They led John through a maze of hallways and courtyards until he arrived at a walled garden in the heart of the palace. The contrast from the imposing throne room was stark – here, tranquility reigned. Tall, graceful cypress trees swayed gently in the midday breeze. Flowering vines climbed marble trellises, their blossoms casting dappled shadows on paths of crushed white stone. A low fountain gurgled in the center, its water spilling over a mosaic basin that depicted lily pads and fish in bright ceramic tiles.
John took a moment to breathe in the scene. The air was warm but not stifling, kept comfortable by some unseen magic that cooled the garden. He detected it in the faint shimmer above the fountain – likely a rune or enchantment to temper the weather in this enclosed space. Overhead, silk awnings could be drawn if the sun grew too harsh, but presently they were rolled up, letting sunlight mingle with the shade of trees.
A pavilion of carved wood stood near the fountain. Under it, a low table had been set with an array of dishes: fragrant rice pilaf studded with dates and nuts, spiced lamb skewers, flatbread, and bowls of ripe pomegranates and figs. Elegant porcelain plates and silverware indicated this was a meal fit for an emperor. The chief eunuch bowed and gestured for John to sit on the plush cushions arranged around the table's one side; apparently he would dine alone, as was imperial custom.
John dismissed the guards to a respectful distance at the garden entrance. He preferred some illusion of privacy. The eunuch, whose name John still did not know, remained at a discreet distance himself, overseeing silent servants who lingered in case of need.
As John settled onto the cushions, he realized how hungry he was. The morning's adrenaline had masked it, but now his stomach reminded him that he hadn't eaten much beyond a piece of fruit at breakfast. He sampled the pilaf – its rich, sweet-savory taste immediately pleasing – and took a bite of lamb, which was tender and bursting with flavor. The simple act of eating good food in a peaceful garden felt almost surreal after the chaos his day had begun with. Only hours ago he had been on a city street facing death; now he was an emperor lunching in paradise.
As he ate, John's thoughts wandered. He observed the attendants subtly. They moved with quiet precision, refilling his drink – a cool mint and yogurt beverage – and replacing dishes almost before he noticed they were low. They avoided eye contact, projecting an air of servitude that John found discomfiting. In his old life, he was used to camaraderie, even among ranks, not this deferential treatment. But he accepted it with a polite nod each time, knowing that was expected.
His gaze drifted to the fountain, watching sunlight on water. The gentle babble of the fountain mixed with distant bird calls. It was soothing. For the first time since waking, John's guard relaxed a fraction. Here in this lush oasis, it was easier to think.
He turned inward, reflecting on the whirlwind of the morning. He replayed each exchange at court, analyzing what he'd learned:
This world had advanced magical infrastructure (ley-grids, glow-stones) integrated into daily life.
Arslan's empire was expansive and in the midst of campaigns.
The City of Light itself was a prize not just for its strategic location, but its wonders.
The people here responded to both fear and compassion; he had to balance the two.
What he didn't know still loomed large:
Why he was here in Arslan's body and what had become of the original emperor's mind or soul.
Whether anyone could tell he was an impostor.
What dangers lay in the political undercurrents of this court – surely there were factions, maybe even those loyal to the former regime or ambitious officers eyeing opportunities.
John closed his eyes and drew a slow breath in, then out, a calming technique he'd practiced often after combat. One mission at a time, he told himself. His first mission was survival and observation – to fit in, to learn. After that would come the mission of deciding what to do with the power he now held, and perhaps finding a way home, if such a thing was even possible.
He opened his eyes to find the eunuch had quietly approached. The man stood a few paces away, hands folded. John realized he must have been lost in thought for several minutes, the food mostly eaten now.
"Your Majesty," the eunuch said softly, "shall I have the servants bring anything else? More sherbet, or perhaps you would enjoy some music? The palace musicians or…" he hesitated, "some of the ladies could be summoned to entertain."
John wiped his fingers on a provided damp cloth. The mention of "the ladies" likely referred to the harem concubines. He remembered that he should at least acknowledge that part of imperial life. It would be odd if he never saw them – an emperor, especially a newly victorious one, would traditionally indulge.
Yet he was reluctant. Part of him – as a healthy man – felt a natural curiosity, even stirrings of temptation, at the idea of beautiful women attending him. But the larger part of him, disciplined and cautious, hesitated. He had no idea what relationships Arslan had with these women, or what they expected of him. He didn't want to inadvertently hurt or alarm them by acting out of character, nor did he want to let his guard down in their presence. Concubines often were politically significant in courts; some could be spies or informants, or power-brokers in their own right.
Still, refusing outright might appear strange. So John nodded slowly. "Music would be nice." He chose his words carefully. "Whichever is customary."
The eunuch bowed, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. He clapped twice, and one of the servants darted out a side gate of the garden. A few minutes later, the servant returned, followed by three women.
John composed himself, sitting a little straighter on the cushion as they approached. The concubines were all young and striking in different ways. By their varied features and complexion, John surmised they hailed from different corners of this world – spoils of war or political tributes gathered into the imperial harem. Their diversity only added to the exotic splendor of the palace. They wore flowing silken dresses that accentuated graceful figures, and thin veils that did little to hide their beauty. Golden jewelry glinted on their wrists and ankles, chiming softly as they moved.
They bowed deeply as a trio, and one stepped forward. She was willowy, with warm olive skin and dark hair that cascaded in braids – perhaps a beauty from the eastern provinces. Her eyes were outlined with kohl, giving her an alluring, mysterious look. She carried a stringed instrument resembling a lute.
"Your Majesty," she said in a sweet, measured tone, "we are honored to bring you music and comfort."
John felt all three pairs of eyes subtly appraising him from behind lowered lashes. He realized that they too might be unsure how to act, perhaps gauging his mood. Arslan's demeanor with them in the past would set their expectations. Was he lustful? Distant? Cruel? John had to steer carefully.
He gave a gentle motion of his hand. "Please," he said simply. His voice came out softer than in court, almost gentle, an unconscious reflection of his true self when not on a battlefield or throne. He hoped it wouldn't shock them.
The women exchanged quick glances. The lute-player sank to her knees on a cushion a few feet away and began to pluck a quiet melody. The tune was haunting and slow, matching the hush of the garden. Another concubine, a petite woman with bronze-gold hair (perhaps from some far northern clime, John guessed), produced a set of small chimes and accompanied the lute with delicate, tinkling harmony.
The third woman, who had fiery red hair and emerald-green eyes – a rarity in this part of the world, John thought – stepped behind John, near his shoulder. For a moment he tensed, but she merely began to massage his shoulders and neck with skilled, gentle hands.
He almost sighed at the relief it brought. He hadn't realized how tense his muscles were until her cool fingers worked into them. In his world, he'd only had such massages during physical therapy for injuries, never as casual luxury. It was disconcerting to be pampered like this, but undeniably pleasant.
As the music played and the red-haired concubine – Yvara, she later introduced herself – kneaded out the knots of stress, John allowed himself to relax slightly. The combination of soft music, the fountain's murmur, and the massage was lulling. But he kept a portion of his mind alert, observing.
The lute player began to sing under her breath, a wordless vocalization that blended with the melody. It was mesmerizing.
"Does the pressure please Your Majesty?" the red-haired woman murmured near his ear. There was nothing overtly seductive in her tone; it was professional, courteous, yet the breathy closeness of it made John swallow.
"It's… yes, it's very good," he managed quietly.
"I am Yvara," she added softly. "If it pleases My Lord."
Her name, likely expecting him to recall it. John simply gave a slight nod in acknowledgment. He felt he should say something to them, at least to put them at ease, but was unsure how an emperor typically conversed with his harem. Probably he didn't, beyond commands or endearments.
Instead, John let the music and the moment continue a while in silence. Perhaps that was fine.
His eyes drifted across the garden as he listened to the melody. A question surfaced in his mind – something he'd avoided thinking too deeply about amid the morning's rush: Was Arslan a good man? A cruel one? He wished he had even a shred of the man's memory to guide him. All he had were hints: a conqueror's reputation, soldiers and officials who expected firm rule, concubines who approached with cautious deference.
John had worn many labels himself in life – soldier, comrade, killer when necessary, savior at times. But emperor and conqueror were new and heavy mantles. Did he even want to wear them? If this was some kind of second life granted to him, what purpose did it serve? Was he meant to become Arslan and continue his conquests? Or to change this world for the better with his modern perspective? Such grand thoughts were premature perhaps, but in this calm, perfumed garden he couldn't help the philosophical drift.
He looked at the three women attending him. They were part of this new life's burdens and pleasures. They had no say in their fate, likely. In his world, John had believed in fighting for those without power, protecting civilians. Now he sat among the very heights of power. What responsibility did he have to these people, to this empire?
The song ended gently, the last notes of the lute fading into the warm air. John realized he had stopped eating entirely, too caught up in thought and sensation. The concubine with the lute looked up for the first time to meet his gaze, seeking approval or feedback.
"That was beautiful," John said softly. Sincerity showed in his voice. "Thank you."
She smiled, seemingly a bit surprised by the direct gratitude. "It is an old melody from the east, Your Majesty. I'm glad it pleased you."
Yvara, the red-haired one, ventured to speak again, her hands now resting lightly on his shoulders. "Will Our Lord require anything more?" There was a note of subtle suggestion – likely an offer to stay, perhaps to accompany him more intimately if he desired.
John's pulse quickened slightly. The idea was enticing on a basic level – they were all lovely, and Arslan's body likely had its own appetites. But he quickly reined himself in. He wasn't prepared for that, not now for certain. He also didn't want to blur his focus with lust or emotional entanglements yet. And morally, it felt wrong to him to take advantage when he was effectively a different person than the one they were bound to.
"You have all served me well," John replied, choosing his words carefully. He mustn't seem too indifferent or too eager. "Your music and company have refreshed me. I will call if I require more."
It was a polite dismissal couched in imperial language. The concubines appeared to accept it without offense – if anything, the two musicians looked slightly relieved, perhaps unused to such restraint or uncertain how this new Emperor would treat them beyond music.
They each bowed deeply. Yvara's eyes lingered on him for a moment; there was something curious and gentle in her green gaze, but she said nothing. The trio quietly departed the garden, their veils fluttering behind them as they passed through the gate.
John exhaled through his nose slowly, unaware until now that he'd been holding a bit of tension throughout that encounter. It had gone as well as he could expect, he thought. He'd enjoyed a brief reprieve and hopefully raised no suspicions by acting within acceptable bounds of Arslan's authority.
The eunuch approached to clear his dishes, his face impassive but John thought he detected a ghost of approval in his expression. Perhaps word would spread that the Emperor was in a fine mood yet not overly distracted by pleasure – which might actually bolster his image as disciplined. Or maybe some might whisper he was oddly reserved. Only time would tell.
As the last of the plates were taken away and John was left alone by the fountain (the eunuch had tactfully given him space, waiting by the entrance), John rose from the cushions. He wandered to the fountain's edge, looking down at the water. His reflection wavered there, the face of Arslan Rûmî rippling in sunlit water. He studied the unfamiliar handsome features that were now his. The green-gold eyes that stared back had a pensive light. Who was Arslan, truly? And who was John now that he wore Arslan's face?
He dipped his fingers into the cool water, swirling it idly. There was a small rune etched on the basin's inner side, he noticed – likely keeping the water cycling clean. Even here, magic touched everything.
A bright orange fish darted near his fingers and then away. John watched it disappear under a lily pad.
In that moment of solitude, he allowed one thought of Earth to surface – not a flashback, just a quiet realization: if this was real and permanent, John Sullivan (his surname popped up unbidden for the first time since arriving) was effectively dead in his old world. Perhaps the woman he saved would remember him as a stranger who gave his life. His comrades would never know what became of him; he would be another soldier lost tragically in civilian life. There would be mourning, confusion, and then life would move on without him.
It was a sobering realization that pressed heavily on his heart. But he forced himself not to dwell in regret or grief now. He had a new life that demanded his full attention. Perhaps this was fate's way of giving him a second chance to do something truly significant.
John stood up straight and turned away from the fountain. Enough introspection, he chided himself. Action would be needed soon. If Act One of his strange journey was about finding his footing, he was well on his way. But he suspected Act Two would throw greater challenges at him – challenges he needed to be ready for.
He signaled to the eunuch that he was ready to return inside. It was time to dive back into the mysteries of this palace and its magic. He intended to spend the afternoon digging deeper – perhaps literally into books or consulting those who could teach him more about Rune-Enscriptive Energetics and the powers at play in this world. John had resolved to treat learning this magic system as seriously as he treated mastering any weapon or tactic on Earth.
With renewed determination, he left the garden's peace behind and stepped once more into the ornate halls of the palace. The light breeze ruffled the leaves behind him, carrying with it the fading notes of the concubine's melody – a gentle reminder that even in war and intrigue, moments of beauty could be found.