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sagemonsters · 1 year

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A Tiger of Persia

Summary: Sirvan, a disabled veteran of Xerxes the Great’s campaign against the Greeks in the fifth century BCE, returns home seeking a wife. Set with the seemingly impossible task of capturing and taming a tiger in exchange for a woman’s hand in marriage, Sirvan finds himself initially despairing… and then realizing that he was, perhaps, searching for love in the wrong place.

Status: SFW (for now)

Pairing: cis male weretiger x cis male human

Chapter 2 of ???

(See the end of this post for historical footnotes)

first chapter

Sirvan traveled for three days and three nights, climbing higher and higher into the Zagros Mountains on trails that grew more narrow and stony with each passing parasang (1). At last, however, he reached a village so small that it had no name and was marked on no map, and here the headman offered him succor in the form of sweet wine and coarse flatbread. He also offered Sirvan a place before his own hearth, and stabling for the gray mare, and for this Sirvan gave him a sigloi (2), for which the headman thanked him profusely.

“Even the peddlers have stopped coming,” the headman, Ehsan, said as he sat and supped with Sirvan in the dusk of the coming night. “That monstrous cat raids our flocks and attacks any traveler unwise enough to venture upon the roads at night…”

Sirvan paused. “A monstrous cat?” he asked.

“Yes,” Ehsan said, nodding. “Its hide is bright as an orange, but streaked with fingers of night. And its eyes… I swear, Angra Mainyu (3) looks out from those terrible eyes.”

“You saw it?” Sirvan pressed.

“No,” Ehsan admitted, “but a shepherd did, and he told me what he saw when the beast attacked him before he died of his wounds. Are you, perchance, seeking this beast?”

“I am seeking it,” Sirvan confirmed, and he told Ehsan of his bargain with Salman.

Ehsan could only shake his head in wonder. “This Mahya must be as beautiful as the dawn to be worth such a bride-price. Good fortune to you, Sirvan, but I cannot say I envy your task.”

“It will be worth a song or two when it is finished,” Sirvan said.

“Just be careful not to become a hero—I am sure you have no wish to die a glorious death before you say your wedding vows, eh?” Ehsan said, and laughed. But there was an edge of fear in his laughter, and Sirvan did not join him.

In the morning, Sirvan mounted the gray mare and ranged far through the surrounding countryside, searching for tiger tracks or recent kills. He spoke with shepherds and goatherds, many of whom reported losses of livestock to the beast, but none who had seen it and lived to tell the tale. At last, while debating whether and where he should stop for a midday meal, Sirvan came across a man seated cross-legged atop a boulder beside the road.

“Good day to you,” Sirvan said.

The man looked down at him with his chin propped on his fist. His hair was long and dark, his kilt and mantle—worn in the loose style of the Indian kingdoms—ragged, and his eyes stark and tawny in his deep brown face. Sirvan had the uncomfortable feeling that he was talking to a bandit or highwayman of some kind, and had to stop himself from reaching for the comfort of his sword-hilt at his hip.

“Good day,” the man replied. His Persian was accented but not halting or forced. “What brings you into the mountains, traveler?”

“I’m searching for the striped cat that is terrorizing the folk of this region,” Sirvan said.

“Ah, the tiger?” the man replied. “Good luck. He is a man-eater, that one.”

“He?” Sirvan pressed. “You know its sex?”

“Oh, yes,” the man said. He produced a handful of dried figs from a pocket and began eating them one by one. “I was with him when he was brought from Panchala (4) in an iron cage for a prince’s amusement. They poked him with sticks through the bars and laughed when he roared in anger at their mockery.”

“You were his keeper, then?”

The man ate another fig. “Something like that,” he agreed, his voice as mild as fresh cream.

“What is your name?” Sirvan asked.

“Call me Dhvasanti,” the man answered. “And you?”

“Sirvan, son of Jamshid the cloth merchant, from Susa.”

Dhvasanti ate the last of his figs and dusted his hands. He slid down from the boulder to stand in the road in front of the gray mare and her rider. “Are you here to kill the tiger, Sirvan?”

“No. I want to take him alive,” Sirvan answered, and once more explained his agreement with Salman. Dhvasanti listened with his hands on his hips, his tawny eyes intent upon Sirvan’s face as the other man spoke.

“Are you planning to capture this tiger alone?” Dhvasanti asked when Sirvan had finished.

Sirvan snorted. “Do not mistake me for a fool,” he said. “I will hire some local hunters when I have found his lair and am ready to set the trap. I know better than to take on such a beast without help.”

“Well, it seems you are not completely stupid,” Dhvasanti said. “I will accompany you.”

“Thank you, but I have no need for your aid as of now.”

Dhvasanti scoffed. “Please,” he said. “You have been wandering along these trails for hours with no sign of the tiger; I have seen you and your horse here and there. You need someone who is familiar with the animal to help you find it.”

Sirvan raised an eyebrow. “How kind of you to volunteer,” he said dryly.

“When we get the tiger back to Susa, will you perform a favor for me?” Dhvasanti asked. “A small and reasonable favor to show your appreciation for my invaluable services?”

Sirvan frowned. “That is very vague. How do you expect me to agree to something when I do not even know the nature of what you desire?”

Dhvasanti waved a hand in dismissal. “Oh, worry not—I am not yet sure either,” he said, but then his eyes sharpened upon Sirvan. “But how do you expect to find this tiger when you never leave the roads? Please do not tell me that you truly believe this tiger walks solely upon the smoothed trails made by men for the use of men.”

Sirvan huffed through his nose; that observation was a little too accurate. “Very well,” he said. “I accept your help.”

Dhvasanti smiled. His teeth were even and very white. “Excellent,” he said.

Sirvan dismounted from the gray mare, and led her by the reins as Dhvasanti headed into the mountain scrub bordering the narrow road. He was all too aware that this alleged former tiger-keeper might very well be luring him into a bandit’s ambush, so he kept his other hand close to the hilt of his sword. The harsh terrain was wearisome, however, especially on Sirvan’s injured knee, and soon he was limping and gritting his teeth against the flaring pain.

Dhvasanti looked back, then slowed his pace to a leisurely walk so that Sirvan could keep up easily. Noon came, and they each ate their day’s ration and drank from their waterskins beneath the sparse shade of a scraggly, crooked tree. The gray mare lipped at the tough mountain grasses nearby, but did not seem to find anything to her liking.

Dhvasanti stood, motioned for Sirvan to remain seated, and then wandered about the area. After several minutes he waved the Persian over and gestured at the ground.

“Tiger tracks,” he declared.

Imprinted in the soft mud left by the receding winter rains was, undeniably, a series of paw prints. They did not belong to a bear, boar, or wolf, which meant—

“They do seem to be so,” Sirvan observed. “Well done.”

When he looked up, Dhvasanti was once more examining him with those wild tawny eyes. “Why is this Mahya worth so much that you would seek out one of the most dangerous beasts in the world for her?” he asked.

Sirvan sighed. “As silly as it may seem, I have yearned for her since before I was a man. When I served under the banner of Khshayarsha the Great (5), my thoughts were filled with nothing but what it would be like to come home to a welcoming wife and a family of my own in Susa.”

“But do you know her?” Dhvasanti pressed. “I confess, as a foreigner more familiar with the customs of the Buddhists and Hindus of my homeland, you Persians are very strange to me… but surely unmarried women are not allowed to socialize freely with eligible young men? How can you know her well enough to desire her so fiercely? Unless, of course, you have come to know her in ways that her father would not approve of.”

Sirvan narrowed his eyes. “I have never so much as spoken to her without a chaperone present,” he said. It was the truth; the few face-to-face interactions that Sirvan had had with Mahya had been entirely proper and watched over by multiple older relatives.

“Then why her?” Dhvasanti continued. “Why not some other woman whose father does not demand the capture of a live tiger in exchange for her hand?”

“It must be her. It has always been her,” Sirvan said.

Dhvasanti shook his head, but had no rebuttal to this.

They followed the tracks through the steeply-sided hills for the rest of the day, but found neither lair nor den before nightfall.

“Do you want to return to the village?” Dhvasanti asked as the twilight deepened. “We will have to hurry.”

“No,” Sirvan answered. “If we keep a fire going, I am sure the tiger will keep his distance. There is plenty of other prey about these hills for him to catch.”

“Brave,” Dhvasanti commented. He smiled. “I have a feeling we will be safe tonight.”

“Will you help me get the fire started?” Sirvan asked, and Dhvasanti did so. With the blaze crackling merrily between them, the two men reclined amid the scrub. The gray mare was hobbled close by, both to ensure that she would not wander away and to keep her safe from any potential nighttime threats. It was a clear night; the stars and waxing gibbous moon wheeled overhead, and the faint breeze was crisp and cool.

“Tell me of yourself, Dhvasanti,” Sirvan said. “What brought you to Persia alongside the tiger, and what keeps you here?”

Dhvasanti threw a twig into the fire. The flames turned his tawny eyes to burning gold. “I was a slave,” he admitted. “I wore an iron collar and danced when threatened with a whip. I was brought here against my will, but now that I am free… I am not sure what I want. I have no family and no desire to return to Panchala. I suppose I am simply waiting for a sign of what to do next.”

Sirvan nodded. “I will pray for your safe travels when you decide what it is you shall do.”

Dhvasanti’s fierce eyes softened slightly as he looked up from the fire. “You are a kind man, albeit foolish when it comes to women.”

Sirvan huffed. “And you are annoying,” he grumbled.

Dhvasanti chuckled. “I will take the first watch,” he declared. “Sleep, Sirvan, and tomorrow we will see if we can find this tiger for you.”

Footnotes

Parasang = a pre-Islamic unit of distance used in Persia. One parasang is equivalent to 30 Greek stades (according to Herodotus), and is approximately 3.3 English miles.

Sigloi = silver coinage minted in the Achaemenid Empire after the year 500 BCE, first introduced by Darius I.

Angra Mainyu = the name of the greatest force of darkness, evil, and chaos in Zoroastrianism

Panchala = an oligarchic state of northern India from this time period

Khshayarsha the Great = “Khshayarsha” is the Old Persian name of a certain king better known in the West as Xerxes

Did you enjoy this chapter of A Tiger of Persia? Please consider buying me a coffee so I can have a warm drink while I write.

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statement in regards to cultural respect

#sage's portfolio #mlm romance #original fiction #historical fiction #historical romance #queer fiction #lgbt fiction #monster boyfriend #human x monster #terato #monster romance

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archaicwonder · 7 years

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Enigmatic Anonymous Coin From Caria

This silver tetradrachm was struck around 350-334 BC during the Achaemenid Period. It shows a Persian king or hero either kneeling or running while drawing a bow. The reverse side has a Satrap on horseback, thrusting a spear. In the upper left field is the head of Herakles wearing a lion’s skin headdress. Very Rare. Extremely Fine.

This anonymous tetradrachm belongs to an enigmatic Carian coinage struck before the invasion of Alexander the Great and consisting of two series, one lacking additional symbols and the other featuring symbols behind the horseman, like the head of Herakles seen here. The presence of only the unmarked series in the Pixodaros Hoard (closed c. 341/0 BC) has led to the conclusion that the marked series, to which the present coin belongs, must have been produced after 341 BC. With this date it is tempting to suggest that the marked series may have been struck in the context of the dynastic dispute between Ada, the rightful female satrap of Caria, and her usurping brother, Pixodaros. In 340 BC, Pixodaros forcibly expelled Ada from the capital at Halikarnassos and claimed power for himself. She fled to the Carian fortress of Alinda where she continued to rule in exile. She remained in exile after the death of Pixodaros (c. 336 BC) and the transfer of power to his Persian brother-in-law, but she was restored by Alexander the Great in 334 BC after offering to adopt him as her son.

The types used for this coin are explicitly Persian, advertising the loyalty of the anonymous issuer to the Achaemenid dynasty of Great Kings. The obverse depicts the Great King (sometimes described as a hero) shooting a bow, drawing from the iconography of the already well-known royal/heroic archer obverses used for Persian sigloi struck by the satraps of Lydia since the end of the sixth century BC. The reverse depicts a cavalryman wearing the distinctive Persian kyrbasia headdress. Taken together, the types exemplify the noble ethos attributed to the Persians by the Greek historian Herodotus, who reports (1.136) that until age twenty, Persian youths were only taught three things: to ride, to shoot straight, and to speak the truth. The first two elements of this education are illustrated by the coin types, but the truth of the coin could only be determined with a scale.

#history #caria #coins #achaemenid #tetradrachm #silver #numismatics #persian #ancient #greek #satrap #herakles #archer #bow #4th century bc

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