Chapter 3

February 21st, TA 3019

Anwar tried to hide his displeasure from his men as he pored over the maps strewn across the trestle table in the middle of his tent. Through the opening, the sun cast its merciless rays onto the rich carpets that covered the floor; by the time the campaign was over, their vivid colors would have faded beyond recognition. The afternoon was well within its second half, and still Harun had not deigned join them.

Sheikh Dawoud must've understood that his son's absence had been noticed, for he waved a pudgy hand, summoning a servant boy whom he sent running outside in a cloud of dust, and offered Anwar an apologetic smile.

"We must press forward," Anwar declared, overcoming his annoyance to concentrate on the map before him, where miniature figures of ivory and obsidian massed upon the painted leather. "No more wine. No more feasting. The Dark Host will not wait for us, should we arrive too late."

It was his own fault, after all. Men like Harun were like children, testing the limits they were given until a stronger hand reined them in. And since the Sheikh's hands were as weak and clammy as a crone's, in truth it had been Anwar who'd let Harun run unchecked for far too long, turning a deaf ear to the increasingly offensive banter and the ever-growing arrogance. Yet no longer could he ignore the whispers as even his own men grumbled against being forced to endure a discipline others were allowed to scorn.

His own father the Sultan had once taught him that nothing discouraged exemplary behavior as surely as witnessing others get away with a bad one. Tonight, Anwar decided, he would put an end to Harun's disobedience once and for all.

"But…my Prince," Emir Faiz protested, golden rings jingling on his skeletal fingers as he fiddled with the belt of his kaftan, "wine is what gives our men courage!"

He spluttered and then fell silent under the severity of Anwar's gaze. "If our men are brave only when they're drunk, then we might as well slit our own throats here and now." He eyed the others around the table: young and old alike, thick and thin, Sheikhs and Emirs and lesser men allegiant to the Sultan of Harad. His to command into the upcoming battle, and all of them sweating with fear despite the shade offered by the tent. "Our enemy may be outnumbered, but they will fight like the demons that they are. We must keep our heads about us. No more wine, I said."

Emir Faiz bowed, slinking away towards the back of the assembly. "Yes, my Prince."

Exchanging a look with Amir, one of his oldest and most experienced generals, Anwar continued. "Has the bloody flux outbreak been jugulated?"

"It has, my Prince." Sheikh Behzad had stepped forward, his shoulders drawn back in calm confidence. A man after Anwar's own heart, both a scholar and a warrior – as attested by the thick scar upon his neck – he bowed stiffly before resuming: "Those of my men affected have been quarantined, and kept hydrated until the bouts have passed. Some are beyond our help, but losses have been kept at a minimum."

"Good, good," Sheikh Dawoud nodded, clasping his hands together, no doubt relieved that the sickness was no longer a threat to himself and his heir. He slanted a gaze towards the entrance, where two of Anwar's men stood guard.

Still no sign of Harun.

"And what about the cause of such an outbreak?"

"The men have admitted to visiting a nearby caravan, a few days past. They ate the food provided there, and have indulged in…other services as well."

Anwar clenched his jaw. "I see. Whose idea was it?"

"My Prince…." Sheikh Behzad hesitated – something that Anwar had never yet seen happen, coming from a man of few words and fewer doubts – and threw a furtive, worried glance towards his neighbor, who was none other than Sheikh Dawoud.

Anger flared inside Anwar's chest upon understanding Behzad's meaning. "Leave us," he barked, turning towards the man in question. "Not you, esteemed Sheikh." As the tent emptied, the flaps thrown closed for discretion, Anwar sighed and gave a brief nod, encouraging Sheikh Behzad to continue.

"The men all say that it was Harun who instigated the desertion."

"A desertion?" Sheikh Dawoud stammered at once, his hands raised in defense of his progeny, "let's not be hasty in using such words, shall we?" His forehead had erupted with beads of sweat that tricked down his temples and into his beard.

Sheikh Behzad lifted an eyebrow. "That's the only term applicable for leaving one's post."

"Then your men are lying!"

Wincing at the sudden shrillness of the Sheikh's voice, Anwar crossed his arms upon his chest. "And why would they do that?"

"To…to get revenge, of course. Though I've bled myself dry in support of your father's cause, some men will never be sated. There's never enough drink, or food…or gold." He locked eyes with Anwar, the underlying meaning all too clear.

He was threatening to pull out of the campaign.

Anwar blanched, bearing the insult with all the dignity he could muster. For his father, he reminded himself, and for Djamila, so that she could one day live the life she deserved. One of comfort rather than slavery, and of plenty rather than starvation. Harun's misconduct could yet be rectified; a vanquished crown could not, and he refused to think of what would happen to his sister, should their pale-skinned enemy ever reach Jufayrah.

The same fate that his own men reserved for the Northerners' daughters and wives.

"No doubt they blame me for the forced frugality," Sheikh Dawoud had the gall to add, his considerable belly juggling under his embroidered kaftan, "or perhaps has their leader suggested they accuse my son so as to supplant Harun in his place as commander…."

"This is an outrage!" Sheikh Behzad bellowed, reaching for his scimitar. "An outrage I shall not tolerate." Then, realizing that he'd almost drawn a weapon inside his prince's tent – an act punishable by immediate death – he forced his fingers to unclench upon the grip, and cast Anwar a beseeching glance. "My Prince!"

"Behzad, enough." Anwar couldn't bring himself to look him in the eye. Never before had he felt so ashamed of what he was about to do. "Leave."

He was trapped.

Damn Dawoud, and damn his presumptuous, depraved son! And, above all, damn Anwar's own sense of duty, that demanded he put his realm's interests above his own pride and honor.

"My Prince. I've stood by you ever since you led your men into your first battle," Sheikh Behzad begun in a hoarse voice, struggling to contain his indignation; an indignation Anwar shared, though he could not show it. "I've never questioned your orders, nor have I ever failed in my allegiance to your father the Sultan. But I shall not stand…."

"I said, leave."

A moment's silence before Sheikh Behzad dipped his head in as short a bow as protocol allowed and stormed out of the tent. Resting his hands upon the table, over the maps that rustled under his palms, Anwar closed his eyes and heaved a long, shuddering breath.

"That was a good man," he said in a hollow voice. "A good man turned bitter because of me."

"You've other good men, my Prince," Sheikh Dawoud stated, "and you can always…."

"What? Buy more? Is that what you were going to say?" He slammed his fist upon the table that trembled under the impact, scattering the figurines and startling the Sheikh. "Your gold cannot buy honor, evidently. Your son has none."

"How…you dare…!"

Whirling around, Anwar advanced upon Dawoud; his fingers curled in rage, stopping short of grasping the man by the kaftan, repulsed by the quivering of his jowls and conscious of the consequences of such an act. Cornered against the wall of the tent, Dawoud whimpered, and the panicked glance he threw to the floor informed Anwar he considered crawling out on all fours.

Good.

"Now let us speak plainly," he growled, "from one man to another. Let us stop pretending that your involvement is solely due to your great piety, and not to greed, nor to ambition. The alliance you've concluded with my father is as profitable to the crown as it is to you." He took a step back, catching his breath and watching with increasing disgust as Dawoud straightened the lapels of his kaftan with trembling fingers – the very kaftan that Anwar had been so sorely tempted to ruffle. "My father gets your gold, and you get to marry your son to a woman of royal blood."

"And what do you get?"

The question caught Anwar unawares. I get to do my duty, he almost replied. To save my country before marrying a woman of my father's choosing, and siring an heir while trying to forget who I am. Instead, he tilted his head, a bitter smile upon his lips. "I get to remind your son of his role…and of just what it means to become a prince."

oOoOoOo

"Leave us," Anwar commanded for the second – no, third – time that day, watching as the men filed out of the tent, one by one, with a slowness and a nonchalance bordering on treason.

He'd striven to forget the expression of disappointment on Sheikh Behzad's face for the remainder of the afternoon, and had dined alone, with Amir for only company, ruing the day he was born in a royal bed. Had he been a commoner's son, or even a second son, his life would have been very different. No-one begrudged a second son a life of quiet isolation amongst other men, pursuing a path of scholarship or devotion; quite the contrary.

And perhaps would Sayf still be alive.

Chasing away his melancholy with a shake of his head, Anwar studied his surroundings. With the richness of its fabrics and the delicate intricacy of the blackwood furniture, a wood so rare that a single chair cost a fortune, Harun's tent was far from being a poor second to his own. A weapons stand in the corner supported a shamshir in a scabbard of engraved leather, its grooves painted with pure gold. The armor on the mannequin glinted dully in the dimmed lighting, polished to perfection by a more caring hand than Harun's. Anwar recognized the work of Babak, one of Jufayrah's most renowned masters.

Sheikh Dawoud's gold couldn't buy honor, but it certainly could provide the appearance of it. Even Anwar's own men couldn't afford such equipment.

"We were expecting you at the council," he began.

"Brother," Harun slurred from beyond the veils surrounding his bed – a commodity more fitting of a woman than a warrior on the road – where he lay sprawled out, still fully clothed. "Sit." He waved a limp hand towards a low table in the center of the tent, laden with bottles of expensive liquor. "Take a drink!"

Bristling at the term, Anwar remained standing, staring the man down until he pushed himself off the bed. "Father has told me about your…discussion," Harun drawled as he stumbled towards him. "It seems we're finally at an agreement."

"There is no such thing," Anwar snapped, his earlier defeat still rankling, "as there can be no agreement between a lion and a jackal."

Harun chuckled. "If a lion wants to eat," he said, laying a hand upon Anwar's shoulder as though they truly were equals, "it has no business spurning a jackal's leftovers."

"Remove your hand…lest you wish me to bite it off."

"Ah, yes." With an insufferable smirk that made Anwar's knuckles itch, Harun obeyed, turning on unsteady feet to wander back towards the wine-laden table. "I've heard about these…tastes of yours, so I wouldn't put it past you to carry out a threat of this nature."

As he poured himself a drink, spilling the expensive wine upon the carpets of iridescent, intricately woven silk, Anwar closed his eyes and took a deliberately long, deep breath. Awakened to the dull, pulsating pain that had settled beneath his jaw, clenched ever tighter since the beginning of this conversation, he willed himself to remain detached, as a good general ought to be. This was but a battle of a different nature, and though alcohol hadn't made Harun any wiser, it also begged for a measure of patience on Anwar's part, however depleted it may be.

Striking the insolent down would speak louder about his own lack of control than about whatever Harun may have done.

"Since you're in a mood to listen," Anwar growled, unable to keep his frustration from his voice even as he fought to contain it, "here's another one. Miss another one of your duties, and I will send you back to Jufayrah with your tail between your legs."

"Oh, but you can't."

Harun took another slow sip, his mouth curving into a smile over the rim of his cup. Inside his eyes, shamelessness mixed with insanity in the same daunting look Anwar had previously witnessed at the feast held for their departure, so that he all but took a step back, catching himself in the very last moment lest he conceded Harun a victory he had no intention of giving.

"You don't have the money to do so, Prince, or have you forgotten? The tent you sleep in is mine, paid by my father's coin. The men who protect you are mine. Even the clothes you wear belong to me." He proffered the cup in Anwar's direction. "The truth is, I own you. Come to terms with it once and for all, and you'll see that it's far preferable to be my friend than my enemy."

The cup jingled, spilling contents as red as the blood for which Anwar yearned as he swatted it out of Harun's hand – a hand that he suddenly wished to see planted upon a pike, rotting in the blistering Harad sun alongside those of thieves and rascals of his ilk, as Harun writhed in agony.

Stay calm.

His fists clenched in a last, desperate attempt to refrain from killing the bastard, his blood pounding in his ears, Anwar beseeched himself to hearken to reason. For Djamila, whose fate depended on him keeping his wits about him. For Sayf, his gentle Sayf, who hadn't said a word of protest when Anwar had sacrificed their future together before the steps of his father's throne, and who would've been appalled by his present behavior.

Stay calm. Stay sharp.

For Behzad. If Anwar failed now, the sacrifice of their trust and friendship would have been in vain.

"You're mistaken," he said coldly. "Your father owns me, and he's got much more to gain from this war than your marriage with my sister."

Stay alive.

Turning on his heels, his stomach roiling in disgust, Anwar couldn't get fast enough of this wretched place. "Consider this my last warning," he threw over his shoulder as the parted the tent flaps, relishing the coolness of the night breeze upon his burning face. "One more disobedience, and you shall return to Jufayrah, to wait out the end of this war in the company of those women you so scorn."