, do not be afraid. I come to you today with no armour on my chest," he spread his arms out, drawing them toward him, "because I am not afraid of them. And I will not rest until I have erased this pestilence from your city, until you are rid of every last one of them. By blood and by bone I vow it."
A pause, and he reached for the dagger at his hip. He spun it between his fingers, its ruby studded hilt glinting in the sun, and pressed the blade into his forearm. He raised his fist to the sky, filled his lungs for his final words.
"We do not yield!"
Their roar came upon him like a hurricane, writhing against the pulpit in a storm of cheers and incoherent cries. Rehan's skin grew flame hot, his vision blurred as he craned his neck to survey the crowd. He was outside of himself now, as he looked down at them all. The wings of the crown had set him free.
"Nadir, in the window!"
A wave of movement behind him, someone was pulling him by his cape, another—Yahya—materialised in front of him, blackening his vision completely. The air split open with a ringing sharpness as an arrow flew by his ear, burying itself in someone's shield.
His lungs seized, as though he was drowning in air.
"Rehan," Yahya grabbed his arm, forced him to duck down. "Are you alright?"
The sounds of Rey seemed far away, the crowd of hundreds reduced to a single pulsing sigh at the back of Rehan's broiling mind, where only a single thought rang clear and true.
"Rehan, we need to go, they're here!"
Someone behind them nocked an arrow, released it to the ramparts.
"I heard her," Rehan said hoarsely.
Yahya had not let go. "Heard what?"
"Where is she?!" Rehan shot up in a daze, not caring if another arrow were to find him. He swivelled his head to find half his guardsmen had left the pulpit. The panicked faces of his people were a blur as he looked down into the sea of them, trying to find her—
Who was he looking for?
"Rehan, stay back!" Yahya screamed from behind him, reaching for his arm again. The cloud of confusion seemed to suddenly lift, and the frantic voices rose in Rehan's ears. His eyes searched the ramparts, the windows of the buildings around the square. Below, people were pushing and shoving against one another, trying to escape the confines of the square.
"They've fled, Yahya. It's what they do best."
Rehan descended from the pulpit. His remaining guards moved to flank him and some called for the horses, but he ignored them, instead stepping into the fray.
The afternoon sun glinted off his crown and silver plate armour, turning him into a beacon of light. He looked down into the eyes of a young man holding tightly onto the hand of his son. Rehan took the man's free hand in his, the blood pouring down his forearm mingled between their palms.
"Do not be afraid."
The man stared at his bloodied hand, overwhelmed as Rehan turned to another, and another, touching his hand to theirs.
Slowly, guided by the silver wings on his crown, they flocked around him and touched his open palm, his bare forearm, his shoulder, his cape. And the ones further behind touched the shoulders of the ones in front of them, until all could feel the divinity of him pulsing through their skin.
The Prince turned his gaze to the pulpit, and then, looking into his friend's eyes, he knew.
Yahya had erased his fear.
A fraction of time passed, it was hard to know how long he stood there, motionless in the centre of an ever growing spiral of people, but eventually Rehan lowered his hands and made his way to Firaz's chariot. The guards had mounted their horses, their swords drawn and shields raised as they drew up alongside the chariot and escorted it back through the city.
Behind them, the chants continued.
"Lan nastaslima!"
We do not yield.
X
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