Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

"It iss not a voman's drink!" The young man's voice began to rise in anger. "It vill cure the altjaarl!"

Heraclius struggled with his left arm and managed to inch it out from under the quilts. He was terribly tired, even with this little exertion. His mouth was very dry, and he tried to speak, to ask for wine, but he could not make his tongue work. Then he saw his fingers, peeking out from under the quilt. They were swollen, all gray and shiny like fresh sausages. His fingernails were almost hidden by puffy flesh. He gulped.

The Emperor turned his head away from his ruined hand. In his mind, he was gibbering in complete panic. Unable to help himself, he moaned aloud in fear.

"Out!" came a distant shout, then a scuffling sound and more men shouting.

"Get everyone out of here!" Theodore had taken command at last. "Bring my physician!"

– |This is an ill omen.

Theodore, Prince of the Eastern Empire, commander of the left wing of the host of the Avtokrator of the Romans, ran a hand nervously through his hair. The physicians-his own men, adepts from the temples of Asklepius in glorious Egypt-had gone. A draught of wine, laced with medicinal powders, had been forced down the Emperor's throat, giving him sleep. Theodore fidgeted, tapping his fingers on the badly carved headboard of the canopied bed. His brother, the strong, powerful figure of his youth, was lying under blankets and quilts, a pasty gray color, helpless.

The priests had labored over him throughout the day, bending their hidden powers to defeat this enemy that had come so swiftly upon the Emperor. They had failed. Theodore almost laughed aloud, thinking of the surprise apparent on their features. Rarely did a disease or wound last, if one of the true priests of the Asklepius could be summoned.

Something beyond their skill within the Emperor had gone awry. In the end, all they could say was that he must need rest.

If he dies… I could rule the Empire…

The thought was chilling, settling in his bones like ice. Theodore had never consciously considered the matter before. Heraclius was like a mountain, or the sky-indestructible and omnipotent. Heraclius had two sons, but they had not quite come of age yet. There was still a little time before they could don the Purple. In that space, Theodore would have to rule.

No… he is strong. He will beat this illness and stand once more, strong and hale, the Empress at his side…

Theodore scowled at the thought of Lady Martina. Heraclius' breath was ragged and made a bubbling sound from time to time. The smell and the sound drove Theodore to the window. The casement was deep and notched, sealed by a wooden shutter. The Prince undid the latch, feeling the rusting iron bite at his fingers. He pushed the panel open, and a rush of cold, wet air flooded into the room. Gasping in relief, he leaned his arms on the stones to either side, letting the mountain air drive back the miasma.

The frown had not left his face. The thought that Martina should be the Empress-Mother galled him. She is our close cousin by the Red Bull! Such a match never should have been made, much less acclaimed by the people or countenanced by the temples. Theodore's face settled into grim lines. There had been heated words between the brothers over that matter. Marrying a second or third cousin-that was acceptable, but your own mother's sister's daughter? That challenged the gods. The Prince never had liked little sly Martina. She had always set him on edge, making him feel small and provincial.

She has eyes like that Western prig, Galen. All filled with secret knowledge and pride.

Theodore turned away from the window, wiping his face with one hand. He felt anger build in him, but he pushed it down, burying it. He considered the days to come. It would be very difficult to carry through with the Emperor's plan to visit the cities and towns of Lycia and Asia on the way back to Constantinople. They would have to send him on by sea, and quickly, too, so that he could find succor among the wise men of the capital.

The Prince banged out of the chamber, his face still set in a grimace. His guardsmen, seeing that one of his moods was upon him, wisely stayed out of his way.

The Ruins of Ka'ba, Near Mekkah

"A fine fire," Khalid commented to his lieutenants as they picked their way through the smoking rubble of the old black-walled temple. "It seems to have done a merry job of clearing away the debris in this place."

The Persian officer laughed, though the other man-a Circassian from the north-did not show any expression at all at the jest. Khalid smiled inwardly. His men were simple enough to understand and they understood him and what he expected of them very well indeed. Khalid stepped over a charred cedar log that had been, when it had supported the roof of the temple, thicker than a man's waist. Now it was a crumbling log of blackened debris. Smoke rose all around them in thin wisps, marking where pockets of fire still smoldered.

The temple had burned for three days, while Lord Mohammed had lain in the House of the Ben-Sarid. At last, even as the fires were guttering down, Mohammed had roused himself and been taken off to his household. The Ben-Sarid had gone, too, eager to return to their own business in Mekkah. Some of the Tanukh had stayed behind to take command of the policing of the temples and the precincts of the sacred well. Khalid and his men had stayed, too, though he was sure that no one had really marked their arrival beyond the Ben-Sarid chief, who was now quite busy. One of his men now carried the green war banner of the Quraysh, though no one had actually granted Khalid the right to bear such a sigil.

"Round up the priests," he said to the Persian, "and see that all this rubble is cleared away. If they find any trinkets of their old gods, let them carry them away. We have no quarrel with them yet."

Khalid stopped, feeling the dull throb of heat seeping through the soles of his boots. One thing remained at the heart of the burned building. A wall of ancient, weathered stone rose out of the tumbled ash and burned logs and fire-cracked rock. It was no more than twenty feet high, but the upper course showed deep grooves that had once supported the upper reaches of a wall and perhaps a roof pillar. The blocks of stone that comprised the wall were five or six feet high and formed of some close-grained rock. Khalid ran a hand along the middle course, feeling them alive with warmth retained from the fire. His fingers came away black with soot. "All this," he said over his shoulder, "should be washed down and space cleared around it."

At the center of the wall was a recess, a space carved from the massive blocks. Khalid squatted in front of it, peering inside. His brow furrowed in concern, seeing that it appeared to be empty. He drew a pearl-handled knife from his belt and poked around in the hole. Caked ash crumbled away from the tip of the dagger in eggshell-like sheets. Khalid grimaced and put the strength of his arm into it. More ash was dug away and then the dagger tip hit something hard.

"Ah," he breathed, and began breaking away the congealed mass of ash and debris. There was something underneath it, something black and shining. A grin began to creep across his face.

"Sheykh, what about those statues?"

Khalid looked up, scowling at the interruption. The Circassian was pointing at the remaining two statues that had survived the inferno of the temple. Each was the rough form of a woman and they stood at either end of the ancient wall. Khalid's eyes narrowed, seeing the rounded, fat stomachs and the crudely carved beadwork that lined their heads. They were not tall statues-each only two or three feet high-but they had been chiseled from some dark green stone that had resisted the heat. Khalid pursed his lips, thinking, and then remembered something he had learned as a small boy. "Those gods have no followers anymore, my lads. Once, they stood at either hand of a statue of the great god Allah, whose sacred place this is. They were his consorts-I forget their names-but he has no need of them anymore. Besides, did not Lord Mohammed say that a god cannot be captured in stone or wood? Bring some of the mules and drag them away. Perhaps someone will purchase them for garden ornaments! See to it now, in fact."