CALIPHATE(44)

Even the five men being crucified by the on ramp to the A3 didn't upset her, so happy was she to be heading away from her home.

The on ramp looked old and broken down. It was, in fact, considerably newer than either of the roads, A3 and KT11. Nobody really built well anymore.

There were nine crosses already erected, four more than needed. These were permanent, made of steel, no more than eight feet high and with crosspieces four feet wide affixed about a foot and a half below the very summit of each upright. They might once have been taken for Christian symbols. No more.

Trying to ignore the crosses, Hans sighed at the shiny car whizzing by on its way west. Those were not for such as he, though he might hope, after his discharge, that his son might rise high enough to be able to afford one.

Never mind, business to attend to.

Rashid was in charge of the detail. Janissaries were often used to enforce civil law, even as Roman centurions once supervised their men in executing punishment. It was to harden the boys as much as for any other reason.

The boys were strong now, after several years of both good eating and diligent training. Though their background may have been Christian, they bore little resemblance to the half-starved, recently flogged wretches under sentence of death for plotting against the Caliphate.

Hans had no clue about the details of the case. It really wasn't any of his business. Even so, he felt decidedly odd about putting to death a priest, as one of the condemned was.

With the Nazrani traitors arranged in a line surrounded by the young janissaries, Rashid read from an execution order. "In accordance with Sura Five, for fighting against God and his prophet, for bringing disorder to the world, you are condemned to death by crucifixion." Lifting his head to the janissaries, he said, "Take them."

Hans and three comrades immediately grabbed the priest. While Hans and another held the priest fast, a third bound his hands together in front of him. The fourth stood idle, holding two large nails in one hand and a heavy sledgehammer in the other.

"Up he goes," said Müller, one of Hans' comrades, once the priest's hands were firmly tied together. With a grunt, the three lifted him up, hooking his bound hands over the upright.

"And . . . drop." As one they let the man go. He hung there for a moment, in shock, as the drop had nearly dislocated his shoulders. The priest made no sound.

Tough infidel, Hans thought. That had to have hurt some.

"His feet now, boys," Müller said.

There were blocks of wood affixed to each side of the upright. The boys formed a loop of rope around both the upright and the priest's ankles. This they tightened by twisting a piece of wood within the loop, drawing the victim's heels up to the blocks of wood. The block was marked with the proper places to align those heels. By the time this was done, two others among the condemned had begun to scream.

"Be brave, my brothers," the priest shouted out.

The boy who had been holding the nails and hammer handed one of the nails to Hans and the other to Müller. "You first, Hans," the hammer wielder said.

Obediently, Hans stepped out of the arc of the hammer and held the six inch spike point first to the priest's heel. Above, unseen by Hans, the man turned his head and eyes away and began to sing:



"Christus der is mein leben

Sterben ist mein Ge . . . "





The hammer swung, the nail bit into the heel, and the hymn turned into a scream. Another swing and the bones in the heel began to separate and shatter. Still a third and the point was at the wood. A fourth and fifth ringing of hammer on steel and that part of the job was done.

Hans felt dirtied by the blood pouring out over his hand. He was glad to let the spike go after the third strike.

"Now your turn, Müller."

Again the priest screamed, like a girl, or a hare caught in a falcon's talons. He screamed, but he did not cry. He screamed, but no more, Hans thought, than absolutely necessary.

The other four, on the other hand, did cry, and sob, and beg, and plead. The young janissaries ignored them as they went to set up their tents. Death would be a long and miserable time in coming and there was no reason to sleep in the rain while it did.

Hans was not alone in walking to the water cans to wash the Nazrani blood from his hands. What would my sister think, if she could see me now? he wondered.





Honsvang, Province of Baya, 8 Rajab, 1533 AH

(7 June, 2109)


It was a long time driving over half-broken roads before the factor's auto pulled into the town of Honswang and up to a hotel. The building was, in some sense, grand, yet its walls were discolored and there was an air of incipient decay about it. Petra, used to the residue of decay all her young life, barely noticed.

"We'll wait here overnight," Latif said to Petra. "Tomorrow we can take a horse carriage to the top and your new home.