Estakhr, Sasanian Empire
Like drums, the thumping of galloping hooves beat the grassy courtyard. A number of well dressed riders circled around the grassy pitch. Their horses gilded in all manners of silken and cotton dressing, trimmed with gold and silver threads that sparkled in the bright sunlight that danced down from the clear sky.
It was a warm day. A cool breeze blew off from the north. Bringing on it the refreshing cool suggestions of a coming winter.
This did not summon the clouds though. The sun remained steadfast and clear as the warm rays warmly shone off the white polished marble of the palace grounds below. A sea of eloquent circles of grassy courtyards. Rising like a mountain on the edges, supported aloft by trees of thick stone crowned with horned bulls was the palace complex itself. Domed shields rose to meet the sky. Impressive slender towers rose sky-ward, lined in rosy pink stone and pearly white marble from India. Carvings of animals and beasts of legends crowned the edge of the vaulted roofs. Over every door rested stone carvings of Favarsthi, the guardian spirits of every man in the Zoroastrian faith. Their solid watchful gaze guarding the terrestrial beings they played as guarding and double to from Earth as they did in heaven.
In the center of expansive marble-white courtyard the vaulted columned walls shielded from the city beyond a game of chougan. The richly decorated horses and their riders weaving between each other as each of the eight riders kicked up clods of sod as they chased a leather ball, hanging off to their sides the long wooden mallets of their game.
From between the cypress trees that lined the grass arena the army of courtiers and court ladies and wives of the players watched gleefully. They chattered lightly to themselves as they watched the handsomely and richly clothed riders zig-zag over the field. Light applause sounded the successful scoring of a goal.
The event was cordial, and merely a celebration of life that day. The game had begun when the visiting lord Arash of the Hindu Kush challenged the Shah Farrukhzad to a friendly game. Each anointing from the King of King's court their players. It had played over much of the afternoon, and now the players and riders were beginning to show signs of tiring. All but Farrukhzad, who even with his horse slouched and sweating from the long game sat tall atop the saddle.
His back rose straight as the towers of his palace to the sun. His great woolen beard covered his robed chest. He was a man that looked much like a bear with a head and mane covered thick with solid black hair. His eyes gazed out with a joyous interest in the world as he played polo, peering out from below brows so heavy they dragged down his forehead.
Riding with the grace afforded to him as a skilled master of the horse he turned between his riders, with his appointed courtiers at his side. Bouncing across the emerald turf the game ball bounced, riding between the dusty legs of the horses of the other team as it skirted along the ground.
Farrukhzad's hand swung back as he spied the skirting ball. His green eyes glued to it much like a hawk. With a resounding meaty crack he swung the long mallet from his back, connecting square into the ball, forcing its direction to double-back across the pitch.
He watched it soar through the air between the players, and roll through the tangle of legs as the opposing team scrambled to catch the ball. But it dutifully sailed through the posts, and with a soft thumb landed in the branches of one of the many cypress that lined the many green courts of the Shah's palace.
A satisfied grin crawled across his face from behind his thick beard. Satisfied with his goal he drew the reigns back and settled his horse, resting the gilded wooden mallet he called his own across his lap.
“A fair game!” appraised his competitor, “But I must decline that we continue, my lord.” he added laughing, “Or we will kill our mares from exhaustion.”
“If you must insist then, Arash.” laughed Farrukhzad, with his coarse crow-like voice, “But if you wish to play again, then do say and I shall meet you on the pitch with all due eagerness.”
“Certainly my lord.” Arash grinned, riding his horse alongside the Shah's. He was dark-skinned man, even more so than his fellow Persians. Many had suggested he was from as far as Axum. Or his mother had been purchased as a slave from the Arabs, as captured from the Axumites. But there was no denial between the parties that despite his lineage, he was capable with the spear and sword.
“I do admit, you can play.” the Shah complimented.
“Thank you, your honor.” Arash bowed as they stepped through the crowd of bystanders. Behind the remainder of the teams dismounted and mingled into the crowds. Already servants loaded with trays of ice brought from the mountains went to the Emperor and his challenger.
“No, it is mine.” the Shah said, reaching for the silver goblet of shimmering, melting ice. Such a commodity was expensive all over. It had to be transported quickly from the snow-capped mountains. And if it were hotter days it was impossible to transport such luxuries to even the palace itself. In what amounts they could gather was kept in the palace's basement, where it melted slower in the cool, crisp underground.
Raising his goblet to sip from the melting ice the Shah's gaze drifted over those of his followers. All abstained from him, keeping a distance from the King of Kings. It was not a matter that was concerning to the Shah as it was normal. He was the King of Kings. He was one of the greatest men of Earth. If he wanted, he need only to reach.
From the crowd though, there were men who could breach this distance. The Emperor's wife, or the Emperor's Magi.
Dressed in white robes and wearing a beard full of curls was just that. Tan of skin, the Magi walked before the Shah. “Farrukhzad.” he said, bowing to the Emperor.
“Magi Shapur.” The Shah replied, nodding, “What word do you have of Paarsa?”
“Much.” Shapur said, “It is why I came to you. Come, we'll seek a place to speak alone.”
The emperor nodded as he followed the Magi off.
***
Shapur-pour Bijan was by no means a man of powerful stature. Among other men, he made even those of average height feel tall. Besides the Shah, he was only a nose shorter when he had taken off his shoes. And he was a hairy imp, though much of it he hid under the rich velvet cap that towered off his crown.
Shapur was elected by the chief Magi on orders of Farrukhzad to inspect the sprawling ruins of the former palace of Paarsa, known to the Greeks and the Empire's Christian population as Persopolis. For months the Magi have over seen the tactful survey of the ruinous palace complex. The remains of the previous great Persian dynasty that brooded over Persia. The Magi was no doubt here to give the update.
He lead the Shah from his games in the court into the forested hall of marble columns. Towering high above them rose a towered dome ceiling, decorated underneath with the carvings of leaves of trees. Repeating geometrically down to where they met with the crowns of the bulls that mounted their stone trunks. The patterns repeated, defining the entire atmosphere of the sheltered run from the palace's edge to its central nexus and the residential complex.
“We've done a full survey of the entire former palace.” the Magi said, “And investigated every bit of material that Gizistag Aleksandar did not destroy so many centuries ago.
“The entire site encompasses seven and a half and four parsangs,” he rattled, “Much of the stone has fallen or gone missing. What fillings there was where there would have been wood was burned; we found ash.
“If the Shah so desires we could raise many of the old pillars with new stone. But the roof, many of the walls, they'd need to be rebuilt according to the Shah's wish.”
“We will need to contract this.” Farrukhzad nodded, “Materials will be no issue. I had a dream this day will come, and looking on this palace my father's father built I see the inspiration to the new Paarsa. It will be built as if all of Persian came together on one point. We will pull the stone from India. We shall seek the new timber from Anatolia, or the Hindu Kush. Feed our people from the gulf.”
“That is most respectable, you honor.” the Magi bowed.
“I'll write the details out for Aradashir by tomorrow.” he said, “We'll begin the larger planning then, and hold my counsel.”
“Ahura Mazda bless you.” the Magi smiled, “I have sent to the temple the measurements in full. Given time you may be able to sit with him to discuss this in greater consequence. As two men with plans.”
Like drums, the thumping of galloping hooves beat the grassy courtyard. A number of well dressed riders circled around the grassy pitch. Their horses gilded in all manners of silken and cotton dressing, trimmed with gold and silver threads that sparkled in the bright sunlight that danced down from the clear sky.
It was a warm day. A cool breeze blew off from the north. Bringing on it the refreshing cool suggestions of a coming winter.
This did not summon the clouds though. The sun remained steadfast and clear as the warm rays warmly shone off the white polished marble of the palace grounds below. A sea of eloquent circles of grassy courtyards. Rising like a mountain on the edges, supported aloft by trees of thick stone crowned with horned bulls was the palace complex itself. Domed shields rose to meet the sky. Impressive slender towers rose sky-ward, lined in rosy pink stone and pearly white marble from India. Carvings of animals and beasts of legends crowned the edge of the vaulted roofs. Over every door rested stone carvings of Favarsthi, the guardian spirits of every man in the Zoroastrian faith. Their solid watchful gaze guarding the terrestrial beings they played as guarding and double to from Earth as they did in heaven.
In the center of expansive marble-white courtyard the vaulted columned walls shielded from the city beyond a game of chougan. The richly decorated horses and their riders weaving between each other as each of the eight riders kicked up clods of sod as they chased a leather ball, hanging off to their sides the long wooden mallets of their game.
From between the cypress trees that lined the grass arena the army of courtiers and court ladies and wives of the players watched gleefully. They chattered lightly to themselves as they watched the handsomely and richly clothed riders zig-zag over the field. Light applause sounded the successful scoring of a goal.
The event was cordial, and merely a celebration of life that day. The game had begun when the visiting lord Arash of the Hindu Kush challenged the Shah Farrukhzad to a friendly game. Each anointing from the King of King's court their players. It had played over much of the afternoon, and now the players and riders were beginning to show signs of tiring. All but Farrukhzad, who even with his horse slouched and sweating from the long game sat tall atop the saddle.
His back rose straight as the towers of his palace to the sun. His great woolen beard covered his robed chest. He was a man that looked much like a bear with a head and mane covered thick with solid black hair. His eyes gazed out with a joyous interest in the world as he played polo, peering out from below brows so heavy they dragged down his forehead.
Riding with the grace afforded to him as a skilled master of the horse he turned between his riders, with his appointed courtiers at his side. Bouncing across the emerald turf the game ball bounced, riding between the dusty legs of the horses of the other team as it skirted along the ground.
Farrukhzad's hand swung back as he spied the skirting ball. His green eyes glued to it much like a hawk. With a resounding meaty crack he swung the long mallet from his back, connecting square into the ball, forcing its direction to double-back across the pitch.
He watched it soar through the air between the players, and roll through the tangle of legs as the opposing team scrambled to catch the ball. But it dutifully sailed through the posts, and with a soft thumb landed in the branches of one of the many cypress that lined the many green courts of the Shah's palace.
A satisfied grin crawled across his face from behind his thick beard. Satisfied with his goal he drew the reigns back and settled his horse, resting the gilded wooden mallet he called his own across his lap.
“A fair game!” appraised his competitor, “But I must decline that we continue, my lord.” he added laughing, “Or we will kill our mares from exhaustion.”
“If you must insist then, Arash.” laughed Farrukhzad, with his coarse crow-like voice, “But if you wish to play again, then do say and I shall meet you on the pitch with all due eagerness.”
“Certainly my lord.” Arash grinned, riding his horse alongside the Shah's. He was dark-skinned man, even more so than his fellow Persians. Many had suggested he was from as far as Axum. Or his mother had been purchased as a slave from the Arabs, as captured from the Axumites. But there was no denial between the parties that despite his lineage, he was capable with the spear and sword.
“I do admit, you can play.” the Shah complimented.
“Thank you, your honor.” Arash bowed as they stepped through the crowd of bystanders. Behind the remainder of the teams dismounted and mingled into the crowds. Already servants loaded with trays of ice brought from the mountains went to the Emperor and his challenger.
“No, it is mine.” the Shah said, reaching for the silver goblet of shimmering, melting ice. Such a commodity was expensive all over. It had to be transported quickly from the snow-capped mountains. And if it were hotter days it was impossible to transport such luxuries to even the palace itself. In what amounts they could gather was kept in the palace's basement, where it melted slower in the cool, crisp underground.
Raising his goblet to sip from the melting ice the Shah's gaze drifted over those of his followers. All abstained from him, keeping a distance from the King of Kings. It was not a matter that was concerning to the Shah as it was normal. He was the King of Kings. He was one of the greatest men of Earth. If he wanted, he need only to reach.
From the crowd though, there were men who could breach this distance. The Emperor's wife, or the Emperor's Magi.
Dressed in white robes and wearing a beard full of curls was just that. Tan of skin, the Magi walked before the Shah. “Farrukhzad.” he said, bowing to the Emperor.
“Magi Shapur.” The Shah replied, nodding, “What word do you have of Paarsa?”
“Much.” Shapur said, “It is why I came to you. Come, we'll seek a place to speak alone.”
The emperor nodded as he followed the Magi off.
***
Shapur-pour Bijan was by no means a man of powerful stature. Among other men, he made even those of average height feel tall. Besides the Shah, he was only a nose shorter when he had taken off his shoes. And he was a hairy imp, though much of it he hid under the rich velvet cap that towered off his crown.
Shapur was elected by the chief Magi on orders of Farrukhzad to inspect the sprawling ruins of the former palace of Paarsa, known to the Greeks and the Empire's Christian population as Persopolis. For months the Magi have over seen the tactful survey of the ruinous palace complex. The remains of the previous great Persian dynasty that brooded over Persia. The Magi was no doubt here to give the update.
He lead the Shah from his games in the court into the forested hall of marble columns. Towering high above them rose a towered dome ceiling, decorated underneath with the carvings of leaves of trees. Repeating geometrically down to where they met with the crowns of the bulls that mounted their stone trunks. The patterns repeated, defining the entire atmosphere of the sheltered run from the palace's edge to its central nexus and the residential complex.
“We've done a full survey of the entire former palace.” the Magi said, “And investigated every bit of material that Gizistag Aleksandar did not destroy so many centuries ago.
“The entire site encompasses seven and a half and four parsangs,” he rattled, “Much of the stone has fallen or gone missing. What fillings there was where there would have been wood was burned; we found ash.
“If the Shah so desires we could raise many of the old pillars with new stone. But the roof, many of the walls, they'd need to be rebuilt according to the Shah's wish.”
“We will need to contract this.” Farrukhzad nodded, “Materials will be no issue. I had a dream this day will come, and looking on this palace my father's father built I see the inspiration to the new Paarsa. It will be built as if all of Persian came together on one point. We will pull the stone from India. We shall seek the new timber from Anatolia, or the Hindu Kush. Feed our people from the gulf.”
“That is most respectable, you honor.” the Magi bowed.
“I'll write the details out for Aradashir by tomorrow.” he said, “We'll begin the larger planning then, and hold my counsel.”
“Ahura Mazda bless you.” the Magi smiled, “I have sent to the temple the measurements in full. Given time you may be able to sit with him to discuss this in greater consequence. As two men with plans.”