Chapter 15: On the Imperial Road
The dawn sky bled into hues of rose and gold over the plains of Khorasan, a rebellious frontier province of the empire. A small band of riders cut across the swaying grasslands, their silhouettes stark against the rising sun. Emperor John—known to his retinue simply as "the General" during this covert journey—rode at the front, reins in hand, posture erect. By his side was General Safid, hawk-faced and scarred, a veteran commander who had sworn to guard his liege with life and blade.
The Emperor traveled in simple leathers and a weathered cloak, eschewing any imperial finery. Only the keenest eye would note the lion pommel of the sword at his hip—his runic kilij, wrapped in plain cloth to hide its ornate scabbard. John's gaze scanned the road ahead the way a seasoned soldier would, alert for any sign of trouble. In another life, he had patrolled far more treacherous paths as a U.S. Special Forces veteran, and those instincts never slept.
Beside him, Safid rode in easy silence, one hand resting on the hilt of his shamshir. The general's eyes were always moving, much like John's, surveying each distant copse of trees and rocky outcrop for threats. At length, Safid spoke in a low rumble. "Not too late to turn the caravan around and ride back in state, Padishah," he murmured, using the honorific for Emperor almost as a teasing aside. "The frontier is no place for comfort."
John allowed himself a wry smile but kept his voice equally low, for the other riders were just out of earshot. "If I wanted comfort, I would have stayed in the City of Light," he replied. His tone was light, yet his gaze was serious under the brim of his travel-stained hood. "I need to see my empire with my own eyes, Safid. Not through reports and court whispers. Out here, no one bows and tells me what they think I want to hear."
Safid grunted in acknowledgment. The scars on his cheek pulled taut as he considered the horizon. "True enough. Khorasan's been restive since before your coronation. The local governor reports bandit attacks and peasant riots, but..."
He trailed off, and John finished the thought. "But you suspect the governor's actions might be the cause," John said quietly. Safid's silence confirmed it. John remembered the briefings: extortionate taxes, justice sold to the highest bidder, whispers that the governor's cruelty was breeding dissent. "We'll find out soon," John added. "Better we arrive unannounced."
They crested a low ridge and the hamlet of Nuraddin came into view below—a clutch of mud-brick houses around a stone well, and an inn where the imperial road met a caravan track. Thin smoke curled from cooking fires. Even at a distance, John could see how sparse the livestock pens were and how listless the villagers moved. The harvest had been meager this year, and heavy taxes had likely taken even from that shortage.
John raised a hand, signaling a halt. "We'll rest the horses and hear what the locals have to say," he announced. His men—just a dozen trustworthy cavalrymen in plain jerkins—nodded and followed him down the dirt path into Nuraddin. Chickens scattered underhoof as the party entered the village. The people cast wary glances at the armed strangers, their eyes lingering on Safid's sword and the disciplined way the soldiers rode.
A lanky boy ran forward to hold the bridle of John's horse, and John dismounted with fluid ease, patting the dust from his cloak. "Thank you," John said, handing the boy a copper coin for his trouble. The boy's eyes widened at the unexpected generosity, and a ghost of a smile flickered across his sun-baked face.
The inn's door was low and John had to duck inside. Within, it was cool and dim. The scent of lentil stew and woodsmoke hung in the air. A few villagers nursed morning cups of barley ale at rough-hewn tables, conversation dying as the strangers filed in. An older man in a threadbare tunic—likely the innkeeper—stepped forward, wringing his hands. "Welcome, sirs," he said cautiously. "What brings men of war to our humble stop?"
John offered a reassuring smile and pulled back his hood, revealing a tanned face and a neatly trimmed black beard that matched Arslan's visage. "Travelers and thirsty ones at that," he said lightly. His accent and bearing marked him as upper-class, and the innkeeper bowed his head instinctively. "A round of water and stew for my men, if you please. The road's been long."
"At once, effendi," the innkeeper said, hurrying to ladle stew into bowls. Safid and the soldiers spread out at a long table. John remained standing a moment, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. In the far corner, he noted a pair of imperial guardsmen in dusty tabards hunched over their breakfast. Local garrison troops, he surmised, likely stationed here by the governor. The two soldiers eyed the newcomers with idle curiosity but did not rise.
When a serving girl brought a pitcher of water, John noticed it was cloudy with sediment. The girl looked apologetic. "The well's low, my lord," she murmured. John nodded in understanding. With a casual gesture, he drew a fingertip over the rim of his cup, tracing a tiny sigil. A faint azure light glimmered then faded. Instantly, the water in the cup turned crystal-clear, purged of impurities by a minor rune of cleansing. John drank deeply, meeting the girl's astonished gaze with a wink. "Thank you. It's much improved," he said softly. Safid hid a chuckle behind a feigned cough as the girl bobbed a quick curtsy and scurried away, eyes wide at the small miracle.
Before long, steaming bowls of lentil stew were set out. John and Safid ate gratefully. The rich flavors of cumin and garlic reminded John of how long it had been since their pre-dawn biscuit on the trail. As they ate, he kept an ear open to the murmurs of the villagers. Two tables over, the pair of local garrison soldiers had finished their meal. One of them—a thickset man with a patchy beard—beckoned the serving girl with a sharp snap of his fingers.
She approached nervously. "More ale, sers?"
The bearded soldier grabbed her wrist. "We'll be taking a second breakfast to go. On the house," he said with a leering grin. His companion chuckled. It was clear they had no intention of paying, and the girl winced at the rough grasp.
John set down his spoon. A flicker of anger sparked in his chest. He rose calmly and stepped toward the soldiers' table. "Release her," he said, voice mild but carrying authority.
The bearded man looked John up and down, noting the plain clothes but sensing the command in his tone. "Who in blazes are you?" he snarled, though he did let go of the girl's wrist. She scurried back toward the kitchen.
John folded his arms across his chest. "A paying customer, like everyone else here," he said evenly. "And these villagers have nothing to spare for freeloaders. If you want extra rations, I suggest you pay for them or return to your barracks."
The second soldier, a younger fellow, glanced uncertainly at his comrade. The bearded one rose to his feet, a few inches shorter than John but broader in the chest. "We're imperial guards," he growled. "Stationed by Governor Hamid himself. No one tells us to pay in this backwater." His hand drifted toward the cudgel at his belt.
Safid was already standing at John's shoulder, silent and imposing. The other villagers shrank back, some ducking out the door to avoid witnessing what might come next. Tension coiled in the air. John met the bearded soldier's eyes with a steady gaze. In that moment, something in John's posture or his stare gave the brute pause. Training radiated from John—an aura of lethal confidence honed in two worlds. The soldier's bravado faltered; his instincts warned him this unassuming man could be dangerous.
"I am General Suleiman, on inspection from the capital," John lied smoothly, using a common name that echoed his own. It was close enough to truth, he mused, since he indeed was inspecting this province—albeit incognito as its ruler. He drew back his cloak just enough to reveal the glint of steel at his hip. "If Governor Hamid truly condones his guards extorting the villages, that will be noted in my report."
The name-dropping of an inspector from the capital had the desired effect. The younger guard nudged the belligerent one, muttering, "Easy, Farid... if he's from the capital—"
Farid's eyes darted between John and Safid. Safid's scarred face was set like stone, and though he wore no insignia, there was a lethal calm in his stance that gave any bully reason to think twice. Finally, Farid exhaled and dropped a few coins on the table. "We meant no offense, General," he said, voice thick with resentment. "Enjoy your stay in Nuraddin." With a last glare, the two guardsmen slunk out of the inn, collecting their horses from the hitching post.
Inside, the tension ebbed. Conversations slowly resumed. John let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He caught the innkeeper watching him with a mix of gratitude and apprehension. John returned to his table, and in an undertone told the innkeeper, "The meal was excellent. My men will settle our bill, with extra for any trouble caused." He pressed a silver coin into the innkeeper's palm—far above the cost of their meal. The man stammered thanks.
As the innkeeper bustled away, Safid leaned in with a rare grin. "General Suleiman?" he teased under his breath. "Inspired alias, Majesty."
John shrugged, a glint of humor in his eyes. "It was the first name that came to mind." He turned serious again. "At least we learned something. The governor's men are bleeding the populace dry. We need to see how far it goes."
One of the villagers, a gray-bearded elder, approached their table hesitantly. He bowed. "Effendi, pardon, but I saw how you handled those thugs. Thank you."
John inclined his head. "I'm here to ensure the Emperor's peace," he said carefully. "Tell me, do soldiers often trouble your village?"
The elder exchanged looks with the innkeeper, then seemed to decide he could trust this kindly stranger. "Aye, sir. Governor Hamid's taxes grow heavier each season. When we cannot pay, his men take grain or livestock by force. Some of our young men… they vanished after protesting. We fear they were jailed or worse." He sighed, eyes downcast. "We hardly see imperial inspectors this far out. If you truly are one, maybe… maybe the gods have heard our prayers."
John felt a tightness in his chest at the elder's words. He placed a hand on the man's shoulder gently. "I promise you, I will look into this. The Emperor himself wants justice for all his subjects."
At that, the old man smiled bitterly. "Emperor Arslan says many fine things in decrees. But here on the frontier, we have yet to see relief."
John absorbed the quiet reproach. It stung because it was true—he had issued proclamations of fairness, but those words had clearly not reached or been honored in places like Nuraddin. "He will see to it, my friend," John assured softly, voice filled with conviction. "You have my word."