No Other Gods (10 page)

“Who are you? What do you want? And why should I let you live?”

             
The points of two guards’ swords were at my neck. Our arms had been bound, my soldiers were under guard in another tent, and I had been brought into see Ziyahd. Resisting temptation, I ignored the fact that I could break the ropes which secured me and slaughter the guards. That would not win me the trust I needed.

             
We had returned to our small camp, unbound the Arab scouts we had captured, fed them, gave them drink, and asked them to accompany us back to their lines, to their commander, and forded the river before running into the Arab sentries. It was now past midday, and I had been working our way up from minor lieutenant to captain to higher leaders and finally, to Ziyahd Ibn Salih, the supreme commander of the Arab forces in Asia. The angry, tired, and increasingly annoyed supreme commander.

             
“You capture my men, then bring them back? What, you expect a reward?”

             
He had been dealing with generals and advisers all morning, I could see, trying to make sense of his defeat in the night. Many of them were still grouped around him in the richly carpeted and decorated command tent. They still wanted his attention. Their tactical situation was not good, and the Chinese could be expected to attack at any time. I would not have much longer before he would dismiss me out of hand, probably ordering my death. Easier said than done, I thought, but the actions I would take avoiding such an end would seriously interfere with the mission Hermes had given me. Not for the last time, I wondered why I was doing this. Tossing aside such thoughts for the moment, however, I focused on today.

             
Gazing at Ziyahd directly in the eye, without a hint of fear, I spoke.

             
“Ziyahd Ibn Salih, I saw your defeat last night. But I have scouted the Chinese troops, and I can ensure your victory tomorrow.”

             
It was an opening calculated to give him pause, to contradict his expectation of how a prisoner would act, and what a prisoner would say. Ziyahd could (he would think) have me killed at any time. He’d probably done it hundreds of times — he would expect a prisoner to be meek, pleading, perhaps begging. Instead, I was bold, brief … and I promised to deliver what he wanted more than anything else right now.

             
Ziyahd was a distant relative of al-Saffah, the upstart king who had just recently revolted against his masters and established his own caliphate. The newly won empire needed to be subdued and secured, and a victorious — and related — military commander would have great opportunities. A loser, however, would be discarded no matter familial ties. So Ziyahd needed a victory, or one of his currently loyal advisers would shortly become his successor. He needed what I had offered. Now, all I had to do was back up my claim. He only said a single word.

             
“How?”

             
That was my cue to set the hook.

             
“I and my people are from a distant mountain tribe.” It had to be distant, because we were almost twice the size of the locals. “We come from time to time to visit, and we know the trouble our related peoples have from the Tang.” He was looking at me narrowly, trying to pierce my soul and divine my intent. “The Karluks have never been strong enough to challenge Chinese sway over these lands.” That he knew. “But your attack is a chance they will not pass up … if it can be presented to them in the right way, at the right time.”

             
“And by the right person, I presume?” Ziyahd was not slow on the uptake.

             
“And by the right person,” I agreed.

             
It’s wonderful what a defeat can do, I mused. After a little more conversation we were in. My hands were loosed, our entire group was set free, and we were given a tent with water and food. The Arabs’ quick trust had its limits, however: I noticed that the occupants of nearby tents seemed unusually attentive, armed, and ready. After a quick private conversation with Ziyahd I was taken to his command tent — the senior advisors and generals seated on a magnificent carpet; me and other lowlifes crowding around the edges. At least my hands were not bound anymore.

             
“We are not ready to take the field tomorrow,” one of Ziyahd’s people declared. “We need a day or so to reform, regroup. And we have some hundreds more arriving tomorrow, which will help.”

             
“The men know the numbers facing them,” said another. “Anything we can do to bolster their courage will be good.”

             
I was impressed with their honesty. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been: they had just recently seized power from the notorious Umayyad caliphate. Stupid, lazy, hereditarily advantaged sycophants are not usually successful rebels. And there hadn’t been time for corruption and privilege to reduce the command level talent pool yet. Some officers would have been tempted to tell Ziyahd what he wanted to hear: victory was certain, we can win tomorrow, let’s go. But these leaders were delivering the hard news, something I had not been sure they had the courage to do. And Ziyahd was taking it, too, without infantile displays of displeasure protesting the fact that reality was not as he wished it to be. Truly, a leader of himself first, and then this men.

             
“I think we can bolster their courage,” he said. “You have noticed a new face at our council.” A sweep of the arm indicated me. It was time to introduce the plan to the Ziyahd’s full military leadership.

“So we’ll begin the battle by attacking the Tangs only, and then the Karluks will attack them in the rear? Kinda leaves our guts hanging if you don’t come through, doesn’t it?” One of the generals looked at me with undisguised suspicion from under his turban. Corpulent, oiled, richly dressed and extravagantly perfumed, he had been a thorn in my side for an hour. While I had explained the plan detail by detail, he had explained how it would fail, detail by detail.

             
Finally, I’d had enough.

             
“Well that wouldn’t be any change from your current situation, would it? Did you travel all this way to Talas to dance with the native girls?” He flushed with anger, but I continued in a flat, neutral voice. “Imagine this plan does not work. Act as if I am attempting to trick you. Believe I am a traitor. None of that matters. If you’re planning to do something here at the end of your long journey besides tuck your tail between your legs and run … you need to attack. If what I do works, it’s a bonus. If it doesn’t … well, you’re no worse off than when you started. And I don’t think anything will ever heave that fat gut of yours far enough into the air to be left hanging.”             

             
Ziyahd laughed, the other generals joining in. He had style. And he was less focused on his honor and sense of propriety than on succeeding.

             
“Geno is right. Rude, but right. We will plan as if he is doing nothing and we can expect no help. We will happily accept the Karluks’ assistance if it is the will of Allah.”

             
The fat general wasn’t quitting, just changing tactics. “I have one more question. One of the guards has informed me that you have women among your warriors. What is this? Are they for comfort? Are they your wives? This is not the way of the Prophet!”

             
“Is this true?” Ziyahd asked, looking shocked. He had not seen my full cohort.

             
“It is,” I said. “It is our way that women can be warriors, in some cases. When they have the temperament, and the ability.”

             
“Haram!” the general shouted. “Forbidden!” The other generals nodded, murmuring amongst themselves, and I realized that they were in violent agreement. This was a serious concern among these recent Muslims. Islam had blazed a sword through Arabia and northern Africa only a century or two ago, and women were very definitely confined to the back rooms and alleys of life. I had to calm this down, quickly.

             
“We are a mountain tribe, far from civilization. We do not know all your customs or ways. I apologize for any offense.”

             
“This is not something the wind will just blow past the tent.” One of the very serious and religious-looking generals, who hadn’t spoken a word until now, stepped forward. His long beard was shot through with white streaks, wagging as he talked. “We cannot do the work of Allah while relying on the sword of the devil.”

             
“These women have been in our camp. They have stayed with his men. They do not cover their hair, and they wear trousers like men. They have defiled my very own tent!” My pudgy opponent was pressing his advantage. “We must have recompense.”

             
“The women must leave or die,” said white streak. We were dealing with a complete fanatic, obviously. “It is the will of Allah.”

             
Other slow nods came from the assembled room. My warriors and I were already an unknown factor in a battle with too many unknowns. The issue of women just added another layer of unfamiliarity and distaste to these tribal, medieval men. I could tell Ziyahd was not sold on the religious fanaticism, but knew that he would not be able to resist the will of all of his advisors and generals. It would be political suicide. I needed a better solution, fast.

             
“You are so sure you know the will of Allah,” I said. “Why do we not test and see?”

             
“What are you proposing, Geno?” asked Ziyahd.

             
I turned to my real opponent here, the fat general. “Put one of your best fighters against one of my women warriors. Let him be fully armed — my warrior will have only her bare hands.”

             
I paused to let that sink in. It would look like suicide, or slaughter.

             
“If your fighter kills my warrior, so be it. Only my men will remain, and our other women warriors will leave. It is the will of Allah. On the other hand, if my warrior kills your fighter — against all odds, or hope of possibility — we will know that Allah is with us, and with this plan.”

             
I could see the fat general turning over the proposal in his mind, searching for the trap. He could look all he wanted: there was none … except for the fact that I believed any member of my cohort, male or female, could take four or five of his fighters bare-handed. Meaning that one was hardly even a challenge.

             
“I agree,” the general said, looking at the fanatic, who started nodding himself. “Let us do it.”

             
The tent resounded to general agreement, and Ziyahd was nodding as well.

             
“Fetch one of the women,” he said. “We will do this immediately.”

             
While a guard left the tent in obedience, the fat general came next to me. He could not look down on me — though tall for his people, he was a head lower — but his smirk communicated everything I needed to know. He was eagerly anticipating the death of one of my warriors, and my embarrassment in the eyes of the other generals. I caught his gaze and held it in implicit threat. If things went ill in the next minutes, I vowed he would not escape punishment.

             
The guard returned almost immediately, bringing one of my warriors, still bound. It was Livia, and she met my eyes wonderingly. But I looked down to her tunic, which was torn, and her cheek, which was bruised and puffy. Anger too hot to contain rose in my and I crossed to her in two long strides, brushed aside the guard with one arm, sending him tumbling to the floor, and after gazing into Livia’s eyes for a long moment, I ripped the ropes binding her hands with my bare hands.

             
Ignoring the now-naked blades pointed in my direction by the other guards, I took two steps back towards Ziyahd and his generals.

              “What happened to her?” The words were innocuous but the tone was not and I stared hard. The guards gripped their swords tighter. Ziyahd looked for answers from his generals. One stepped forward: the one who had instigated all of this.

             
“She is beginning to be taught her place as a woman,” he said lazily. “It is to be hoped that she is a quick learner because, sadly, the lessons will end today.”

             
I took firm grip on my still-rising temper and forcibly shoved it down, into my gut, where it burned and twisted my insides. Took a single step towards him, met his gaze.

             
“We will see who learns. And what is learned.”

             
“Let us begin!” Ziyahd was eager to get this over with. “We have a battle to fight, and we have wasted enough time already.”

             
As we all moved out of the tent into an open space nearby, I turned to Livia, and, in a few sentences, let her know what was happening. I still had no fear for her, but not being able to personally and violently take care of a problem that was threatening our entire mission rankled.

             
Livia raised her voice. “I would like to fight the man who did this,” she said, touching her bruised cheek. The Arabs were taken aback that she dared to raise her voice in the company of men, but nods all around demonstrated general agreement.

             
A guard stepped out of the crowd, smiled at our friend the fat general, and drew his sword. With no further ceremony, it was on.

             
As the crowd pulled away to grant fighting space, the two fighters advanced to meet. Their heights were almost identical, but there all similarities ended. Livia was slim — strong, but not stocky — while her opponent was twice as thick. He was colorfully garbed; Livia was dressed in desert drab, almost camo. Most importantly, he was armed with a long sword and short dagger. Livia had her bare hands.

             
The warm afternoon sun beat down on us all as the swordsman advanced on Livia. She stood still, hands at her side, making no move. He drew his sword back over his shoulder in preparation for a killing blow. Livia still did not move. Some among the crowd of onlookers made noises of approval, thinking that she accepted her fate. Others implored her to move, to run, to fight — to do anything but just wait passively for the blade.

             
Her opponent cocked his head in puzzlement, not understanding, then, with a little shrug, whipped his sword down and across, aiming for her neck. The instant he committed to the strike Livia moved, feinting in a just a centimeter or two to ensure he continued his blow, then pulling back in a single quick step and lean, allowing the blade to whistle just past her neck.

             
The crowd gasped. While I was used to Livia’s speed — it was very similar, if not identical to my own — these people were not. To them, she was as fast as a striking snake. She had moved like a ghost, and now stood again still, calm, two arms-lengths away from the guard. Then she spoke, leveling her gaze right into his eyes.

             
“That was easy. Killing you will not be much harder. This is your only warning.”

             
He laughed, still confident.

             
“So you can dance,” he joked. “Perhaps I should only cut out your tongue, and you can dance for me in my tent.” Belying the words, however, he move forward with intent. Now he meant to end it.

             
But he had learned one thing: a full swing telegraphed his intent and Livia was swift enough to avoid it. He abandoned style. Striding forward, without warning he thrust his sword toward Livia point-first, hoping to spit her through the middle. Only I saw the move she made in full. Sensing the first motions, instead of retreating she stepped forward, pirouetting clockwise as she stepped. Turning her side toward the guard, giving him a smaller target, causing him to just miss her belly. Continuing the twist, ending up right beside his outstretched, full extended arm, seeing that it was just begging to be broken. Extending the same motion to scissor her hands on his arms, breaking his sword-hand wrist. He dropped the sword and grunted in pain.

             
“Wrist,” she said.

             
Still in motion, she stepped just far enough away from the guard to have freedom of motion. As her far foot was still hitting the ground she was bringing up her near foot and initiating a thrusting kick to his extended leg, crushing through it and bending it at an unnatural angle. Now he screamed in agony.

             
“Knee,” she said.

             
With a quick hop she was back centered and ready. Not pausing, whirling around she unleashed a roundhouse kick at the guard’s head, now falling to the ground. Connecting like she was booting a ball into the next mountain valley, whip-sawing his whole body back over in the opposite direction to land in a heap on the ground. This time there was no sound. And finally she settled to her feet, still.

             
“Head,” she said.

             
The guard had landed on the ground like mud thrown from a shovel. Crumpled, and didn’t move. Livia circled around him, prodded him with a toe. No response. No movement. No breathing.

             
“Dead,” she said.

             
The entire fight had taken maybe seven seconds. The men surrounding her were violent men. They had been in and around war their entire lives. They had perpetrated violence on too many occasions to count. And they had each seen more men die than any ever should. But they had never seen anything like this. Gasps went up around the circle. Hard, cynical men stood aback, stared in shock and wonder.

             
“She … she is a devil,” stammered our friend the fat general. He could not countenance what he had just witnessed.

             
I needed to define the moment for them.

             
“It is the will of Allah,” I said, hiding my grin. “He has answered your request and shown you the path to follow.”

             
The general, still in shock, slow nodded, still assimilating. General nods signified agreement. Ziyahd took the opportunity to start herding his leaders back into the command tent. But not before Livia had one more line to deliver, straight into the eyes of the general who had tried to kill her.

             
“Any more lessons?” she asked, then smiled. He stiffened, then turned away.

             
Ziyahd came up beside me.