The smell of dust, smoke, and blood was all that roamed in the atmosphere. The once pale, sandy ground was tainted with splats and pools of red that one could not distinguish whether they were from the squashed watermelons that rolled from their collapsed food stands, or from the blood oozing out of their respective, fallen vendors who laid around abject like ragdolls. The walls that once built up the sublime and almighty Persia were broken to pieces. The Empire was inevitably to fall into the hands of its invaders who had expanded extensively from East Asia to now Persia: the Mongols.

 

Hassan al-Tabrizi was ducked behind a pile of debris from the walls that collapsed around him. Taking a peek from his shield, he caught a glimpse of horses galloping through the bloodied streets, ridden by Mongol despots who shot down every last thing in sight with their bows and arrows. Hassan diverted his eyes down at a blood-stained crumpled piece of paper, painted with smooth, precise strokes that mirrored his astute skills as a cartographer. As long as he had his map with him, he was sure he could find his way out of this calamity that the Mongol Empire had imposed upon his home.

 

Taking his chances, he rolled out and moved precariously throughout the ruined area. That is, until his eyes spotted a paintbrush that he recognized as his own, rolling through a puddle of red. Surely, what was he without his brush? The majority of his life was made up of hours of assiduous practice in dancing and dipping his brush in ink upon walls, the ground, and whatever canvas he could find with perfect dexterity, turning them into perfect pieces of calligraphy and maps. Even if he made it out alive, who was he without the one tool that gave purpose to his hands and his life?

 

Between his heart and his mind, Hassan seized the chance right then and there, lunging at what he thought was the auspicious moment and extending his hand as swiftly to snatch up the brush. 

 

Suddenly, the object inches in front of him was shattered upon the weight of a hoof.

 

Before Hassan could lift his head up, a sabre curved sharp along his neck. His breath hitched; His entire body froze as he felt the cold edge press against his skin, not daring to move as much as a single inch. His gaze, which had been heavily concentrated on the broken paintbrush in front of him for as long as he held his breath, only shifted as a piece of paper impeded his line of sight, sweeping across the floor until it stopped right at the feet of a figure who casted a dark, imposing shadow. Hassan widened his eyes in that instance. There was only one man whose very presence could thicken the air, whose being carried an aura of mercilessness and iniquity, and now he is holding his only escape route in his hand.

 

Daring to lift his head slightly, he saw himself taken before the leader of the invasion who resembled the former emperor of destruction, Genghis Khan, himself. The air around him grew cold, and the silence occupying the scene was more terrifying than the screams and slaughters of the dying city outside. The leader stood tall and imposing: his face was his own canvas of scars and sun-leathered skin, and his eyes were devoid of mercy. They wandered across the crumpled map, and Hassan thought he was sure to be dead in that instance.

 

“Your ink,” the leader began, “will open up the world.” 

 

Hassan widened his eyes before apprehending the implications.

 

And taint it with red, so he thought.

 

It didn’t matter whether they spoke the same language or not, the message was as clear as day: he was to guide the Empire and spread its destruction to everywhere else he led. He was to direct its conquests and aid its expansion throughout Eurasia. Nevertheless, no matter how much Hassan felt his entire being revolting against it, as soon as his eyes met the ones towering over him, a feeling of fear immediately seeped in so deeply that it forced a soft mutter out of his trembling lips, of what could only be made out as baleh (yes).

 

From onwards, Hassan spent day and night analyzing and putting together what little pre-existing information was available into curating maps. Gradually, as he traveled more with the Mongols upon horses and carriages, the paths that he directed became increasingly coherent and stronger. His crafted maps, once sporadic and uncertain, became fuller thanks to exchanges of information. 

 

Particularly, Hassan learned that the Mongols had an advanced network of intercommunication during this period of expansion. They deployed spies to gather intelligence on enemy territories, utilized the Yam communication system that disseminated information efficiently throughout the vast empire, and relied on their nomadic, intimate geographical understandings. In fact, Hassan realized that his own presence was quite disparaged in their conquests. The only reason they kept him alive was for his usefulness in making navigation more efficient and contributing to battle tactics.

 

Yet, being kept alive also came with a cost. Village by village, empire by empire, Hassan witnessed as the Mongols ruthlessly wiped out every single one that stood their way. No matter how much blood was shed, only little belonged to them.

 

Hassan drew in a sharp breath as his memory wandered to flashbacks of past bloodsheds. It had been years, yet every scene was still ingrained in his mind so deeply that he could recall every single one of them as vividly as if he’d lived through them again. Shaking his head, Hassan dipped his brush back into the pot of ink next to a map he had been working on under the dimmed fire lit from an animal-fat lamp. 

 

The footsteps of a Mongolian soldier entering the yurt broke Hassan out of his trance. He dared not to look back, for he still recognized his place as an inferior within the clan.

 

“It’s magnificent isn’t it?” A deep voice rattled behind him, sending shivers up his spine, “Us, the Mongolian Empire, we’ve come so far. We started with much less power, rose when the Khan unified us, and now we’ve prospered much of the wealth of Asia by having vastly expanded our robust trading networks and adopting innovation from wherever we conquered.”

 

Biting down on his tongue, Hassan held back the urge to retort: and you did so at the expense of the lives of the innocents. Instead, he scraped out a response of broken Mongol, feigning interest, “It’s… impressive.”

 

“Undeniably so,” The soldier loomed over him, his fingers tracing the trade routes inked upon the map Hassan held. “Here, this is the silk road, where we delivered Chinese silk and porcelain to Europe, spices from Southeast Asia to the Middle East, and many luxury goods along these routes. Here, we also exchanged valuable knowledge such as Greco-Islamic medical texts and herbal medicines, scientific knowledge, and importantly the printing press, utilization of gunpowder for siege weapons, and the compass…”

 

As the soldier went on and on, Hassan could not have focused on anything he had been saying. Everything had been blocked out by the flashbacks that came crashing back into his mind, playing over and over again. The destruction, the bloodshed, the massacres---his home, the former Persia.

 

The brush in his hands trembled. It was not dipped in the black ink that moved strokes along the canvas, but with the deep red of lives that were taken simply because they stood on the paths that he himself had drawn.

mer Persia.

The brush in his hands trembled. It was not dipped in the black ink that moved strokes along the canvas, but with the deep red of lives that were taken simply because they stood on the paths that he himself had drawn.