Zendegi

Martin said, ‘Don’t worry, Baba, you’re not playing Rostam. I made up a new character, an adviser from Princess Tahmineh’s court who travels with her son as a kind of guardian.’

‘A kind of guardian,’ Jack echoed. Maybe the demotion stung a little, but it was better than the fate in store down the line for Sohrab’s father.

A bearded Turani nobleman approached Martin and bowed low. ‘My lord, the sun is risen and your soldiers await your instructions.’ Martin wanted to laugh – just as he and Javeed had once giggled at Kavus and his sycophants – but he stayed in character: twelve-year-old Javeed playing the revered boy-general Sohrab.

‘Today,’ he replied portentously, ‘we take the White Fortress.’

‘As you command, my lord.’

Martin paid almost no attention to the troops gathering behind him; there were trumpets sounding and orders being shouted, but he trusted the game to handle the logistics without his oversight or supervision. He wasn’t here to hone his nonexistent skills as a military commander, or to fret about rivals rising up to overthrow him; this whole vast army was just an elaborate backdrop, a part of the landscape.

He and Jack rode out across the desert side by side, ahead of the tide of horsemen and the camels following with the army’s provisions. Nasim would have explained to Jack how Javeed could be riding his mount in a ghal’e, while Jack would be controlling his own icon in essentially the same way as Martin was.

Alone with Jack, Martin didn’t push the arrogant prince persona; he treated his surrogate father warmly as a co-conspirator with whom he was happy to break the frame. Javeed, Martin hoped, would soon get used to the memory problem and find a way to talk to Jack that satisfied them both. It would be frustrating to have to repeat himself, but he’d also have the power to set the agenda.

‘Farshid’s daughter is called Nahid,’ Martin said, ‘like his grandmother.’

‘How old is she?’ Jack asked.

‘Nearly one.’

‘So how do you feel about having a little niece around?’

Martin said, ‘She’s nice sometimes. When she’s not screaming.’

‘She must keep everyone busy,’ Jack said.

‘They’re always fussing over her,’ Martin complained.

‘Well… she’s a baby, she’s helpless. She needs to be watched closely; she still has to learn everything about the world.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Think about all the fun you had with Farshid,’ Jack said. ‘Then think how happy Nahid will be if she has someone like you to look up to the same way.’

‘Hmm.’ Martin didn’t want to play Javeed as a pushover, but he didn’t have the stomach to take the resentment to a pathological extreme: threats to run away from home, or thoughts of harming the child. Jack was doing a reasonably tactful job so far; good enough, surely, to provide a kind of safety valve. Whenever Javeed felt his whole adopted family was against him, he’d always have his dead father’s ear.

They rode on in silence for a while, but Martin could see Jack watching him out of the corner of his eye. It was impossible not to feel moments of dizzying empathy for Jack’s position, to imagine how painful the ache of love for Javeed would become from across that strange horizon. But Martin wasn’t here to offer him emotional support in some bizarre co-parental bonding session – least of all when any words of encouragement he provided would vanish from Jack’s memory long before they could be any real help. And if Jack’s task weighed heavily, as it surely did, at least the weight could not accumulate. When the alternative was losing contact with Javeed completely, Martin did not believe it would be too much to bear.

‘The White Fortress!’ Jack announced, pointing into the heat-haze, proving that he’d been paying the game world far more attention than Martin had. In real life, Martin had never ridden anything larger than a donkey, but Sohrab’s horse responded to his urging and galloped ahead; Jack was left in the dust, though when Martin turned he could see him catching up.

Sohrab had been born in the town of Samangan, on the border between Persia and its neighbour Turan. When his mother had finally explained his lineage to him, he’d decided to gather an army from Turan and march on Persia to seize Kavus’s throne for his absent father, and then claim Turan as his own. His campaign did not end well, but Martin was content to sample the relatively upbeat beginning; the twelve-year-old Javeed might be into swordplay and gore, but epic tragedy was unlikely to hold much attraction for him for several more years.

As he drew nearer to the white stone building, a smear of dust appeared in front of it. A lone Persian soldier was riding out to confront the invaders.

Jack caught up with Martin, his horse covered in sweat. ‘Do you really want to start this war?’ he asked. ‘What if you sent a message to Rostam first? What if you told him who you were and asked for his advice?’

Martin rolled his eyes. ‘Stop trying to play peacemaker! This is what Sohrab does!’