Caliphate

Chapter Seven

Kitznen, Province of Affrankon, 8 Rajab, 1533 AH

(7 June, 2109)

"Twenty-three dinar, seven dirhem is the bid. Do I hear twenty-three, eight?"

Petra stood, ashamed, her face down. The auctioneer reached out to lift her chin with his whip, but when he saw the tears he let her face fall again.

She was not naked, precisely, but the auctioneer had disrobed her sufficiently to permit the bidders to see the budding promise of her body. In effect, she was down to what passed for an inadequate bra and with a thin wrap around her hips. This was not exactly in the best spirit of Islam, but, on the other hand, she wasn't Moslem.

"Twenty-four dinar," shouted a bearded, robed factor whom Ishmael didn't recognize.

"Twenty-four, five," answered Ishmael, and that was as much as Besma had been able to scrape up. In other circumstances, Abdul Mohsem would have freed the girl for less. It was beyond his power now.

"Twenty-seven," shouted the factor, obviously tired of the game and sensing that Ishmael was at the end of the resources he had to spare. What does an obvious eunuch care for owning a girl like that? the factor wondered. Perhaps he, too, intends to whore her out. No matter, she'll make a better whore when she's trained by my staff.

Ishmael shuddered. That was the last of the money Besma had given. He had his own, the scrapings of years intended to purchase his own liberty. Where would he ever come up with…

"I have twenty-seven. Do I have twenty-eight? Twenty-seven… twenty seven… going for… "

"Thirty!"

Petra looked up from the platform on which her wares were being paraded. She knew how much Besma had had to spare, down to the last thin fil. If Ishmael was bidding more…? Petra looked directly at Ishmael. Through her tears of shame she smiled warmly at him, in thanks.

"Thirty-five," said the factor. His glance at Ishmael showed that he was plainly annoyed that this tiresome game continued.

Ishmael gulped. "Forty."

Without the slightest hesitation, the factor said, "Fifty," sneering at the presumptuous slave as he did so.

"Sixty." Ishmael's face looked stricken. He could not go much higher.

A man, his face covered, stepped up beside Ishmael. The slave felt a nudge. A heavy purse was pressed into his hand. Abdul Mohsem's voice said, "This is what I could come up with on short notice. Two hundred and twenty dinar. If the bloody bank had been open, I'd have gotten more. You can raise your bids up to that amount. All I'll lose by it is the auctioneer's fee."

"I never before realized that my master is also a saint," Ishmael said.

Abdul Mohsem said nothing, but, shaking his head, he turned away and left the auction house. He thought, I'm no saint. I'm weak. If I'd been a saint I'd have disciplined that little bastard, Fudail, myself. Instead I let someone else do it and look what I've done. Allah forgive a stupid man.

Face suddenly flushed with hope, Ishmael bid, "Eighty."

The factor dabbed at the sweat running across his face and neck. Who would have imagined that obtaining this skinny infidel wench would be such a bother? He'd wear her out, all three holes, making his money back.

"Enough is enough," he whispered. "Three hundred!"

That was a bid Ishmael could not match, even if he were able to throw his own value into the bargain, which-not owning himself- he was not.

Defeated, Ishmael turned away. The auctioneer covered Petra with a robe-if she were to catch pneumonia and die his fee would be lost as well-and turned her over to an assistant. Petra, now stone faced, followed the assistant back to her cell.

"I'm sorry, Petra," Ishmael said, early the next morning. "I tried."

The girl nodded sadly, sitting on the floor of her cell. "I know. Where did you ever get the money to bid so high? I never expected… " her voice trailed off.

"My own savings," Ishmael admitted. "And then Abdul Mohsem gave me more, all he could come up with in a hurry. It wasn't enough. I'm sorry," he repeated.

"So am I," the girl said, her voice so low and so hopelessly sad that it was all Ishmael could do not to weep.

"At least you'll be away from al Khalifa," he offered.

"That's something, I suppose. I'll try to remember that when they turn me over to a gang of men." The girl shuddered at the memory.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Ishmael said. He drew out his purse and counted out from it all the money he'd been given by Besma. To this he added ten gold dinar of his own. These he pressed into Petra's small hands.

"Besma wants you to have the money you both earned," he said.

"It's too much."

"A little, maybe. Call it a gift from me. An apology for all men, everywhere."

She nodded, thankfully.

"And one other thing." From underneath his robe Ishmael drew out the heavy journal of Petra's great-grandmother. "Besma said this belongs to you. If I failed to win the auction, I was to give it to you."

Petra clasped the journal to her small breasts. To her, its value wasn't so much in the words her great-grandmother had written, but in the fact that it had been the primary text used by Besma to teach her to read.

Tears formed. "I will miss my Besma so," the slave girl wailed.

"Don't be so hard on your father, Besma," Ishmael had said. "He really tried. The man bidding on Petra wanted her so badly I don't think any amount of money the entire family could raise would have been enough."

"Sure," she said, doubtfully, then cried out "What's going to happen to my Petra? What will they do to her?"

"Nothing worse than what's already been done to her, I imagine," Ishmael answered, shaking his head sadly. "Just… more of it." A lot more of it.

"I'll get her back someday," Besma said. "I don't know how yet but this atrocity will not stand."

They took Petra away early the next day, even before the sun rose. She'd expected a horse-drawn wagon, at best. In fact, the factor had come for her in a genuine automobile. She'd only ever ridden in one once before and was, despite herself, excited at the prospect.

"I paid far too much for you, little Nazrani, to risk you catching a cold or, worse still, pneumonia," the fat factor had explained.

She'd more than half expected him to use her on the way and was surprised when he didn't. In years to come she would understand why he'd not forced her to do anything; the factor far preferred fat little boys and prepubescent girls.

The car stank far worse than any shit wagon Petra had ever smelled fertilizing the fields around Grolanhei. She wrinkled her nose at the stench, something that caused the fat factor to laugh.

"It runs off oil made from coal, little Nazrani. Naturally, it stinks. I, by the way, am Latif. You may call me, 'master.'"

Latif tapped the lowered window between himself and his indentured driver. "Bring us to the castle," he ordered.

While most new production automobiles in the Empire, Australia, and Japan had robotic auxiliary drivers, slaves were cheaper in the two Caliphates and could polish the exterior to boot. Besides, the roads were simply not up to robotic drivers.

The driver obediently started the car and began heading northwest to pick up the A7 south.

"Wait!" Petra shouted then said, more quietly, "I'll never see my home, Grolanhei, again. Would it be possible to drive through it? Once? Please?"

"I know where it is, sir," the driver said. "Opposite direction, not far, maybe six kilometers. I can keep going, pick up the A3, then come west to the A7." The driver shrugged. "Fifteen minutes out of our way, no more, sir."

Robotic drivers rarely showed such judgment.

Latif considered. "Allah smiles upon those who are kind even to slaves. Very well, little one, we'll show you your town one last time." His face turned stern. "But I'll expect even more dedication to your lessons once we reach the castle. I paid a great deal for you and I expect a good return."

By the time they'd passed through Grolanhei, Petra wished they had not. Where it had been a bright and happy memory, in her mind, after several years in the larger, busier, and above all cleaner Kitznen, the town seemed to her very small and dirty, the people very downtrodden and unhappy.

Briefly she considered asking for the boon of seeing her family. That thought lasted until she realized her mother and father would have questions, questions about her current status. She didn't want to blight their lives any further by having to say, They've sold me to be a whore. Nor did she want to bring any shame to her brother Hans. What the other janissaries would say to him, how they would torment him with the shame of having a whore for a sister, she didn't even want to think about.

She was just as happy when the car passed through the town, passed through its neighbor, Kleilanhei, and moved onto the highway to the north.

Even the five men being crucified by the on ramp to the A3 didn't upset her, so happy was she to be heading away from her home.

The on ramp looked old and broken down. It was, in fact, considerably newer than either of the roads, A3 and KT11. Nobody really built well anymore.

There were nine crosses already erected, four more than needed. These were permanent, made of steel, no more than eight feet high and with crosspieces four feet wide affixed about a foot and a half below the very summit of each upright. They might once have been taken for Christian symbols. No more.

Trying to ignore the crosses, Hans sighed at the shiny car whizzing by on its way west. Those were not for such as he, though he might hope, after his discharge, that his son might rise high enough to be able to afford one.

Never mind, business to attend to.

Rashid was in charge of the detail. Janissaries were often used to enforce civil law, even as Roman centurions once supervised their men in executing punishment. It was to harden the boys as much as for any other reason.

The boys were strong now, after several years of both good eating and diligent training. Though their background may have been Christian, they bore little resemblance to the half-starved, recently flogged wretches under sentence of death for plotting against the Caliphate.

Hans had no clue about the details of the case. It really wasn't any of his business. Even so, he felt decidedly odd about putting to death a priest, as one of the condemned was.

With the Nazrani traitors arranged in a line surrounded by the young janissaries, Rashid read from an execution order. "In accordance with Sura Five, for fighting against God and his prophet, for bringing disorder to the world, you are condemned to death by crucifixion." Lifting his head to the janissaries, he said, "Take them."

Hans and three comrades immediately grabbed the priest. While Hans and another held the priest fast, a third bound his hands together in front of him. The fourth stood idle, holding two large nails in one hand and a heavy sledgehammer in the other.

"Up he goes," said Muller, one of Hans' comrades, once the priest's hands were firmly tied together. With a grunt, the three lifted him up, hooking his bound hands over the upright.

"And… drop." As one they let the man go. He hung there for a moment, in shock, as the drop had nearly dislocated his shoulders. The priest made no sound.

Tough infidel, Hans thought. That had to have hurt some.

"His feet now, boys," Muller said.

There were blocks of wood affixed to each side of the upright. The boys formed a loop of rope around both the upright and the priest's ankles. This they tightened by twisting a piece of wood within the loop, drawing the victim's heels up to the blocks of wood. The block was marked with the proper places to align those heels. By the time this was done, two others among the condemned had begun to scream.

"Be brave, my brothers," the priest shouted out.

The boy who had been holding the nails and hammer handed one of the nails to Hans and the other to Muller. "You first, Hans," the hammer wielder said.

Obediently, Hans stepped out of the arc of the hammer and held the six inch spike point first to the priest's heel. Above, unseen by Hans, the man turned his head and eyes away and began to sing:

"Christus der is mein leben

Sterben ist mein Ge… "

The hammer swung, the nail bit into the heel, and the hymn turned into a scream. Another swing and the bones in the heel began to separate and shatter. Still a third and the point was at the wood. A fourth and fifth ringing of hammer on steel and that part of the job was done.

Hans felt dirtied by the blood pouring out over his hand. He was glad to let the spike go after the third strike.

"Now your turn, Muller."

Again the priest screamed, like a girl, or a hare caught in a falcon's talons. He screamed, but he did not cry. He screamed, but no more, Hans thought, than absolutely necessary.

The other four, on the other hand, did cry, and sob, and beg, and plead. The young janissaries ignored them as they went to set up their tents. Death would be a long and miserable time in coming and there was no reason to sleep in the rain while it did.

Hans was not alone in walking to the water cans to wash the Nazrani blood from his hands. What would my sister think, if she could see me now? he wondered.

Honsvang, Province of Baya, 8 Rajab, 1533 AH

(7 June, 2109)

It was a long time driving over half-broken roads before the factor's auto pulled into the town of Honswang and up to a hotel. The building was, in some sense, grand, yet its walls were discolored and there was an air of incipient decay about it. Petra, used to the residue of decay all her young life, barely noticed.

"We'll wait here overnight," Latif said to Petra. "Tomorrow we can take a horse carriage to the top and your new home.

"Take care of the bags," he said to his driver.

"Yes, sir."

The hotel provided a suite: living room, bedroom and bath. Latif pointed to a couch and said, "That's for you." He looked her up and down and tsked wistfully. "Pity you've already begun to sprout. I'd have enjoyed you three or four years ago. Oh, well," he shrugged, "no matter. I can always send for something if I feel the need."

Sitting on the couch of the suite's living room, Petra felt so alone and so very, very lonely. Strange room, strange building… and Latif was a very strange man. And the future? She was afraid even to let herself think about a future.

"And my past is lost," she whispered to herself. "Or maybe not, not entirely."

She reached into the little bag she'd been allowed and withdrew her great-grandmother's journal. She didn't intend to read it but just to hold it to feel some of the connection with Besma and the life she'd grown used to. Whatever her intent, though, she opened the journal and discovered therein a letter. Recognizing Besma's handwriting, Petra laid her own head down on the letter for a moment before raising up again and taking it in hand to read:

My Beloved Petra:

I'd hoped you would never read this. If you are reading it, it can only be that I've failed to free you. For that, I am sorrier than I can say. I miss you already as if half my heart were torn out. I will not be whole until we are together again.

Fudail and Hanif and Ghalib were beaten a couple of days ago. Ishmael took me to the shop where we bought your clothes and I watched from an upstairs window. They suffered, but not enough. I will make them suffer more, if I can.

Fudail fears to be alone in the house with me. He should. Whether I can get at Hanif and Ghalib I cannot promise you. I do promise you Fudail's eyes and his manhood, whatever it may cost me to get them.

I have already begun to punish al Khalifa, whom I am certain was responsible for all this. My father, I am sure, senses this. He has moved to another room in the house and will not share his bed with her. I can only hope that she turns to some other so that I can denounce her and watch her be stoned to Hell. I am waiting for that day.

My father tried to buy you back. For this reason alone have I forgiven him.

Do not lose hope. I will never forget you. I will come for you, or send for you, when I can… though it take me all my life.

All my love, your sister,

Besma

By the time Petra had read the letter for the fourth time, many of the letters and words had been smudged with what poured from her eyes.

Intersection, A3 and KT11, Province of Affrankon,

10 Rajab, 1533 AH (9 June, 2109)

It was early morning and, despite the season, quite chilly. The wind blew sometimes from the east, sometimes from the north. Wrapped in his janissary's field cloak, Hans shivered.

God, what a shitty world, he thought, as the five condemned writhed and struggled for breath on their crosses. They moaned now but seldom cried out. For this Hans gave full credit to the priest who spoke up, encouraging his charges to rejoice at their martyrdom and to bear up under their pain. They sang hymns, sometimes, when their strength allowed.

I should do as well, under the circumstances.

The boy, for he was still a boy, sat on a grassy slope, chewing his lip and watching the priest slowly expire. I'd help if I could, Hans thought.

"Boy? You… boy? What's your name?" the priest asked. His head lolled to one side with weakness. His steel-gray hair moved with the breeze.

"Hans, Father." He'd not forgotten how to address a priest, despite three years of indoctrination.

"You were… Catholic… Hans?"

"Yes, Father."

"Tell me how they convinced you to change?"

Hans opened his mouth to answer and then realized, I don't really know how. We were just all in pain and…

The boy poured out the story to the priest.

The priest laughed and, though the laugh was strained, it was still an amazing thing from a man dying on the cross. "Didn't you find it a little odd that they claim 'no compulsion in religion' and then compelled you and your friends?"

"I-" Hans changed the subject. "How did you end up here, Father?"

The priest laughed, then went into a fit of violent coughing. "I was sold out by another priest."

When he saw Hans' eyes go wide at that, the priest explained, "Many of the clergy like having the masters in charge, Hans. How else, after all, could they enforce support for the church among Catholics and Protestants? How else could they have the religious laws they believe in enforced, except by the will of the masters?

"What of your mother and father, Hans?" the priest asked, changing the subject. "Are they still Catholic?"

"Yes, Father."

"Does the Koran teach to honor them?"

"Yes, Father, in Sura 17, 23 and 24."

"As does the Christian Bible?"

"The words are different but, I think, the intent is the same."

"Do you honor them by casting off their faith? Don't answer, Hans. It's just something for you to think about."

The priest stood upon the spikes passing through his heels and moaned with the effort and the pain. After breathing heavily several times, and coughing forth great quantities of phlegm, he let his body down again.

"Not too much longer now, I think," the priest said. "And that's the truth. Tell me Hans, what does the Koran say about lying to unbelievers?"

"That it's permissible, when necessary, Father."

"Then let me leave you with this thought, Hans: Turnabout is fair play. Oh, and one other thought. If you ever have the chance: Look up 'Skanderbeg.' Go now, before they punish you. I will pray for you, my son."

Castle Noisvastei, Province of Baya, 10 Rajab, 1533 AH

(9 June, 2109)

The word "houri" meant, among other things, "having lovely eyes." It did not necessarily mean, nor was it related to, the English word

"whore" or its Teutonic antecedents. Notwithstanding, the girls at the castle were all called "houris" by the staff and the management, even though they were just whores.

After Latif had turned Petra over to a member of the staff, the first day had been taken up with inoculations and other medical treatment. The houris had value, it was explained to her and a dozen other new girls, most of them of about her age, and so it was worth while taking better care of them than it was with the usual filthy Nazrani.

Fortunately, Petra had had little opportunity to experience candy in her life and so she was spared more than the most cursory dental treatment. Some girls were not so lucky.

Each of the new girls was then assigned to an experienced, older houri for training. There was something about the idea of a line of a bakers' dozen kneeling twelve-year-olds, practicing fellatio in cadence, under the supervision of a washed-up whore, that offended even Latif's atrophied sensibilities.

Petra's teacher was called Zheng Ling and Petra thought she had the most beautiful, exotic eyes she'd ever seen, almond shaped but very large.

"I've never seen anyone like you," Petra said, in wonder, as Ling showed her around the castle.

"I'm an import," Ling said. "Bred in a brothel in Shanghai and sold here when I was four."

" Four! "

"I was a maid for five years before they ever put me to 'work,'" Ling said. "Even that pederast, Latif, has some scruples. He was my first.

"What did he pay for you, by the way?" Ling asked.

"About three hundred dinar," Petra answered.

"That's a lot!" Ling said admiringly. "No wonder they assigned you to me; they always give me the best girls to train."

"Train me, how, exactly?" Petra asked.

"There are many things to learn," Ling answered. "To clothe yourself, to wear make up to make yourself beautiful, to use your mind and your body to please men-"

"My body was already used to please men," Petra said, her face wrinkling and her eyes lowering. She shivered with the vile memory.

Ling chewed at her lower lip. The way this new girl had said it she assumed her first experience with men had been a bitter one. Should she ask about it? Perhaps not, but… "You can talk to me about it if it will help. Now or later."

Petra just shook her head, rapidly. She definitely did not want to talk about it.

"Okay," Ling answered. "Let me tell you up front, though, that whatever happened to you will not save you from having to use your mind and body to please men now. It is your only reason for existence, from now until you grow too old to earn a fee. At that point, if you've saved any money they may let you buy your freedom. You may be able to get work here, on the staff. But if you're frivolous, if you fail to please your clients so that they do not tip you, you can expect to be tossed out in the cold without so much as a blanket.

"I'll teach you what to do to make men want to tip you and to keep yourself up so you can earn the highest fees."

"But the very idea of it makes me want to throw up," Petra said.

Ling smiled, mostly sadly. "It isn't necessary to like it, only to be good at it. For enjoyment, we houris have each other."

Intersection, A3 and KT11, Province of Affrankon,

11 Rajab, 1533 AH (10 June, 2109)

The wind had slackened and the rain had come. Hans shivered under his field cloak, still looking up at the priest hanging high on his cross. The others were dead, now, though their bodies would remain for most of another day. The priest, though he was older than his charges, appeared to Hans to have hung on this long through a sheer act of will, through the sheer determination to comfort the others with words, song and prayer until such time as they no longer needed him.

Weakly, the priest's teeth sought the chain of the crucifix about his neck. They found that chain eventually, and the old man's teeth nipped the chain in two, allowing it to fall to the base of the cross. If the hard metal of the chain broke his teeth, the priest gave no sign. Then the priest gave Hans a glare that said, more strongly than any words, Take up the cross.

The priest then whispered, " Deus vult… Deus vult. "

Hans could not imagine the pain the priest had endured. He felt deeply ashamed. I gave up my faith over a few minutes in the pushup position. He held onto his through all this.

And perhaps that is why God might demand that his prophet endure crucifixion, Hans thought. And perhaps that is why it had to be his son that was crucified.

And perhaps I and my comrades have been lied to.

When no one was looking, and with the priest's breathing reduced to an intermittent and unconscious labor, Hans went to the base of the cross, and took the crucifix by its bitten-through chain.

Interlude

Kitzingen, Federal Republic of Germany,

7 April, 2005

Mahmoud sat, cross-legged, on a couch in the apartment he shared with Gabrielle. On one thigh sat a copy of the Koran, on the other a Bible, containing both the New Testament and the Old, loaned to him by the priest of St. Vinzenz's. Furiously he flipped pages in each, from one subject to the next, matching, comparing, above all thinking.

Gabi sketched Mahmoud as he read and thought, paying particular attention to the varying looks-agreement, doubt, satisfaction, consternation-that crossed his face as he read. Most especially was she trying to capture that rare and fleeting look of intellectual triumph.

She almost wished she could, herself, believe whenever Mahmoud's face assumed that look. Wish as she might though, she was raised with morals and ethics; she was not raised with faith. Leaps of faith were beyond her, she thought.

There's no doubt about it, Mahmoud thought. The Old Testament God is a petty, petulant, vindictive, homicidal maniac. Allah, early on, is little different. The destruction of Sodom; the swallowing of Ubar by the Earth and the desert sands… what's to choose from? They are clearly the same God, even if the message and the law may differ in details.

Yet is the Koran an improvement over the Old Testament? Just as clearly, yes it is, in many ways. In the Old Testament God is for the Jews and the Jews alone. In the Koran, He is for all mankind. This alone would be reason enough to prefer the Koran.

And yet, in the New Testament, God-whether Jesus is a prophet or his son makes no difference to this; he still speaks for God-is not only for all mankind, he's not a maniac.

Gabi hurried her hand and pencil to catch it-the slight curving smile, the eyes lifted up, even while they squinted slightly-that gave her lover's face an almost beatific look. Quickly she drew in slight lines of compression around the eyes. She could polish those lines later; for now it was important to catch their feel.

And then, too, there's the whole question of people. If I am a Christian, and I become a Moslem, what happens? Nothing. People yawn, even devout Christians. If I am a Moslem and become a Christian, what happens? Devout Moslems want my head. Even reasonable, responsible, kind and sane Moslems want me dead. It speaks well of no religion that it is so weak and fragile it must kill to keep people from making individual choices.

Freedom? That's an interesting question, too. Under the Koran, and even in the Old Testament, there is little freedom. And yet God permits great evil, evil He could easily prevent. Why should this be so except that He wants his creations free, that even great evil is preferable to the destruction of personal freedom?

God, he's so beautiful when he looks like that, Gabi thought. But what if he's serious? What if he becomes a devout Christian? How do I deal with that?

As a "bad" Moslem, Mahmoud could accept me as a "bad" Christian, which is the way he thinks of me. And I suppose I do drop expressions like "God," "My God," or "God damn it" into conversations. But that's just an unconscious reflex. I don't believe. I can't believe. It just isn't in me. But I'm a good person, a kind and caring person, despite that… or maybe because of it.

What does a "bad" Christian do living with a "good' one"? And I have no doubt that, if he converts, he will be a good one.

Mahmoud turned his face back to the books. He wasn't reading, though; he was thinking. Moreover, his thoughts closely paralleled those of Gabi, seated opposite.

What if I do convert? Life with Gabi will be harder.

Never mind that, he decided suddenly. " Render unto Caesar." She will still be my woman and queen of my heart. If she does not believe, I will make up for it.