The Gate of Fire (46 page)

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."

"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.

The taut skin of the girls' stomach crawled back together, covering the wound. Blood soaked into flesh, making it smooth again, and he collapsed at last, utterly exhausted.

Gaius Julius stirred himself, getting up from the moth-eaten couch that he had appropriated. With gentle hands he lifted the Prince's arms and took him on his shoulders. Turning sideways to get around the wobbly table where Krista lay half covered with a dirty woolen sheet, he ducked under the low door to enter the other room. There was something that passed for a bed, though the previous owner seemed to have spent little time in it. The apartment itself was on the sixth floor of a ramshackle
insula
high on the Aventine hill. Its only redeeming value was the view from the balcony, if one could risk negotiating the termite-eaten wood and the fraying ropes that held it together. Too, it was high enough above the noxious reek that emanated from the laundry on the first floor for a man to breathe comfortably.

Gaius turned the sheet over his nominal master and laid the back of his hand on the boy's forehead. The Prince was sick with fever, almost burning hot. The old Roman frowned—this was a puzzle indeed. If the boy could rouse himself, he could bring his own power to bear, repairing the burn damage and restoring his own health. But now? Unconscious and wracked by fever-dreams? This required a delicate touch.

"Will he live?" Alexandros stood at the door, a jug of wine in his hand and a loop of smoked sausages slung over his shoulder. The golden youth was smiling, and Gaius Julius hated him for a moment. The climb up all those flights of stairs taxed him, even with this body that felt so little pain.

"I pray so, for our sake. No cheese? No olives? No dormouse, fat with figs and candied nuts? Not so much as a sweet onion?"

Alexandros grinned and shook his head. He put the wine on the floor by the door and hung the sausage from a hook twisted into a very precarious-looking timber that held up part of the roof.

"I did not go far—there is a butcher's on the corner, but I did not see another place to get food."

The Macedonian looked around, a wry smile on his face.

"This is your bolt-hole?" Alexandros was grinning, waving a hand at the holes in the roof and the warble of pigeons under the eaves.

"I sublet it," snapped Gaius Julius, "at a low rate. The man is an informer, so I doubt we will draw any Imperial attention while we are here." The Roman produced a knife and cut a hunk of sausage from the loop. "In any case, we will not be here long. The girl will soon be well; she sleeps now, I think. As soon as our
master
is awake, we will move him as well."

Alexandros sat, shrugging his muscular shoulders. He leaned back, watching the old Roman while he ate. After a time he rubbed his nose and looked at Gaius. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?" Gaius washed down the last of the sausage with a draft of wine. It was a poor vintage; he could tell by the taste that it was not from a Latin vineyard. Sicilian, perhaps. It had that rustic and disreputable edge to it.

"Eat. Drink. Sleep. All these things that I see you do, see you waste your time upon."

Gaius Julius frowned at the Macedonian youth. Sometimes the mind that lurked behind those pretty blue eyes baffled him. "They are necessary," Gaius said in a gruff voice. "You eat, you drink, you even sleep, upon occasion."

Alexandros smiled, showing his perfect even white teeth. "Not on some days," he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. "I found that sleep is not required by those of us in our current condition months ago. All that sausage gained you was the necessity to expel it later."

Gaius Julius made a face, saying, "I do not believe you. The shock of our recent reversal has unhinged your already addled mind."

Alexandros leaned forward, his hands upon his knees. "Try. Tonight, when the Walach bed down, or the slave girl falls into slumber, do not yield to Morpheus. Simply stay awake—it is so simple! You will find, as I have, that you need never sleep again. It is only the memory of hunger, or thirst, or exhaustion that afflicts you. None of these things are real anymore. Not for us."

On the table, Krista made a small moaning sound, and Gaius Julius stood and stepped to her side. The girl's eyes fluttered open, and she stared up in confusion. "There was fire..." she said in a faint voice. "Something struck me."

"Yes," the old Roman said, gently holding her head up, his arm behind her back to help her rise. "The old villa was destroyed—we only escaped by a hair. Fortuna smiled on us, my dear. The Prince carried you out."

"Where are we?" Krista looked around, rubbing her eyes. She made a face at the smell in the little apartment. "Another fine hiding place, I see."

Gaius Julius shrugged and tossed her a vile orange tunic he had found in the bedroom.

She raised an eyebrow, but pulled it on regardless. "Thank you," she said, and swung her tan legs off of the table. "We are in the city?"

"Yes," Alexandros said with an edge in his voice. "Despite our flight in the Engine, our dear Roman friend decided that we should walk right back into the den of the enemy instead of resting at ease someplace far away—like Novo Carthago on the sunny coast of Hispania, or perhaps Tyre in Phoenicia."

Krista turned her head, wincing at the pain that came with the movement. "Why?"

Gaius Julius rolled his eyes. No one seemed to see the logic in it. "Praetorians attacked the house during the ceremony," growled the old Roman. "I saw their bodies as we escaped. By the grace of the gods, Khiron was a match for them. That means the Imperial Offices are hunting for us—doubtless our descriptions have been circulated far and wide."

He raised an eyebrow at the girl. "In particular," he continued, "by your former mistress, the Duchess of Parma. So, there is only one place—if we are to continue with this harebrained plan of the Prince's—to operate from. Here, inside the city, hidden amid a population of a million people. This rat's nest gives us more cover, and opportunities, than we would ever have in the countryside."

Krista nodded, feeling queasy and sick. Her stomach hurt dreadfully, but when she felt it, it seemed whole and unscratched. She shook her head, but then realized that she knew the feeling.
The aftereffects of his power
, she thought to herself.
I must have been near death
. "Where is the Prince?" she said aloud, glaring first at Alexandros, and then at the old Roman.

"Here!" Gaius said quickly, brushing aside the curtain that closed off the bedroom. "He sleeps, but there is a fever on him."

Krista got down off of the table, feeling a jellylike shudder in her legs. She stopped, breathing hard, and then managed to make it to the doorway. Her face turned grim, seeing the pale, feverish face in the bed.

"We need help," she said, casting about in the room for some sandals. "I will go to the Temple of Asklepius on the Isla Tiberis and get a priest. You two, find us better food and drink than this slop you've been living on. Go to the market by the circus and get meat broth and oranges or lemons and fresh garlic if you can."

Gaius Julius and Alexandros exchanged a look, but then shrugged. They had plans of their own. Being out and about would not displease them.

"Well," Lady Anastasia de'Orelio said, entering the room. "You live, at least."

Jusuf stood and bowed deeply, motioning for the Duchess to take his seat. She smiled, her violet eyes meeting his for a moment, then sat, arranging her dark green gown so that it did not bunch or wrinkle. Her little blond shadow moved to stand discreetly behind the high curved back of the wooden chair. Jusuf leaned against one of the walls of the room, choosing a wooden stanchion that separated two sections of fresco work. He had already learned the hard way that the paintings, old as they were, crumbled if too much pressure was applied.

Ensconced in the bed, fairly buried under heavy quilts and thick fluffy woolen blankets, Nikos tried to nod his head in greeting. Half his skull was wrapped in bandages that covered the cuts he had sustained during the mudslide. His one unobscured eye glittered in anger, however. He hated being bedridden. His grandmother had taught him at an early age that people tend to die of sickness in bed, so he avoided them whenever possible—unless of course the bed wasn't being used for sleeping or convalescing.

"I live," he growled, "and thanks to the barbarian, too. What gall he has, dragging me from the fire!"

Anastasia turned, dimpling her cheeks, and smiled at Jusuf again. Today, with her hair piled up on her head like a storm cloud, bound back by thin strings of pearls; narrow, diamond-tipped pins; and a particularly well-contrived corset, she looked both at ease and stunning at the same time. The expanse of carefully presented bosom and the long, smooth neck that it ornamented had not gone unnoticed by the Khazar prince, who smiled back. His long, usually dour face fairly lit up in comparison with his usual expression. Silently, in his mind, Nikos groaned. He had worked for the Duchess for six years on her "special" teams. He had started as a doorman, using an iron crowbar or a ram. Before being tagged to follow Thyatis and see that she learned the business, he had been a team leader for a little time. He thought the Duchess was beautiful, too, but it never ever paid for the peasants, as his father was fond of saying, to stomp grapes with the nobles. His father, Mithra bless him, had been a wise man.