It was in April that several members of the Islamic Council got it into their heads that Ardashir needed a coronation. It seemed logical
if the Safavid Dynasty was to be re-legitimized and accepted by European monarchs, then he certainly needed to be officially crowned Shah. It would ensure that his descendants could take the throne, and also cement the support of the people behind him. Being a near absolute monarch who did much of the day to day running of the country, Ardashir had much better things to do with his time, but he realized the importance of firming up his claim on the crown, and nothing better to do just that than have some elderly imam declare he was Allahs Chosen.
So the necessary preparations were made, procuring the decorations and the cheering crowds was attended to, and imams, clerics, and other historical theologians were carted into the capital to decide the exact way the coronation should be carried out. An official one hadnt been done in 150 years, and so bearded experts argued over the translation of mouldy documents as to whether Ardashir should be mounted or on foot when he ascended the steps to the Ishmael Mosque.
Things fell into place, because the pressure of time usually makes them do so, and it was a fine, brilliantly sunny May day when the coronation occurred. A compromise of epic proportions was made among the scholars, and it was finally determined that the Shah would ride a white stallion from the Royal Safavid Palace (which was, as of yet, still being built) to the Grand Plaza, and would then walk on foot through the Plaza and up the steps of the mosque. The potentially violent problem of *who* exactly would place the crown on Ardashirs head was resolved, when one remarkably unselfish imam recommended that there should be no crown at all.
In the resulting chaos after the poor man almost had his beard torn out, it was decided that each cleric would say a special benediction over the crown, and then the oldest among them, trembling, ancient Quoyunlu Al-Takriti, would place the wrought-gold and sapphire crown upon the Shahs brow.
So all went according to plan
sort of. General Mustafa, who would much rather be violently insulting subordinates and scrutinizing every aspect of his army, adjusted himself to the weary task of making sure Ardashir was absolutely and totally safe. The personal guard would be surrounding him, and several officers spent hours trying to design some type of metal vest to repel bullets in the event of an assassination attempt. The resulting costume that they came up with was nothing short of a suit of armor. After Mustafa angrily roared that simply wearing the thing would probably kill the Shah, it was deemed that the personal guard would be sufficient protection.
At any rate, the clothes and demeanor of Ardashir IV on his Coronation would do more to repel bullets than any vest. Astride his pure-bred Arabian stallion, brought in on a ship from Yemen for this very purpose, he definitely looked the part. With a long, flowing dark blue cloak behind him, and an elegant dress sword in what appeared to be a solid gold sheath (probably made in Paris and rushed over) buckled behind his waist, no one doubted the nobility of Ardashir at that moment. Seeing the sternness, intelligence, and love for his people reflected in his eyes, the instant majority loved him. Some had not formed an opinion on him yet, and less still disliked him. Very few even hated him. But of all the cheering assembly on that fine, perfect morning, only two were plotting to kill him.
Ardashir finished the last quarter mile at a canter, and dismounted, striding towards the steps of the Ishmael Mosque, its great, golden dome almost blinding in the early sunlight. A warm glow suffused the royal party, and the slanted light fell directly on the faces of the Shah and his Guard, all trusted soldiers that had served him from the outset, making them seem like demi-gods. The crowd surrounding the steps was immense, and hundreds of people in the front rows threw flowers, as tradition said they should.
One man levelled a pistol. He was kneeling, so the assassin was, as of yet, unknown. He had the pale skin and troubled face of a student that doesnt get out enough, and everyone knows what happens to those kind of people. They join anarchist societies.
All in all, the anarchists plot was well timed and planned, for a two-man team. The student was the bait, and his wild shots would distract the personal guard into apprehending him. The other man, clearly more experienced because he wasnt the one on the suicide mission, would take well aimed shots at the royal party from the roof of the Mosque. They had murdered one elderly caretaker to infiltrate the scene, and his death was only now being discovered in the crypt of the Mosque.
Too late.
One of the guard fell in a haze of blood, and screams rent the air. Several shouts occurred simultaneously throughout the Grand Plaza.
Most people gasped.
The anarchist said, Death to all empires!
7 members of the royal guard grimaced, and drew their weapons.
General Mustafa choked on his tea, and began running toward the scene, taking out his service pistol.
At least three imams said No!
Children cried.
And 2 philosophers sitting in a corner, whispered, This is all a bit cliched, dont you think?
Ardashir was expressionless.
The student was literally ripped to shreds. 3 of the seven bullets from the royal guard impacted vital spots in his body, 2 of the 3 bullets fired by concealed weapons carried by various clerics hit him, and 3 off duty soldiers wrestled his bloody corpse to the ground, literally pummeling him to death. Three shots were then fired from the roof of the mosque, killing one bystander, one additional member of the royal guard, and grazing the side of Ardashirs head. By this time the Shah was covered in blood, and still he stood motionless, as if the ceremony still continued.
The crowd was enraged. At this time in history, many Persians carried guns. Turkmen raids, robberies, and other problems were on the decline, but Persia was a bit of a paranoid nation. As such, there were at least two hundred people in the crowd carrying some type of weapon, with at least fifty pistols and the same number of rifles. The crowd was, altogether, too paralyzed to react to the first attempt, but the man standing in plain sight on the roof, shooting at their beloved Falcon, was simply too much to bear. The remnants of the personal guard put up a steady stream of concentrated fire on the roof, supported by intermittent fire from citizens and soldiers. Its quite hard for untrained marksmen to hit a target that far away, but at least two bullets hit the man in the legs, as later examination proved.
The would-be assassin fell, his bloody legs collapsing below him, rolling down the side of the roof. His body plunged off the gutter, to fall fifty feet down. His fall was abruptly halted by one of the ceremonial orange trees planted about the mosque, to the side of the main stairs. Then he fell the remaining five feet, to land a broken, shattered mess on the side of the causeway. He twitched, clearly his spine and legs were broken beyond repair.
The crowd surged forward to put him out of his misery
And were stopped, by the simple action of a raised hand from the Shah. Ardashir IV, The Falcon of Persia, absolute ruler of everything the sun touched, walked forward. He approached the near-dead body of the assassin, who was probably handsome before anarchist ideas poisoned his mind, and Persian bullets destroyed his body. Drawing his dress sword, (which was, of course, not a dress sword at all) he made one smooth, concentrated cut, across the mans throat.
Then he silently walked, watched by the entire crowd, up the stairs of the mosque, inside the threshold, and closed the doors.
Quoyunlu Al-Takriti, fully 90 years old, was the first one to speak.
What a shame, he said, poking the body of the first assassin with his walking stick. Oh well, shall we continue with the ceremony?
The aged man hobbled up the stairs, and the crowd followed.
Before that, its too uncertain.
