Thomas Harlan - The Gate of fire

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."

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.