Caliphate

their faith? Don't answer, Hans. It's just something for you to think about.'

The priest stood upon the spikes passing through his heels and moaned with the effort and the pain. After breathing heavily several times, and coughing forth great quantities of phlegm, he let his body down again.

'Not too much longer now, I think,' the priest said. 'And that's the truth. Tell me Hans, what does the Koran say about lying to unbelievers?'

'That it's permissible, when necessary, Father.'

'Then let me leave you with this thought, Hans: Turnabout is fair play. Oh, and one other thought. If you ever have the chance: Look up 'Skanderbeg.' Go now, before they punish you. I will pray for you, my son.'

Castle Noisvastei, Province of Baya, 10 Rajab, 1533 AH

(9 June, 2109)

The word 'houri' meant, among other things, 'having lovely eyes.' It did not necessarily mean, nor was it related to, the English word

'whore' or its Teutonic antecedents. Notwithstanding, the girls at the castle were all called 'houris' by the staff and the management, even though they were just whores.

After Latif had turned Petra over to a member of the staff, the first day had been taken up with inoculations and other medical treatment. The houris had value, it was explained to her and a dozen other new girls, most of them of about her age, and so it was worth while taking better care of them than it was with the usual filthy Nazrani.

Fortunately, Petra had had little opportunity to experience candy in her life and so she was spared more than the most cursory dental treatment. Some girls were not so lucky.

Each of the new girls was then assigned to an experienced, older houri for training. There was something about the idea of a line of a bakers' dozen kneeling twelve-year-olds, practicing fellatio in cadence, under the supervision of a washed-up whore, that offended even Latif's atrophied sensibilities.

Petra's teacher was called Zheng Ling and Petra thought she had the most beautiful, exotic eyes she'd ever seen, almond shaped but very large.

'I've never seen anyone like you,' Petra said, in wonder, as Ling showed her around the castle.

'I'm an import,' Ling said. 'Bred in a brothel in Shanghai and sold here when I was four.'

'Four!'

'I was a maid for five years before they ever put me to 'work,'' Ling said. 'Even that pederast, Latif, has some scruples. He was my first.

'What did he pay for you, by the way?' Ling asked.

'About three hundred dinar,' Petra answered.

'That's a lot!' Ling said admiringly. 'No wonder they assigned you to me; they always give me the best girls to train.'

'Train me, how, exactly?' Petra asked.

'There are many things to learn,' Ling answered. 'To clothe yourself, to wear make up to make yourself beautiful, to use your mind and your body to please men—'

'My body was already used to please men,' Petra said, her face wrinkling and her eyes lowering. She shivered with the vile memory.

Ling chewed at her lower lip. The way this new girl had said it she assumed her first experience with men had been a bitter one. Should she ask about it? Perhaps not, but . . . 'You can talk to me about it if it will help. Now or later.'

Petra just shook her head, rapidly. She definitely did not want to talk about it.

'Okay,' Ling answered. 'Let me tell you up front, though, that whatever happened to you will not save you from having to use your mind and body to please men now. It is your only reason for existence, from now until you grow too old to earn a fee. At that point, if you've saved any money they may let you buy your freedom. You may be able to get work here, on the staff. But if you're frivolous, if you fail to please your clients so that they do not tip you, you can expect to be tossed out in the cold without so much as a blanket.

'I'll teach you what to do to make men want to tip you and to keep yourself up so you can earn the highest fees.'

'But the very idea of it makes me want to throw up,' Petra said.

Ling smiled, mostly sadly. 'It isn't necessary to like it, only to be good at it. For enjoyment, we houris have each other.'

Intersection, A3 and KT11, Province of Affrankon,

11 Rajab, 1533 AH (10 June, 2109)

The wind had slackened and the rain had come. Hans shivered under his field cloak, still looking up at the priest hanging high on his cross. The others were dead, now, though their bodies would remain for most of another day. The priest, though he was older than his charges, appeared to Hans to have hung on this long through a sheer act of will, through the sheer determination to comfort the others with words, song and prayer until such time as they no longer needed him.

Weakly, the priest's teeth sought the chain of the crucifix about his neck. They found that chain eventually, and the old man's teeth nipped the chain in two, allowing it to fall to the base of the cross. If the hard metal of the chain broke his teeth, the priest gave no sign. Then the priest gave Hans a glare that said, more strongly than any words, Take up the cross.

The priest then whispered, 'Deus vult . . . Deus vult.'

Hans could not imagine the pain the priest had endured. He felt deeply ashamed. I gave up my faith over a few minutes in the pushup position. He held onto his through all this.

And perhaps that is why God might demand that his prophet endure crucifixion, Hans thought. And perhaps that is why it had to be his son that was crucified.

And perhaps I and my comrades have been lied to.

When no one was looking, and with the priest's breathing reduced to an intermittent and unconscious labor, Hans went to the base of the cross, and took the crucifix by its bitten-through chain.

Interlude

Kitzingen, Federal Republic of Germany,

7 April, 2005

Mahmoud sat, cross-legged, on a couch in the apartment he shared with Gabrielle. On one thigh sat a copy of the Koran, on the other a Bible, containing both the New Testament and the Old, loaned to him by the priest of St. Vinzenz's. Furiously he flipped pages in each, from one subject to the next, matching, comparing, above all thinking.

Gabi sketched Mahmoud as he read and thought, paying particular attention to the varying looks—agreement, doubt, satisfaction, consternation—that crossed his face as he read. Most especially was she trying to capture that rare and fleeting look of intellectual triumph.

She almost wished she could, herself, believe whenever Mahmoud's face assumed that look. Wish as she might though, she was raised with morals and ethics; she was not raised with faith. Leaps of faith were beyond her,