On the wall above, the young Lord Al'Jayan continued to howl encouragement at the riders, who must be coming close now.
Fifteen men removed the bar and staggered aside, faces pinched with pain at the weight of it. Others, their spears and swords a bright thicket, dragged at the gate. It stuck, grinding across the stones and gravel of the gateway. Kurad, his saber out and ready, pushed through them, his eyes on the slowly widening slot between the gates.
Dust billowed up behind the Aws as they thundered ahead, horses running flat out for the safety of the gate. Behind them, the Mekkans surged forward, their arrows arcing high into the air. As Kurad watched, men fell, stricken from their saddles by the Mekkan archers. Bands of spearmen ran in pursuit, howling their southern war cries. Too, the horsemen from the Mekkan camps south of the city had to hove into view, though they were far away and too late to catch the Aws and their brash young lord before he reached the gate.
The gate swung wide, and Kurad put his shoulder to it, shouting commands at his men.
"When they are through, fill the gate with steel," he shouted, "and close it quickly! The Mekkans are hard on their heels."
He looked up, seeing the Aws horsemen loom large, their mounts streaked with sweat, their heads low, close to the reins, speeding like the wind. Behind them it seemed that the whole army of the Mekkans was in pursuit, covering the fields with lines of running men. Their distant war cry rose and rose, echoing back from the towering walls of the city.
Ah-la-la-la-la-la! The Aws rode on; the hooves of their horses striking sparks from the scattered stone and gravel of the road that led to the eastern gate.
Kurad leapt aside, his face creased by a wild grin as the first of the Aws-the brave young man in chieftain's robes, still carrying the bright banner of his house-thundered into the gate and spun his horse, its head turning and rearing, to get out of the way of his fellows. Sweat spattered from its flanks.
The Aws streamed in through the gate, a river of men and horse, green and red, with bright steel in their hands. Kurad leapt to seize the bridle of the rearing horse, his voice raised in welcome.
"Welcome, Lord of the Aws! Well met indeed!"
Lord of the Aws looked down, his eyes bright over the tan drape of his desert scarf. "So it is, man of the city. We are well met."
Kurad paused, his hand tight on the bridle. The man looking down at him had dark eyes the color of well-steeped tea, that and the edge of a scar along his right eye. Lord Al'Aws-his eyes were light, almost the color of the stones of the mountains… Kurad shuddered, feeling the steel-bright saber of the stranger punch through his larynx. Blood flooded his mouth, and he tried to shout, to raise the alarm. He made a gobbling sound and slumped forward, dragging the head of the horse down.
Khalid al'Walid cut again with his saber, severing the hand tangled in his reins at the wrist. Around him the screams of dying men rose up, filling the air with a cacophony of angry shouts and the ring of steel on steel. His men swarmed through the gate, hewing down the Yathribi militia, driving the defenders back into the streets of the city.
"Wedge the gate," he shouted at Patik as the Persian, his armor soaked with blood, emerged from the door of the gatehouse. The stolid Persian was the very devil at close quarters' work in his heavy interlocking suit of mail. He bore a dripping mace in one hand, and a short sword in the other. The soldier raised his head and nodded his understanding. Khalid turned, his quick eyes scanning the rampart and the rooftops. Yathribi soldiers were running toward the gatehouse along the top of the wall.
"With me," he called to a band of his men just come through the gate. "We must secure the wall." With that he swung down off his horse and bounded up the steps to the rampart, his saber gleaming with blood in his hand. At the top he ducked under the spear thrust of the first militiaman and hacked at the man's arm. Blood gelled around his blade, and the man screamed. Khalid tore the blade away and shoved the Yathribi back, into the next spearman. That fellow ducked aside and thrust hard at Khalid. The sheykh weaved aside and then slipped on the wear-polished stones, sliding in the blood and bile spilling from the first man. He went down hard, the man dying on the rampart clubbed him with a bloody fist.
Khalid tried to squirm aside, seeing the spearman raise his leaf-bladed weapon in both hands to plunge into the Arab's belly. The dying militiaman hit him again, making sparks fly across his vision. Khalid twisted hard, snatching at the fallen man's arm. The spear flashed down and plunged deep into the shoulder of the man as Khalid dragged him across his body. Something cold touched Khalid's chest, and then his own men surged along the battlement, their bows snapping in the hot air. The spearman turned to run and took two arrows in the back, toppling with a wail from the rampart into the street below.
Khalid shoved the body of the fallen man off his chest. The spear had dug into his mailed armor, the thin tip wedging into the center of one of the round links. Khalid let out a shuddering breath and stood, retrieving his saber. Fighting continued on the rampart, and in the city the sounds of battle were growing. The first column of Mekkan infantry-spears and shields raised high-jogged through the gate below him. He smiled, suddenly feeling the blood-fire wash over him. He jumped up and down, crying out in joy.
– |"What is this atrocity?" Mohammed's voice rumbled through the square as he swung down from his horse. At his back, Jalal and Shadin remained ahorse, their dark eyes surveying the men milling in the plaza. Each of the Tanukh carried a bow at their saddle horn, an arrow ready at the string. While their chieftain stormed through the knot of men clustered at the entrance to the Temple of Hubal, they kept a weather eye on the rooftops and archways. More than one victorious general had found his prize a poisoned well. A wedge of Tanukh followed Mohammed, though, keeping close to his back.
In the foyer of the temple, Mohammed strode up the steps and came to a halt, his eyes filled with tremendous anger. Two of his allied clan-lords-Mekkan Quraysh, by their kaffiyeh and the cording on their armor-were shouting at a cluster of kneeling captives. Long knives were in their hands, one already dripping with blood. Between the Mekkans and their intended victims, the youth Al'Walid was half crouched with his saber raised in guard. The temple was lit by many torches of pitch, and their guttering light shimmered in the surface of his blade like a setting sun.
"What goes here?" Three heads snapped around at the sound of Mohammed's voice, and he stepped into their midst. "Who gave the order to kill these prisoners?"
The Mekkan with the gore-stained blade-a fellow Mohammed dimly recognized as being one of his cousins-stepped forward, his black beard bristling and his eyes filled with hatred. At his back, Mohammed felt the whisper of air as the Tanukh spread out, covering the doorways of the temple and the great apse of the sanctuary of Hubal itself.
"I did, Lord Mohammed. These are the kin-slayers who fled from Mekkah-we caught them hiding in the cellar of this temple. They owe us-and you, Lord-blood in plenty. This man"-he kicked the corpse on the floor-"he burned the house of my father and killed a dozen of my servants. I am owed blood-debt!"
Mohammed surveyed the scene, seeing the bloody and battered faces of the captives, their fear, the wounds they had already suffered. The brash youth, Al'Walid, caught his eye and made a show of resheathing his blade, though he took a moment to wipe old dried blood from the edge. Mohammed nodded at him absently before turning back to the Hashim captains.
"In the eyes of Allah, the great and merciful, we are all children and brothers. I gave orders that all captives were to be spared. There will be an amnesty, and many will be paroled if they accept my rule and follow my law."
Mohammed stepped in close, looming over the slightly shorter man. The Quraysh lord matched Mohammed's gaze with a steely glare of his own.
"We are owed blood recompense for our loss," the man snarled, his sword still bare in his hand.
Mohammed nodded gravely, never taking his eyes from the Quraysh.
"Murderers will be punished, but they will be judged by the law
, and the great and good god will look to their punishment. Are you the Lord of the World, that you will take his justice into your hands?"
More Tanukh, and others, crowded into the temple. There was an angry muttering when the men saw that the kin-slayers had been brought to bay. The Quraysh captain, seeing something terrible growing in Mohammed's eyes, suddenly backed away and bowed his head.
"Those who follow the law," Mohammed said, turning, his voice rising to fill the great hall, "will be rewarded by the blessings both of man and God. No captive will be slain out of hand, no man put to death without a trial before a judge. This is the shari'a-the law-and all will follow it."
Mohammed turned to the captives, who were still kneeling on the floor, though now some of the Tanukh had moved behind them and were loosening the chains that held them.
"Without the law, that which has been spoken to man by the angels of the Lord of the World, we are beasts. In this place and time, I have heard the God speaking in the clear air, and I know that if His law is not obeyed, then eternal suffering and torment are our reward. I do not presume to set the terms of His justice, but no man who has not been given the chance to submit himself-as I have done-to the mercy of the God who dwells in the wasteland, will die by my hand. Let these men be taken from this place, this house of idols and sacrifice, and let them be judged by the laws of our city."
Mohammed jerked his head at the Tanukh who had surrounded the prisoners.
"Take them away." The Tanukh and other Quraysh in the crowd of soldiers opened a path, and the whole collection of men began to file out into the plaza. Mohammed sighed and ran his fingers through his beard. The white streaks that had begun to mark it at Palmyra were growing, twisting through it like snakes in the high grass. Soon, he through ruefully, I will look much like a patriarch or an elder! And I'm only forty-three years old, too… He sighed, feeling the terrible weariness that came in the wake of hard fighting. He gestured at the youth, Al'Walid. "Lad," he said, "what brought you here? I would have expected you to be still at work in the city. Is all secure?"
"No, Lord Mohammed," Khalid said easily, coming to stand next to the chieftain. "Some houses are still in the hands of the Yathrib-but the city has fallen. In truth, I came here seeking you, expecting that you would take this place"-he motioned to the vast bulk of the temple that rose around them-"as your command post. I found it almost empty, save for those captives who have just been dragged out of the cellar."
Mohammed's eyes narrowed, and his eyebrows beetled together. "Why not let them die?" he said in an even voice, watching the young man closely.
"The captives?" Khalid seemed nonplussed by the question. "I had heard you speak of the mercy of your faceless God, so I assumed that-at least-you would want to question them first. Was I wrong?"
"No," Mohammed said, something in him satisfied by the answer. "You did well today, very well. Your gamble at the eastern gate paid handsomely."
In the early dawn, when Mohammed had gathered with his lieutenants and chieftains to plan the day's assault, the young mercenary had made quite a stir with his proposal to take the eastern gate by a ruse. The Mekkan clan chiefs, who supplied the vast bulk of the army that Mohammed had raised to besiege the hiding place of his daughter's murderers, had thought it mad. But Mohammed had spent too much time in siegework already-the memories of the long, grueling battle for the City of Silk weighed upon him. He had no desire to tie down this army, so fractious and riven with internal dissention, in a lengthy operation against the gray-green walls of Yathrib. Besides, he thought smugly, it is such a plan as I would have hatched, if I had but a moment to think of it.
"It did, didn't it?" Khalid smiled, the wild assurance of youth plain in his face. "I was not so sure, for a moment, as we hurtled toward that gate. I thought it might fail… and I would still be feeling the pain of it! What now, Lord Mohammed? Now that the city is ours… do we return to Mekkah?"
Mohammed looked around, seeing the vaulting hall and the towering graven image of Hubal that rose over it. He saw, too, the rich draperies and carved wooden panels that hung in that place. His heart felt sick, seeing the long years of effort that the men of Yathrib had invested in it-knowing as he did that it would not gain them entrance into the paradise of the afterlife.
"All of this," he whispered to himself, "is a trap… Shaitan speaking to men in their dreams of glory and pride. All their faith turned aside from the True God, their love and honor swallowed by nothingness…" For a moment he felt tears welling, but he calmed his mind, and the emotion passed.
"My lord?" Khalid was still waiting.
"Burn it," Mohammed said, raising his head, his eyes dry. "Tear it down and leave nothing."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Thirteenth District, Aventine Hill, Roma Mater
"Guuhhh!" Blood oozed around the edge of the wound. Maxian, his face ashen, held a trembling hand over the deep gash. He swallowed convulsively, trying to keep from passing out while he worked. Pale green fire flickered in his palm. Yellow serum bubbled out of the wound, then a spoke of green fire stabbed up. Maxian gasped, his breathing harsh, and closed his fist. A fragment of stone, almost five inches long, emerged from the wound, wrinkling its way free in fits and starts. A halo of viridian fire burned around it. Once free of Krista's stomach, it spun away to clatter off the wall. Maxian slumped over the girl's body, bending the last vestige of his will to knitting the ruined skin closed.
The taut skin of the girls' stomach crawled back together, covering the wound. Blood soaked into flesh, making it smooth again, and he collapsed at last, utterly exhausted.
Gaius Julius stirred himself, getting up from the moth-eaten couch that he had appropriated. With gentle hands he lifted the Prince's arms and took him on his shoulders. Turning sideways to get around the wobbly table where Krista lay half covered with a dirty woolen sheet, he ducked under the low door to enter the other room. There was something that passed for a bed, though the previous owner seemed to have spent little time in it. The apartment itself was on the sixth floor of a ramshackle insula high on the Aventine hill. Its only redeeming value was the view from the balcony, if one could risk negotiating the termite-eaten wood and the fraying ropes that held it together. Too, it was high enough above the noxious reek that emanated from the laundry on the first floor for a man to breathe comfortably.
Gaius turned the sheet over his nominal master and laid the back of his hand on the boy's forehead. The Prince was sick with fever, almost burning hot. The old Roman frowned-this was a puzzle indeed. If the boy could rouse himself, he could bring his own power to bear, repairing the burn damage and restoring his own health. But now? Unconscious and wracked by fever-dreams? This required a delicate touch.
"Will he live?" Alexandros stood at the door, a jug of wine in his hand and a loop of smoked sausages slung over his shoulder. The golden youth was smiling, and Gaius Julius hated him for a moment. The climb up all those flights of stairs taxed him, even with this body that felt so little pain.
"I pray so, for our sake. No cheese? No olives? No dormouse, fat with figs and candied nuts? Not so much as a sweet onion?"
Alexandros grinned and shook his head. He put the wine on the floor by the door and hung the sausage from a hook twisted into a very precarious-looking timber that held up part of the roof.
"I did not go far-there is a butcher's on the corner, but I did not see another place to get food."
The Macedonian looked around, a wry smile on his face.
"This is your bolt-hole?" Alexandros was grinning, waving a hand at the holes in the roof and the warble of pigeons under the eaves.
"I sublet it," snapped Gaius Julius, "at a low rate. The man is an informer, so I doubt we will draw any Imperial attention while we are here." The Roman produced a knife and cut a hunk of sausage from the loop. "In any case, we will not be here long. The girl will soon be well; she sleeps now, I think. As soon as our master is awake, we will move him as well."
Alexandros sat, s
hrugging his muscular shoulders. He leaned back, watching the old Roman while he ate. After a time he rubbed his nose and looked at Gaius. "Why do you do that?"
"Do what?" Gaius washed down the last of the sausage with a draft of wine. It was a poor vintage; he could tell by the taste that it was not from a Latin vineyard. Sicilian, perhaps. It had that rustic and disreputable edge to it.
"Eat. Drink. Sleep. All these things that I see you do, see you waste your time upon."
Gaius Julius frowned at the Macedonian youth. Sometimes the mind that lurked behind those pretty blue eyes baffled him. "They are necessary," Gaius said in a gruff voice. "You eat, you drink, you even sleep, upon occasion."
Alexandros smiled, showing his perfect even white teeth. "Not on some days," he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. "I found that sleep is not required by those of us in our current condition months ago. All that sausage gained you was the necessity to expel it later."
Gaius Julius made a face, saying, "I do not believe you. The shock of our recent reversal has unhinged your already addled mind."
Alexandros leaned forward, his hands upon his knees. "Try. Tonight, when the Walach bed down, or the slave girl falls into slumber, do not yield to Morpheus. Simply stay awake-it is so simple! You will find, as I have, that you need never sleep again. It is only the memory of hunger, or thirst, or exhaustion that afflicts you. None of these things are real anymore. Not for us."
On the table, Krista made a small moaning sound, and Gaius Julius stood and stepped to her side. The girl's eyes fluttered open, and she stared up in confusion. "There was fire…" she said in a faint voice. "Something struck me."
"Yes," the old Roman said, gently holding her head up, his arm behind her back to help her rise. "The old villa was destroyed-we only escaped by a hair. Fortuna smiled on us, my dear. The Prince carried you out."
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