The sun was just beginning to rise behind the low hills that guarded the sacred city of the capital, but the sky still burned with veins of amber and purple.

  “Hurry, Father,” said his daughter Scheherazade.

  Her voice was clear, almost musical, and contrasted with the deliberate slowness with which the old man walked. Xenophon raised his gaze toward her. At nearly two hundred and sixty winters, his back remained straight, though the years had softened the edges of his figure until he had become a long, fragile silhouette wrapped in white linen tunics and a dark blue mantle embroidered with silver threads depicting forgotten constellations.

  To the casual eye he appeared merely a venerable patriarch: a white beard that reached almost to his belt, deeply sunken hazel eyes, gnarled hands that trembled slightly as they held the ebony staff inlaid with turquoise. But the world —the real world, among the magi, the warriors and the martial elite of the empire— knew who he truly was.

  Xenophon, High Mage of the priestly caste, Custodian of the Eternal Flames, the one whose word could bend the will of a satrap, raise up a king, or make even a lesser god lower his gaze and fall silent. His Khvarenah —the divine radiance of royal glory— burned within him with such intensity that sometimes, when he meditated in the darkness of the sanctasanctórum, the braziers of the temple would flare up without anyone adding wood. His Ruh was deep as a bottomless well. And his buyulu, that ability to read an entire battlefield in a single second and instantly distinguish friend from foe so as not to harm them with an area spell, was something the younger mages tried —and failed— to replicate.

  Yet in that moment, it was not the High Mage who walked along the cobblestone path of the inner garden. It was only a father. A tired man who preferred the silence of his study, the slow crackle of embers in the incense burner, the warm, spiced flavor of the herbal tobacco he smoked in his old carved bone pipe.

  “It’s still early, little one,” he murmured in that deep, unhurried voice that seemed to emerge from centuries past. “The celebration won’t begin until midday, when the arms of the sun god are high.”

  “But everyone will arrive early!” she protested, bouncing on the tips of her toes. “I want to see the dancers from Susa with their golden veils, and the jugglers throwing torches, and the white elephant the governor of Bactria brought… and I want you to see it too! —and also to get a good spot at the front of the line.”

  Xenophon let out a sigh that was half resignation, half tenderness. He lowered his eyes to his daughter. Eight years old. Hair the color of dark dune sand, braided with crimson ribbons, enormous shining eyes of a light coffee shade that seemed to hold an immense magical capacity.

  Her name was Scheherazade, “the one of noble lineage,” though at home everyone affectionately ended up calling her simply Scher.

  Of all his sons and daughters —the older ones already men and women with positions, wives, responsibilities; the middle ones scattered across the satrapies learning the art of governing and the art of silence—, Scheherazade was the only one who could still drag him out of his voluntary retreat with just a look and half a smile.

  “What if instead of rushing off we sit for a moment under the pomegranate tree?” he tried to negotiate. “You can tell me everything you’re hoping to see tonight. In detail.”

  “No!” She took his free hand in both of hers, small but determined. “If we sit down, you’ll fall asleep with the pipe in your mouth and Mother will say I kidnapped you again for nothing. Come on, Father! Please…”

  Xenophon closed his eyes for a moment. He felt the gentle but insistent tug of those little hands, heard the rustle of the silk of her festival dress, caught the childish scent of almond milk and crushed flowers that always accompanied her.

  And he smiled. A small, almost imperceptible smile that only she could easily draw from him.

  “Very well,” he finally conceded, and now his voice carried an amused note that very few in the empire had ever heard. “But if that white elephant steps on my foot, I’ll tell the governor of Bactria that his gift is an insolent creature. And you will be my witness.”

  Scheherazade let out a crystalline laugh that made the leaves of the pomegranate tree they had just passed under tremble.

  “Deal!”

  And she pulled him with renewed strength toward the main gate of the palace, where the first distant drums could already be heard, the laughter of servants, the jingling of bracelets and anklets, the growing murmur of a day that promised to be long and luminous.

  Xenophon followed without further resistance.

  After all, he thought as he watched her skip ahead like a fawn, what power did a High Mage, a bearer of sacred fire, have against the wishes of an eight-year-old girl who still believed the whole world could be beautiful if one arrived on time to the party?

  …

  In the cities and palaces of the great empire of the Eternal Sun, women’s clothing was not merely fabric: it was language, it was calendar, it was declaration.

  Girls under twelve years old walked wrapped in a kind of fortified childhood. Their bodies disappeared beneath successive layers of honor and distinction. They wore long tunics of very fine linen or light silk that brushed the ankles, almost always in pale tones —ivory, pearl, dawn blue, faded petal pink—. Over this went a heavier outer tunic, embroidered with gold and silver threads forming suns, winged lions, pomegranate flowers and tiny verses of ancient prayers. The sleeves were long and wide, sometimes with openings that revealed the lighter inner fabric when they raised their arms. A wide belt of embroidered fabric or soft leather cinched the waist without tightening, more decorative than functional. Beneath, almost always wide, comfortable sharovari gathered at the ankles with ribbons or tiny bells. A light shawl or fringed mantle fell over the shoulders and could be raised to cover the head when entering temples or sacred gardens.

  The shoes were soft leather ankle boots or sandals with decorated straps. Their hair —black as a new moon night or warm chestnut— was usually braided with soft-colored ribbons or held with small silver and turquoise diadems. From their necks, wrists and ankles hung protective amulets: small lapis lazuli beads, solar discs, tiny simurgh feathers.

  Everything declared an innocence that was only just beginning to awaken. When they ran through courtyards or gardens, the fabrics moved like soft wings and symbolized a world far removed from intrigue and problems.

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  Then came the age of twelve. And with it, the first great change.

  It wasn’t the same for everyone.

  Most underwent a slow, almost ceremonial transition. They continued wearing the long base tunic, but now finer, more luminous, sometimes semi-transparent under torchlight. The neckline opened in a teardrop or soft V shape, revealing the base of the neck and just the beginning of the chest. The sleeves shortened or opened from shoulder to wrist. The heavy outer layer usually disappeared; in its place remained a very light veil or a decorative band crossed over the torso.

  The first crop tops of silk or gauze appeared, leaving the midriff bare: a strip of skin that suddenly became the center of all eyes. The sharovari became slimmer, slit up the sides almost to the hip, flashing glimpses of thigh as they walked. The jewelry changed: now there were fine chains crossing the bare waist, bolder anklets with bells, bracelets that jingled with the slightest movement. Kohl became more pronounced around the eyes, henna appeared on hands and feet in delicate designs.

  But there were others —the most impatient, the most confident, the daughters of courtesans, sacred dancers or young magesses— who made the leap without stages.

  At twelve, thirteen or fourteen they already walked through night gardens, steam baths or private parties dressed almost like adults. They wore only two pieces: a very short choli or fitted top, and silk or fine lace panties. Sometimes the band was simply a wide embroidered strip that passed under the breasts, leaving shoulders and much of the torso bare. Other times it was a stylized bra with golden filigree, transparencies, small dangling ornaments that swayed as they walked. The panties were usually high-cut, with thin side straps, openwork lace or tiny pearl details.

  And yet they were not naked: sensuality came wrapped in ornament. Chains crossing the belly and back, heavy anklets that sang like music, transparent veils falling from waist or shoulders and moving with every step, long necklaces sliding between the breasts, large hoops, intricate henna on feet, hands and sometimes thighs.

  And then there were the adult women.

  Women from sixteen onward —wives, concubines, priestesses, dancers, mages, nobles— no longer had anything to prove or anything to hide.

  In night gardens, thermal baths, full-moon feasts, private chambers, they wore the minimum and the most elaborate at the same time. Persian fantasy bikinis: tiny breast bands embroidered with gold, silver threads, gemstones, openwork lace or subtle transparencies. Matching panties —almost always very high-cut, thin-sided or thong style—, decorated with filigree, small dangling chains, sewn pearls or lace so delicate it seemed woven mist.

  Sometimes they wore only one piece: a full lace body that left large areas of skin exposed, or a wide band that covered breasts and hips but left the abdomen, back and sides completely free.

  And always, always, heavy jewelry: chains crossing the belly and thighs, anklets that sang when they walked, bracelets rising to the elbow, toe rings, long earrings brushing the shoulders. Hair loose or gathered with feather ornaments, jasmine flowers or small gold crowns. Black kohl outlined the eyes until they became deep pools. Lips painted dark red or brilliant carmine.

  In those moments, when torchlight or moonlight caressed them, they were not merely women. They were fire wrapped in silk, promises moving to the rhythm of tiny bells and the whisper of fabrics, the very incarnation of desire that ancient poems had sung for centuries.

  And so, in this empire of burning suns and velvet nights, clothing marked each woman’s time: first innocence, then growing maturity, and finally radiant and fully displayed.

  …

  In the great empire of the Eternal Sun, the clothing and metal a man wore were not private decisions: they were public declarations, ranks engraved in fabric, leather and metal about who he was, where he came from and whom he could kill without having to answer for it.

  Young boys who had not yet reached twelve winters walked wrapped in a simplicity that varied according to birth.

  Sons of great noble houses wore short or medium tunics of the finest linen or soft silk, always in pale tones that spoke of purity and lineage: broken white, cream, very pale blue. Over the tunic fell a short cape embroidered with the family emblem —rampant lion, winged sun, soaring falcon, sacred tree—. A wide belt of embroidered fabric or fine leather cinched the waist, and on their feet they wore soft leather shoes or decorated-strap sandals. A round cap of fine fabric, sometimes with a small jewel, completed the outfit of the most privileged.

  Boys from lesser noble families, prosperous artisans or guards wore simpler, more durable garments: short tunics of thick wool or linen in earthy colors —brown, gray, olive green—. Straight trousers and low boots. No embroidery or jewelry.

  None of them carried real weapons. At most a small bone-handled knife, a tool for peeling fruit or carving wood, never for threatening.

  When the years crossed the boundary of twelve or thirteen, the world began to look at them differently.

  Young men from great noble houses walked wrapped in controlled splendor. Long tunics reaching the ankles or mid-calf, woven in heavy silk or brocade with gold and silver threads. Deep, proud colors: dark garnet, midnight blue, emerald green, royal purple. Sleeves wide or fitted according to the fashion of the year. A wide kamarband of repoussé leather or embroidered fabric with a large gold buckle marked the waist. Over this, open caftans or long mantles with fine fur lining on cold nights. High soft leather boots with slightly curved toes. Tall turban or cap adorned with feather or gem according to family prestige. Rings, bracelets and necklaces bearing the ancestral seal completed the image.

  Young men from lesser noble houses dressed with dignity but without excess: lighter silk or fine wool tunics in strong but sober colors —strong blue, forest green, burgundy—. Less gold, more simple geometric appliqués. Leather belts with silver or gilt bronze buckles. Shorter, practical caftans. Mid- or high boots without superfluous decoration.

  Boys already serving in the Imperial Guard or among the Immortals, whether as apprentices or minor guards, wore: short reinforced linen tunic dyed sacred scarlet, small polished bronze or iron scales sewn on chest and shoulders, light vambraces and greaves. Wide black leather belt with metal plates. Short crimson cape fastened with a winged-lion brooch. High reinforced boots. Conical or lamellar helmet with nasal guard and dyed horsehair crest.

  Young mercenaries, soldiers of fortune and adventurers who formed part of many noble retinues dressed eclectically and practically: short tunics or padded gambesons of thick wool or boiled leather, muted colors so as not to stand out in dust or darkness —gray, brown, dark green, black—. Reinforced baggy trousers at the knees. Worn high boots. Many layers: leather vests, hooded cloaks, neck scarves. Belts, pockets and sheaths always visible.

  As for weapons, the rule was clear and varied according to blood and trade:

  High nobles carried ceremonial scimitars of great beauty —ivory, gold and gem handles—, more symbol than tool of death, accompanied by an elegant short dagger. Lesser nobles carried simpler but functional scimitars or falchions, along with an auxiliary dagger. Imperial guards and Immortals bore the regulation long scimitar, plus short spear, composite bow and regulation dagger. Mercenaries carried whatever they could afford, steal or handle well: scimitars, falchions, foreign straight swords, axes, maces, bows, multiple daggers, even chains or whips.

  When youth was left behind and men entered full maturity, clothing reached its definitive form.

  Nobles of great houses wrapped themselves in maximum contained ostentation: long brocade or heavy silk tunics with embroidery narrating lineages and deeds. Rich, saturated colors. Open caftans with silk or precious fur lining. Wide belts with solid gold gem-encrusted buckles. High embroidered boots. Tall turbans with large central jewels —emeralds, rubies, sapphires—. Long mantles with fur or feather trim. Multiple rings, heavy bracelets, sometimes earrings.

  Nobles of lesser houses maintained dignity but with less shine: good silk or fine wool, strong colors, silver or gilt bronze belts, functional caftans, quality boots without excessive ornament.

  The Immortals and Imperial Guard responsible for protecting and guarding the palace, the Shah and the princes, reached their most imposing form: full gala or combat armor, polished bronze or iron scales over crimson tunic, helmets with large crests and face protection, long capes embroidered with the winged sun, high boots with metal reinforcements, wide belts loaded with sheaths, short or long shields, some lances with pennons and scimitars or falchions.

  And in every free adult man, regardless of birth, beat the same certainty: he had the right to openly carry a scimitar or falchion. It was the weapon of manhood, the visible symbol that they were men of the empire.