"Please inform the lady of the house that her father is here," Mohammed said, stepping into the small boxlike atrium at the door. The servants bowed again, and one scurried away. The two Tanukh came in, hands light on their sword hilts. Mohammed moved away from the door and took a deep breath.
He had not seen Roxane in almost six years. She had been sent away to live with a foster family in the southern city of Abha and when she had returned, he had been in India trading for rubies. When he had returned, she had already been married to a cousin- Sharaf, of the Al' Qusr clan of the Bani Hashim- and gone from her mother's house. He realized with a pang of sorrow that he would not recognize her if he passed her on the street.
Have I been away so much?
The inner doors opened, and other servants beckoned them into the great hall at the center of the house. Fine draperies and tapestries covered the walls, which were hung to make the hall seem like a great desert tent. A walkway had been cleared on the floor, showing polished slate tiles that led between divans and rugs. Mohammed strode quickly forward, passing marble statues and chests of rosewood. At the middle of the hall, steps rose up to a deck. A young woman waited on the platform, her hands demurely folded, dressed in a rich gown of red and burnt orange. A chain of light gold links held a whisper of silk across her nose and chin. Mohammed bowed before her, one hand pressed to his heart.
"Gracious lady, I thank you for your hospitality. I am Mohammed of the Quryash."
The woman laughed, a mellow sound, and took his other hand. "Father! So formal, with your own daughter? Do you even recognize me?"
Mohammed flushed with embarrassment and raised his eyes, his mind trying to find some words to apologize for his miscue. Then he staggered in complete surprise, and no words came.
In Roxane, it seemed that his dead wife lived and breathed again, even as he had first seen her, years before. The same strong nose and plain features, the same brilliant eyes and wild, barely restrained, cloud of hair. Then the vision passed and he could see the subtle differences: Where Khadijah's eyes were pale amber, her daughter's were a rich dark brown like a cup of the Ethiopian "black drink"; where Khadijah had tiny scars from childhood disease, Roxane's skin was fair and smooth.
"Father? Come sit by me, tell me of your travels."
Wordless, he allowed himself to be led through the hall and into a sitting room behind it. Much like in her mother's house, the sitting room looked out over the garden. Now the garden was filled with night, but tiny candles flickered among the limbs of the trees, casting a jinn light over the ornamental pools and pale roses. Mohammed sat on a Roman-style divan covered with plush velvet. Servants moved in the room, carrying wine and cut fruit in small bowls. He shook his head and drank from the proffered cup. His eyebrows rose in appreciation.
"It is rather good, isn't it? I wanted to serve only the best for you."
Roxane settled gracefully into the chair opposite, and Mohammed, looking around him at the luxury of her house, began to realize the depth and breadth of the wealth that Khadijah's family, his family, commanded. He put the cup of Falernian- a Latin wine, no less! — down on the mother-of-pearl surface of the sitting table. He was touched by the gesture, and disturbed, too. Hala's warnings about the struggle within the family began to gain weight in his mind. He looked over his daughter and her clothing, her jewels, her servants with a merchant's eye.
The Bani Hashim trade spanned Arabia and, with it, the world. On one hand, to the north and the west lay Rome and its vast luxury-hungry cities. The nobles and potentates of the old gray Empire had an endless hunger for Indian rubies, Javan pepper and cinnamon, Moluccan cardamom, thyme and myrrh. Then, too, there was silk and porcelain and jade out of Serica, and steel from the cities on the Gangetic plain in India. Rubber and poppy paste from the jungles of Sinae, and rare beasts from the wild shores of Africa. Rome consumed mightily and Rome paid mightily, paid in gold and silver, paid in ceramics and machines that no other nation could contrive. Paid in skilled slaves and weapons. And all this, all this had to move by sea, and the Sinus Arabicus was the pathway from the east to the west. And here, at Makkah, the House of Bani Hashim was perfectly placed to arrange and hold and trade and relay and mark up all the shipments from east and west. Every ship from India had to pass through waters controlled by the fleets of Jeddah and Sa'na; every merchant caravan from Rome had to come to ports where Bani Hashim factors and agents waited, with warehouses and customs levies and the knowledge and contacts to squeeze every last aureus out of that trade.
"Daughter: Roxane, it has been so long: I am sorry that I was not at your wedding. I know that must have hurt you."
Roxane rose out of her chair, brushing the gown aside, and knelt by her father's side, taking his gnarled, scarred hand in her own. Mohammed could smell a delicate perfume in her hair.
"Father, I bear you no ill will. Mama and I spoke of you and your work often- I understand why you were gone so much. I am glad that you are here, now, in my house at last. Unfortunate things have been happening in the city. I know you know of them- there can be peace if you will have it."
Mohammed looked down into his daughter's eyes. She stared back, her face graven with concern. "I bear no one in this city ill will, daughter. But do others desire peace as well?"
"Yes," Roxane said, rising to her feet again. "I have invited two of them here, tonight, to dine with us. You know them both- Uri of the ben-Sarid, and my uncle, Tafiq. You remember him; he married Aunt Taiya."
Mohammed frowned; Tafiq had regarded him as an interloper and enemy from the first day the man had laid eyes on him. There had never been anything but icy politeness between the highborn Hashim nobleman and the baseborn Quryash merchant. Now his ears would be filled with Taiya's vitriol as well.
"Will they come?"
Roxane laughed again, her eyes merry. "They are already here, Father, in the dining hall. Come, let us go to them."
"Jalal?" A whisper came in the darkness. The Tanukh turned, still keeping one eye on the street below him. A figure in dark robes edged forward along the rooftop.
"Shh:," Jalal hissed at the other man, then beckoned him over. The younger man, one of the Palmyrenes who had come with Mohammed out of the ruin of that city, slithered over the tiled roof to join him.
"What is it?" Jalal's voice was barely audible, his mouth close to the boy's ear.
"There are men moving in the other alley," the Palmyrene answered. " Thirty or forty of them."
"Armed?" Jalal turned back to watch the street. It was a narrow alleyway in the older part of town at the base of the hill. Here, in a warren of alleys and overcrowded two-and three-story buildings, were the dwellings of the Quryash. The riches of the Bani Hashim and their estates outside of the city, and their town houses on the upper slopes of the hill, trickled down here, but not enough to keep the stink of tanneries and the smell of too many people from pervading the stones and walls of every building. After the attack on Tihuri and Sayyqi, the captain had sent them down here, among his relatives and blood kin. Jalal felt much better here, where anyone who was not Quryash was viewed with suspicion and even hatred. The Tanukh were outsiders, too, but they followed a well-loved Quryash lord, and that counted for a great deal. A strong watch was kept, too, for the captain was wondering if his enemies would dispense with secrecy.