The Gate of Fire (17 page)

"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.

"Master Uri, of the noble Ben-Sarid," continued Roxane, bowing to the other man. "Welcome to my house, and blessings upon you and your family."

Uri stood, his narrow face wreathed in a big smile. He was thin, too, but it was the whipcord well-muscled fitness of middle age. He had a thin nose and sharp eyebrows and wore his curly hair cut short—it was the custom among his tribe—with a neatly trimmed mustache and beard. He bowed to Roxane and stepped past her to crush Mohammed in a huge hug. "My friend! It has been far too long!"

Mohammed smiled back, his humor improving greatly with the open joy on his old friend's face. He clasped Uri's hand and made a sharp bow.

"Uri the rascal, plague of the markets, now the chief of the Ben-Sarid—a chief, by the gods, a chief! Well done, my friend."

"Sit, please!" Roxane said, and shooed them back to their seats. She glided to her own, with her back to the door, as was most polite, and sat, her gown swirling about her. Mohammed sat opposite, facing the doorway, with Tafiq on his left and Uri on his right. He inclined his head to his daughter and smiled. She caught his look and smiled back.

"The first course," she said, "is a light fruit compote—oranges and raspberries, with some lemon to keep it from being too sweet." She clapped her hands, and two comely serving maids entered the room bearing engraved silver trays with small glass bowls. Mohammed accepted the bowl, marveling at the clarity of the glass, and waited for the hostess to take the first bite. Roxane plucked a wedge of orange from the bowl and bit it daintily in half.

Jalal breathed out as he released, the taut bowstring singing at his ear, and snatched up another arrow from the quiver. It, too, was in flight before the first had torn into the upper shoulder of one of the hundred men running down the street. The man screamed as the black-fletched shaft gouged through his shoulder and splintered against bone. Blood welled up around the shaft, and the running man crashed into one of his fellows. The crowd of men raised a great cry, then another suddenly choked as the second arrow pierced his throat above the gorget of his shirt of scale mail. He staggered and fell, blood spurting from his neck. The men behind him stumbled and fell, crashing into his thrashing body.

Jalal fired again, now standing upright, shooting down into the narrow street. The first rank of men had reached the door of the house, axes and mallets already swinging against the oaken planks. His arrow plunged down and sank into the crest of one of the axemen's helmets with a tinny clang. The man swung his axe again, biting a thick chunk of wood away from the door, but then his vision blurred with a red film, and he sagged to one side, dead on his feet. More men pressed at the door, their spears a bright thicket. Jalal switched targets, firing as fast as he could into the crowd. The silence of the middle night was rent with shouts and screams.

More Tanukh ran up the stairs from the house and lined the edge of the roof. Each man bore a bow like Jalal's, and a boy followed him with baskets of arrows. Somewhere behind him, Jalal could hear the clangor of blades on metal, doubtless in the other streets. He fired again, his arrow vanishing into the surging tide of men in the street. Arrows began to flash out of the sky, and more of the attackers fell.

Jalal could smell smoke and the bitter tang of blood in the air.

"This is the second course," Roxane said, handing a silver platter to her uncle. "Please, dear Uncle, take two of the quail—they are very sweet and stuffed with nuts and have a honey glaze." Tafiq frowned, but slid two of the tiny birds onto his plate to rest among the rice and flatbread that was already there. The Bani Hashim passed the platter to Mohammed, who smiled at him politely and took it.

"You see?" Roxane said, when the platter had passed around the table. "We can sit and break our fast; we can share a meal as family and friends without ill coming of it." She inclined her head to Tafiq, and smiled prettily. "Uncle, is not a house at peace a pleasant house?"

Tafiq glowered at her and put down one of the quail. "Niece, a peaceful house is one where everyone knows their place and works to the common good. A house where the servants think themselves the masters is an unhappy house, filled with ill will." He smiled thinly at Uri, across the table. "The Ben-Sarid, of course, are happily our equals in blood and breeding."

Mohammed, with a great effort, held his tongue. He would see how Roxane wanted to handle this.

"Uncle, please! No one in our clan seeks to rise above his or her
appointed
station. But you are unhappy—pray tell, why?"

Tafiq opened his mouth, eyes brimming with anger, when another round of servants arrived, this time bearing a great tray with a roasted lamb on a bed of rice and wild herbs.

"Ah," Roxane said, holding up her hand and turning away from her uncle, "the main course! Please, try the mint sauce that I have made—an ancient recipe I learned in the house of my mother. Delicious!"

Flames leapt up at one end of the building, billowing out of the windows that looked over the garden. Jalal shouted at his men fighting among the trees and pointed at the fire. The attackers were pouring over the garden wall—someone had thought to bring ladders. The Tanukh in the yard fell back to the long, shaded porch at the rear of the house. On the roof, Jalal and his archers covered their retreat with a flurry of arrows. A dozen of the attackers fell, pinned back against the wall by the black shafts, but more kept coming.

"There are too many of them," Shadin gasped, who had scrambled up onto the roof. His face had a long smear of blood across his cheek, and he had lost his helmet somewhere. His sword was dripping with gore, and the links of his chainmail shirt were fouled with mud.

"Yes," Jalal said, stringing another arrow to his bow, "we need reinforcements." He sighted and fired, oblivious to the roar of the flames or the cracking sound of roof tiles shattering in the heat. Another of the attackers staggered, the arrow jutting from his thigh. The man stumbled and fell, grasping at the blood flooding from his severed femoral artery. Jalal's eyes moved, seeing the next man as a rushing shape. He plucked an arrow, drew, and fired in one breath. It missed, the man moving at the last moment.

"The Quraysh? I doubt they would aid anyone not bound by blood and birth to them."

Jalal lowered the bow. The attackers in the garden had thrown open the gates, and a hundred men or more had rushed in. He gestured for the boy with the basket of arrows to fall back along the ridgeline of the house. The other men were already scuttling back.

"Where is Sayyqi? He has something in his saddlebags we can use."

Shadin shook his head as he jogged along the rooftop. "He went with the captain to dinner. What is it?"

Jalal cursed—he had forgotten about the captain in the rush of battle. Now his liege lord and master was on the hill, somewhere, and might already be dead. Holding this building was a useless task in any case. He turned at an open door set into the roof. Stairs went down into the house. He could hear the shouts and clatter of battle in the building below. It sounded like the Tanukh in the house were still holding the main floor.

"Shadin—fire the back of the house and keep these bandits off of the roof. We're leaving and we'll go out over the front wall. I'll be back with everyone else in a moment."

Jalal slid down the stairs in great haste and began shouting for his men to form up on him. Above him was a cracking sound as Shadin and the others ran back down the roof. Smoke began to creep along the ceiling of the hallway.

Mohammed pushed the plate away from him, feeling very satisfied. His daughter's cooks had not disappointed him—the lamb had been tender and young, the carrots and squash perfectly cooked. Only delicate spices had been used, and just enough to enhance the flavor of the meats and not enough to crush all other taste, as the Romans would have done. Too, it was restful to listen to Uri and Tafiq bicker over precedence and status in the city. It reminded him of his own house.

"This is ridiculous," Tafiq snapped, jabbing at the Ben-Sarid lord with a hunk of flatbread. "The Bani Hashim hold place of precedence in the city by right of tradition and—more to the point—because we are the best suited to lead the community. We have the most experience, the most wealth, the most desire to better all."

"Not true," Uri interjected hotly. "The customs laws and tax policies are all weighted in the favor of existing businesses—like yours! Huge fees for new construction or renovation stymie those of us who are attempting to bring new business into the city, or to create new
fabricae
. You are protecting yourself at our detriment—when there is trade and wealth enough for all!"

Tafiq laughed out loud, an ugly braying sound. Mohammed turned his mind back to the matter at hand. Though Roxane had attempted to bring the circumstances of the current dispute between the Quraysh and the Bani Hashim to light during the course of the dinner, Tafiq had refused to talk of it. Then Uri had been baited into this argument about taxes and fees. Mohammed caught Roxane's eye and raised an eyebrow.

She shrugged, giving him a despairing look.

Well,
he thought to himself,
she's not her mother yet. But perhaps in time...
"Lord Tafiq," Mohammed said in a calm voice, but it broke the bickering. "The matter of the leadership of the Bani Hashim must be addressed—as Khadijah's heir, it is mine by point of law, but I know this is not a popular position. Do you dispute my right to lead our clan?"

Tafiq stopped, his mouth open, and stared in surprise at the merchant. Mohammed could see that he had never expected a bald challenge. Tafiq closed his mouth and his eyes narrowed, considering Mohammed. He tugged at his beard, thinking. "Master Mohammed," he began, but then there was a shout in the great hallway and a clattering sound. Mohammed glanced up to the doorway to the dining area, and barely caught—out of the corner of his eye—the blur of glittering metal that had sprung into Tafiq's hand. Mohammed flung himself to the side, bellowing a great shout of alarm. The knife caught his pant leg and tore through, taking a length of cloth with it. Mohammed rolled up, and his own longsword rasped out of its sheath. At his side, Uri had leapt back from the table and had drawn a short blade of his own.

There was a roar of shouting men outside, in the great expanse of the hallway, and Roxane—who had also leapt up in alarm—cried out, seeing something behind her. Mohammed paid no attention as old Tafiq had kicked the table over, sending a spray of glassware, platters, and lamb bones at him. Mohammed ducked aside, twisting away from the edge of the table as it crashed into the paper wall behind him. He sidestepped and lunged at the nobleman.