Warriors [Anthology]

by George R. R.

  The emperor of Morocco was slight of stature, dressed in plain clothing without ornament. “You are Vauban’s engineer,” he said pleasantly.

  “I had the honor to serve under him, yes, Majesty.”

  “Was it you who made these plans?” Ismaïl asked. Baptiste recognized papers taken from his ship.

  “Yes, Majesty.”

  Ismaïl’s face lit and he nodded happily. “Then we are pleased to have you in our service,” he said, as if Baptiste were there of his own will. “Come, walk with us.” He turned and strode into the palace as an astonished Baptiste hurried to catch up, hardly knowing what to make of this turn of events. This was Moulay Ismaïl, Alouite sultan of Morocco, descendant of the Prophet Muhammad. Moulay Ismaïl, warrior who had helped drive the English from Tangier and the Spanish from Larache. Moulay Ismaïl, at whose hand six thousand women and children had died as he tamed the untamable Berbers. Moulay Ismaïl, who had defied the Ottoman Turks, delivering the heads of their commander and ten thousand of his troops to adorn the walls of Marrakesh and Fez, a demonstration of his yearning for peace. Moulay Ismaïl, on whose behalf the corsairs of Sallee pillaged the coasts of Europe, carrying away men, women, and children to be used for ransom or in the building of his empire. He built palaces and roads and bridges and forts and imposed harsh laws that brought peace to a land that had known nothing but war. “My people have order and bread,” he boasted as they walked. “Soon this empire shall be great once again, greater even than under the Almohads, when the art and architecture and literature of Morocco were prized in the civilized world. Have you seen the Alhambra?”

  “I have not, Majesty.”

  “Nor have we, but we have heard of its genius. We shall build greater still. You shall help us build, Engineer. You shall help us achieve this vision.”

  “Majesty, I—”

  “Tell us about the siege of Maastricht,” commanded Ismaïl, and they paused and Baptiste drew sketches in the sand and answered detailed questions from the well-informed monarch, who demonstrated keen interest in the art and science of siege warfare. “I have granaries that will allow us to withstand siege for five years,” he boasted.

  “Perhaps,” Baptiste said, his practiced eye roaming the battlements, “but there are weaknesses a clever enemy might exploit.”

  “Most certainly. You will correct those weaknesses, Engineer. And you will build for us a city greater than the ancient capitals of Marrakesh, of Fez, even greater than Versailles, the quarters of your infidel king Louis.”

  The tour lasted three hours, the emperor expansive and proud as he pointed out features of what had already become one of the largest building complexes in the world: stables and granaries occupying vast chambers, palaces and harems, reception halls, private quarters, banquet rooms, kitchens, barracks, baths, and mosques. It was dusty, endless, and grand. The energetic emperor was bursting with ideas and stopped frequently to give orders to overseers who were clearly terrified by Ismaïl’s presence. For his part, Baptiste found the afternoon tour quite pleasant.

  They had returned to Baptiste’s station when Ismaïl noticed a group of slaves he thought were moving too slowly. He seized a sword from one of his bokhaxa and with stunning swiftness decapitated two of the men. Baptiste blanched. It was nothing more than a mere flicker in his expression, but Ismaïl saw its softness. In that instant, Baptiste’s life was transformed.

  Ismaïl held the sword out to him and indicated the remaining slave, cowering at his feet. “Will you kill for us today, Engineer?” the emperor asked.

  Stupidly, Baptiste thought it was some sort of joke. “I am not a killer, Majesty.”

  “You are a warrior, are you not?”

  “An engineer, sire.”

  “Do your works not kill?”

  “Other men use them to kill, Majesty. Not I.”

  “Where is the difference?” Ismaïl’s face lit with interest. “What is power without the ability to bring death? How might men fear you?”

  “I do not care that other men may fear me. Nor can I say how they should use my devices. I simply know that I would never kill with my own hand, except to avoid being killed.”

  The emperor laughed, his voice rising to a high pitch. “Never is a very long time indeed. Is it truly so?”

  “It is, Majesty.”

  Ismaïl appraised Baptiste intently, the royal face drawn in concentration. Then he summoned the royal scribe and gestured for him to sit on a stool at his master’s side. Ismaïl inclined his head and began to whisper to the scribe, who copied his words onto a long scroll. Baptiste stood silent, at first hoping that the emperor’s dictation had nothing to do with him. However, Ismaïl glanced at him often as he dictated to the scribe, his expression alternately amused and grave. He whispered, paused, seemed to ponder deeply, then whispered again, for nearly an hour. Baptiste began to dread what would happen at the end of the dictation. He remembered Atigny’s words: Pray you are not noticed by him.

  At last Moulay Ismaïl addressed Baptiste. “The blood of the Prophet that runs in our veins allows us to see the road that Allah in his wisdom has set for some men,” he said. “We have written key waypoints in your life upon this scroll. It shall be kept upon the lintel above the palace door, to be seen by all but touched by none, save our scribe. We shall read it from time to time, to discover how clearly Allah’s path for you has been revealed to us, His unworthy disciple.” The scribe rolled the parchment tightly, cinched it with a silk cord, and tucked it into a niche above the door, guarded by one of the bokhaxa.

  Baptiste had several days to work and worry before he once again heard the thunder of hooves. The emperor stopped nearby but did not summon him, instead inspecting the walls as he often did, always paying attention to the smallest details. Just then a cord broke on a slave’s wicker basket, spilling the heavy load. The slave fell to his hands and knees, scrambling to recover the stones as the emperor approached.

  “Ah, Engineer,” he said cheerfully when he saw Baptiste. “Such a fortunate meeting!” He nodded toward the slave. “Will you demonstrate the penalty for sloth on the emperor’s works?”

  “Majesty?” Baptiste shook his head uncertainly.

  “Will you kill for us today, Engineer?” Ismaïl’s voice was as pleasant as if he were commenting upon the weather. Baptiste felt a sickness in his stomach as the lord of Morocco watched him, waiting quietly, his bokhaxa impassive and silent. Baptiste held a heavy staff but could not raise it against the man, a skinny Spaniard who realized what was about to happen and began pleading for mercy.

  “No?” asked the emperor.

  “No,” replied the engineer.

  “Very well,” Ismaïl said. He seized Baptiste’s staff and quickly beat the Spaniard to death. He pointed to another slave, an Arab who was dragged before him thrashing and crying. The noise visibly upset Ismaïl, who swung again and again until there was silence. Yet a third victim was chosen randomly from the cowering ranks, this time a Sudanese. Ismaïl pushed him facedown into a vat of wet mortar and held him under with his foot. Ismaïl’s eyes were on Baptiste, who had witnessed the killings dumbly, transfixed. After the third victim stopped struggling, Ismaïl stepped away, breathing normally, and he summoned scribe and scroll.

  The scribe read the entry: “It is written: On the first day three shall die, yet the engineer shall remain steadfast.”

  The emperor clapped his hands in delight. He mounted his horse. “Men have died this day. Not at your hand, yet because of you, Engineer. Three for one. A pleasurable enough diversion for us, it is true, but a bad bargain for you—and certainly a bad bargain for them, no? At this rate, your building projects will begin to go too slowly for lack of men, and then more men will have to die in punishment. Perhaps you will kill for us tomorrow?”

  Baptiste’s eyes watered with the heat and the dust and the death and he dared not wipe at them. Ismaïl laughed his high-pitched laugh, spurred his horse, and was gone. The bodies were tossed into the wall and soon cover
ed with brick and stone, men now a permanent part of the emperor’s works.

  Baptiste stood still for long moments. He fought his shock, trying to reason. For all that he felt, he did not credit the emperor with powers of prophecy. It did not take supernatural skill to divine that Baptiste would not kill a man merely to satisfy imperial whim.

  Over the next few days, Baptiste’s crews heard the rumble of horses, yet always at a distance. But then they heard the hooves coming close and knew it was their turn. The engineer continued to give orders and tend to his plans, making an effort to keep the strain out of his voice as the noise grew louder and slaves bent to their work, fearing selection. The guards bet among themselves as to which kafirs would die, but were themselves vigilant when the imperial party arrived, fearing they too might fall victim to his capricious blade.

  Moulay Ismaïl appeared not to have mayhem on his mind. He beckoned for Baptiste to join him, and again they strolled together examining the works, passing through lush courtyards and between great colonnades, and then along the base of a fortress wall. Oblivious of the weight on Baptiste’s shoulders, Ismaïl chatted on about the positioning of a bastion and the flow of water through a garden. He poked at a masonry joint, satisfying himself that it was well-constructed and tight. “This section is as fine as any belonging to the infidel king Louis,” he said happily. “Do you not agree?

  “As you say, Majesty.”

  “I am well pleased with the stonework in these columns. An Englishman saw to them.”

  “The English are a plain people, Majesty, without imagination. Marble would have been better.”

  Ismaïl nodded thoughtfully. “Marble we shall have, then.”

  They continued through a small section of the grounds. Baptiste, ever the engineer, suggested improvements on a section of battlements, and he even allowed himself to enjoy the refreshing perfume of the olive groves and the gardens. Presently they arrived back at their starting point, where the guards were waiting with the horses. Moulay Ismaïl began to mount, but then caught himself and turned with a pleasant smile.

  “Will you kill for us today, Engineer? Just one man?”

  Baptiste went red in the face and weak in the knees. He made no sound, finding only enough strength to shake his head.

  “No? Very well.” Ismaïl selected two Berbers. The first died stoically, while the next cursed and spat at his executioner even to the instant of death. Ismaïl’s eyes went bloodred, and he selected one of Baptiste’s own engineers, who began to whimper. As the lance was set to strike, Baptiste fell to his knees. “Please, Majesty, he is a member of my own corps. I beg mercy. Take my life instead.” He bowed, offering his neck to the royal blade.

  Ismaïl hesitated. “Ah! Your own man! How careless of us. Very well, today we grant clemency for your fellow Frenchman.” The man fainted in relief, which so annoyed Ismaïl that he almost changed his mind, but the motionless man’s compatriots quickly dragged him away.

  “You said earlier that the English are a simple people,” Ismaïl reminded Baptiste. “We would agree they are of less value than the Frenchman just spared, would we not? Let us say—” His dark eyes twinkled. “—two for one, perhaps?”

  Baptiste shook his head in protest. “Majesty, that is not what I meant.”

  “Ah, but it is. You have spoken and we have heard. Now let us see the fruits of your choice.”

  Moments later two Englishmen died, including the unfortunate man responsible for the stone pillars, whose blood ran into the sand at Baptiste’s feet. The engineer could not bring himself to look upon the death he had purchased with a thoughtless comment.

  “For a man who does not kill, death seems to follow you like a jackal in search of a meal,” Ismaïl observed, laughing. “So much killing! Thankfully, none by your own hand! Your conscience may remain clear, yes?”

  The emperor mounted his superb Arabian. “It is said we are a shrewd judge of men, Engineer. We shall see. Perhaps tomorrow? Or perhaps you would rather we read the scroll, to learn the extent of your stubborn will?”

  Baptiste did not know how to reply, so said nothing. A bokhaxa struck him viciously with a staff. “As it pleases Your Majesty,” Baptiste whispered.

  Ismaïl laughed and shook his head. “In a few days more.”

  Once again the dead bodies became mortar for the walls and the afternoon’s work went on. Baptiste knew that if his men did not continue their labors, the guards would beat them. So he regained his voice and issued orders and tended to his drawings, but he could not hold his pen. He felt the eyes of the other prisoners upon him. When he looked up, they were hard at their labors. His hand shook and the lines blurred into meaningless form. He could feel their fear, and their anger that he did not act to prevent needless death.

  Baptiste could neither sleep nor eat. When he closed his eyes, the nightmares came—first the serpent, then severed heads, then the reading of the scroll.

  He climbed atop a wall whose construction he was overseeing, determined to jump. It was the only way. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, but he felt himself getting dizzy, opened his eyes in a panic, and caught himself short.

  No! Suicide was a mortal sin, and it was a bad trade—eternal damnation in Satan’s hellfires for temporary damnation in those of Moulay Ismaïl. He didn’t know whether that was the truth or whether he was simply a coward, but he climbed off the wall, still alive.

  He thought of a different way to depart, with honor and without suicide. He did not have long to wait to try it. Next morning an overseer was savagely beating a man for no reason other than bloodlust. Baptiste seized the guard’s staff and began clubbing him. He landed only a few blows before the bokhaxa pulled him away, the overseer bloody but alive. The bokhaxa did not kill him on the spot, as he expected, but instead brought him before the emperor, who appeared unsurprised by the guards’ report. With a knowing smile, Ismaïl summoned his scribe, who produced the scroll. “ ‘The engineer shall seek to slay a guard in order that he may himself be slain,’“ read the scribe. “So it is written.”

  Baptiste absorbed the words dumbly. Was he truly so predictable? Had he ever had free will, or had he lost it? He could not make sense of it. The scroll be damned. He would live to see his son again, would once again embrace his wife.

  Dimly, he realized that Ismaïl was speaking. ”...we know that your infidel faith prevents you from taking your own life,” he was saying. “However, you also shall not take it by proxy, by provoking a guard to kill you. Indeed, we should be displeased were you to die at all, for we prize your talent. Therefore it is our order that henceforth, your safety and well-being shall be the responsibility of all men. Should you die, every man present shall forfeit his own life, and that of his family. This order shall apply to every guard, every member of the bokhaxa, every caid, every citizen of Morocco. This order shall apply to every slave in yourmetamore, to every slave under your command upon the works of Meknes. You shall not die, kafir, while in our glorious realm. If you do, the deaths of many hundreds shall be a stain upon your name.” Ismaïl then assigned one of the bokhaxa, a silent giant of a warrior named Tafari, to be Baptiste’s watcher.

  Tafari’s vigilance was relentless: he watched Baptiste work, watched him relieve himself, watched him when he ate, never but a few steps away. Only when Baptiste descended into themetamore for the night did Tafari’s gaze leave him, for Baptiste’s fellow prisoners were then responsible for him, with their own lives as surety. Every man in Meknes knew the law: Baptiste was not to die. Not by his own hand, or by any other.

  His fate was contained in the emperor’s scroll, which alone revealed his end. So it was written.

  Baptiste returned to the works, where day after day it continued. The emperor’s horses thundered down long passages and his city rose on the blood and bones of his slaves, and each time there was the ritual as Baptiste was offered a choice: Kill one man, or watch three die. “There is some number of men it will take until you will kill for us, Engineer. How
many must die? Ten? A hundred? What is your number, Engineer? When will ‘never’ end?”

  Baptiste remained steadfast. Heads fell.

  “Perhaps a small refinement,” Ismaïl said helpfully. “Such a principled man should not have to work without an audience.” He ordered the heads to be mounted on poles, and the poles planted in the masonry of the buildings on which Baptiste was working. Six men, then eight, then ten. The engineer could feel their eyes upon him, until the crows came and took them. Between deaths, his master took him on tours of other buildings, always childlike in his enthusiasms, always boasting, asking questions, commenting upon the feathers of a bird in his gardens, then suddenly, capriciously, killing again.