CALIPHATE(42)

In the dim shadows toward the front, by the ornate altar, Mahmoud saw a priest going about some inexplicable business. He cleared his throat, nervously, causing the priest to turn.

"Can I help you, my son?" the priest asked.

"Possibly . . . sir," —for Mahmoud didn't yet know to address the priest as "Father"—"just possibly."





Chapter Seven




"We must be open and tolerant towards Islam and Muslims because when we become a minority, they will be so towards us."

—Jens Orback, Swedish Minister for Democracy,

Metropolitan Affairs, Integration and Gender Equality, 2004





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.