In the shadow under the gate, a man sat, his lean, dark face creased by a little smile. He smoothed the fine hairs of his beard down and cut an orange in half with his saddle knife. Some of his men, marked by their white-and-blue turban braid, squatted in the shade as well. Some bore wounds from the fighting in Mekkah, but all were alert in the lazy way of hunting cats. Though the gate of the temple precinct stood open, these men held the way closed.

Uri Ben-Sarid looked up, hearing the rattle of hooves on stone, and in the barren upland that lay between the city and the temple he saw men approaching on horseback. Bone-white dust plumed behind them as they came, rising slowly in the still air. Ben-Sarid pushed away from the stone bench and stretched his arms. He yawned and then bit into the orange half. Juice dribbled at the edge of his mouth, and he wiped it clean with the sleeve of his robe. His men, watching with slitted eyes, had seen the dust as well, but they did not get up. Ben-Sarid nodded to one of them, and the tribesman slowly rose and walked off into the twisting passage that led into the city of the priests.

The riders came closer, coming at a good pace. Ben-Sarid stood at the gate, just within the shade cast by the great vault. There were more than a dozen men coming, maybe as many as fifty. He shrugged his tanand-white robe off one shoulder, freeing his right arm and the polished horn hilt of his saber. Silver and ruby winked at the crossguard. Behind him, there was a rustling as his men finally stood, and a light clatter of metal on metal as they drew their weapons. Those men who bore shields shrugged them into place.

Mohammed pushed aside a hanging drape, letting the thousands of tiny onyx beads flow over his arm like a snakeskin. Beyond it, a room opened up. This was the center of the great square building- this room without windows, pierced only by one narrow door- filled to overflowing with thousands of statuettes, idols, graven images, and painted icons. The air was thick, filled with the sweet, waxy smell of hundreds of candles that flickered around the circumference of the chamber. Narrow pathways wound between the looming shapes of great gods and small. On any day but this, a slow procession of penitents and priests would clog the corridor behind and spill into this room, making a slow circuit through it.

But today it was quiet and empty. Mohammed drifted into the room, his saber sliding through the gloom in front of him. Candlelight glittered in its steel depth, and Mohammed moved as quietly as he could. After a moment of listening, he moved to the right, following the twisting path around the tightly packed cluster of statues that stood at the center of the room. As he edged deeper into the room, the beaded curtain shifted a little, tinkling in an invisible breeze.

Behind the statues, the room was darker and Mohammed slowed, letting his eyes adjust to the light. There, at the back of the room, the walls took an unexpected turn. Old stones, still showing the marks of wind and sun, jutted out of the brickwork at an odd angle. A space had been cleared before this ancient remnant, and many small shoe-shaped oil lamps gleamed at its foot. Mohammed felt his heart lighten, seeing that the oldest shrine in this whole dilapidated place still received some small veneration. He bowed his head, feeling memories of his father curling up in his thought.

A candlestick rattled, brushed by the hem of a robe.

Mohammed dodged aside, his boots scattering the little oil lamps. A cold breeze followed the passage of a blade. The assailant, garbed in dark colors with only his eyes showing in the turban wrapped tight around his face, faded back into the gloom. Mohammed grinned, his white teeth catching the candlelight. "Well met, my son!" Mohammed's voice was eager, and thoughts of his father were lost. "Are you mourning, hiding here in shadows with the priests? Do their soft words wash away your blood-guilt?"

Fire sprang up from the spilled oil, lighting the room with dancing shadows. The Bani Hashim Princeling was revealed. Mohammed circled to the right, his saber drifting in the air before him. Sharaf matched him, his saber- clean and shining with oil- almost touching the Quryash chieftain's. There was little space to move, here among the statues, but Mohammed was certain that his bitter anger would carry him through. "Have you wept, boy, knowing that you murdered your wife?"

Sharaf attacked, his blade flickering high and fast. Mohammed parried and parried again, testing his strength against the younger man's arm. The Bani Hashim took a step back, and the echoes of steel on steel faded slowly among the thousands of gods that looked down upon them. Below the ancient wall a pool of oil burned brightly, melting the candles that encrusted the walls. Old colors began to run as the wax melted and the empty eyes of the idols filled with leaping shadow.

"Have you told your sons that their mother is dead by your hand?"

Mohammed leapt forward, his saber lashing out in a blur of cuts. Sharaf barely recovered in time, crashing back into the shape of the god Baal that crouched behind him. The Hashim was quick with youth, though, and Mohammed's blade rang off stone. His riposte cut the air below Mohammed's knees, but the chieftain had sprung up, avoiding the blow. Now there was an exchange at close quarters, blade ringing on blade, in a quick succession of cuts and slashes. Mohammed turned sideways, then chopped down hard, catching the edge of Sharaf's blade, driving the tip into the crumbling brick of the floor. It stuck for a moment, and the older man slammed his shoulder into Sharaf's chest.

The Hashim grunted in pain, and Mohammed jerked his blade back, catching the younger man's chin with his elbow. There was a dull, cracking sound, and Sharaf toppled backward. Mohammed spun, slashing down, and only raw instinct got the hilt of Sharaf's saber up in time to catch the blow. Mohammed's blade ground down, squeaking, against the hilt. The Hashim squirmed on the ground, trying to get leverage to rise.

The fire crept up the wall, filling the air with colored smoke and an odd smell. At the center of the ancient wall, framed by chiseled blocks of fine sandstone, a cube of black rock glittered in the firelight. Its matte black surface yielded neither light nor shadow.

Mohammed snarled, stamping down with all his strength on Sharaf's knee. The Hashim rolled away, but his grip on the saber weakened. Mohammed's blade whiskered, grazing the side of the man's head. Blood spurted, and Sharaf's ear spun away across the floor. The Hashim cried out and clapped one hand over the gaping wound. Sharaf's saber flexed and then sprang out of his hand.

"You will serve her in Hell," snarled Mohammed, slamming his saber down, pinning his son-in-law's neck to the ground. Blood welled up around the tip, thrust squarely through the man's throat. For a moment the youth stared up, eyes wide in horror, feeling his throat filling with blood, and then Mohammed whipped the blade out, sending a spray of ruby droplets across the faces of the gods that loomed over them both. Sharaf jerked, his hands clutching his ruined throat, and then made a bubbling sound as he died.

Mohammed staggered back, anger flowing out of him like the tide rushing away on an Adenite shore. His boots scattered the remains of the burning oil, setting it to lick against the wooden feet of Baal and the other gods. He slumped down against the ancient wall. He felt empty.

Above his head, the black stone was wreathed in smoke.

"Ho! The gate!" The first rider in the column pulled up, his horse snorting and stamping its feet. Uri stood, thumbs hooked into the broad ornamented leather belt at his waist, feet apart, at the center of the gate. He squinted up at the man on the horse. There were more like a hundred riders, as motley a collection of brigands, sellswords, mercenaries, and landless men as Uri had ever seen. To a man they were filthy from a long haul on desert trails; their beards matted and dark with sweat. Their leader, whose sleek black mare was still eager to run, pirouetted his mount in a circle and then back again. He was tall, with a strong olive face and a neatly trimmed black beard. Uri raised an eyebrow- the chieftain of these rascals was young, barely twenty if a day.