Sasan arranged the sticks in lines of battle. Frowning with concentration, he began to manoeuvre the blocks of troops. Barbad had had to rack his memory to summon up the details of battles from his reading long ago. This was Issus, from the Anabasis of Arrian. Sasan liked to replay the battle, trying to devise strategies which would reverse history, would bring the Persian King Darius victory over the Macedonian Alexander. The last time he had solemnly declared that it was only the cowardly flight of Darius that had lost the battle. Already, the boy had something of the man about him; the man he would not live to become.

The thought almost broke Barbad’s heart. He loved the boy. The irony was not lost on him – Prince Sasan was the grandson of Ardashir, the evil king who had forced Barbad to watch his father’s slow and repulsive death, the tyrant who had massacred his family, had robbed Barbad of his manhood.

As a eunuch, Barbad had been placed in the household of Prince Papak, one of Ardashir’s many sons. For years, as he trained to be a scribe, Barbad had dreamt lurid dreams of revenge. The blade slicing, the gout of blood splashing bright on the thighs, Papak screaming as his life drained away. An eye for an eye, a life for a life.

But Papak was not like his father. Trained to ride, shoot and abhor the Lie, Papak was a Persian nobleman of antique virtue. Brave and compassionate, considerate to others, he resembled Barbad’s own father. Having served Papak all his adult life, by the time Sasan was born, Barbad’s hatred had turned to love.

That degraded cult that worshipped the crucified magician could not be more wrong. No deity would punish the children for the sins of the fathers. Not the first generation, let alone the third.

The key turned in the lock.

With the manners of good breeding, the boy got to his feet. Barbad rushed to stand behind him. With trembling fingers, Barbad freed the knife, but kept it concealed in the loose folds of his sleeve.

Mazda forgive him. He would strike for the neck. The wicked tip of the slender knife should easily slide into the soft flesh.

The door opened.

The hilt of the dagger was slick with Barbad’s sweat. Mazda, can I do this thing?

The usual guard entered, holding the tray. Behind him his companion, watchful but bored, stood on the landing.

Barbad did not dare try to return the knife to its hidden sheath. Clumsy with fear and relief, he would drop the weapon. If it clattered to the floor, their path to freedom would be barred.

Without a word, the guard placed the tray on the table. He picked up the one from the morning meal and left. The door was locked behind him.