Lion's Blood

by Steven Barnes

  His leg would barely support his weight now, and the fingers of his left hand were as swollen as sausages. His side and back hurt as if someone had thrust flaming pokers into them—but he was alive!

  "You've lost blood," said the field surgeon, a black man who reminded him of Babatunde: small, dark, bright-eyed, but round and hard. "And this bone will take weeks to set. But you are strong. You will heal."

  "Thank you," said Aidan.

  "Some are not so fortunate," said the surgeon. He had treated Aidan as neither better nor worse than his black patients, merely as one more in an endless procession of bodies to be stitched or sawed. "Eyes, hands, limbs—it was very bad?" It was not a genuine question. There was no genuine concern. The little man was on the edge of burnout, as were the survivors of the Mosque Al'Amu.

  Donough lay still on the next cot. The pain had driven him out of consciousness. His big body tensed convulsively, as if already in the grip of fever.

  The surgeon undid the head bandages and inspected. "Most men would be dead," he said in a flat voice. "If it was an arm, I'd amputate."

  "That's what Kai said," Aidan replied. The surgeon looked over at him, and for a moment there was no registration there, as if he had already forgotten of Aidan's existence.

  Then he nodded. "Your commander. Well, perhaps he should have been a doctor." He turned to a passing orderly. "Get my pack from my horse. Fetch morphine and tincture of cannabis."

  His assistant saluted. "Yes, sir. Immediately."

  Kai's wounds had been bound, and he had found time to lie down in a corner for half an hour's sleep. Then he arose, rusty and creaky as an old man, and reported to the colonel's tent.

  Kwame and four other officers were seated in a line on a fur rug, cross-legged, backs ramrod straight. So: a board of inquiry had already convened. Kai's mouth tasted of dust. If things went badly in the next few minutes, it might be better to have perished in the tunnel.

  Kwame scribbled something on a pad, then looked up. "The strength of the Aztec horde was estimated at four hundred. We intercepted a column of reinforcements with war machines and explosive missiles. Therefore, it is probable that your actions saved lives. Still, you destroyed that which you were specifically ordered to hold. This is a wartime council, and our ruling can be carried out immediately. Do you understand the implications?"

  "Yes, sir," said Kai. He could be summarily executed. His father's wealth and political connections would serve him not at all.

  "Then what have you to say for yourself?"

  Kai took a breath. "It is said, and I quote, that in turning away from the true worship of God, idolaters had 'deprived themselves of the light of heavenly grace and of the showers of divine mercy'."

  "What has that to do with your actions?"

  "Our orders were to hold, but with our numbers so reduced, death seemed certain. The Aztecs would merely kill us, and occupy the mosque once again. When men are told to give their lives for an object," Kai said strongly, "that object, made by men, has been placed above the lives of men, who were made by Allah. In such a circumstance, the mosque had become an idol. I was merely following Sunna, the way of the Prophet, to destroy it."

  The officers were silent, perhaps stunned by the sheer audacity required to offer such an explanation. Then the moment of paralysis broke, and they buzzed among themselves.

  Kwame cleared his throat. "And what happened to Colonel Shaka? His body was not found."

  Kai faced him without blinking. "He must have died in the attack, sir. I never saw him after we took the mosque."

  The officer to Kwame's left wore Zulu war scars on his cheeks. He seemed alertly neutral to the proceedings, but Kai found it difficult to meet his eyes.

  Kwame chewed at his mustache. "There are many strange things here. I heard a rumor that Shaka's body was removed by his regiment—which means that they were here, but did not reinforce the men defending the Shrine of the Fathers."

  The Zulu officer seemed nonplussed. "I have no information at this time, sir."

  "I see," said Kwame. He conferred again with the others.

  "Sir," said a lieutenant to Kwame's right, a big man with a smooth face and a deeply receding hairline. "I believe a formal court-martial should be convened."

  Kwame nodded. He stood and walked to the entrance of his tent, gazing out. Kai tensed, as if waiting for the axe to fall, for the blade to plunge into his unprotected back. To what did Kwame's sad, wise eyes bear witness? The shattered mosque, the wounded defenders black and white, the dead and captured Aztecs?

  Or the prospective spot of Kai's own execution?

  Kwame returned, still without a trace of expression. He took his place on the floor. Although Kai gazed down at them, and they up at him, it seemed that he was at the bottom of an infinitely deep and dark pit.

  "I see no evidence of actionable malfeasance," said Kwame. "My decision may not be popular, but this is not a democracy. I will say more."

  He looked at Kai shrewdly, tiredly. Clearly, Kwame suspected what had happened here in the last days.

  "We may never know exactly what happened here, or why you took the actions you took. But your men are alive, and the Aztecs are broken." He folded his hands together in his lap as he gazed up. "You, Captain, have no future in the military. Nor, judging by your apparent disrespect for religious symbols, have you one among the mullahs."

  Kai dropped his eyes, fearing the worst.

  "I would not have a man such as you under my command." Kwame paused, and then added gravely, "But I would follow you into battle against Satan himself."

  Relief flooded Kai like the waters of an oasis. Kwame rose and saluted him. It took a moment for Kai to collect himself sufficiently to return the salute, pivot, and leave the tent before Kwame saw the tears threatening to stream down his cheeks.

  Chapter Seventy-four

  It was a clear, warm night, and most of the wounded men were being cared for in the open air, on bedrolls arrayed in the shadow of the mess tent. Kai walked among the injured, supervising the care of his men. "I want food and water for all of them, and clean beds. You will see to that?"

  "Yes, sir," said the doctor. "And you haven't slept for two days."

  "When the last of my men is cared for, I can sleep."

  They lay in rows, bandaged, splinted, bleeding. He passed to help Aidan, who struggled to adjust a bandage on his leg. A medical assistant next to him wound strips of hemp gauze around a black man's fractured shin.

  In the moonlight, their skin color was different, but the white bandages glistened the same dark hue. The moonlight, the darkness, the night, seemed to have stolen their color.

  Next to Aidan lay a man with an amputated arm and leg. What was his name? Kai searched for it, and could not remember. Allah save him, this man had pledged his life and honor to Kai, trusted him, and he couldn't even remember his name. Is this how it felt to lead men? To see them reduced to butchered animals and never even know who they were?

  "Oh, Shareefah. Shareefah," moaned the wounded one. "I'm sorry. God help me . . ."

  "Fazul," said Aidan. "Hold on. Life isn't over. You're still a man."

  "I lost my leg . . . my arm."

  "Half a leg, your left arm. Does your zakr still work?"

  Despite his injuries, the man laughed. "Better than yours ever dreamt."

  "There you have it. Bring that home, your Shareefah will excuse the rest."

  The man laughed again, and then coughed blood. He was dying. Aidan had no more comfort to offer.

  "Fazul," said Kai. "Where are your people?"

  "Upper Djibouti. Master Fakesh."

  "I know him. You have family?"

  "My wife, Shareefah. Three children."

  "Are your mother and father still alive?"

  "I don't know. Sold away. Have a sister."

  "I promise you that I will find them, and free them. You did your duty. I will do mine."

  Fazul sat up as much as he could, grabbed Kai's arm with hard cold
fingers. "Do you swear? Do you swear? Ah, Bilal, what's the difference? How would I know . . ."

  "Kai never breaks his word," Aidan said, his voice utterly sincere. "And he only lies to help his friends."

  The wounded Fazul gripped at his arm as Kai locked eyes with Aidan, seeing nothing in his friend's face but truth. 'Tell me my son will be free."

  "He will be free," Kai told him, still looking at Aidan.

  He searched Kai's face. "You have a good face. I think you are a good man." Despite his weakness, he managed a sly smile. "If you hadn't been born a black bastard, maybe we could have been friends."

  "Stranger things have happened," Kai said.

  Chapter Seventy-five

  Kai found an unused corner of the supply tent, curled up, and fell asleep at once. When he awoke a day later he found that someone had draped a blanket over him. He never learned who.

  He was ravenously hungry, but was only halfway through a meal when he remembered something that his mind had blocked for two days:

  Ali.

  Without speaking to anyone, Kai took a wagon and a horse and drove out of the camp onto the northern ridge, where a quarter hour's search revealed his brother's body.

  At first all he could see was a dark boot, and a still form curled onto its side like a man deep in sleep. A step closer and he could hear the flies buzzing, and after another step a sob broke from his lips as he saw his brother's beloved face, already swollen and puffy. He had hoped to carry Ali back to Dar Kush, but knew that four days in the hot sun would bring Ali's body to a disgraceful state, not fit for proper burial.

  So with the short shovel he had thrown into the back of his wagon, Kai dug a trench in the ground, and into it rolled Ali's already bloated corpse. No longer laughing, or prideful. No longer skilled or cynical, no more jests from the fly-strewn lips, no dance steps from the cold and lifeless feet. Just meat now. Like so many others. Just meat.

  He covered Ali up and sank to his knees beside the grave, praying.

  "Allah," he said. "Your Prophet, peace be unto him, said that a martyr's body should not be washed. My beloved brother was slain at a battlefield, by an unbeliever. Surely that is enough to perfume his wounds, and give him peace."

  He stopped, listening to the wind whispering through the tall grass. If he was very still, was that not the sound of laughter? A strong, clear voice that had once teased and chided and led him? For a moment it was, and then it was gone. Kai grew quieter still, barely breathed.

  Nothing.

  He stood, looking down at the narrow mound. So silent. Such a strange and lonely place for Ali's restless heart.

  "Farewell," he said quietly. And then after a time, he returned to camp.

  Later, his heart opened, Kai allowed himself another thought that he had pushed far away: Djinna.

  The horses had already been dragged from the field, pulled into a pit where they would be burned and buried. He spent two hours searching but could not find her corpse. His beloved Djinna, dumped in a grave, buried in a strange place, her huge, brave heart forever silenced.

  He stood at the edge of the excavation, gazing down at the dozens of dead horses piled in its depths, and something that he hadn't allowed to break open when burying his brother finally tore free, and tears ran hot and free down his cheeks, spilled salt onto his lips.

  He prayed Djinna would not think less of him.

  Kai stood out at the wood and brush fence surrounding the new encampment, gazing at the shattered husk of the mosque. More soldiers were arriving now, being informed that the mosque had been taken and Shaka Zulu killed in the process, the current whereabouts of his corpse unknown. Rumor said that the Aztecs might have taken it, to tear his dead heart out to offer to their dark god.

  Kai felt empty, but strangely light, as if he were on the verge of floating up above all of the turmoil. He heard a scratching sound, and turned as Aidan, unsteady on his crutch, limped up to him.

  "More men arriving," Aidan said. "They'll hold. This wasn't all for nothing.”

  Aidan said nothing more. Kai studied him. "You have a question, but you won't ask it."

  Aidan remained silent.

  "Because you don't want to offend me by asking if I intend to keep my word. To Fazul and Shareefah. To the men. To you."

  "I'm sorry," said Aidan.

  "No. You have every right to question. I have no right to demand faith." He took a deep, cleansing breath. "Yes, I will keep my word. But, do not trust my words. Believe only my actions."

  "Sometimes words are all men have," said Aidan.

  Kai turned and looked back at the makeshift infirmary, the rows of wounded, black and white. The men shared coffee, and bread, and for those few moments, they were just men. "Words legitimized stripping the honor from honorable men," he said gravely. "Justified turning their women into whores. Words that I spoke myself justified using thoths to pursue men seeking the same freedom I would have sought, were I in your place."

  Aidan started to speak, but Kai motioned him to silence.

  "I am sorry that words are all I have. For now. But there will be actions. I swear to you."

  He turned to walk away, but Aidan called to him. "Kai!"

  Kai turned slowly. He felt as if his face was frozen, as if the silver thread connecting soul and body had been severed. "Yes?"

  "I'll take the words," Aidan said.

  Kai dropped his eyes, then with great effort brought them level with Aidan's. "I'm sorry, Aidan. More than I can say. Hopefully not more than I can show."

  "Insh'Allah."

  There was a pause, and then Kai stepped forward and the two men embraced as they had once upon a time, long ago, before reality had awakened two lonely boys from a dream of brotherhood.

  Next to the ruin of the mosque, a new fort was under construction, logs hauled from thirty miles away to form high, straight walls. Rubble was being carted and carried away. The encampment was now an orderly structure, almost eight hundred armed men, cannon and spiked wire fences surrounding an area nearly a mile square.

  The survivors of what was already called "Kai's Maneuver" were being loaded on wagons and horses. They were a raggedy bunch, but as the wagons began to roll, the relief soldiers saluted them.

  Kai hauled his weary bones up onto the lead wagon, grateful that he wouldn't have to ride a strange horse all the way back to Dar Kush. He just wanted to rest, and think.

  Colonel Kwame and two of his lieutenants approached. Kai saluted him, and Kwame returned it, then pulled a scroll from his belt and handed it up to Kai. "The entire district is under military control now," he said. "This document is all the authority you need." He looked at the mamluks, crowded on the wagons with their black compatriots. "A promise is a promise."

  "Thank you, sir," Kai said.

  Kwame turned smartly and walked back to his tent. Kai felt an almost overpowering wish to thank Kwame for his kindness, but ultimately words, or perhaps nerve, failed him. If fate was kind, there would be another time and place. For now, he had to get his men home.

  "Roll out!" he called, and the wagons began to move.

  Two days later, they arrived at the gates of the first plantation, a wide iron gate barring a dirt road that wound back between a stand of walnut trees. The blacks and mamluks hobbled down from the wagon.

  Before they could ring the gate's bell to announce themselves, there was a shout from down the private road, and little white boys in threadbare pants came running, followed a moment later by three black men on horseback.

  After introductions, Kai showed the document to the master, a graying, broad-browed man named Jaffari Fakesh. A thick-waisted man in his sixties, Fakesh nodded soberly, calling for several slaves to come forward.

  Dozens of whites had gathered now, men and women, boys and girls.

  Heart heavy, Kai pulled the sheet back from one corner of the third wagon, exposing the still, pale face of Fazul.

  A stout, handsome woman screamed and rushed forward, sobbing and gripping at h
er dead husband. Shareefah, Kai thought. Three children clutched at her legs, moaning.

  The eldest child was a son, and the spitting image of his father. "You are the son Fazul spoke of," Kai said.

  The boy's face, ruddy with emotion, tilted up, jaw clenched.

  "Your father fought bravely," Kai said. "He was a hero, and he wanted you and your family to be free. Free you are, all of you. By my order, and order of the Caliph, you will receive a homestead and a year's stipend."

  The boy's eyes were filled with tears, but they did not spill. He reached up to take the scroll that Kai offered. "If you have any other questions, or needs, come see me at my home, and I will ensure that they are answered or fulfilled." The boy nodded, clutching the papers of emancipation. Freedom. At the cost of death.

  And doubtless wishing he could remain a slave, if only his father would come marching home again.

  On the third day they made camp by the banks of the Tankwa canal. Only twenty survivors now remained: black and white soldiers had dispersed as the caravan traveled east, each to his own home and people. There were strained good-byes: for a short time they had simply been men who had survived an extreme experience. As they reentered the normal world the whites grew quieter, the blacks more distant, until finally they no longer shared songs and jokes and memories, just waved quietly as men who had saved their lives, or fought at their sides, returned to the roles they had inhabited before the Aztecs took the mosque.

  Kai and Aidan sat side by side at the edge of a campfire. They talked, laughed, and sometimes shared a companionable silence, as they had in the old days. "Remember the hemp beer?" Aidan laughed.

  "Remember?" Kai said. "My head rang for a week the first time. An evil brew." He paused, then added, "I could use a mug of it now!"