Prologue

— 45 years earlier —

The sun sank slowly over the distant city, its glare curdling to a mottled orange; the heat of the day was done—a single hour would witness its end. A haze blurred the outlines of the buildings, though Colonel Tariq could still see the gaps in the skyline he had been watching since noon. Not a city. A tombstone. He could even spot the steeple of one of their churches, which had stood unprotected for hundreds of years. None of the faithful had struck it down. Until now.

A cry from the grounds below dragged his eyes away from the ruined buildings. An officer saluted the podium as a horse company rode in. Breastplates glistened in the sunlight as the chargers trotted by in perfect formation. At his call, fifty scimitars leapt from their sheaths, each held at precisely the same angle. Having reached their position, the horses swiveled, reared, and stood. In went the swords, back into their sheaths; out came the rifles, and seven shots rang out in perfect synchrony. Seven shots, Tariq thought, horrified, working out the cost in his mind. Many of those soldiers would be firing bullets for the first time. Not real bullets, of course—only the Guards were allowed anywhere near the Caliph with real bullets—but the true cost of ammunition lay in the gunpowder, not in the lead it propelled. I wonder who authorized seven. No general would dare admit to shortages by skimping on ceremony, but three would have been enough, surely.

More men marched in from the open side of the square, the side that pointed to the abandoned Andalusian town. Two other sides were hemmed in by giant grandstands, filled to bursting with the faithful. On the fourth side—Tariq's side—stood bleachers half the size of the others. In the middle huddled perhaps fifty dhimmi unbelievers; around them stood Tariq and his seven guards. Two hundred years ago there had still been some danger of assassinations; now, his role was purely ceremonial.

Tariq eyed his charges. Most were men, naturally, including some spindly grandfather with a cane. No assassins in this lot. But there were women as well, mixed freely among the men. He knew about that. Some of them tried to disguise their wantonness by covering their flesh, but their shrill voices and proud backs gave them away. He could never understand it. Even with their shame smeared upon their faces, they clung to their immoral ways. Their forefathers had built that city... and now their sheiks and effendis ran at the Caliph's command, to see it die a second time. Truly, Allah has willed it.

The last unit took its position, and the man at the podium began to speak. The sounds echoed weakly up to Tariq's level; the loudspeakers must have malfunctioned again. It was only the vizier—though rumor had it that the Caliph himself would come tomorrow, when the hudna ceasefire was formally renewed. No Caliph had come for the ceremony ten years ago, nor for the one before that. There had been no occasion to come, then. Tariq shifted his weight from one foot to another; the vizier droned on.

At last, the speech ended, and a hush spread throughout the crowd. Wait for the command. He could read the tension in the posture of every man, feel it in the multitude of faces concentrated on a single point. The dhimmis fell grimly silent, as if awaiting the disinterment of a family grave for some necessary but distasteful examination. A siren began to wail, its hand crank more trustworthy than the electric speakers. Every person present lifted their face shield into position. Tariq counted off a few more seconds before raising his own. His guards mirrored his action.

The shield’s darkened glass blackened the world around him. Now, all he could see was the orb of the sun as it was torn by the broken buildings below it. At the moment of detonation, the sun seemed to flicker; a searing ball of light enveloped the distant city, and then the world. His eyes clamped shut of their own volition, but he forced them open. Nothing else seemed to exist as this new sun roiled in upon itself, flinging roofs and walls outwards like the rage of an angry child. The first flash faded, and the shield shut out the world again; unthinking, he tore it off. This was what he had waited to see. Had hoped to see. He had not doubted. He had never doubted. But oh! To see the might of Allah, granted to the faithful, wielded by the Caliph! The true Caliph, not the Sultan, nor the Saudis, nor the loathsome Shias of the Empire. Now there would be peace. The rumors, the raids, the fitna—all set to rest in the blink of an eye. For sixty years, the Caliphs had tested their Bombs at sea, where the radiation would harm nobody. One Bomb, every ten years, when the hudna with the kuffar was renewed. But this Caliph had chosen this ancient capital to make a point that even a Turk could understand. Surely they would understand. The fireball was all smoke now, and its upwards motion had pulled it into the shape of a mushroom. Allah strike fear into their hearts.

Abruptly, Tariq realized that he was looking at a bomb unshielded… but he could still see. A green afterimage appeared when he blinked, but it was already fading away. He glanced left and right, but everyone else had their shield on.

All except one, that is. A spindly old grandfather sat unshielded, fiddling with a cane, the corners of his mouth turned up into what could only be a smile. That can’t be right. Tariq took a half step forward. The cane had a handle, and the handle had a display, with buttons the man was pressing. A shiver ran down his spine. A red circle started flashing on the screen. No assassins in this lot… Tariq leapt across the rows of empty seats, scrambling towards the old man. A cane that was not a cane could be anything.

Two steps away, the dhimmi pressed a final button, and the screen blinked off. A moment later, Tariq’s fist knocked the instrument away. For the briefest moment, their eyes met. Old eyes, ancient eyes; in them he could see that same smile magnified sevenfold—a hundredfold. Their smug satisfaction held Tariq paralyzed for the longest second of his life.

A roll of thunder crashed about them as the shock of the explosion finally arrived, and an angry wind whipped leaves and dust between their faces. The dhimmi bowed his head. All around them, the shields were tossed aside. Cries of joy thundered across the square. Tariq frowned, looking around. The vizier was alive. The faithful were praising Allah. The old man had slunk back into his group, his eyes cast downward. Nothing had happened. And yet… the man had smiled. The cane lay broken on the floor, its screen a web of cracks. What danger in a smile?

Tariq turned his gaze towards the city, but there was nothing to see. The fire of the explosion had spent itself, and the sun had already set. A veil of dust and smoke concealed the destruction of the ancient city. The pleasure of the moment was gone.