The War After Armageddon

And they would come again. The Crusaders always came again. The defenders of the sacred places had been too weak for too long. Accustomed to centuries of easy victories, the Crusaders and their Jew masters were drawn to the lands of the Prophet’s revelation, peace be upon Him, as flies were drawn to sticky dates. Or to blood. The Christians and Jews possessed so much, even now, that no man could count it all, but they would not leave the children of Allah in peace in one poor corner of the world.

How long had they been fighting, Muslim, Christian, and Jew? For fourteen hundred years, the sabers of Allah had dueled with the armies of Shaitan. The fortunes of war had gone back and forth, from the days when the turbaned knights of Grenada hunted Frank-ish dogs among their hovels at the Atlantic’s edge, or the Sultan’s janissaries seized the beauties of Lehistan, of Poland, for the slave markets of Asia, then on to the grim centuries when Shaitan had given the power to the Christians and finally to the Jews to heap impurity and shame upon the virtuous, the pious, and the good.

Al-Ghazi grasped full well that Islam’s struggle now was merely to survive and only later to reclaim the lost lands of the golden age. But he also believed that a new golden age would come, if only in a future century. Allah could not let it be otherwise, although there would be many tests ahead, much atonement for the corruption of the faith, for waywardness, for error. Fools had expected great results quickly. But Allah would bring victories only when He willed them, not when hotheads demanded them.

Meanwhile, Abdul al-Ghazi relished the chance to match his skills against this great American general, this Flintlock Harris. The man seemed a worthy opponent, and al-Ghazi looked forward to inflicting unexpected pain upon this Harris and those he commanded. But he also realized that al-Mahdi was correct about the greater things that must be done. The emir-general had misjudged his ability to defend al-Quds, but everything after its fall appeared to be going as he had planned it. And it was essential to work together, not to succumb to the selfishness and anarchy that had doomed generations of Arabs and Muslims. This time, let the Christians tear at one another’s throats.

“The Crusaders cannot see themselves plainly, nor can they see us clearly,” al-Mahdi had told him. “They call us ‘mad’ because we believe in Allah with all our hearts, yet they believe madly in their own misbegotten faith. We know that this life is but a sport and a pastime, yet they call us ‘fanatics.’ They imagine that devout Muslims cannot think clearly or be wise in the ways of the world, while they let their own faith cloud their every thought. They call us ‘dogs,’ but they are the ones who bark at shadows. And believe me, my brother, when I say that we will make this dog Montfort dance at our command.” Al-Mahdi had smiled as if tasting the figs of Paradise. “We hardly need to defeat him. His own pride will destroy him. Insh’ Allah.”

There remained a great deal to be done to spring the great trap, of course. Much could still go wrong, and al-Ghazi refused to succumb to the fantasies and wishful thinking that had haunted too many failed champions of Islam. But he had regained his self-assurance since the day before, when he had wondered if the Crusaders would manage to destroy all civilization this time, to return the Dar al-Islam to enslavement and barbarism. Based on the recent moves of this “Military Order of the Brothers in Christ,” it now seemed clear that al-Mahdi understood his opponent with the insight that Saladin had brought to bear on those proud knights of the Kingdom of Jerusalem.

May these Crusaders perish as miserably, al-Ghazi thought.

And Harris? Did they understand him, too? The American general seemed such a simple man. Dull, even. No man with whom to share a pleasant evening. Yet, he had a reputation as a great soldier. Al-Ghazi didn’t intend to underestimate him as the pig Montfort, the Butcher of al-Quds, underestimated the emir-general.

Let them come, al-Ghazi thought, and we will give them their catastrophe, Insh’ Allah.

He buzzed for his aide. The young officer rushed in, as if afraid of being lashed. He was as pretty as a girl from the mountains above Suleimaniye.

“Is there any word from Nazareth?” al-Ghazi asked. “About the American reaction?”

“No, General. Nothing. Nothing yet.”

“Then leave me.”

“Excuse me, please, General.”

Al-Ghazi raised one thick eyebrow.

“Colonel al-Tikriti has been waiting for you,” the aide continued. As nervous as a virgin on her wedding night. “I told him you were not to be disturbed. But he said that it was important, that he would wait.”

“For Colonel al-Tikriti, I always have time,” al-Ghazi lied. “Send him to me. In a moment. First, leave me and shut the door.”