Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

Mohammed met the man's eyes, and they were steel hard for a moment. "Where is the merchant?"

"There, lord." Jalal pointed with his chin to a huddled form lying at the edge of the dock. A dark stain of dried blood pooled under the corpse.

"Are there others still alive?"

Jalal nodded and motioned to two of his men. The Sahaba spearmen disappeared into the ground level of one of the two-story brick buildings that lined the waterfront. This one had a balcony on the second floor with ornamental railings of crisscrossed wooden slats. Mohammed had seen the style before, in the Roman cities that ringed the Inner Sea. When he had been among the Imperials for a long time, it had seemed natural. Now it seemed wasteful to use wood carted down from the mountains of Syria when brick or stone would do. The guardsmen returned, escorting a thin, worried-looking man with close-cropped hair and a smooth-shaven face.

"What is your name and business?" Mohammed felt his Latin come with difficulty. It had been some time since he had needed it. The Palmyrenes and his friend Ahmet had spoken Aramaic, even as he had done since he was a child. The Roman merchant seemed relieved to hear his mother tongue, and shook his arms free of the Sahaba guardsmen.

"I am Marcus Licinus, factor for the House of Flavius. I trade in slaves, fine woods, timber, ivory, and salt."

Mohammed nodded to himself, gauging the truth of the man's words by the style of his tunic, the well-worn leather belt around the Roman's waist, and his scuffed boots. The fellow had callused hands, worn from pulling a sail-rope or handling a horse or camel. This was a working merchant, not someone who grew fat and slothful off of the work of others. The deep tan that marked the Roman was a good sign, too: He had been in Arabia for some time.

"I am Mohammed," the Quraysh chieftain said simply. "The warehouses are full here, and ships ride empty in the harbor. Why is that?"

Marcus Licinus' eyes narrowed, taking in the simple white robe that Mohammed had chosen to go over his scaled iron armor and the pearl-handled saber at his side. The Roman spared a glance for the Sahaba standing nearby, too, and Mohammed could see that he was puzzled by the absence of tribal markings. Too, the green banner of the Sahaba, marked only with a curved white sword and a simple crescent moon, was unfamiliar to him.

"Lord Mohammed," the Roman said carefully in precisely enunciated Aramaic, "is there a quarrel between your people and mine?"

Mohammed raised a hand, stopping the merchant from continuing, and shook his head. "There is no quarrel between our people, noble Licinus. But I have a dispute with the Emperor of the East, this one called Heraclius. He has done great evil, and I will call him to account for it before the great and merciful God. I see the question in your eyes. I have taken this town into my hand because it furthers the will of the Merciful and Compassionate One. No one will be taken slave or murdered while I command."

The merchant's face was a carefully controlled mask, but Mohammed had stood across the bargaining table from too many men like this one. Each word was being weighed and considered while an agile mind tried to piece together a fabric that bore a recognizable pattern. "You have not answered my question, noble Licinus. Has trade from the north ceased?"

The Roman nodded sharply, having come to some conclusion in his own mind. "Yes, Lord Mohammed. The last two caravans that we expected from Petra have failed to arrive, while ships have continued to come in from the south. The town sent a party out to the north a week ago, attempting to find out what had transpired. Do you know?"

Mohammed shook his head and turned away, lost in thought. The Sahaba took the Roman by the upper arms and marched him back into the taverna. Jalal stood waiting, now joined by the blocky shape of Shadin and the leaner more elegant figure of Ben-Sarid. Mohammed nodded to them, his mind turning over the meanings of the merchant's report. "Jalal, send scouts out to the north and east," he said. "Find out if the way to Aelana and Petra is clear or not. We must know, and quickly, if we are to make our way past Wadi Rum before full summer is upon us. Find the missing caravans, if you can. Shadin-quarter the town and bring me every merchant you can find. I will want to speak with each in turn. Round up all of the horses, mules, donkeys, and camels that you can find as well. This is our last opportunity to outfit our men before we enter the Empire. Do not waste it. The Lord of the Wasteland loves a well-prepared man."

The two Tanukh nodded and moved away through the loitering crowd of Sahaba, gathering up their lieutenants and subcaptains in their wake. The Ben-Sarid raised a thin, elegant eyebrow and leaned forward on his spear. Mohammed clapped him on the shoulder, inclining his head.

"And you, my friend, I need you to find me guides-both men who know the way from here to Nabatea and those who have been into the Empire before… we will need to move quickly. Apportion these men among the qatiba so that each squadron has a guide of their own. Go among the townspeople as well and find those who can work metal or stone. We will need engineers where we are going. Sailors, too."

Uri nodded sharply, his dark eyes sharp with appreciation. The army of the Sahaba would not be a motley horde of desert bandits once it reached the Roman border.

– |Five days on the road from Mekkah, after his evening devotions, Mohammed had been walking among the campfires of his army when he had heard the ring of steel on steel and harsh shouts of rage. Even his Tanukh guards had been surprised by the speed he showed, sprinting among the tents and into the middle of a knot of struggling men.

"This is not the righteous path," Mohammed had shouted, clouting one of the two men locked in a death embrace on the side of the head with his pommel. The man went down hard, sprawling on the sandy ground. "We are brothers here, and brothers do not raise a hand in anger against one another!"

The other man, shouting in rage, tried to shove Mohammed aside. He was an al'Taif tribesman, his face marked by ritual scarring and lines of ink driven into his flesh with needles. The Quraysh chieftain shrugged aside the man's hand and cracked him in the face with his fist. The al'Taif warrior staggered, turning and seeing Mohammed for the first time. The man's eyes widened, making out the simple robe and the bristly black beard. Then the Tanukh were there, forcing themselves into the crowd.

"All those who ride under my banner are brothers." Mohammed raised his voice, letting it carry over the heads of the men at the campfire and beyond. The noise and commotion had drawn many from the other tents. "Why did these men fight?"

There was a moment of silence, and Mohammed saw that there were two groups: more al'Taif and some of the Ben-Sarid. So, he thought, a clan feud. He considering unleashing his anger upon them, but then a thought occurred, and he put the blazing rage away. "The al'Taif was insulted by the Ben-Sarid?" He motioned to the Tanukh to clear a space around the fire, which was still burning merrily. "There was old blood between them? A matter of a cousin's uncle, killed in a night raid a generation ago?" He stopped in front of the al'Taif that he had struck. The man's nose was bleeding, matting his beard. "Had you seen this Ben-Sarid before today?"

The man refused to meet his eyes. Mohammed nodded, his face marked by disgust. "Alone of all men in the world, you are Sahaba, you are my companions. You put behind you the race or a clan or a tribe of your birth when you joined me. Each day you bow down before the Great and Merciful God, submitting yourselves to His will, as is right. In the eyes of the Lord of the Heavens, you are all equals. There will be no matter of grudges or revenge in this brotherhood. Our enemy is terrible and strong, grown fat with hate and sin and fear. If we are to throw him down, we must be as one-a single hand striking a furious blow."