Lion's Blood

by Steven Barnes

  She sank to her knees in the thick warm llama wool rug, sobbing as she had not since childhood. "Allah," she pleaded, "give me strength. If it is Your will that I provide comfort and companionship to Ali, I will try to do so." To those to whom much is given, much is expected, as well. "But soften his heart, please, or mine will turn to stone." She paused, another thought, another face flickering briefly through the depths of her mind.

  "And please," she concluded, "take from my heart. . . the thoughts that might weaken me."

  Such prayers did seem to help Lamiya through her days, and her most secret hope was that they would help her through her nights as well.

  And the truth was that in time she knew she might come to view Ali's coldness as strength, and perhaps it was: the kind of strength that had consigned untold slaves to death to build the Pyramids and Pillars. If she could weep with wonder at their glory—and she had—then surely she could find it within her heart to love the kind of man who could bring such marvels into existence.

  Surely.

  So each day she struggled with her heart, studied with Babatunde, and prepared herself for the day when all such hesitations would become moot.

  Three days after she attempted to intercede for the servants, she was taking her morning ride with Ali, a thing that had once been purely pleasure, but was now inevitably combined with business of one sort or another. Today, he supervised as workers repaired the damaged kitchen.

  "—and I will have the west wall rebuilt by the end of the day," Ali concluded.

  The new supervisor was Yakia Lumumba, imported from New Alexandria to replace the slain Oko. A tall, muscular, shaven-headed civilian of Moorish appearance and military bearing, Yakia snapped to attention. "Yes, sir!"

  She stifled a yawn. All of her days were beginning to meld together, as if Abu Ali's death had leached the spice from life. Then she felt her heart leap, and quashed that glad feeling with a little pang of guilt.

  Kai was approaching from the direction of Dar Kush's front door. He wore white robes, his hands tucked in his sleeves.

  "Kai," Ali said with genuine pleasure. "You leave your room."

  "Yes, Brother." Kai seemed not to notice her, but Lamiya was not fooled. "I seek a boon."

  "Of course."

  "Please. Take the bodies down."

  Ali thought for a moment, and then nodded. "I believe the lesson has been learned. It is best to begin healing. We must live with these people." He smiled. "I do it for you, Brother."

  Ali called out to Lumumba. "Cut them down."

  "Yes, sir."

  Ali turned back to Kai. "Are you happy?"

  "I am content, my brother."

  Without another word, Kai returned to the house.

  Ali looked after him, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "He was always the sensitive one," he said to Lamiya. "Mother's favorite. I hope we never go to war."

  "So do I," Lamiya murmured, so quietly that she herself could not hear the words. This family had sustained enough damage. Any more and it might not serve her aunt's purposes, and then Lamiya's life would be rendered meaningless indeed.

  Kai prostrated himself before his father's grave. The gravel bit through the thin linen into his skin, and the pain gave him an almost perverse satisfaction. "Father . . ." he said. "I bore false witness before Allah to protect an unbeliever." He searched himself, hoping to find some emotion that burned more brightly than simple self-loathing. He had been startled to discover he could generate sufficient emotion to ask Ali to release the crucified slaves to the dignity of the grave. Even that paltry gesture had drained him. "I feel dead inside," he whispered. "What do I do?"

  "You forgive yourself, and move on."

  Kai's head whipped around. "Babatunde?"

  His teacher approached from the direction of the house. His customary gliding gait seemed today so very smooth Kai would have been surprised to see grass bend beneath his sandaled feet. "We have not spoken in days, Kai. I thought I was your friend."

  Kai hung his head. "I am not worthy of friendship."

  Babatunde sighed. "Oh, Kai," he said. “The greatest sadness of age is that we cannot give our eyes to the young. Allah sees beyond deeds, beyond words, into the heart."

  "Then I am lost."

  "Give it time, Kai. Time will heal."

  Kai said nothing, merely bent to make a new prayer.

  Babatunde sighed, and left.

  Kai remained on his knees. He waited, hoping for an answer of some kind, some sign that his prayers might have been heard and acknowledged. After a time, the ache in his knees grew intolerable, and he rose, mounted Djinna, and trotted back down toward the house.

  On the way he passed Aidan.

  They looked at each other. Each seemed on the edge of words. Neither spoke. They both turned, and each went his own way. Aidan walked as if he had aged twenty years in the past weeks.

  Kai felt as if he had never been young at all.

  Chapter Sixty-two

  By the first day of the second month following the uprising, the oppressive air about Dar Kush had, if anything, grown even heavier. There were noticeably more guards about the grounds these days, and they were better armed. There was another difference as well: the general morale of the slaves seemed broken. They usually kept their heads down, and rarely dared to meet squarely the eye of any man or woman whose skin was darker than dawn.

  In the mansion itself, dinner was being served under Bitta's watchful eye. Lamiya's bodyguard had temporarily assumed control after Aengus's garroting. The new scar along her shaven scalp only increased her physical authority, and the servants bustled at her approach, hypersensitive to her every gestured nuance.

  Lamiya watched as the servants entered with the main dish: an Abyssinian mussel stew served in edible dishes of hot bread—ordinarily a favorite. But the mood was somber as steaming trays conveyed their bounty to the family table.

  Ali sat like stone at the head of the table, bearded chin resting on his heavy fist. He did not speak. Lamiya picked at her appetizer, eyes casting about, looking for relief.

  Elenya seemed to have become a little old woman in child's clothing since her father's death. She rarely smiled, and never laughed. Ali had decided she should travel to New Alexandria for three months, to be presented to the Caliph; she would be leaving on the morning tide. Tears and bitter recriminations had failed to sway him.

  Even Babatunde seemed overwhelmed by the weight of the mood. And poor Kai was no help at all. He seemed to subsist on air and prayer, and had lost almost a sep since the insurrection.

  This had to stop. But how?

  "Oh, come," Elenya said. The girl seemed to be struggling with her burden, summoning all the brightness she possessed. "We can do better than this! Father would demand it."

  She went to the corner of the room, where sat a bӓgӓna, a stringed Abyssinian musical instrument of whalebone and wire, played in a similar manner as a harp.

  Composing herself, Elenya sat and began to play.

  Lamiya was afraid that Ali would request that Elenya desist, so she was delighted when the girl had the presence of mind to choose the Wakil's favorite song, a song from his Abyssinian father's boyhood, "Dӓnnӓsa Allӓmӓ," "I Dream of Dancing." Sweetly, she began to sing and accompany herself on the bӓgӓna.

  "I've dreamed beneath a starlit sky

  My bed the desert sand.

  I've watched as fifty thousand men

  Waged war at my command.

  All life's illusions pale beside

  The thing I've found most true:

  There is no joy short of heaven

  Close to dancing, Love, with you—"

  "Dӓnnӓsa Allӓmӓ" was a song of a young prince's love and hope, but concealed within it also was an almost unutterable sense of loss. Not a month had passed since his wife's death that the Wakil had not played that song.

  He had danced to it on his wedding night.

  In a high, sweet voice, Elenya sang of lovers and lost nights, and des
pite their individual sorrows and regrets, first Lamiya, then Babatunde, then Kai and finally Ali himself, joined in. Gradually, even grudgingly, the mood shifted to bittersweet, and some of the paleness left the room. Not all, but some.

  In the village, a warm but quiet communal cook was in progress in the central square. Aidan looked up from his bowl of fish mush as the first strains of "Dӓnnӓsa Allӓmӓ" drifted to their ears. The words were in Abyssinian, and he recognized only enough of them to know that it was the late Wakil's favorite.

  His spoon fell heavily into his dish, his hand momentarily devoid of strength. He could not afford emotion now. It took every kite of strength he possessed just to survive his days. He could not. He could not. . .

  As if those around him were of a single mind, the slaves began singing, as if to drown out their masters' voices.

  They did not cry, they sang the prayer that had comforted their people for five generations:

  "Sea and stone. . . salt and loam,

  Hearth and home, in us resounding . . .

  Pressed are we to be slaves unto men,

  Yet we be blessed beyond mortal kin,

  To be freed and reborn once again

  We are bound . . ."

  In the dining room, Kai's family ceased singing, and whistled their approval.

  "Well done!" Ali cried, striking his palms together smartly. Babatunde's smile wavered, and then broadened. He cocked his head.

  "Listen," he said, and walked to the balcony. One at a time, the others followed.

  They looked over to the shantytown. Its lights glowed somberly, the music wafting over the intervening distance.

  "They are a simple people, with short memories," Ali said. "I knew that with Brian dead, they would soon forget their troubles."

  As Kai walked to his room that night, Babatunde met him, taking his pupil by the arm. "Kai? Would you come with me, please?"

  "Of course." Kai felt withdrawn, but was unwilling to offend his teacher, and accompanied him to his room. There, at the little man's directions, Kai rolled the Persian rug back, exposing the delicate geometric complexity of the Naqsh Kabir.

  "It has been a long time," said El Sursur.

  Kai felt a distant stirring, but kept all emotion from his face or voice. "Perhaps another time."

  "Please, Kai. Now."

  Displaying no slightest hint of enthusiasm, Kai took his place. Babatunde played the bӓgӓna. While Elenya and Abu Ali had been skilled, the Cricket was a master, his nimble fingers plucking the strings like the Sultan's personal weaver working the loom. Regardless, Kai's first motions were halting, robotic.

  Slowly, Kai's thrusts and lunges became more fluid, and then almost magically beautiful. He dipped, spun, punched and kicked in slow motion with a dancers grace, savagely chopped and hacked a dozen imaginary opponents into stew meat. At times his balance seemed almost to defy gravity, as he froze in some impossibly contorted position—then exploded into a lethal whirlwind. When he stopped, he was panting. Kai felt as if a world of ice was breaking up within his chest, and the emotions locked within it were both sweet and unendurably bitter.

  Before he revealed his thoughts or feelings Kai turned and fled.

  For hours that night Kai lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, world spinning. He yearned for sleep, but his thoughts returned again and again to Aidan. Wondering how he slept, if he slept, in his empty bed, next to his empty crib.

  He thought of Abu Ali, cold in the ground now, his immortal soul safe in the arms of the living God. Kai believed that, with all his aching heart. Why, then, the grief and fear? Why the anger?

  Aidan had deceived him, and that deception led to the Wakil's death. Yet Kai had protected him. Why? Why couldn't he let the pigbelly bastard hang on a cross with his friends? What within Kai was so weak and corrupt that he couldn't see his way to a simple truth? Ali could see. Ali was strong. It was right that Ali would inherit the majority. I have not the strength to rule, Kai said to himself. Allah is merciful indeed.

  24 Rajab 1290

  (August 18, 1873)

  Sheltered by the interlaced willow branches above, Kai stood before the weathered black door of Babatunde's mosque, fearing to enter. He had been here before, twice, wanted to enter, to pray, to beg Allah for forgiveness. But as before, his strength faltered. If he could not forgive himself for his blasphemous lie, how could Allah possibly forgive him? Surely, if he entered so holy a place, his very flesh would be blasted from the bone, revealing his secret sins for all to see.

  So instead he sank to his knees and lowered his head to the moist earth. He had just begun his usual prayers when he heard a rifle shot at the main gate, a mile and a half distant. He stood and looked southwest. Trees blocked his view, but he heard two more shots.

  Only three shots? There seemed no threat, but despite himself, Kai was curious. He mounted Djinna, jumped a fence, and approached the main gate from the north. Another rifle shot, followed by answering shouts from the house.

  Now Kai was close enough to see the faces at the gate, recognize horses as well. These would be Kebwe and Makur, longtime students of Malik, the sons of highborn officials in Djibouti harbor. They fairly vibrated with excitement.

  "Kai!" Makur called breathlessly. "Great news! Great news! Our regiment has been called up. It's war against the Aztecs! They've taken the Shrine!"

  Ali was running from the house, pulling a shirt over his sweat-beaded chest. He must have been interrupted in the midst of his daily exercises.

  War? Kai straightened in his saddle. A hard, bright smile widened his face.

  War. A thousand opportunities to die honorably, to place oneself before the sword and will of a worthy enemy, that Allah might decide the right and wrong of it all. A chance to reclaim the most sacred relic in their empire. With such an action a life might be redeemed, or honorably lost.

  Either conclusion was an occasion for joy, and Kai raised his fist to the heavens, shouting louder than any of them, but for reasons they would never comprehend.

  Ali’s friends had been joined by a half dozen new arrivals, including Kai's old rival Fodjour. They swaggered and shouted through the halls, Dar Kush's myriad servants seeing to their every need.

  "Bring food and drink!" Ali called. "This is a cause for celebration!" Then, corralling his friends Kebwe and Makur: "Tell me where the breakthrough occurred."

  They crowded into the main study, and Kebwe flung a map onto the table. He spoke of flaming ranches to the west, Aztecs riding from the south, mounted cavalry, savages as proud and fearless as any army in the world. He told of battlefields strewn with the dead, and most unforgivably, the Shrine of the Fathers with an Aztec banner fluttering high above it.

  "The Aztecs broke the line at Swazi River," said Kebwe. "They were beaten back, but then circled around through the mountains."

  "That Montezuma is a wily bastard, I'll give him that!"

  "I'll give him my sword up his arse!"

  "They took the mosque," Kai said quietly. Already, he pictured the site more fully. Could almost smell the gun smoke, the sweat and steel to come.

  "Why do they want it?" asked Kebwe. "It could mean nothing to them."

  "They see it as a fort on the edge of their territory," said Ali. "From their point of view we could reinforce it with a regiment, and use it to spearhead a march on Azteca."

  Kebwe shook his head. 'That would be blasphemy. They are insane."

  "Mosque Al’Amu," Ali said, humor threading darkly through his voice.

  "Father used to switch me if I called it that."

  Ali turned to him, all humor fading. "This is our time, Kai. Our children will hear our stories and wonder, as we heard those of Father and Malik. We will drive the kufurin into the sea." He drew his sword and lifted it high. "To swift and bloody victory!"

  "Victory!" shouted Kebwe and Makur, lifting their swords. Kai lifted his, and opened his mouth, but did not shout. In his mind, he saw a sea of cannibal Aztec butchers, howling for his life. In suc
h a sea he would submerge himself, and blood would either wash away his sins, or drown him forever.

  Aidan paused a moment from his unending, meaningless labor in the bean fields, wiped his forehead with a blistered hand, and stared up at the sun. It was all endless backbreaking drudgery, bending and pulling, chopping and hoeing. The sun broiled the workers, but rest breaks were far apart now, even though it diminished the quality and quantity of their work.

  Ali's orders. Obviously, the new Wakil had decided to break every one of them, make them crawl for forgiveness and beg to be treated as slaves and not prisoners.

  The Irishman's head felt swollen and heavy. At first Aidan was certain that the ringing he heard was between his ears. Then he realized that the great bell was clanging, calling in slaves from the fields and forests.

  Without thought, without sufficient spare energy for anything but the mindless walking pace of the utterly exhausted, he dropped his hoe where it was and joined the flood of living dead staggering along the furrows to the gate.

  By the time he arrived, over two hundred of them were already standing in rows. He joined the nearest line. "What's going on?" he whispered.

  As if in answer to his question, Ali rode out, Kai trotting Djinna just behind him. The young Wakil wore full battle armor and his gleaming ceremonial sword. His thin beard had been preened to perfection.

  "Slaves!" he cried. "I speak to you today not merely as your master, but as one who might also be your friend."

  Aidan wondered how Ali could say that word without it choking him. Murmurs rose from the men beside him.

  Ali continued, oblivious to their scorn. "The Aztec infidels have broken the peace, and crossed into our territory, as far as the Mosque of the Fathers, where the men who founded and explored our great nation died two hundred years ago. This will not be tolerated. The time has come for war!"