One
PAPA WAS STANDING on the balcony outside his library when I arrived to meet him. From the doorway where I stood, I could see the sun setting over the lands he had inherited from his father, that for so long I had thought I would inherit from him one day, turning the hills and plains the color of burnished gold. Far out in the distance, snow covering the mountaintops glistened like a gilded scrim sparkling in the early evening light.
Blue and silver minarets rose above the walled city of Shalingar’s capital—Ananta. A layer of marine fog settled over Chanakya Lake, revealing miniature houseboats wearing elaborate gardens on their roofs like soft, mossy hats. They sailed placidly across the flat, misty surface of the basin.
But I was anything but placid. As I crossed the vast sanctuary cut of auric filigree and tomes, its gold and crystal domed ceiling dousing every shelf and book in honey-colored light, I measured my breaths, as though controlling each inhalation were the key to mastering my fate itself.
I approached the balcony, and from there, I could hear the sound of the festivities below in the streets. Cannons exploded, making the stone walls of the palace tremble. And just below those walls, dancers swathed in white silk, green and red ribbons around their waists, twirled in the streets like spinning tops. The brazen blast of horns and the clop clop clop of horse hooves resounded through the palace quarters. Children flung rose petals into the sky. They fell back down into the mud streets, transforming the lanes between homes into blushing rivers. Elephants adorned in patchwork costumes embellished with mirrors, tassels, and festive silk ribbons made their way up these very rivers, carrying Macedon’s most important dignitaries on their backs. Brightly colored lanterns illuminated their path, like diyas lighting Emperor Sikander’s way to our home.
My father stood, watching the festivities. When I approached, he turned abruptly, as though I had interrupted him from a dream, or perhaps a nightmare. “Sabahaat Shaam,” I said, giving him a warm hug.
He started for a second. I realized that he had never before seen me this elaborately dressed and coiffed. My cheeks were covered in rouge tincture, my lips streaked with crimson; my lashes were curled and painted black like thick spider’s legs. I was wrapped in a magenta and gold sari, my hair piled high over my head.
Earlier that day, Mala, my lady-in-waiting, and a retinue of her helpers had buzzed around me, a hive of activity that revolved around beautifying me from head to toe. It was a dance that took place whenever an important dignitary came to visit the kingdom, but today the hive spun and sped as though an inaudible tempo had accelerated everyone’s movements without warning.
“Hold still, dear girl. When a great king arrives, one must look presentable,” Mala had said as she combed out my snarled hair, untangling the knots with her capable fingers.
A great king.
A great king who held the fate of our kingdom, as well as my own fate, in his hands.
Papa regained his composure and smiled at me. “Sabahaat Shaam,” he said before he looked back at those packed streets before us. “I forget sometimes how lovely the kingdom is at this time of day. Not the dancers or the carnival down below . . . but the light,” he said, glimpsing the sky, shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s as though the sun and the moon want to offer our little kingdom their best.”
“Luminaries,” I said to him. “That’s what Shree taught me in our astronomy tutorial—the sun and the moon are luminaries. And the way Shalingar bends toward the ocean . . . ,” I said, mimicking the curvature of the Earth. “It’s the light reflecting on the water.”
Papa looked at me and laughed. “Or perhaps it’s just magic,” he said, and his eyes sparkled as he challenged me.
I shook my head. “No such thing.”
“Maybe you’re right,” he quietly responded, and for a moment, I was regretful of my words because a mask of seriousness transformed my father’s face again. “One day, after you’ve seen the world, you’ll understand just how special Shalingar is.”
“I know how special it is, Papa.” I sighed. “If I could stay here forever . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
“You always did speak of traveling the world, didn’t you?” he wistfully asked. “Now you’ll have the opportunity to do so.” But I could hear the lack of conviction in his voice. We both knew that this, what was about to transpire over the next few days, was not what either of us had in mind when I spoke of traveling the world.
“Sikander was a friend of yours once, wasn’t he?” I changed the subject.
If he had once been a friend of Papa’s, how bad could he really be? I wondered. I had, for the past several weeks, asked everyone I knew a variation of this question.
“They’re all just . . . stories, aren’t they?” I had queried Arjun, my best friend, the night before as we slowly walked the grounds together.
“Of course they’re just stories,” Arjun had mumbled.
“Like that thing about how he had all the advisors on his father’s council stoned to death?”
“I’m sure that’s not true.” Arjun shook his head vehemently before he pressed his lips in a thin line. But his silence for the remainder of the walk didn’t inspire confidence.
¤
Now my father turned to me, and the light of the sunset caught his eyes, transforming them to gold. We looked alike, my father and I; people often told us this. I had his hands, with their long, tapered fingers, his smile, broad and easy, and his dark, wavy hair.
“Friends . . . something like that. But it’s all in the past. I haven’t seen Sikander since you were a baby. Now we’re starting anew.” The uneasiness in his voice was difficult to ignore. I assumed he didn’t want to discuss it. It had never been his way to be open about the past.
But I knew some things about Sikander and about Macedon beyond what my tutor, Shree, had taught me about the Silk Road and Sikander’s conquests. I knew that my father had first met Sikander when they were both young scholars at the Military Academy of Macedon. And that they had been friends, once upon a time, at least according to Bandaka, Papa’s advisor and Arjun’s father.
That was before Sikander took the throne by assassinating his own father and declaring himself the new emperor. After that, he battled his way through Anatolia, Syria, Phoenicia, Judea, Bactria. After his overthrow of Persia he became Sikander the Great, who led the greatest and fiercest standing army of all time. In just fifteen years, he had nearly quadrupled his territories, largely through battle. Who was he really, though? Who was he back when my father knew him?
I attempted a different tack. “Did you like Macedon?” I asked Papa.
“It’s . . . very advanced in some ways. Buildings so tall they block out the light. Giant arenas that took hundreds of years to build. They’re used for fighting: slaves fighting one another to the death. People cheering like madmen over it. Everyone has a slave, practically.” He shook his head. “They don’t believe in equality between the sexes. To question the leadership is considered a sin. And they like war. Very much.”