Caliphate

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 Müller, 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," Müller 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 Müller. "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, Müller."

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.