Carnifex

19/8/469 AC

His troops had built a series of great bonfires around the scene of execution. More wood stood by each to light this night and the next. Two of the great, roaring fires flanked Carrera closely, their radiance keeping away the chill of the evening and early morning. The fires lit well a scene from Hell, yet were far enough away that they lent none of their warmth to the denizens of that Hell.

A bottle of scotch sat on one arm of the thronelike chair his troops had also constructed for him. On the other was a glass, frequently consulted and frequently refilled. Despite the fatigue, such a tiredness as ordinary rest could never touch, Carrera refused to sleep.

Is this justice? he asked himself. Is it justice for my family, for my men? Left to me, I'd leave them alive to suffer for much longer. But my crucified men deserve justice no less than I do. This, one hundred for one, is justice to them. My justice will have to wait.

He glared out at the suffering men and thought, This is what you would inflict on the world. This is the law you claimed to want. Does it please you so much now, I wonder, now when you are its victims?

Was it justice to turn your women and girls over to my Pashtun as slaves? No matter, it was your law. "Slavery is a part of jihad and jihad is a part of Islam; thus, slavery is a part of Islam." Isn't that what one of your high clerics said? Well, we have both been in a jihad and you have lost. Thus, by your law, are your women and girls enslaved.

Of course, my Pashtun are good Moslems, most of them. They know it would have been adultery—expressly forbidden—to have screwed your wives while you yet lived. Except that those wives became slaves and a master has a right to his slaves even if they are married. More justice, I think.

For myself, I think those most deserving of slavery are those who want it for others.

Have I even paid you back? I have been suffering for four thousand days. You will all, collectively, suffer for about twelve hundred. It hardly seems fair. It hardly seems enough. Yet it is the best I can do. On the other hand, perhaps if I incinerate your holy city, Makkah al Jedidah, perhaps then we will be even.

And I can incinerate it, with as little warning as my dead wife and children had. If I kill a million for one, then, maybe then, we'll be even.

Carrera leaned forward on his rude wooden chair. He lifted his glass and sipped at it, then sipped again. He put it down to refill it from the amber bottle. The light of the bonfires reflected on the glass. Refilled glass in hand he sat back and simply watched the life leak away from his enemies like the runny shit that drained down their legs.