"Perhaps. But my nation is still intact. Will yours be, come the morrow?"
The line went dead.
The speaker of the Iranian Parliament went to a wall map. He picked out the point where the creature or power the Afghan had called the scourge would cross their mutual border.
He saw that the path would take this scourge through the sands of the Dasht-i-Kavir Desert, south of Tehran.
Since he did not wish to lose his republic for the sake of a useless desert, the speaker put in a call to the Iranian president, with whom he reluctantly shared power.
"Should we not defend the revolution?" demanded the president after he had heard the speaker through. "For it is truly written that submission to Allah's will is not to be avoided."
"No," the speaker said thoughtfully. "For if I read my map correctly, this scourge of the Afghans is bent upon reaching the criminal Iraiti nation."
"Allah be praised."
Chapter 41
The city of Abominadad was the cradle of human civilization. Erected at a particularly sinuous twist of the Tigris River, it had birthed the first alphabet, the art of writing, astronomy, algebra, and a long line of kings that had included the most powerful and despotic in history.
Destroyed many times over the centuries, Abominadad had always been rebuilt. Always larger. Always to grow to greater power, more grandiose aspirations.
And while the center of earthly civilization had shifted to Persia, then Egypt, Greece, Rome, England, and, in the twentieth century, the unknown and unguessable Western land known as America, Abominadad patiently tore down her old towers and threw up new ones. She prospered, expanded, and, most important, dreamed. Waiting for the desert stars to favor her again.
In the late twentieth century, some five million Arabs dwelt in Abominadad-more human beings than had populated the young globe when her first minaret was erected in the storied days no eye living today had beheld.
Of them, no Iraiti ear had ever heard the haunting sound that swelled across the Tigris.
Yet all five million inhabitants of Abominadad felt their blood run cold when they first caught that sound. Fear clutched at every heart. Hands shook.
It was a sound, high and haunting, that they understood in their souls. It burned in their blood. It resonated in racial memories. Fathers had imitated that sound, teaching it to sons, and sons to grandsons. Although it had become diluted, imperfect, half-forgotten, every Iraiti from the mountainous Turkish border to southern salt marshes had learned to approximate the sound that keened through the dry air.
It was a call of defiance and a knell of doom.
And as it sliced the sky, pure and crystalline, it brought a startled silence from the city. The muezzin froze in their minarets, the call "Allaaah Akbaaar" dying in their suddenly tight throats. The women withdrew to their homes like black crows seeking shelter from a storm. The children sought their mothers.
And the men, who alone knew the true significance of that cosmic sound, made haste to gather up their clan.
For the first time in generations, Abominadad was about to be evacuated. Not because of the threat of falling bombs and raining missiles. Not because of pestilence. Not even because of fire.
But because of a beautiful song floating through the air.
"What is that exquisite song?" asked President Maddas Hinsein, who, because he had been orphaned young, had had no father to mimic that weirdly ethereal keening.
Receiving no answer, he turned to his defense minister, only to find the man staring down at his darkening crotch.
A puddle formed around the man's left shoe, ruining a Persian rug that months before had graced the palace of the deposed Emir of Kuran and now covered the floor of President Hinsein's office in the Palace of Sorrows. A great seven-foot bejeweled sword hung on the wall behind the man's head.
Since he could always shoot his defense minister later, Maddas Hinsein forbore to draw his pearl-handled revolver and instead affixed a broad grin of good humor on his face. They were always disarmed by that grin, were his victims.
"Are you ill, my brother?" Maddas asked sympathetically.
The new defense minister looked up. "No, Precious Leader. I am dead."
"Come, come," said Maddas Hinsen, striding over to clap a fatherly hand on the man's quivering back. "Do not think because you have pissed on my favorite rug that I will shoot you dead."
"I wish that you would."
Maddas Hinsein's mustache and eyebrows lifted all at once. "Truly? Why, brother Arab?" he asked.
"Because it would be infinitely more merciful than what I and all of Abominadad will suffer at the hands of the authors of that song."
"Tell me more," prompted the Scimitar of the Arabs, leading the man to a window with a reassuring arm across his shoulders. "I am very interested in what you have to tell me."
The window happened to be near a spot where the rug fell short. It also overlooked a broad panorama of the city proper.
Maddas Hinsein gazed out over the city that, even in this dark hour, was his pride and joy. Nebuchadnezzar had ruled this very city. Before the evil thing had befallen him and he was exiled into the desert to eat scrub grass and consort with oxen. In the future, this sprawling metropolis would be the capital of all Dar al-Islam, the Realm of Islam.
His chest swelled with the pride he felt. A shine appeared in his moist brown eyes, making them glow like mournful stars. His fixed grin widened, and softened with true joy.
Then his eyes focused on the streets and broad avenues choked with fleeing cars and trucks. His fleshy face fell.
"My people!" Maddas Hinsein said in surprise. "Where do they go?"
"To safety, Precious Leader."
He touched his heart. "Safety? They are safe here. With me."
"They do not think so," the defense minister said quickly.
Maddas Hinsein looked down at the man's sweaty face.
"You speak boldly, for once," he said suspiciously.
"I no longer fear you, Precious Leader," answered the defense minister. He closed his eyes. "You may shoot me now."
Maddas Hinsein took the man by both shoulders. "I have no intention of shooting you. Are we not brothers?"
That has not stopped you before, the defense minister thought. Aloud he said stiffly, "If you insist."
"Then tell me: before Allah, what frightens you, brother Arab?"
The calling came again. It cut through the glass like a blade of sound wielded by houris.
"Before Allah," said the defense minister, his fear-sick eyes darting about the room, "that."
"But it is so beautiful."
"Only to another of the ruh who utter it."
"Ruh? I do not believe in demons."
"You will." The defense minister licked drying lips. "If you are not planning to shoot me, Precious Leader, may I shoot myself?"
"No," said Maddas Hinsein sternly. "What sound is that? Quickly, I weary of this word play."
"Mongols," croaked the defense minister.
"Speak louder."
"Mongols," repeated the defense minister, this time in a high, squeaky voice like a child whose finger had been caught in a mousetrap. "It is their hoomei you hear. What they call the long song."
The sad eyes of Maddas Hinsein, Scimitar of the Arabs, narrowed at the sound of the word "Mongols." There was not much schooling in his past. He knew little of modern history-one reason he had miscalculated so badly in annexing Kuran. Of ancient history, he carried in his head only the great moments in Arab pageantry, and little of the terrible fates that befell those rulers who, like himself, overreached themselves.
But he had heard of Mongols. Dimly. They dwelt in the far east. Somewhere.
"These sounds are made by Chinese?" he muttered, blinking stupidly. "The Chinese are not arrayed against us. They have been our friends. Sometimes in secret ways. "
"Mongols are not Chinese," the other man said after several attempts to swallow. "The Chinese fear Mongols more than any o
ther foe."
"They have never faced Renaissance Guardsmen," Maddas remarked confidently.
"Mongols are"-the defense minister groped for a proper comparison-"more fierce than even Turks. They nearly conquered the world once," he added in a strange voice. "Once, they vanquished Irait."
"I do not recall hearing such a tale," allowed Maddas Hinsein, a worried frown beginning to darken his features for the first time.
"They rode out of Mongolia astride their tireless ponies and laid waste to everything in their path. Those who resisted were put to the sword in cruel, merciless ways."
"And those who surrendered?" wondered President Maddas Hinsein. He noticed that the song, which had lifted again, seemed to emanate from the east. The population of Abominadad was beating a path west.
The defense minister swallowed. "Put to the sword in even crueler ways. For the Golden Horde of Genghis Khan despised those who refused to fight even more than they did resistance to their will."
Maddas Hinsein's arm fell from his aide's shoulder as if every nerve had been severed by surgical lasers. He had heard of this Genghis. He was a mighty warrior. As famous in his way as Saladin, who had routed the Crusaders.
"Perhaps they have come to join our cause," he said hopefully.
"Perhaps," the other agreed. "But when they were last here, they besieged Abominadad."
"The city was walled in those days," said Maddas Hinsein. "How could mere horsemen successfully besiege our glorious city?"
"It is written in the histories that the caliph in those days first saw a cloud of dust in the distance."
Maddas Hinsein went to the opposite window of his office. The one that looked eastward. He did see dust. Of course, there was always dust in the air. This time of year the sandstorms and dust devils were especially fierce.
"What else?" asked the Scimitar of the Arabs, nervousness coloring his deep voice for the first time.
"The rumbling of many horses told the caliph that the fate of Abominadad was nigh."
Through the glass, through his boots and the floor beneath them, came a faint vibration. It made Maddas Hinsein's teeth click and chatter. He set them defiantly.
"What then?"
"I cannot understand you, Precious Leader," said the defense minister.
"What happened then?" shouted President Maddas Hinsein, unclenching his teeth. The floor under him was shaking now. It was a very steady shaking. Like a thunder that had rolled out of the ages.
"The hordes of Hulegu came to the Ishtar Gate."
Maddas scowled. "Hulegu? What of Genghis?"
"Genghis was dead by this time-otherwise we would not be here speaking of these matters," the trembling defense minister offered. "Genghis left behind only dust. Hulegu was sloppier."
"Go on!" urged Maddas Hinsein, noticing that the dust cloud was darkening. It was midday but the brightness of the sun was fading. The dust was very, very black now.
"Hulegu and his Mongols stormed the Ishtar Gate and overwhelmed poor, defenseless Abominadad," the defense minister went on.
"Bah! We are not defenseless now."
"Nor were they then, Precious Leader. The garrison was captured and its soldiers divided among the Mongols."
"Slavery is a fitting fate for those without the stomach to defend their nation," Maddas spat contemptuously.
"They were not enslaved," said the man. "They were divided for slaughter. The caliph was captured and forced to order his people to leave the city where they laid down their arms."
That reminded Maddas Hinsein of the teeming refugees passing beneath this window.
"Why do my people run without leave from their Precious Leader?"
"Perhaps because they have read the same histories as I," suggested the defense minister.
"What histories?" demanded Maddas Hinsein through tight teeth. The palace was shaking now. It was designed to withstand a direct missile hit. It took a lot to make such an edifice tremble. Yet he barely heard his defense minister's words of explanation.
"The ones that tell of how after the people of Abominadad surrendered, they were all put to the sword. The Tigris ran red on that evil day."
"Never mind the people!" Maddas shouted, seeing for the first time a line of horses coming out of the desert. They looked small, the riders astride them low and squat, their wide faces as hard and unfeeling as rank upon rank of hammered bronze gongs. "Tell me of the caliph's fate!"
"Caliph al-Musta'sim was allowed to live for seventeen days, while Abominadad was sacked and burned." Tears welled up in the defense minister's jewellike eyes.
Maddas Hinsein turned, his face sagging. His eyes implored an unspoken question.
"The caliph!" Maddas roared. "What of the caliph, you ignorant dog?"
"Then they sewed him in a bag and trampled him to death under the hooves of their horses," replied the weeping defense minister. "May I die now?"
"No, you may not die!" thundered Maddas Hinsein, drawing himself up. "You are an Arab. Arabs do not lay down their lives before an enemy. Where is your courage?"
The defense minister obediently pointed to the dark wet stain on the former royal rug of the Kurani emir.
"It is there, Precious Leader," he said simply.
"There is a way out of this predicament," Maddas shouted, pacing the rug. "There is always a way. I need only think of it."
"It is too late. The thunder of Mongol doom is upon us. And our best forces are bogged down in Kuran."
Maddas Hinsein's deep brown eyes acquired a crafty light. He snapped his fingers, bringing a broad grin to his sober face.
"Contact the Americans," he said quickly. "Inform them I wish to enter into an alliance. They may have all my oil in return for protection from these bandits."
The defense minister shook his head doubtfully. "The Americans know your true colors, Precious Leader. They know how you break your promises for the sake of the moment."
"Phone Tel Aviv, then. The Zionist Entity will be happy to learn that I now regard them with respect and affection."
"That I would not do if I were the caliph of old Abominadad and it was my only hope to escape the sewn bag of death."
"Then contact the hated Kurds!" Maddas thundered. "They are almost as savage as Mongols. Perhaps they will hurl themselves into the teeth of these animals, and both armies will be wiped out!"
"How will I do that?" the defense minister asked plaintively. "The Kurds have no telephones, no radios, and no cities. They have been practically gassed out of existence."
"What traitor did that?" roared Maddas Hinsein.
"You did."
Maddas drew his scraggly black eyebrows together like burnt caterpillars mating. He fingered his mustache worriedly. It was true. He had gassed the Kurds. In all the excitement, he had almost forgotten.
"There must be some ally that will succor me," he muttered, pacing the rug. "The Russians have nuclear weapons. Whose side are they on this week?"
"I do not think even they know," the defense minister admitted truthfully.
"Where is the PLO? After all I have done for them."
"Their leadership has been decimated by your own assassins, Precious Leader."
"What of the Grand Mullahs of Islam? They will not allow a fellow Moslem leader to perish at the hands of unbelievers."
"They have declared you an enemy of God and decreed that for your crimes against Islam, you be killed and your hands cut off."
"Oh."
And out the window, rank upon rank of Mongol horsemen drew near, the pounding of their multitudinous hooves raising a black cloud that had blocked out the very moon and cast a pall over even the unquenchable spirits of President Maddas Hinsein.
He wondered if he too would end up like King Nebuchadnezzar, cast out into the hostile desert, eating tufts of dry scrub grass with the oxen and other dumb brutes.
Then, remembering the fate of Caliph al-Musta'sim, he realized the answer to that question.
Only if he were lucky.
Chapter 42
President Maddas Hinsein fingered the wallboard control that caused the six-thousand-pound steel door to roll closed behind him.
He descended into the multilevel bunker under the Palace of Sorrows that had been made by German engineers to withstand a direct hit from everything from an H-bomb to laser cutting beams, content that no matter what happened to his unimportant populace, he would emerge alive at the end of it.
And if alive, he would be ultimately victorious.
Maddas swaggered through the maze of passages to a duplicate of his office above. All that it lacked was the Kurani emir's excellent rug.
But at least it would have the wonderful Korean sword, which Maddas personally carried, wrapped in heavy burlap to protect his fingers from the wickedly sharp blade.
He placed this on his great desk while he removed the knit khaki jersey that he had worn when he had executed the final member of his cabinet, the defense minister whose name he had already forgotten. It was stiff with blood and smeared with coagulated brain matter.
From a drawer in the desk he drew forth a long funereal black garment-a spare abayuh. Pulling this over his head, he allowed the fine fabric to settle down over his thick hips, which wiggled sinuously. He drew a veil over his sad brown face.
"Ahhh," sighed the Scimitar of the Arabs as the comforting fabric soothed his troubled soul. Wearing the veil was his most secret vice, kept from even his late wife. It was a relic of the days he had escaped to Egypt disguised as a woman, after the failure of a youthful coup. The abayuh proved to be a tension reliever more excellent than torturing Kurds.
He slipped a CD into a Blaupunkt deck. The strains of "Salome's Seven Veils" rolled over his shrouded form like waves of bedouin glory.
Throwing his hands up in the air, he began throwing his hips about, fingers snapping in syncopation.
"Mad Ass, Mad Ass," he sang in a low baritone. "I am the most crazy-assed Arab of all time."
The dry clearing of a throat caused his eyes to go wide behind his veil. In a long wall mirror he caught a reflective glimpse of a wispy presence in white.
Maddas Hinsein wheeled.
Standing in the doorway, hands tucked in the sleeves of a pale kimono, was a tiny Oriental man who looked as old as the Prophet himself.
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