Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

"Gracious lady, I thank you for your hospitality. I am Mohammed of the Quraysh."

The woman laughed, a mellow sound, and took his other hand. "Father! So formal, with your own daughter? Do you even recognize me?"

Mohammed flushed with embarrassment and raised his eyes, his mind trying to find some words to apologize for his miscue. Then he staggered in complete surprise, and no words came.

In Roxane, it seemed that his dead wife lived and breathed again, even as he had first seen her, years before. The same strong nose and plain features, the same brilliant eyes and wild, barely restrained cloud of hair. Then the vision passed and he could see the subtle differences: Where Khadijah's eyes were pale amber, her daughter's were a rich dark brown like a cup of the Ethiopian "black drink"; where Khadijah had tiny scars from childhood disease, Roxane's skin was fair and smooth.

"Father? Come sit by me, tell me of your travels."

Wordless, he allowed himself to be led through the hall and into a sitting room behind it. Much like in her mother's house, the sitting room looked out over the garden. Now the garden was filled with night, but tiny candles flickered among the limbs of the trees, casting a jinn light over ornamental pools and pale roses. Mohammed sat on a Roman-style divan covered with plush velvet. Servants moved in the room, carrying wine and cut fruit in small bowls. He shook his head and drank from the proffered cup. His eyebrows rose in appreciation.

"It is rather good, isn't it? I wanted to serve only the best for you."

Roxane settled gracefully into the chair opposite, and Mohammed, looking around him at the luxury of her house, began to realize the depth and breadth of the wealth that Khadijah's family, his family, commanded. He put the cup of Falernian-a Latin wine, no less!-down on the mother-of-pearl surface of the sitting table. He was touched by the gesture, and disturbed, too. Hala's warnings about the struggle within the family began to gain weight in his mind. He looked over his daughter and her clothing, her jewels, her servants with a merchant's eye.

The Bani Hashim trade spanned Arabia and, with it, the world. On one hand, to the north and the west lay Rome and its vast luxury-hungry cities. The nobles and potentates of the old gray Empire had an endless hunger for Indian rubies, Javan pepper and cinnamon, Moluccan cardamom, thyme and myrrh. Then, too, there was silk and porcelain and jade out of Serica, and steel from the cities on the Gangetic plain in India. Rubber and poppy paste from the jungles of Sinae, and rare beasts from the wild shores of Africa. Rome consumed mightily and Rome paid mightily, paid in gold and silver, paid in ceramics and machines that no other nation could contrive. Paid in skilled slaves and weapons. And all this, all this had to move by sea, and the Sinus Arabicus was the pathway from the east to the west. And here, at Makkah, the House of Bani Hashim was perfectly placed to arrange and hold and trade and relay and mark up all the shipments from east and west. Every ship from India had to pass through waters controlled by the fleets of Jeddah and Sa'na; every merchant caravan from Rome had to come to ports where Bani Hashim factors and agents waited, with warehouses and customs levies and the knowledge and contacts to squeeze every last aureus out of that trade.

"Daughter… Roxane, it has been so long… I am sorry that I was not at your wedding. I know that must have hurt you."

Roxane rose out of her chair, brushing the gown aside, and knelt by her father's side, taking his gnarled, scarred hand in her own. Mohammed could smell a delicate perfume in her hair.

"Father, I bear you no ill will. Mama and I spoke of you and your work often-I understand why you were gone so much. I am glad that you are here, now, in my house at last. Unfortunate things have been happening in the city. I know you know of them-there can be peace if you will have it."

Mohammed looked down into his daughter's eyes. She stared back, her face graven with concern. "I bear no one in this city ill will, daughter. But do others desire peace as well?"

"Yes," Roxane said, rising to her feet again. "I have invited two of them here, tonight, to dine with us. You know them both-Uri of the Ben-Sarid, and my uncle, Tafiq. You remember him; he married Aunt Taiya."

Mohammed frowned; Tafiq had regarded him as an interloper and enemy from the first day the man had laid eyes on him. There had never been anything but icy politeness between the highborn Hashim nobleman and the baseborn Quraysh merchant. Now his ears would be filled with Taiya's vitriol as well.

"Will they come?"

Roxane laughed again, her eyes merry. "They are already here, Father, in the dining hall. Come, let us go to them."

– |"Jalal?" A whisper came in the darkness. The Tanukh turned, still keeping one eye on the street below him. A figure in dark robes edged forward along the rooftop.

"Shh…" Jalal hissed at the other man, then beckoned him over. The younger man, one of the Palmyrenes who had come with Mohammed out of the ruin of that city, slithered over the tiled roof to join him.

"What is it?" Jalal's voice was barely audible, his mouth close to the boy's ear.

"There are men moving in the other alley," the Palmyrene answered. "Thirty or forty of them."

"Armed?" Jalal turned back to watch the street. It was a narrow alleyway in the older part of town at the base of the hill. Here, in a warren of alleys and overcrowded two- and three-story buildings, were the dwellings of the Quraysh. The riches of the Bani Hashim and their estates outside of the city, and their town houses on the upper slopes of the hill, trickled down here, but not enough to keep the stink of tanneries and the smell of too many people from pervading the stones and walls of every building. After the attack on Tihuri and Sayyqi, the captain had sent them down here, among his relatives and blood kin. Jalal felt much better here, where anyone who was not Quraysh was viewed with suspicion and even hatred. The Tanukh were outsiders, too, but they followed a well-loved Quraysh lord, and that counted for a great deal. A strong watch was kept, too, for the captain was wondering if his enemies would dispense with secrecy.

Now, maybe they had waited long enough. Jalal cocked an ear-yes, he could hear the sound of running feet. He reached behind him and pulled his bow forward. It was a stubby, recurved weapon, like those favored by the Huns on the cold northern steppe. Jalal sat up on the sloping roof and tugged his quiver of arrows over to rest against his leg. The Palmyrene boy sat up, too.

"Lad, go downstairs quickly and wake everyone. Tell Shadin that they are going to attack on this side, too. Then stand ready. This will be some cruel work."

The boy nodded and scrambled away across the roof. Jalal ran a thumb along the curve of the weapon and bent the upper arm down. With a quick motion he strung the bow and slid his left hand into the groove of the armrest. Without looking he found a triangular-headed arrow in the quiver and drew it to the string, pulling back almost to his chin. He sighted down the street. The sound of running feet was growing closer.

– |Mohammed entered the room, an airy enclosure off of the main hall of the house, surrounded on three sides by light frames holding rice-paper screens printed with subdued images of mountains and clouds. A low table had been set with food and drink. Two men were already seated there, at opposite ends, with cups of wine set in front of them. Neither seemed to have touched the drink. Roxane entered and bowed to each man.

"Dear Uncle," she said to the man on the right, "welcome to my house, and blessings upon you and your family."

Uncle Tafiq, a gaunt man with a long hawk-nose and thinning black hair, made a barely perceptible bow to Roxane and did not even look at Mohammed. He was dressed in long black and gray robes of a traditional cut. He sat again, his back stiff and straight, nervously pulling at a pointed black beard. Mohammed smiled a little, but noted that his brother-in-law's hand was very close to the hilt of a saber that was thrust into his robes.