Meanwhile, Abu-Bekr, and ten chiefs, planned the attack. I moved into a secluded house on the outskirts of the city, where I received daily reports. From time to time, Abu-Bekr came to consult me. I suggested some of the methods used by the Romans, and illustrated them by means of chess.

Abu-Bekr presented me with two virgins, that time might not weigh too heavily upon me. “Woman is after all the best toy that Allah has invented, provided she is obedient and faithful,” he said.

Abu-Bekr decided to attack the enemy at night, as I had advised. Thanks to my gold, his men were well equipped and the granaries filled to the brim.

The people, considering themselves quite secure henceforth, slept peacefully. A few watchmen wandered about the city, calling out from time to time: “I see you! I see you!” Novices only trembled, but the more experienced thieves laughed in their beards, knowing that human eyes could not pierce the heavy black curtain which Night, their friend and benefactor, had lowered over the earth. Nor were they afraid of the dogs that barked disconsolately, answering one another, like endless echoes. They could easily be bribed by a piece of meat, dipped in poison, or be silenced by a firm grip about the throat.

We stood upon the top of one of the hills. A crescent moon, sharp and dazzling as a scimitar, and a star like a diamond upon the hilt, hung above us.

“Day shall break much sooner than usual, Cartaphilus. Allah will shorten this night for the sake of His Prophet, Mohammed.”

Masses of flames began to appear at many angles of the city. The black window of Night cracked, as if large rocks had been hurled against it.

“Allah be praised, and His Prophet live forever!” Abu-Bekr exclaimed, and looking at the moon, began to intone an ancient Arabic war-song:

‘Is he Nero?’ I thought. ‘Am I witnessing once again the burning of Rome?’

The officers sang the last words of each verse. I hummed.

Mecca glowed like an enormous ruby in a dark hall. The singing mingled with the wails and lamentations of men and women, and the weird and desperate howls of animals.

“Allah is the only God, and Mohammed is His Prophet!”

“Assassins!”

“Scoundrels!”

“Incendiaries! “

“Allah is the only God, and Mohammed is His Prophet!”

The flames paled in the morning lights, while the smoke became darker and heavier.

For two days, messengers dropped at our feet, and when their voices became articulate, exclaimed: “Allah be praised! Our enemies wallow in their blood like slaughtered oxen! Allah is the only God and Mohammed is His Prophet!”

Upon a tall, white steed Mohammed, dressed in a cloak of white silk and a turban shining with jewels, rode slowly through the city. In front of him, a hundred priests chanted, and exclaimed from time to time: “Allah is the only God, and Mohammed is His Prophet.” Behind him, Abu-Bekr, the staff of officers and I, rode on small black horses, and for a few miles in our rear, men, women and children walked or rode, singing martial airs and screaming from time to time, at the top of their voices: “Allah is the only God, and Mohammed is His Prophet.”

“This was the ambition of Jesus,—to ride triumphantly amid believers, proclaiming him the King of the Jews. But instead, he dragged his cross, hooted and mocked by the populace,—for it was ordered by Allah that only his true Prophet should be victorious.”

“Allah is just and His mercy is eternal,” answered Mohammed.

“The Prophet of Allah is not only the King of his people, but the King of the world.”

“Kings become old and die.”

“Their kingdoms remain.”

He turned and looked at me, his eyes dazzling like ebony ablaze. “I must go, Cartaphilus, but thou wilt tarry…”

I was startled. Was my destiny reiterated and reinforced? Was this the echo of the anathema, softened into a blessing?

As a hurricane that uproots mighty oaks, crumbles houses, and whirls in the air huge animals like withered leaves or feathers dropped from sparrows’ backs, were the fury and the might of the Prophet’s army.

The Word always succeeded the Sword, and the conquered were either persuaded of the truth, or considered it more prudent and more profitable to pretend belief. Thus all Arabia shouted: “Allah is the only God and Mohammed is His Prophet.” The desert and the mountains trembled with the echo.

KOTIKOKURA turned his face to the East, and bowing several times, grumbled: “Allah… Mohammed.”

“Kotikokura, what is the meaning of this? Have you forgotten that Ca-ta-pha is the only God?”

“Ca-ta-pha is God. Allah is God. Mohammed is God.”

“Heathen! Barbarian! Are you not ashamed to have more than one God?”

He looked at me, startled.

“Perhaps you are right, Kotikokura. If there is one God, why not many?”

He grinned.

Abu-Bekr entered, breathless, his beard disheveled, and his hands trembling. “Cartaphilus, the Prophet is dead!”

“The Prophet cannot die, Abu-Bekr.”

“Alas,” he whispered into my ear, “he was poisoned.”

“Has the news spread among the believers?”

“Not yet. At this very moment, millions are praying to the Prophet…but the Prophet is no more!”

Abu-Bekr seated himself upon the floor, his head between his hands. “The Prophet is no more! The Prophet is no more,” he groaned.

I seated myself next to him. “The Prophet cannot die.”

“What shall we do, Cartaphilus?” He pulled at his beard nervously, and knit his brows until his forehead seemed divided into two.

“A Prophet must die that he may live forever. He who lives too long dies in truth.”

“Cartaphilus, you have brought truth to the Prophet; bring truth to his followers.”

“Has the culprit been discovered?”

“Who knows? Should not the culprit be among the fifty who have perished in the river at dawn?”

“It is always wiser to include many, that the one may not be missed.”

He continued to groan, “The Prophet is no more! The Prophet is no more!”

“Abu-Bekr, return and announce to all that the Prophet has died.”

Abu-Bekr looked at me, dismayed. “Shall we survive when he is no longer?”

I continued, without answering his remark: “– —but that tonight, he shall be resurrected, and the Archangel Gabriel shall carry him to Paradise in his arms.”

Abu-Bekr remained silent.

“It shall take place, do not fear.”

“Have you the power to resurrect the dead? Are you a messenger from Heaven?”

“I am… Cartaphilus.”

He looked at me, his left eye half-closed. “My plan was different, Cartaphilus.”

“What was your plan?”

“To bury the Prophet secretly and permit one of the priests to assume his guise.”

“What man can be entrusted with so much power and so great a secret, Abu-Bekr? Should the faithful believe, are not the eyes of our enemies sharper than theirs?”

“It is true, Cartaphilus. Their eyes are sharper, and their ears wide open.”

“The Prophet shall rise to Heaven, Abu-Bekr, do not fear…and you shall be his Voice on Earth.”

“But can it really be done?”

“Abu-Bekr, the bee travels over a hundred fields, but returns at last to the hive. The bird flies over seas and mountains, but in the spring finds his old nest again. The ant builds palaces under the ground, and the mole considers the sun superfluous. Angels, invisible, visit the Earth and the souls of holy men rise to Heaven. Who shall fathom Life’s mysterious forces, Abu-Bekr? Who shall understand Allah’s will?”