Somewhere, in the Abbasid Palace of Baghdad
The sun hung mercilessly over Baghdad, a white disc pressing down upon domes of glazed turquoise and walls of pale sandstone. Heat shimmered above the palace courtyards, blurring the arches and palm shadows into wavering lines. Yet an Abbasid Prince—Al-Mu'tasim—did not slow.
The training ground rang with the dull thud of impact and the rasp of breath drawn hard. Dust clung to skin and cloth alike, coating everything in the smell of dry earth and sweat.
At twenty-two, he had just struck down his sparring opponent for the fifth time.
The man lay gasping at his feet, chest heaving, wooden shield split cleanly along its grain. Al-Mu'tasim stepped back without ceremony. Sweat darkened his training robe, clinging to his broad shoulders, and the muscles in his arms stood taut as he leaned his blunted spear against the stone wall. The haft vibrated faintly, as if reluctant to rest.
He paused only to draw breath, lifting a leather waterskin to his lips. The water tasted of leather and metal, warm from the sun, yet it steadied him. But in the brief silence between one breath and the next, an old bitterness crept back into his mind.
----
Shadows of His Father's Library
He found himself once more in the cold corridors of his childhood, the very halls where every step seemed to echo judgment.
In memory, the palace was quieter then—its walls thick, absorbing sound until even a whispered mistake seemed to scream. Lamps dimmed with perfumed oil cast fragile halos over polished marble, yet their light never reached the shadow where he had always lingered. The echo of sandals on stone followed him as he passed alcoves lined with shelves, each scroll a silent reminder of what he could never hold in his mind.
His father—Caliph Hārūn al-Rashīd—sat surrounded by Greek and Persian manuscripts beside Al-Ma'mūn. Al-Amin, radiant with charm and favor, reclined nearby, draped in robes that seemed spun from sunlight itself, speaking in measured, confident tones that drew nods of approval from every tutor and courtier present. The scent of ink and parchment lingered in the air, sharp and clean, a smell that burned like cold steel in Al-Mu'tasim's memory.
The Caliph would stroke his beard in quiet pride as Al-Ma'mūn spoke of astronomy or philosophy, his words precise and luminous, flowing as effortlessly as prayer. Every syllable seemed designed to remind Al-Mu'tasim of his own inadequacy, like the sun exposing shadows in a corner he could never hide from.
Stars, spheres, the measured harmony of the heavens—concepts Al-Mu'tasim could never quite grasp. They danced just out of reach, elegant, cruel, indifferent to his yearning.
When it had been Al-Mu'tasim's turn before his writing tutor, the letters swarmed before his eyes like writhing worms. Black shapes on white parchment refused to stay still, twisting into patterns that made no sense, mocking his every attempt. The reed pen scratched, paused, sighed. Every sound was a verdict.
And then his father's voice—low, disappointed, impossible to ignore:
"How can the son of a Caliph prefer breaking bows to reading a single line of verse?"
The words had not been shouted, yet they struck with the weight of a hammer. There was no escape. No chance to explain, no room to fail in private. Just the cold, quiet knowledge that he was not enough—never enough.
The nickname—the illiterate one—clung to him like a stain on his skin. It followed him into the garden, into the bath, into the warmth of the kitchens. Even his own reflection seemed to echo it, eyes wide with shame, lips pressed tight against the memory of every comparison.
Among brothers praised for eloquence, poetry, theology, and the clarity of their minds—Al-Amin, radiant with charm and favor, Al-Ma'mūn, precise and luminous—Al-Mu'tasim had always been the one left behind. The unpolished blade set aside while others were admired for their ornaments. The laughter at dinner, the nods of approval from tutors, the letters of praise—he had learned to endure them all as if they were another form of blade cutting into him.
Sometimes he had lain awake, listening to the soft rustle of parchment in the scholar's chamber, imagining a life where words could bend to him instead of him bending to them. But the more he tried, the more the letters twisted, the more the world whispered that he was born to fail in their eyes.
Even Al-Amin's easy smile, the way the Caliph's eyes lingered on him a moment longer, sent a hollow pang through Al-Muʿtasim. A child could not understand justice, nor why the fates seemed to favor others while leaving him with nothing but sinew and sweat.
And yet, beneath it all, a quiet, simmering fire began to grow—a stubborn heartbeat that refused to be silenced by shame.
---
On the Training Grounds
The sun dipped westward, turning the dust above the barracks to copper. The heat softened, but the ground still radiated warmth through the soles of his boots. Al-Mu'tasim had just finished firing arrows from a galloping horse. Each shaft struck its mark cleanly—wood splitting, targets shuddering under the force.
The horse snorted beneath him, flecked with foam, muscles quivering. Control, timing, instinct—here, the world made sense.
An old instructor, Yakhshin, approached, carrying a newly forged sword. Its blade caught the light, pale and keen, smelling faintly of oil and smoke.
"Your movements grow sharper each day, Ya Amīr," the veteran said, studying him closely. His eyes were lined by years of sun and war. "You possess a hunter's instinct. No book can teach that."
Al-Mu'tasim snorted, wiping sweat from his brow, leaving a streak of dust across his skin.
"What use is instinct, Sheikh? In the palace they say I am nothing but muscle without a mind. Even my father abandoned hope of teaching me a single line from the Mu'allaqāt."
The words tasted bitter as he spoke them aloud.
At that moment, soft footsteps approached.
Al-Ma'mūn arrived, attended by a servant burdened with rolled parchments. He was immaculate, perfumed, and calm—the very opposite of Al-Mu'tasim, caked in dust and flecks of dried blood. His robes were untouched by labor, his hands clean.
"Still here, Brother?" Al-Ma'mūn said mildly, though the words cut sharper than steel.
"I have just concluded a discussion with the scholars on Aristotle's logic. Most enlightening. Perhaps you should join us sometime—rather than fencing with shadows."
Al-Mu'tasim's hand tightened around his sword hilt, leather creaking beneath his grip.
"Logic will not halt a rebellion on the frontier, Brother."
Al-Ma'mūn smiled faintly—the same smile that had always made Al-Mu'tasim feel small.
"True. Yet logic builds civilization, while the sword merely guards it. Father once said a ruler must command minds before bodies. A pity letters have always treated you as enemies, not allies."
He turned and left, sandals whispering against stone.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the wind seemed to withdraw. Al-Mu'tasim stood motionless, his chest rising and falling as old wounds reopened, deeper than any blade could reach.
"He is right," he whispered bitterly.
"I am illiterate. A disgrace to this bloodline."
That night, the palace felt unbearably close.
Oil lamps glimmered along the corridors, their light throwing long shadows that clung to carved walls. Al-Mu'tasim entered his private study—a room he loathed, yet returned to whenever his shame reached its peak.
Upon the heavy oak table lay an old parchment scroll filled with classical Arabic verse and rudimentary legal principles. The ink had faded in places; the parchment smelled faintly of age and dust. He lit a candle. Its weak flame trembled across the pale surface of the page.
"Bismillah…" he murmured, forcing himself to sound out a word.
The letters mocked him.
Alif. Lām. Rā.
They overlapped, spun, blurred—like a sandstorm rising behind his eyes. His jaw tightened. His breath grew shallow.
"Read," he hissed at himself. "Just one line."
But the struggle was lost.
With a sharp sweep of his arm, he knocked the parchment to the floor. The candle nearly toppled beneath the rush of his sleeve. Wax dripped onto the table like pale blood. He stared at his hands—hands made for reins and steel, not for the fragile stem of a pen.
Return to Himself
He turned away from the desk and seized his true companion: his sword.
The cold weight of the metal steadied him in a way books never could. Its balance was honest. Its purpose clear. He stepped onto the palace veranda and began to strike beneath the moonlight, each arc deliberate and fierce. Steel sang softly through the night air.
Every swing that night was no longer training, but a vow.
Below, in the courtyard, Turkic youths paused in their drills, drawn by the rhythm of his blade. Their faces were sharp, watchful—outsiders, like him.
"Listen to me!" he roared at them.
"They say leaders are those who compose the finest verses. I say a leader is the one who stands first when the enemy's blade falls!"
He met their gazes one by one, unflinching.
"You will be my hands. I will be your mind. Together, we will prove that history is not written by ink alone—but by sweat and blood."
From that night on, Al-Mu'tasim no longer cared for the title illiterate.
He began forging his personal guard, an elite force that would one day make his name feared across the Abbasid world.