“This story responds to the Persian Book of Kings, also known as the Shahnameh, the most nominal work and cultural artifact of Iran. It is an epic fantasy poem about the princes and kings of mythical and ancient Persia, detailing their loves, defeats, and exploits. It is in line with the ‘Mirror for Princes’ genre, meaning it is meant to instruct on matters of kingship and jurisprudence.
I was motivated to respond because I found the female perspective truly lacking. Women were background characters to this epic, culture-defining work of art. If they were focused on at all, it was for their beauty, their ability to birth more princes, or their evil/vain sorcery. The only female heroine must sacrifice and erase all that makes her essentially a woman to become a ‘hero’. This got me thinking what would it mean to be an essentially ‘feminine’ hero. To be a hero because of your feminine traits, rather than in spite of them? This is the crux of ‘Soraya the Merciful.'”
“. . . Staring into the monstrous face of the White Div, the warrior Rustam did not falter. He drew the lion-headed mace from its sheath and descended on the beast like a mountain of fire.” Soraya’s voice was barely audible above the cries of dying men. Cannons boomed and swords clashed beyond the walls of the city; a battle in its final, desperate moments. Huddled on the iron bed, Jahan and Afshin listened to their mother with faces devoid of colour.
“They crashed into each other like two great mammoths in battle, striking and hacking until a river of blood ran beneath their feet.” Soraya’s voice shook as explosion after explosion rattled through the palace, lancing through the limestone floors of her bedchamber.
The newborn in her lap began to wail.
“Finally, Rustam let out a great roar—” Boom! A crack appeared in the ceiling. “—and threw the White Div down by the neck.” Six-year-old Afshin buried his face in Jahan’s shoulder and opened his mouth in a silent scream. Soraya clutched the boys closer to her chest and sank beneath the heavy covers. “The great hero Rustam tore out the demon’s heart,” she whispered, “freeing the people of Persia from the monster’s clutches.” This was a story they had heard many times before, Soraya spinning the tale like the carpet-weaver on his loom. It settled over the boys like a blanket, smothering their fears and rocking them to sleep.
But the baby girl cried long into the night. And Soraya cried with her.
Earlier that year, when the Lion King of Mazandaran forced his way into their territory, Soraya told her husband there was no point in fighting. This was not a battle they could win.
Ray and Mazandaran had been warring for generations. No one remembered how it had started, whether by greed or betrayal or both; only that it had cost many good men their lives. All five of her brothers, and her father and grandfather before them—all lost to a bloody, ceaseless war.
But never before had Mazandaran breached the city of Ray. Battles were waged almost entirely along the Tigris, which divided the two regions. And never before had they seen a warrior king like the Lion of Mazandaran.
Stories of his exploits circulated across the countryside, spreading from town to town like the plague. They said he was ruthless. Savage and bloodthirsty, seeking vengeance for his dead sons. He wore the severed head of a lion over his helmet, and he never removed it, not even to sleep. The animal consumed him, swallowed him whole. He burned entire settlements, slaughtering hundreds of men, leaving women and children to mourn.
Soraya had been adamant. Heavy with child, she had swallowed her pride and begged her husband to reconsider. “Peyman, please,” she had said, “find another way.” But like the warrior Rustam, he refused to falter.
Soraya wished that he had. She stood by the window, gently rocking the baby back and forth. She watched helplessly through the stained-glass as the Mazandaran forces overwhelmed Ray. Soraya traced the baby’s face as her people fell, one by one.
She placed the baby in her crib. The centuries-old stone barricades collapsed. She closed her eyes, humming the last notes of a lullaby. The call for retreat rippled through the ranks.
Peyman would never have surrendered. Never.
His remaining soldiers continued to fight, a flicker of fire against the weight of the ocean, to buy their comrades time to reach the safety of the palace gates. The Lion’s armies flooded the city, engulfing the taverns and teahouses, the mosques and the fire temples. They crashed into the remaining soldiers like a tidal wave, swarming their bodies until there was nothing left but blood and bone. The sound of iron gates clanging shut echoed through the palace. Soraya had given the order a quarter of an hour ago. She had dealt the killing blow all on her own.
“Your Highness!” Dilara, her senior Lady-in-Wait, threw open the heavy oak door to her chambers, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Soraya put a finger to her lips, gesturing to the baby in its cradle and the two children sound asleep in her bed.
“The Shah…” Dilara choked out. “He’s dead.”
Soraya sucked in a breath, clutching the bedpost as her knees buckled. The world itself seemed to darken before her.
“Please leave,” she whispered, hands shaking. “Please.” Dilara hesitated, but Soraya stared her oldest friend down, and finally she left, long skirts cutting across the tiles.
Soraya turned to face her sleeping children, their little chests rising and falling. If she eventually broke, grief pressing down on her until she crumpled to the floor, there was no one there to witness it. If she started to heave, pounding at her chest with clenched fists, only the gods would know.
Less than an hour later, Soraya left her chambers for the first time in weeks. She was still healing from the birthing bed, and under normal circumstances, she would have stayed cloistered from the public until she was fully recovered.
These were not normal circumstances.
Clutched in her hand was a sealed note delivered straight out of the Lion’s maw, addressed to her by name and sent on the back of an Arabian horse. The Lion’s handwriting was jagged and strange, his message simple.
We march at sundown. Surrender or burn.
She crumpled the note in her fist. Aching all over, Soraya braced herself before entering the royal pavilion. Winter still had its hold on the land, and tiny snowflakes stuck to her lashes as she walked past sparkling fountains and marble statues. She climbed the golden dais where she had presented her first and second child to the royal court. Where she should have been presenting her third.
Soraya gritted her teeth, shaking the grief off her back like snow, and tightened her blue mourning veil around her shoulders. She considered the small group of men assembled before her: her captain of the guard, her commander-in-chief, the influential lords, her tribal chieftains and remaining warriors. Defeat hung heavy in the air, but they were still standing.
Part of her seethed at the injustice. Why had these men survived when her Peyman had not? What right did they have to stand before her when their King had fallen? None of these thoughts showed on her face.
“Your Highness.” The commander bowed, and the other men followed suit. “We have failed you, and the enemy knocks at our door. But on my life, I swear—”
Soraya held up a hand to silence him. “Thank you.” She locked eyes with them all, one after the other. “Thank you.” She lifted her chin. “But the palace must be evacuated.”
Exclamations of shock and outrage rippled through the courtyard.
“You were dealt a heavy blow today.” That was the captain of the guard. “But all is not lost. As long as we can fight—”
“You can fight.” She said, unblinking. “But you will lose. And you will die.” There was silence, her words punctuated by the howling winter wind.
“Your Majesty.” The captain finally said. “There is no way out. Mazandaran sits at our front steps. Where will we go?” He paced in the snow, wet and haggard. “How can you suggest that we abandon our home and surrender our kingdom?”
Soraya raised a dark brow at his impertinence. “Who said anything about surrender?”
Her plans had been laid weeks in advance. The ancient tunnel leading out of the palace cleared and fortified. Crops harvested and packed in light-weight parcels. The moment her husband had left the city, Soraya had moved her people behind the walls of the palace. It is not that Soraya didn’t have faith in her Shah. But Peyman had planned for death, and she for life—praying all the while that it would never come to this. And yet it did. It had.
Standing in his personal armoury, she felt his absence like a weight, cold and heavy at her back. His chain mail was missing from its perch. Peyman loved this room, often stealing away to sharpen the many weapons passed down by his forefathers. When they had first married, Soraya would often accompany her husband to the training grounds, lounging on the open veranda among the tulips and blossoms, admiring the strength and sinew of his battle-scarred body. Later, after Jahan and Afshin were born in quick succession, she had laughed as he put wooden swords in their chubby little hands. She had clapped with delight as they fought imaginary battles, Jahan attacking with brute force and Afshin plotting every move with single-minded focus.
Now she stood in an empty room, facing an empty wall. His armour, his helmet, his grandfather’s shamshir—they were most likely being dragged through the mud, to the cheers of thousands. His armour, his helmet, his grandfather’s shamshir. And his head.
His face, so dear. Those eyes like dark narcissi, his musk-scented hair, that beloved, crooked smile—
“Your Highness?” It was Dilara with the children. Jahan and Afshin were silent and subdued, staring up at her with red-rimmed eyes.
She wondered if they knew. She hadn’t breathed a word, but children are intuitive. Perhaps they could decipher the death of their father in the lines and shadows of her face. Tears stung the backs of her eyelids and she turned away.
“Your Highness.” Dilara repeated impatiently, bouncing the baby in her arms. “It’s time to leave.”
Soraya scrubbed a hand down her face, smudging the kohl around her eyes. “I’m not going with you, Dilara.”
“Your Highness.” Dilara hissed. “It’s time.” She shot a pointed look at the three fatherless children. “Soraya. Please.”
Soraya fell to her knees and squeezed the boys to her chest.
“What’s happening, Maman?” Jahan whispered in her ear.
“I’m staying in the palace, azizam.” Dearest one.
“No.” Afshin clung to her neck. “We won’t leave you.”
“We can fight them.” Jahan reached for an Indian dagger, straining on his toes to grab the ruby-encrusted hilt. “We can burn them all to the ground.”
“Yes!” Afshin cupped her cheeks in his little hands and whispered, “We can kill their Shah. Baba says an army is nothing without its commander.”
Leyla shut her eyes at the mention of Peyman. She shook her head.
“No?” Jahan had the dagger now, clenched in his white-knuckled fists. “Why not?”
“Why not?” Soraya pried the weapon from his hands. “Death should not be decided so lightly. If we kill the Lion, a brother or son —a distant cousin—will only rise to replace him.”
“Then we’ll kill them all!” Jahan said fiercely. He rubbed his wet eyes with the edge of his sleeve. “We’ll just have to get them all, Maman!” He was pleading with her now.
“Even the women? The children?”
He looked away, brows furrowed.
“To kill the Lion is to trade a year of peace for another century of war. Listen to me.” She pulled the boys closer to her chest, tracing their eyes and ears and dimpled chins. “You both have to leave, right now. You have to lead your people out of the darkness and into the new day dawning.”
“But why can’t you come with us, Maman?” Afshin cried, grabbing fistfuls of her dress. “Why?”
Soraya shot a desperate look at Dilara, standing at the door with the baby. Her throat burned so much she couldn’t bring herself to speak.
“She’ll be right behind us,” Dilara said shakily. She started to pry a hysterical Afshin from Soraya’s lap. “Won’t you, Your Highness?”
“Yes.” Soraya focused on Jahan, standing before her expressionless. “I’ll come quickly alright?” She smiled weakly. “As fast as Rustam’s horse, Rakhsh.”
Another Lady-in-Wait appeared, and Soraya’s hands trembled as she pushed the boys away from her. Afshin fought the whole way, crying and clawing at the door. Eventually, the Lady had to pick him up and drag him away.
“What will you do?” Dilara demanded when his screams faded. She glanced at the weapons lining the walls. “Fight them?” Her arms tightened around the baby, who gurgled a cry of indignation. “You’re still healing.”
“I will fight them,” Soraya said. Her eyes strayed to the Indian dagger in her hand. “But not in any way you would understand . . . . I have to buy you all some time.”
Before Dilara could respond, Soraya drew her into a tight hug. “Promise me you’ll protect them.” She could have asked her guards. The commander, even. They had already sworn fealty to the royal family a hundred times over. But Dilara’s love was priceless, more resilient than any blade.
Dilara pulled back, eyes bloodshot. “With my life.”
Soraya kissed her cheek and took the baby from her arms, cooing and nuzzling her daughter’s ruddy cheeks. Dilara opened her mouth, but what was there to say? The babe was too young. Too vulnerable. If Soraya died, the child died with her.
The war drums began at sunset, pounding through the walls like thunder.
Soraya wiped the blood from her thighs and lined her underthings with cloth. Breathing raggedly, she re-belted the brocade to her waist, the fabric shining with a thousand tiny diamonds. Hiding the baby in the folds of her veil, she glanced in the mirror. Even bleeding and holding a baby, she looked like a queen. ShahBanu. Her golden diadem, embossed with lapis lazuli, glittered in the candlelight.
She sent a quick prayer up to the angel Sourush, steeling herself for what was to come, and started for the palace gates. She passed the nursery wing, where she had raised her children; the great hall, where she had married her husband; the royal gardens and pavilions, where she had come to know her people. There was so much—too much—to lose.
The gates were unlatched, and she heaved the metal open with slow, agonizing steps. The buzz and clamor of thousands began to fade as Soraya threw open one door, then the other. Cannons and battering rams appeared before her, archers with flaming arrows and armoured cavalry atop panting black horses.
A sea of faces stared back at her, silent and incredulous.
Soraya sank into a low curtsy. She waited for an arrow to cleave her skull, but the blow never came. Instead, a man parted the sea and paced through the ranks. Like a lion stalking its prey.
She rose on shaking legs as the man they called the Lion halted in front of her. Her eyes climbed from his feet to his hulking shoulders to the dead lion’s head obscuring his face, sharp upper incisors stained with blood. Somewhere behind his mask, Soraya could feel his eyes like a brand on her skin.
She closed the distance between them with open palms, to show that she was unarmed. “Welcome, Grandfather.” She used the intimate address with a forced smile, clasping his hands in her own. “I’ve been expecting you.” She leaned on her toes and kissed him. One striped cheek, then the other.
He stared at her, at the baby strapped to her chest.
“You must be hungry, Grandfather.” She swallowed, blood rushing in her ears. “Your generals tired and cold.” She pulled away and gestured towards the palace. “Won’t you come in?” She waited for him to strike her down where she stood, to tear her foolish, reckless plan to the dirt.
Instead, he turned on his heel and returned to his soldiers, pointing fingers and barking orders. A moment later, a dozen or so men, dressed in heavy furs, emerged from the ranks. Soraya welcomed the men one by one, affording them the same courtesy she would an honoured guest.
“What’s your name, little brother?” She asked the youngest of the soldiers.
“Arman.” He paused, wariness and curiosity warring over his features. “And you?” He glanced at her crown, her face, her gurgling baby. “. . . my Lady?”
“Soraya.” She smiled at him and he blushed faintly, black curls falling into his eyes. He reminded her of Jahan. More a boy, really, than a man. These are not monsters, she thought. These are my countrymen.
The Lion and his generals followed her into the palace, hands at their swords and prepared for an ambush. Soraya didn’t comment, focusing on the baby girl fussing at her breast. The soldiers stole glances at her as she let the newborn suck on her finger. She sighed. The babe would need to be fed soon.
Halfway to their destination, Soraya started to lag. Her body was beginning to fail her, and she kept checking for blood stains on the bottom half of her dress. Fighting a sudden wave of dizziness, she stumbled and almost crashed to the floor. An older warrior named Babak caught her at the last second. Soraya uttered a wary thanks and they continued on their way, but Babak didn’t let go of her arm.
“How old is that baby?” He asked, loud enough for the others to hear.
Her back stiffened. “Three days old.” Behind them the Lion said nothing, but she knew he was listening. He had to be.
Show no weakness. That was Peyman in her ear. None.
“You should be in bed.” Babak said, nodding pointedly at her white face and limping gait.
“I’m perfectly capable, thank you.”
“My Lady, you are clearly injured—”
“I said thank you, Babak jan.” Soraya pressed her lips together in a poor imitation of a smile. “For your concern.” Before Babak could argue any further, they reached the great hall. After the last of her people had fled through the tunnels, she had spent the day preparing, and the fruits of her labour gleamed in the firelight.
The sofreh was laid out on a large, hand-woven carpet. Steaming kebab and buttery rice had the men around her entranced. The sweet smell of sour cherry and pomegranate stew swirled around the room, and beside her Arman sighed.
“Please sit.” Soraya said, pain momentarily forgotten. The men just stared at her. “Sit! Sit!” She ushered them towards the ivory cushions and pushed them into their seats. The men gasped when they saw the assortment of jewels laid out by their cutlery. Soraya said nothing, ladling big helpings of food onto their plates. She stopped to sample a bit of everything to show the food was not poisoned.
“What . . . .” Babak breathed, holding up a necklace of rubies. “What is this?”
“An offering.” Soraya grabbed an armful of blankets, her mouth twisting imperceptibly, “of sorts.” She went to Arman first and dropped to her hands and knees; gently taking off his boots and wrapping his cold feet with blankets. He gaped at her, choking out a thank you as she struggled to her feet. No one spoke as she limped around the table, repeating again and again the traditional gesture reserved for loved ones.
“I don’t understand.” That was Omid, the Lion’s right hand. He held up a belt of pure gold and frowned at her. “Where is the hatred in your heart? We killed your kinsmen. Your husband. Your father and grandfather before him.”
The Lion said nothing. She froze at the mention of Peyman, then straightened.
“I am tired of hatred.” Soraya thought about the fatherless children of both lands. She thought about the Lion’s own children, dead and gone. Their lives utterly wasted. She imagined how devastated he must have been, how shattered.
“I am tired of war.” She said quietly. Blood began to trickle down her right thigh. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve prepared some bread and cheese for your men outside and I must—”
“Wait!” Arman cried, jumping to his feet. “You mustn’t leave!”
“And why not?” The men around him were equally confused. The Lion rested his masked chin on his clasped hands.
“Because!” He looked around frantically. “Because, well . . . .” He jerked his head up. “Because it would be rude to leave your guests unattended. No, Babak?” He turned to the older man, who nodded gravely.
“Very rude, indeed.”
“Oh.” Soraya sat warily at the end of the sofreh, as far away as she could manage from the Lion and his men. “My apologies.” She sank onto the cushions contentedly, stretching out her tired legs.
She nodded pointedly to their untouched plates and said, “Well?”
As one, her guests began to eat, digging into their food with unrestrained fervour. Satisfied, Soraya unveiled the baby and started to nurse.
For a time, only laughter was heard in the great hall. Avoiding tales of battle, the soldiers told stories of their homeland, the lives they had lived before crossing the Tigris. Arman recalled the time he had fallen off his horse and almost died, but he didn’t regret it because the prettiest girls of the village had come to visit him. Babak spoke of his family, his wife who had died during childbirth, and the uncles and aunties who were currently taking care of his youngest. Soraya sat quietly with her baby and tried not to smile at their stories.
After the generals had finished their second and third helpings, the Lion rose from his seat, and with a quick hand signal, the rest of her guests did the same. Soraya scrambled to her feet.
“Won’t you take my offering, brother?” She nodded towards her ornaments strewn around the sofreh.
The Lion shook his head.
Her hands began to shake. “Please.”
He turned to leave.
“Wait!” She blocked his way to the door. “My crown, then.” She shuddered as she removed it, the very first gift Peyman had ever given her. “Please take it.”
Once again, he shook his head. The crown slipped from her fingers.
“I know why you’re here, brother.” Arman gasped as she took off her veil, swaddling the baby girl in the fabric and pressing one last kiss to her temple. Soraya forced the baby into the Lion’s arms. Instead of crying, the child began to finger at his yellow fangs.
“I know you won’t stop until you’ve had your revenge.” She fell to his feet, looking up at him through red eyes. “My people are innocent. All I ask . . . .” She stumbled over the words and her face crumpled, sobs wracking through her body. “Let me give my life for theirs.” Soraya squeezed her eyes shut and lowered her head to the floor, exposing the tan skin of her neck.
“No,” Arman gasped. Babak caught him by the arm. All around her, the men shifted on their feet, unsure of what to do. This was unprecedented.
Soraya held her breath, waiting for the blade to slice her head from her body. When the Lion finally moved, something hit the ground and she screamed. But it wasn’t a shamshir, and her neck was still attached. She gasped as she saw what had fallen. It was the Lion’s mask, the hollow eyes and gaping maw limp on the floor.
She looked up. The mask was gone, and the Lion was nothing but a man. An aging, wrinkled man. His eyes were brown, bottomless. His face wet.
“Azizam.” He gently lifted her chin. “How could I wish you harm?” He helped Soraya to her feet and wrapped his cloak around her shoulders. “What I have done is unforgivable. I have hurt you.” He rested his head atop the baby girl’s. “I have hurt your children.” Soraya thought of their father, trampled in the mud. “But from today onwards you are my daughter.” He touched a tentative finger to her cheek. “And you have nothing to fear from me.”
Soraya exhaled, letting generations of violence and death drain out of her lungs. “Then from today she is your granddaughter.” She nodded at the baby grasping at his chin and mouth. “And your granddaughter needs a name.”
He wiped at his eyes and looked at the child for several long moments. “Sepideh.” He said, pressing a thumb into her dimpled chin.
“Yes.” She whispered. Sepideh. A new dawn.
