Set in fifth-century Ctesiphon at the zenith of the Sassanid Empire, Fahmida Riaz’s novel Qila-e-Faramoshi (Fortress of the Forgotten Ones) tells the story of Mazdak, a Parsi priest widely believed to be the first socialist revolutionary in history. The novel reimagines the Great Palace of King Qobad, the Roman Empire, the lands of the White Huns, the starving proletariat, and the political forces that led to Mazdak’s transformation in his quest for social justice. In this excerpt, a famine has struck the kingdom, and peasants and commoners are starving to death while the aristocracy casually go about their lives. A silent revolution brews in the kingdom as Mazdak— “the Messenger”—and his disciples, among them Barzin, plot an uprising.

That day, blood spilled for the first time on a sweeping path in Ctesiphon.  

The path emerged from Ctesiphon and led to the city of Istakhr in the province of Fars. Before now, this path had been used only by the extravagantly decorated chariots, drawn by two or four horses, belonging to the splendid havelis and estates that lined the road. High-spirited armed cavalrymen guarded these lands astride their horses, and the air reverberated with the intimidating chorus of horses’ hoofs. But today, this path was crowded with builders, miners, and farmers brandishing spears, lances, spades, axes, hammers. They were tearing down the granaries of a haveli and looting its treasures as the landowner attempted to flee with his family and private army. There was pandemonium on the highway, and nobody could hear a sound over the din. Women, toward the back of the throngs, pushed the men forward with all their might.

With a grinding sound, the wheel of a chariot spun off. The chariot tilted to one side and toppled. The passengers screamed, trying desperately to cling to their seats. A few laborers sought to drag the delicate handmaidens off the chariot, but the gleaming swords of the armed troops stalled their hands. Several people in the crowd suffered deep wounds on their arms, chests, and faces. The crowd tried to reattach the wheel to the chariot’s wooden peg. Finally, it slid back on and the chariot resumed its motion.

Barzin stood watching from a sloping flight of stone steps, surprised and distressed at the scene before him. In the commotion he was unable to recognize a single face. Droplets of perspiration trickled from his forehead into his eyes, which he kept wiping off with the lower front of his worn-out shirt. Mustering up all his strength, he tried to yell:

“Stop, stop!”

But his throat was dry. The highway was in an uproar, and even the people rushing by right in front of him could not hear his weak voice.

Even some scribes had also ended up in the crowd. Rendered desperate by their starving families, they were compelled to join the plunderers. They had big pots with them to fill with grain. The mob of sturdy builders was pushing them back repeatedly. An out-of-breath scribe sank down at Barzin’s feet. He was holding on to his pot resolutely.

“Stop!” Barzin tried to shout again. The scribe looked up at him. Then, he panted, “Your shirt. Wave your shirt.”

Barzin instantly took his shirt off and waved it vigorously in the air. A builder or two caught sight of him. A miner recognized Barzin and ran over to him.

“Where is it? Where is your pot?”

Barzin raced down the stairs and grabbed his arm.

“Meher Shah! Meher Shah! You can’t do this.”

“I can’t do this?” Meher Shah bristled. “The honorable Messenger has granted us his permission. Don’t you see? Our people have been butchered here.”

He paused, then continued: “These landlords and their families. We wouldn’t have taken their lives. Two days ago, a family of nobles left here with their private army, killing farmers and craftsmen along the way to Istakhr. They massacred three miners and a blacksmith. After covering some distance, their own army murdered everyone down to the last child and made off with the carts filled with their belongings—gold, silver, weapons. The slain bodies of the nobles are still lying on the main road to Istakhr. Jackals and hyenas are making a feast of them.”

“Slaughtered even the women!” Barzin was scandalized. Faith decreed that taking a weapon to a woman was an unforgivable sin.

“The women?” Meher Shah laughed in a deadpan manner. “No, they took the women with them. To share with each other.”

“Meher Shah,” Barzin pleaded, “we must go to the Great Messenger. Today, this very moment. Tonight. Let’s gather about a hundred miners. We need to spread the message from house to house. No, not just the miners,” he added, his thoughts racing. “Assemble some farmers, too. Craftsmen as well.” Suddenly, he was struck with an idea. He leaped at the scribe sitting on the stone step below.

“We don’t know how to write,” said Barzin. “What’s your name?”

“Narsi. I got nothing. Look!” The scribe showed Barzin his empty pot.

“I’ll get it filled right away,” Barzin announced. “You’ll accompany us tonight.”

Hauling the pot, Meher Shah darted toward the haveli’s granaries.

The scribe raked the crowd apprehensively. But when Meher Shah returned, pushing his way through and dragging the scribe’s pot, now filled to the brim with barley and millet, a wave of relief and joy washed over his face. He got to his feet and made obeisances before Meher Shah, thanking and praising him.

“The acolytes of Meher Shah are forever grateful. May the earth and sky sing your praises each moment, O Supreme Slave of God!”

“You’ll come along with us,” Barzin interrupted severely.

“O Lord of Fruit, Trees, and Stars!” the scribe spoke humbly. “I have to get home! My wife is feeling—”

“Do you see this?” Meher Shah waved the ax in front of the scribe’s face. “It can shatter stone. Your bony neck is no match. I am a miner.”

In the distance, the thunder of horses’ hooves and the cracking of whips heralded the riders of the Sassanian army.

The crowd in front of the haveli scattered.

Lifting his eyes to the sky, the scribe conceded. “I will come.” He tried to lift the heavy pot of grain.

“I shall carry it,” said Meher Shah. “That way I can see your house, too.” They departed.

Barzin watched them till they disappeared. Then, startled, he turned his attention to the approaching troops.

The silver border on the archer’s shalwar gleamed, his head adorned with a plumed turban. His officers had begun to recognize Barzin because of his close ties to the Messenger. They trusted him. With a nod, the archer summoned Barzin.

“What happened over here?”

“This family was going to Istakhr,” explained Barzin.

“Hmm,” the archer said. “Did they kill anyone?”

“No. Some people were wounded.”

The archer urged his horse forward. As he was riding off, he called, “Why are they going to Fars? Their farmers have rebelled as well, even though there is no famine over there. There is news of rain from all over Fars. Miners! Even the tribes of the late Shah Balash from Sistan have joined our cause!”

Barzin listened closely to the archer, then began his journey home. He had heard this too, even though he didn’t have any time for rumors during those tumultuous days. Word was going around that Mazdak’s message was spreading in the province of Fars, as well as in Makran and Sistan by the coast. Farmers and the working class were beginning to support him. What’s more, the kings’ tribes had joined Mazdak’s following, jubilant that the chief mobeds and nobles of the fire temples, who had overpowered several kings, were being stripped of their powers as kingmakers. In Ctesiphon, too, hundreds of fire temples had been closed. Only three great temples remained, of which one was frequented by the Messenger himself.

“An abundance of houses of worship defiles faith,” he would say.

Barzin smiled contentedly.

Suddenly, his train of thought broke. His house stood before him, and his children were playing out front. They ran over to Barzin.

“What did you bring? What did you bring for us?!”

“Nothing. Father won’t bring something every day. You ate, didn’t you?” Barzin stroked the children’s raven curls, took his little daughter in his arms, and entered the house.

Inside, his wife was grinding flour. A lock of ebony hair swayed over her fair cheeks.

“Mehrin,” said Barzin. His wife was still so beautiful—a firm body, radiant black eyes, rosy lips. When she cooked, her face flushed pink from the heat of the fire.

Mehrin raised her eyes and looked at him, then looked around him. “I’ll get lunch ready,” she said, assured that Barzin had not brought anything for her to put away.

Barzin set down his daughter and sat on a charpoy. The mattress had been folded away. A glass of water on the mantel held a single rose.

Barzin laughed. “I didn’t bring anything.”

“Good,” Mehrin replied. “We still have grain left in the house.” Then, she raised an eyebrow and said with feigned coquetry: “I am afraid that one day you might bring home a Harbaz beauty with you.”

Barzin laughed heartily. “I know you would poison her!”

Mehrin gathered the flour, heaped some in a tray, and poured water on it. She laughed gaily as she kneaded the dough. “Not quite.”

Mehrin had been a guest in the houses of nobility. Even in those days, she would secretly meet Barzin. Two teardrops formed within the depths of Barzin’s heart, but he restrained them. “Oh, darling! I have never even laid eyes on anyone else.”

Mehrin was firing up the tandoor. They would have to wait a while for the oven to get hot.

Barzin took off his shoes. Everything he had said was a lie, but a man has to lie to his wife. In the beginning, he had been intimate a few times with noblewomen who had been taken political prisoners. He had never brought them home. In a grove of trees in the woods, in a deserted haveli behind pillars . . . but each time, he returned with a sense of loss. What were those beautiful women to him but flesh? 

Mehrin! His mother had never met her. Mehrin was not a Kurd like him. Her ancestors had migrated from Fars to Ctesiphon. They were builders, and so many magnificent monuments were under construction at all times in the capital city of the Sassanian kingdom that there was a job for every builder in the sultanate. This is where Barzin had seen her for the first time, drawing water at a well. When they found out that Barzin had no family, Mehrin’s mother and father gladly arranged their daughter’s wedding to him.

He was happy with his only wife . . . very happy. Barzin had built this mud house with his own hands using straw and dirt, and Mehrin’s presence filled it with a lovely soft glow.

She placed vegetable gruel and naan before him. “You should eat, too,” said Barzin, planting the first bite in her mouth.

“Hunh!” Mehrin laughed, her mouth full of food. “Then who will make the naan?” She turned toward the tandoor.

Barzin ate hastily. “I have to go,” he said.

There’s an important task. I have to alert the people. Tonight. We’ll meet our noble Messenger. I need to inform them first.

Finishing his meal, Barzin filled a vessel with water and strode out of his mud house.

He rinsed his mouth, face, and hands. Then he washed his feet. “O feet!” he exclaimed. “Today you have a lot of work to do.” He dipped his fingers in the water and ran them over his arms up to his elbows, then performed masah. This was a holy ritual to be completed before the worship of fire. He was about to embark upon a sacred mission. He was certain of it.