The Gate of fire ooe-2

by Thomas Harlan

  Alexandros laughed, a low musical sound that made the skin on Gaius' arms prickle. "Never more in my life," Alex said, "have I hated anything more than another having power over me, controlling my life, pointing my destiny. Such a man was my father, and now this Prince of yours. I had seemed to escape this, only to come home again."

  Gaius snorted and sat up, rubbing his face with his hands. "He is not my Prince. He is the unwanted friend who rouses you from sleep for some dreadful party or careless escapade that brings the aediles. These are fancies, though, that cannot stand the light of bitter truth."

  Alexandros sat up as well and pulled on his tunic. He sprang to his feet, limber as the youth that he still was. Gaius watched him out of the corner of his eye, feeling envy creeping in his soul. He is a pretty boy, thought the old Roman, and, now, will always be.

  "Our truth is that he is life." Alexandros, despite the bitter tone, was smiling. "Life is precious to us-to me, at least. Perhaps you are old enough to lay down this burden again?"

  "Hah!" Gaius rose as well, though he did not spring anywhere. He stood, using one of the broken columns to steady himself. His sandals had gone missing, and he hunted about with his foot, stubbing a toe on a brick. He grimaced at the pain, but it subsided quickly. An unexpected side effect of his condition, he supposed. "I have never sought release from this life. It galls me, as it oppresses you, that I-we-must serve another. Yet, this is the lot we are given. I put to you a thought…" Gaius paused, hearing a noise on the narrow stairs that led down from the upper floor. A sound like light footsteps. He raised a hand, and Alex looked up at the stairway as well. The sound did not repeat.

  "I put to you," he continued, "that our situation being fixed, we must put all our labors to exalting the position and situation of our master-yes, a cold word, but a true one! As he improves, so do we. Is this not so?"

  Alex made a face, but nodded. "You think like a Persian palace servant," the youth said. "But, still, you are right."

  "Good," Gaius said briskly, "I will take that as a compliment. Now, our present circumstances are limited, so we must convince the Prince to allow us more freedom of action, both to pursue the goals that he knows he holds and those that he does not."

  "What?" Alex raised a hand, glaring at the older man. "You speak like an Athenian jurist-many words with little meaning."

  Gaius raised an eyebrow, his lips forming a smirk. "I am-I was-a rather successful one," he said. "This is what I mean, plainspoken boy! Today, our Prince desires one thing: to defeat this curse upon his people. We will bend all our effort to helping him win out. Tomorrow, however, when this affliction is past, then other thoughts will come to him. I say that we help ourselves most by working toward both goals-that of today, and that of tomorrow-now. Let us spare no time while he dithers and struggles with his conscience."

  Alex stared back at Gaius for a moment, but then understanding stole up on him a bit at a time. Then the youth smiled back at the old Roman, showing his fine white teeth. "Not just a jurist, but a wise councillor."

  This time they both heard the sound of steps, light but unmistakable, on the stairs.

  Both men turned to look up at Krista as she appeared in the doorway. "My lords," she said, seemingly oblivious of the dankness of the chamber, "the Lord Prince wishes to speak with you."

  Gaius bowed a little, indicating that Alexandros should precede him up the stairs.

  The Prince lay in one of the beds in the upper rooms. The wooden frame had nearly rotted away, but enough of the pallet remained for him to lie down on a bed of rugs and quilts that the servants had carried from the Engine. A brace of beeswax candles burned steadily on a table at the head of the bed. Gaius entered the room and drifted to one side to lean against the wall, as was his wont. Alexandros chose to squat on the floor by the foot of the bed, watching the Prince with his deep blue eyes. Krista occupied the lone chair, her legs crossed and a small black cat cradled in her lap. Maxian was still pale and drained looking, but some color had returned to his cheeks.

  "My friends, a delicate struggle lies ahead of us. We have returned to the heartland of our enemy stronger by the addition of Alexandros and the secrets of the Persian magi, but now this great power is focused upon me and it bears down heavily.

  "Gaius, we cannot wait until I am strong enough to go about in the world on my own feet. There is too much work to be done. You and Alexandros must be my eyes and hands in the city."

  The old Roman bowed slightly at this, though his eyes did not leave Maxian's face. The Prince was recovering, but slowly, and Gaius smiled inwardly, seeing opportunities unfold like the leaves of a spring flower.

  "How do we avoid destruction by this curse?" Alexandros' voice showed no concern for his possible annihilation. "If we leave this place and its ward, will it not strike us down?"

  Maxian shook his head wearily. "Our enemy is neither wise nor cunning," he said. "It is very strong, but it does not look ahead. If you take an indirect approach and do not cause the weave of the fabric of the Empire, as it were, to change by direct action, it cannot tell that you are a threat. Even if you did, it might take some time for it to react and strike at you. It knows me, though! It knows the taste of my will and is always pressing against me. If you and Gaius and Krista go out and undertake activities that are not obviously a threat, then I believe that you can act without fear."

  Alexandros shrugged and looked up at Gaius. The Roman nodded slightly and turned back to the Prince. "My lord, what must we do?"

  A brief smile flitted across Maxian's face. "First," he said, "we must track down the exact text of this Oath, which means you or Alex must spend a great deal of time within the Imperial Archives and whichever private libraries you can gain entrance to."

  Gaius grinned at Krista at this, his eyes sparkling. She answered him with an icy calm and continued to pet the cat. Maxian did not miss the exchange, however.

  "Gaius… no dallying. Time will be short, and we must move quickly."

  "How so?" Alexandros stood, brushing his cotton kilt down over his thighs. "If you surmise correctly, we can take our time with a flanking movement and the enemy will not be able to discern our approach."

  "The curse is not our only foe," Maxian said, his voice now very weary. "My brother's agents will also be seeking me out if they learn that I have returned to Latium. After our lamentable conversation in Armenia, I fear my dear brother will think me quite mad. An emperor must, by his nature, look poorly on unstable relatives."

  Gaius opened his mouth to speak, but a fierce look from Maxian stilled him.

  "No, old man, we will not undertake your preferred course of action in this matter. There are other ways to reach my goal. I will not take that one. Go into the city and find out the latest news, seek out this text, get supplies…"

  Krista ushered both men out, and then closed the pale green panel behind them.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The City of Makkah, Arabia Felix

  "Uncle Mohammed!" The young woman, her raven hair tied back behind her head with a scarf, looked up in surprise, bright green eyes visible over a light veil of raw silk. She rose from the stone seat just inside the doorway of the house, smoothing the plaits of her dress, and bowed deeply.

  Mohammed returned her bow and shrugged his outer robe, dirty with the grime of a thousand-mile journey, off his shoulders. "Rasana, daughter of my wife's sister, greetings."

  The courtyard behind Mohammed was filled with noise: men, camels, horses. The sound of swords and lances rattled against the whitewashed walls of the house. Boots rang on the cobblestones. Mohammed stripped the burnoose from his head, unwinding the length of linen. His face was worn and dark from the sun, showing the strain of weeks of hard travel across the wasteland. The girl stared at him, seeing a jagged new scar starting at his left eye and descending sharply into the thicket of his beard.

  Mohammed cocked his head a little to one side, dark brown eyes curious. "Niece, kindly summon my wife to me. I would greet her
before I enter our home."

  The girl's eyes grew wider, as some surprise or shock registered in her. "Uncle… you did not hear? I thought you had come-"

  Mohammed raised a hand, forestalling her, and turned to the crowd of men in the courtyard. They were a grimy and desperate-looking lot, men of the deep desert with long, curved swords and grim, forbidding faces. Many bore the marks of old wounds and hard fighting. Mailed armor glinted under their patched and mended robes. Mohammed gestured to two of them, hawk-visaged men with the blue cords of the northern tribes wound through their kaffiyeh.

  "Quiet! Jalal, Shadin-the stables and water are around the side. Take the horses there and see that they are fed and watered. I will send servants with food and drink for the men."

  The two men bowed, and Mohammed turned back to the girl in the doorway. She had turned pale, and her soft hands were fluttering at her waist like doves startled from the brush. "Oh, Uncle! I thought you knew! Please, accept my apologies! I am so sorry." The girl bowed again, almost kneeling on the floor.

  Mohammed frowned and crossed one leg over the other so that he could take off his boots. "Apologies for what? Where is Khadijah? Where is everyone, for that matter?"

  The girl bowed again, placing her head on the floor. "Oh, Uncle, they are in the little house on the side of the hill. The house of white stones! Please, forgive my foolishness, I thought you had come because of the news…"

  Mohammed's frown deepened, and a shade of fear flickered across his face. "The house of white stones? Who has died?" He stopped, his heart filled with sudden dreadful certainty. The girl remained prostrate; her face against the floor, but now Mohammed could hear the faint sound of tears dripping. He brushed past her and ran through the dim chambers of the house, forgetting to remove his boots as custom and civility demanded.

  – |Mohammed halted, his right fist poised to rap on the frame of the door. His face remained impassive, though anger was close to breaking the surface of his control. Loud voices, muffled by the door, could be heard. He dropped his hand and consciously opened his fist, flexing his fingers.

  "…be mine! They are Bani Hashim caravans, our camels, our goods! By what right do they go to him? He is no blood of ours-a hired hand that did too well! He owes his position to his…"

  Mohammed grimaced and considered breaking down the door. Behind him, he felt the presence of Jalal close at hand. He raised a hand and gestured for the Tanukh to leave. The Northerner nodded, tucking a knife back into his shirt, and faded away into the dim coolness at the end of the corridor. Mohammed took another moment and mastered himself before knocking.

  The door banged open, and a very angry woman of middle age looked out.

  Mohammed smiled politely and stepped into the room, ducking his head under the lintel. "Blessings, Taiya, sister of my wife. Blessings, Hala, sister of my wife."

  The woman who had answered the door turned her back on him and stalked to a low seat by the window. The other woman, Hala, stood and bowed gravely to Mohammed, then resumed her own seat. The window behind them was tall and narrow, showing a narrow wedge of the innermost garden of the great house. Hala met his gaze with sad eyes. She had been her older sister's favorite and had accompanied her nearly everywhere. Like Khadijah, she was plain featured, with intelligent eyes and a quiet, almost gentle manner. Mohammed bowed to her and took a chair that had been sitting in the corner of the small room.

  It was cool and almost dark, with only a little light coming in from the garden window. Mohammed sat easily, though his heart was still greatly troubled, and waited. The other woman, Taiya, was the youngest surviving daughter of old Khuwaylid and-when he was alive-his favorite. She sat stiffly, looking at the window, fingers picking at the rich brocade of her skirts. Hala glanced at her sister and then turned back to Mohammed, her small hands folded in her lap. Mohammed summoned a smile for her, but he was sure that it seemed false.

  "Brother, we feared that something had befallen you when you did not return with the caravan from Damascus."

  "Something did," grated Mohammed, suddenly assailed by a stabbing sensation of guilt at the quiet words. "There has been a great war in the North, between Persia and Rome. The Persian armies under the command of their great general, Shahr-Baraz, attempted to capture Damascus. I became involved, and my return was greatly delayed."

  "Involved?" Taiya's voice was quiet, but the anger in her voice was as bitter as spike-leaf tea. "With who? What was her name? Neither Rome nor Persia is any friend of the Quraysh. What is the business of our house to meddle in their affairs?"

  Mohammed turned a little in the chair, facing Taiya squarely. "I met a man whom I would call my brother, if he were alive today. A true friend, for all that we met in a caravanserai in the foreigners' district of the Red City. He was driven to go north, to Damascus, and then to the City of Silk, Palmyra, and I followed him, for he needed my aid. How could I deny the brother of my heart?"

  "You were gone too long," Hala said, her voice rising a little.

  Mohammed nodded, still meeting her eyes. Tears threatened them, for Hala had loved her sister very much. Taiya, too, was on the verge of tears, but would fight to the end to keep this poor cousin from seeing them. "I know. There was a great battle at Palmyra, and we were besieged for many months. Flight was impossible. I barely escaped with my life."

  Taiya suddenly stood up and paced across to the door and threw it open. She looked out into the passageway, saw nothing, and then slammed it closed again. "All the time she lay sick, Khadijah could think only of you," Taiya snapped as she returned to the window. "When she could no longer see, and the fever had settled into her bones, all she asked for was news of you-you, the wanderer! The husband who is never in his own house-who spent his brief time at home mewed up in a cave, sharing porridge with beggars and thieves!"

  Hala stood and tried to take her sister by the arm. Taiya slapped her hand away, her voice rising still further. "You left her alone and she died! She trusted you when she trusted no one else-and you abandoned her! All she needed to live was your face, or your voice, and you denied her even this! At the end, she thought you had perished in the wasteland and then she died, sure that you would never come."

  Mohammed stood, his face tremendously calm. Taiya flinched and shrank back from him, but he did not raise a hand. Instead, he pushed the chair away and knelt on the stone floor and bowed to the two sisters, placing his head on the woven sisal mat that lay across the center of the room. "I am sorry," he said. "Had I known, I would have done anything to be here."

  He stood, and Hala stepped to his side, her hand smoothing his tunic, which had turned awry. Taiya just stared, her face a white mask behind the kohl around her eyes and the golden rings hanging from her ears.

  "I know," Hala said, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, making long marks in the powder on her face. "It was an evil circumstance."

  Mohammed's left eyelid flickered under the scar, and his face became a degree paler. "No… there is true evil in the world, but it is not circumstance. Do not say that this was evil; I have seen its face, and it did not pass this way."

  "Evil?" Taiya whispered incredulously. "You know so much of evil that you can see it, touch it, feel it, declare its worth? Neglect is evil; indifference is evil!"

  Mohammed's face darkened, and he seemed to grow larger in the room. "I have seen the face of true evil, sister of my wife. It is a dark shape that dims the sun, that shatters towers with its voice, which walks in the world in the form of man. Something that the jinn fear as they cower in the desert. Something that makes the world shake when it walks. It did not lay Khadijah low. I know, for I looked upon it from the rampart of Palmyra and saw my friend die at its hand. If it had come this way, there would be nothing left."

  Hala's eyes widened, hearing an echo of fear and battle in his voice.

  "Rubbish!" Taiya almost spit at him, but restrained herself at the last moment. "You do not care that my sister," she continued, "whom I loved best, is dead. Wel
l, I do care and my family cares. You came late into our household, al'Quraysh, and you will not be master here now that she is gone. I do not care that you were Khadijah's husband-I will take those portions of our father's inheritance that are mine for myself."

  Hala turned on her sister, her eyes flashing. "That is not our way! Mohammed and Khadijah wed, and he is her heir. Our clan is rich and prosperous from her wisdom and skill. She chose this man to be at her side, to make us stronger, to be our eyes in the world beyond the desert. Now that she is gone, he will lead us."

  Taiya sneered at her older sister, twitching her skirts away. "Foolish little weaver! What did you do all these years but sit at Khadijah's footstool, smiling prettily and knitting? My husband and I made as much as this boy in her service. Our father made us rich! He is the one who raised up this house and made it strong. Without him, there would be nothing here but a hut and scrawny goats!"

  Hala stamped her foot, ringing a bracelet of tiny bells around her ankle. "Stupid cow! Father made us a house and the beginnings of wealth-but Khadijah's wisdom delivered us riches! Never was a woman wiser than she, even if she could not bear a living son, or married twice. See him? He is her choice-she who is your master and mine in forethought and care. In life, you took her advice above all others. Now that she lies dead in the house of white stones, you would say she is a liar?"

  Taiya did not respond, but stormed out, golden bangles at her wrists tinkling in the sudden quiet. After a moment, there was the sound of another door crashing closed at the end of the hallway. Mohammed stared after her and then sat down, holding his head in his hands.

  Hala looked away, then slowly went to her seat on the window ledge. "Will you stay this time?" Her voice was faint. "Tell me what happened in the north."