The thing about swinging an iron bar around, rather than a sword, was that it had no balance. All the weight of the thing crashed into Rostam’s wrist, every time he stopped. Every time he attempted some clever riposte or lunge, he had to balance the five pounds at the very end of the bar, just as much as the weight at its ‘hilt’. It made a person’s forearms burn like the sun had set down atop them.
His instructor was merciless, however. “Come on! Up! Up! Guard! Come on! Up!” And every time that bar began to drop, thwack! A stick came lashing through his guard, smashing into his ribs — and not lightly. Not hard enough to break a bone, but certainly hard enough to leave bruises. He’d need a trip to the hammam after this, if he wanted to be able to move in the morning. At sixteen, this seemed like a ludicrous thing to say.
“You’re too stiff! Relax!” Another thwack. “You’re too rigid. Unbend. Bend your knees. Relax. Relax. Breathe.” And whenever the old bastard said ‘breathe’, his voice took on a gentle note that seemed entirely at odds with what he was trying to convey. Irudan was a veteran of the Lion Guard himself, and now he made his living “teaching little rich boys how to play soldier, or teaching little orphans how to really fight.” Rostam was, of course, the second — he received no lessons in fencing. His instruction was altogether more pragmatic.
“Alright, enough of the bar. Drop it.” Relief. The bar hit the dirt, and Rostam’s hands hit his knees as he gasped for breath. Thwack. “Did I say bend over? Did I say die? Do you want to lie down? Shall I fetch you some lemon-water, Sayyid? Shall I come and fan thy fat head? Up!”
And Rostam straightened, with some effort, to glare at his tormenter. But as ever, Irudan had a reason for his cruelty. At least, he claimed he did. “If you lie down on a battlefield, youngster, you are dead. If you show weakness, you are dead. Develop a face like a mask. Smile when you are angry. Smile when you are scared. Smile when you are happy. See? Smile.”
The worst part, Rostam reflected, Is that he has a rather nice smile. Like it would light up a room. He tried it on his own face, but it felt false, like a child wearing his father’s clothing. Not that he knew about that sort of thing. If he tried on Uncle Sajek’s thawb or kaftan, he imagined, he’d probably have been set down and spoken to about responsibility. No lashing, no harsh words. Those had stopped once Sajek found a use for him.
But the lectures — the lectures were painful, because there always seemed to be a threat behind them. Behave yourself, his Uncle seemed to be saying, Or my responsibility toward your family ends. He’d never come out and said so. Perhaps he never even thought it; he seemed to genuinely care for Iskanda, Rostam’s sister. But the threat was there, nonetheless, couched behind his uncle’s polite inquiries into the day.
Before he could chase that thought any further, however, Irudan was speaking again. Well, barking. “Right, that’s enough with the bar for today. Get the sword-stick and the buckler. Work your forms. I’ll be right here, drinking lemon-water.” And he did, to his credit, watch. This was one of Rostam’s favorite parts of the day; he could slip away into a sort of meditative perfection, let all the worries of the future and the past fade away. It had taken him years to find this state on demand, and even now it was more fragile than a swallow’s wing. One wrong move, and he’d find himself teetering back to reality.
“Tired? Sad? Frustrated?” Irudan’s voice was lazy, punctuated by sips of cool water as he sat in the shade of the courtyard. “Feel like you just can’t win? So what? You think anyone cares whether you hurt? Whether you’re sad? Listen, youngster, there’s nothing to be gained by sobbing where everyone can see you. You save that for when the doors are shut.”
Rostam thought, How does he do it?
“Lie, youngster, is what I’m telling you. Nobody cares about that soft sweet sensitive boy that just wanted to write poetry,” mocks Irudan. “Save that for the women. When you’re working, you smile.”