Lion's Blood

by Steven Barnes

  Ali sighed. "We prepare ourselves for another day, my brother."

  By the time Kai awoke in the morning, Ali had finished his morning prayers and was inspecting his sword, running its edge along a whetstone with slow, even strokes. As Kai dressed, his brother continued the endless careful strokes, and finally Kai sat on a low folding stool across from him and did the same.

  "Brother?" Ali said, not looking up.

  "Yes?"

  "Do you believe slaves have souls?"

  "The Prophet, peace be unto him, said that all men have souls."

  He grunted and continued his sharpening for a minute, then stopped. "They volunteered to be here, and must be held to the same standards as any soldier." Although it was phrased as a statement, there was a question lurking there, and Kai wasn't certain what it was.

  "I mean," Ali said, "if they are close to animals, we can't expect them to have honor. They should not be punished for what Allah denied them. Does this make sense?"

  Ali looked up, and Kai realized for the first time how tired Ali looked. He wondered if he had slept, really slept, since their father's death. And wondered further just what demons had visited Ali in the night.

  "What is it, Brother?" Kai asked.

  Ali shrugged. "All my life, all I've heard is how glorious this day would be, when we ride into battle for Allah and honor and country."

  "You fought valiantly yesterday."

  "As I was born and raised to do. As were you. But. . ." he paused, as if there was something he could not say.

  "Many of the slaves fought bravely."

  Ali nodded.

  "You promised them freedom."

  "And they are earning it," Ali said. "Some of them. Some of them had more courage than some of ours."

  "And you protected them," Kai said. He smiled. "Father would have been proud."

  "If he had lived to see you yesterday," Ali said, "astride Djinna, sword high, surrounded by the infidel and hewing your way clear . . . his heart would have been happy."

  Kai dropped his eyes. How could a man be proud of killing? He could still remember the feeling of his sword biting into brown flesh. He should be repulsed. And yet. . . and yet. . .

  "And Malik would be proud," Ali went on, and Kai heard a catch in his voice. "And," Ali said, holding Kai's eyes, "I am proud."

  Kai looked up. There was something else, something grim and uncertain in Ali's face. Curiously, it made Kai's brother seem younger. So much had happened in the last year, that it felt as though the two of them had lost touch with each other. So many times Kai had longed for the simple days, when he had tagged along after his older brother, who had scolded him, yes, but also played at swords or satranj, taken him fishing, shown him how to paddle a boat on Lake A'zam, or taught him how to swim.

  How strange that in the midst of death, something gentle and warm had been rediscovered at last, blossoming like a rose in the middle of a battlefield.

  By midmorning the troops were pulling out, circling in a pincer movement to attack Aztec outposts to the south and southwest. By afternoon, only fifteen hundred troops remained, and of those, a third were assigned to stay behind to protect the captured outpost.

  The remaining men were lined up and ready to proceed to the mosque, Shaka in place at the head of his column. With a lurch, they began their westward progress once again.

  As he rode, Kai pulled up alongside Aidan for a moment. "What is the mood of the men?"

  Aidan said nothing for a moment, then pointed at one of his companions. "Look at him." The man was ashen, eyes bloodshot. "The men are half dead with terror. Your colonel is a monster."

  "He's not mine."

  "Who put us in his hands?"

  "You volunteered."

  "Did I have a choice?"

  Kai's lips were pursed too tightly for words to escape. He went back to his place in line, fingering his jambaya. A symbol of power. Sharp as a serpent's tooth, ten digits of lethal steel. He wished it could speak to him.

  Or for him.

  They rode and marched through an afternoon shower, then on through muddied roads until the sun baked them dry. After eight hours of travel, Kai was relieved to pass along the order to make camp.

  Despite a tight stomach he managed a mug of coffee and a few bites of beef at the fireside, and was just beginning to feel human again when Shaka began to address the troops. "Slaves and freemen!" he called, gathering them around. "Tomorrow will tell the tale. Tomorrow we free the mosque. This is why you have come, to fight with Shaka! You who are slaves will win freedom. You who are men will win gold."

  Shaka's lieutenants threw handfuls of Centuries, gold coins 1/100 the value of an Alexander, out to the grasping crowd. The soldiers scrabbled for them like starving children fighting for bread.

  Gold! "Shaka! Shaka!" they roared, the previous day's nightmare seemingly forgotten.

  Momentarily out of the focus of attention, Kai and Ali huddled with their friends, watching as Shaka and his coterie retreated to the tent.

  "I notice," said Kebwe, "we were not invited into the august presence."

  "Since Ali angered Shaka, no."

  Kai drew a line in the dirt with his toe. Wars within wars. No good could come from this. None at all.

  The slave encampment was set up in a pasture, against a barbed-wire fence. After eating and washing, Aidan paced its boundaries. Inactivity was a killer, but so was lack of rest. He burned with anxiety and eagerness, fear and doubt. Regardless of the circumstance, many in the camp seemed almost merry. Freedom tomorrow! they said, shaking hands and congratulating one another. And for those who would storm the mosque, that was true. Others would be siphoned off to raids of distraction and punishment, and for them freedom might lag a few weeks.

  New slaves from northern New Djibouti were pouring in, accompanied by their masters, more black citizens, and even professional soldiers. Each new arrival was sorted, tallied, sent to his proper place, and assigned a position in the chain of command.

  Aidan watched as the Zulu officers welcomed the newcomers with open arms and wide smiles. "Find tents for more brave men," they cried. "And meat! And beer!"

  A big half-breed sergeant snapped to attention and saluted. Most of the power in the common rank belonged to blacks or half-breed blacks, as if the Muslims wouldn't trust anyone whose mother hadn't been humped by an African.

  As Aidan passed one group of newcomers, he overheard a nervous exchange. "Do the Aztecs really eat people?" asked a boy of fifteen or so.

  'They'll eat your balls if you don't step quickly," the ghazi said. "Get drunk tonight! Tomorrow we see what you're made of, eh?"

  Around a campfire sat a clutch of mamluks, some of them sporting bandaged shoulders or heads. These did not boast or brag. They nursed mugs of beer, smoked cigarettes or pipes of tobacco or strong hemp, and sought to warm their bones. Their eyes were hollow. They had seen death, and knew that very soon they would see more. They shook their heads grimly as the newcomers poured in. "Poor bastards," one of the wounded men said glumly. "Haven't a clue."

  "Merry souls," said Donough. "Look how they line up to get dead."

  Aidan punched him in the arm. "One of those souls might be guarding your side tomorrow—best keep their spirits up. May be your life on the line. Damn it—let's have some music!"

  One of the men found a flute, and another beat a drum, reluctantly at first, and then louder and stronger. Aidan got up and danced a few jig steps, until the acid of fear began to leave him. The fifteen-year-old was watching him, his freckled, tense face filled with unvoiced questions.

  He tugged at the boy's arm. "Come on, Mouse—show us some real steps."

  The men cheered as the boy stood. Uncomfortably at first he began to shuffle his feet, and then finally to dance a few steps. The other men began clapping along, and some of the new ones took seats by the fire and joined in. They passed beer skins and shouted encouragements and suggestions, some of them creative and highly vulgar. Now there were three, and the
n four men up and cavorting with the boy Aidan had called "Mouse," and several more musicians joined in.

  Aidan saw Kai watching from just beyond the reach of the firelight, and slipped away into the shadows to join him. Kai was walking away, toward the fence, as Aidan caught up. Kai found a rock high and flat enough to sit upon. Although Kai gave him no greeting, Aidan noticed that there was room on the rock for him as well. For a few minutes the two shared a companionable silence, and then Aidan spoke. "Tomorrow is the day."

  "Yes. If we . . . if you live tomorrow, you are free."

  "And if you live, Kai—what do you win?"

  He thought for a time. "A chance to go home," he said finally.

  Aidan wanted desperately to reach out to him. "Kai . . ."

  But Kai stood, his back to Aidan, as if he needed the wall to hold back some tide of emotion. "Aidan," he said. "I wish you well. Survive the day. Find some way to give your life meaning."

  "And you."

  "Insh'Allah."

  Chapter Sixty-six

  Even at a distance, the Mosque of the Fathers was imposing and strange. It seemed to have sprung to life in the middle of nowhere, on a plain desolate enough to call into doubt the sanity of its builders. Its golden dome reflected the morning light. Its mosaic walls, flecked with blue and gold, seemed constructed of coins and gems, as if the architects had struggled to create a structure that was both old and new, that honored a dozen different traditions, that was arresting from any conceivable direction.

  Seven hundred years ago, Ethiopian sailors in primitive screwships passed from Africa to the New World, and traded with the brown people there discovered, later establishing a colony.

  Bilal's followers soon reached the new land, honoring his instructions. Soon after, two of New Djibouti's eldest and most honored mullahs, Jafari the Moor and Agot the Abyssinian, contracted cancers. Praying together, they shared a sacred vision that drove them to travel further west, accompanied by an army of their followers. When Agot at last was exhausted, and Jafari swore he could travel no further, they proclaimed this to be their burial place, and that this would be the western border of the empire for a dozen generations.

  Moor and Abyssinian were buried there, and as the years passed, men volunteered labor to build a shrine above their bodies.

  If the architecture was eclectic, and the building materials more often found than imported, still the Shrine of the Fathers was a remarkable achievement. The mosque was rectangular, thirty by about fifty cubits. The flat roof was thirty cubits from the ground, the arched doorways almost eighteen cubits high. The first six cubits of wall were of white rock, the remaining upper ten or so of blue and red rock glazed and polished so carefully that, at a distance, it resembled Benin ceramic.

  The ridged golden dome rising in the center of the flat roof looked to be eighteen cubits high by itself, and blazed in the morning sun.

  It was, indeed, set in an insane place: overgrown brush and high, dry grass stretched for a mile on three sides, and behind it lay a deep wadi.

  Kai watched the flow of men and materiel through the front doors. A makeshift flat-roofed tent city housing perhaps five hundred Aztecs had blossomed before the gates. Kai guessed that another hundred or so might be camped inside.

  Ali had been right: despite its ornate facade, the Aztecs didn't understand the symbolic importance of the mosque, or they would have either bypassed it or enlisted more men in its defense.

  From their position on a rise almost two miles away, hidden by a stand of cottonwoods, Shaka watched the mosque carefully, then raised his spyglass to peer at the horizon. "Smoke," he said.

  "Good," said his half-breed sergeant N'tomi. "Then their villages are burning."

  "Their men are here—their women and children are meat by now. My nephews have done well."

  As they watched, the gates of the mosque swung open. Armed Aztec riders swarmed out and wheeled their horses south. "Excellent," said Shaka. "Begin the advance."

  An hour later, Aidan and four hundred mamluks crept through the brush, led by N'tomi. Shaka and his royal allies remained on horseback, hidden in the woods.

  Crawling through prickly brush, Aidan was able to approach within a half mile of the gates before losing cover. There was no way around it: The Aztecs would know they were coming long before they could reach spear or sword range. Every breath burned like fire. The icy nerve that had served him until this point seemed to be thawing. He swallowed, trying to get the sandpaper feeling out of his mouth, but couldn't summon enough spit to coat his throat.

  Every half minute now dragged like an hour. He dreaded attacking a fortified position, but if that was the weight he had to carry to win freedom for his wife and son, then he would gladly break his back in the effort.

  Sergeant N'tomi rose from concealment. "Charge!"

  Like puppets jerked by their heartstrings, Aidan and the others rose, screaming. Shallowly flanking the mamluks were the black riflemen who ran to within three hundred cubits and then fired into the Aztec ranks. After a moment's hesitation, the Aztecs returned fire from the upper levels of the mosque. A mamluk immediately to Aidan's right flopped back, his head a red ruin.

  Bullets struck the ground all around Aidan, who was running all out now, nothing on his mind but reaching and killing the enemy.

  The survivors made it to the walls. Aidan launched himself at the first row of soldiers, who crouched and waited, their feathered shields clutched before them as if creating some kind of an armored wall.

  He remembered some of what happened next. How it was all a dream of chaos, how he seemed to go deaf, but still somehow registered the screams and cries, the sound of shattering bones and the grunts of effort. That he seemed buoyed by a strength not wholly physical, that somehow the vast, gleaming walls of the mosque seemed to look down on all of the bloodshed and battle and silently voice approval.

  He fought on, wielding his spear as he had been taught, but adding a bit of the staff craft he had learned watching Malik: butt and point, feint, sidestep, evasion and attack. Grunting with exertion, shaking his head to keep the sweat out of his eyes, gasping with sudden agony as his side was gashed, cursing as his leg was cut, but never stopping, never stopping.

  Men to all sides of him were struggling in a red frenzy, rolling on the ground wrestling with club-and knife-armed opponents, howling as they broke ribs or their own bones were broken.

  The breath was scalding his lungs like hot metal when he thought: The retreat! They said they would sound the retreat once the Aztecs were fully engaged. They promised!

  But there was no bugle sound. No retreat. Only the battle, which seemed now to exist in some place outside of ordinary time, in a fairyland of violence. There had never been, nor would there ever be, another reality than this. No wife, no child, no home. Only havoc.

  Finally, and distantly, he heard a bugle call, and then a cry of "Retreat!" from the men behind him.

  He was engaged with a short, muscular warrior who seemed to be all sinew and lightning. Nothing he did penetrated the man's guard, and he had already taken a blow on his left forearm that threatened to paralyze his fingers.

  Gathering his strength, Aidan shoved with desperation, sending his opponent reeling backwards. He used the butt of his spear against the man's knee to drop him. Even in falling, the Aztec kept his guard, but Aidan was not interested in attacking: he had heard the retreat, and intended to obey it.

  He turned and sprinted for the tall grass.

  Howling, the Aztecs pursued them. Spears and arrows whipped through the air, landing in the dirt, or in the backs of the men around him.

  As they reached the grass, and some modicum of shelter, the second bugle sounded. Exhausted, Aidan turned and thrust his left heel into the ground, preparing for the Aztecs. He had not long to wait: they were charging right behind them, outnumbering the surviving mamluks almost two to one.

  Aidan's vision wavered with fatigue and terror but he fought, whipping his spear as if it were
the tongue of some poison toad, steeling his mind to the carnage and his own growing despair.

  A light flared to his right, and he ignored it at first, heard the fut fut of arrows but assumed they had been fired by Aztecs—

  Until the fires began, cutting the Aztec troops off from the mosque.

  The flames rose on all sides. Aidan realized that the slave troops had been used more viciously than he could have imagined: Shaka had engaged the Aztecs, then retreated the white soldiers into a death trap, where he intended to burn them all.

  Lost! All was lost! And yet, hating everything in the world that had brought him to this terrible place, Aidan O'Dere fought on. It was all there was to do.

  As Kai watched, Shaka gave another hand signal, and Wusa called out another series of bleats on the horn. Two hundred cubits away from the fighting, a row of archers with burning arrows launched another flight of fire out into the long grass.

  "Go now," Shaka called to his men. "Finish it." Wusa blew the horn again and Shaka's Zulu troops, held in reserve, charged from the flanks, ready to kill any Aztec who escaped the fire. Ready to storm the fortress itself.

  Shaka stood on the ridge looking down on the hell he had choreographed, only his bugler, Kai, Ali, Kebwe, and Fodjour beside him.

  From here, it all looked like insects scrambling to escape a fire, prodded back in by the sticks of sadistic boys.

  "Allah preserve us," Kebwe whispered to Kai. "He's going to kill them all. Soldiers, slaves, Aztecs."

  Despite the whisper, they had obviously been overheard. "Is it not brilliant!" Shaka cried. "This is why I always win. No one knows the mind of Shaka!"

  Kai and Ali watched the fire curl through the underbrush. Watched the slaves and Aztecs fighting in the grass as the fire enveloped them—

  Ali's rage and indignation, too long bottled, threatened to explode now. He struggled to control his voice. "Sound the horn," Ali said. His hands knotted into fists. "Colonel, this is madness."