Constantinople

Wednesday 29 Jumaada al-awal 1426 A.H.

The city shone white and gold beneath the light of a cloudless sky. From the air-conditioned interior of the harbour-side terminal it looked almost ethereal, but when I walked out through the exit's automatic doors it was into a heat that hit like an oven's scorch. The journey so far — first the train to al-Lunden, and then the airship across Europe, followed by a motor launch along the coast — had passed in an almost dreamlike haze. This though, felt real. I was really here. I, Edward Alton of Eoforwic, was standing now in the greatest city on Earth. The City of Cities; eternal capital of a Caliphate that stretched from the glaciers of Iceland to the banks of the Indus, and from Russian steppe to African grassland, and whose flag now flew on the Moon. The world's centre, where Europe and Asia meet. The Mother of all Cities.

Constantinople.

For several seconds I gazed upon the naked history surrounding me, until — Elif! She was supposed to be here to meet me! The spike of guilt I felt at forgetting her so absolutely quickly turned to annoyance when she proved to be no-where to be seen, which then quickly segued into fear. Why wasn't she here? Was something wrong? Surely nothing would go wrong, not now, not here.

Get a grip, I told myself, smiling both for and at myself. She'd be here. She'd texted to say she was on her way, and if she was late? Well people were allowed to be late, Elif most of all. I forced myself back to the present, and took a few paces along the harbour-side souk, making sure to stay close enough to the terminal that I'd see her, and she'd see me. Venders lined the empty ways; selling food, and jewellery, and clothes, and little holographic knickknacks that wrote sayings of the Prophet in the air, peace be upon him.

For a small-town boy like me, from a backwards province on the fringes of the Caliphate, it seemed like all the world was here. Blond, dark, pale, copper. Tall, short, fat, thin. So much humanity, with so much drive and vigour and purpose that I felt in turns first an inadequacy in their assembled presence, and then an anger at myself for feeling so. On the water beyond, boats glided past, gulls wheeling in their wake. Above, airships lazily glided, casting shadows the size of ocean liners. I brushed past a turbaned and cologned merchant, was brushed past in turn by a tall Nordic type, paused to take in a display of souvenir scrolls, and then became aware that the crowd had somehow stilled, as though it had taken a collective intake of breath.

I turned.

Several yards away from me, the tall Nordic type stared back, not at me, not at anything come to that, but past me, past everything. Upon his face he bore a rictus mask of mad exultation. In that frozen, time-stilled moment, I noted the bulky coat the Nordic type was wearing, and considered the inappropriateness of such a garment in this degree of heat. Somewhere inside of me, a voice was screaming, beating its fists on a frozen consciousness that refused to react.

And then for that final instant, as eternity's tick turned into fate's tock, the Nordic type's eyes locked upon mine. He reached inside the too bulky coat, shouted—

"Jesus is Lord!"

—and pulled.

* * * * *

I guess there are worse things than surviving a suicide bomb attack, although other than not surviving a suicide bomb attack I'm hard pushed to think of one. Coming to Constantinople hadn't been a spur of the moment thing; it had been in my dreams and thoughts for some time. But I can truthfully say that none of those dreams, neither the good nor the bad, had involved me standing ten feet away from a Christian suicide bomber at the precise moment he decided to turn himself into a saint.

I must have blacked out; when I came to I was sprawled across the paving, winded, and with not-yet-quite-pain sensations firing from pretty much everywhere. I could still feel the weight of my backpack upon my shoulder blades; a few yards beyond me, my wheeled suitcase lay on its back like an upturned turtle. More by instinct than anything else, I pushed myself up, onto my knees, and found myself taking in a vision that could only be Hell. Death and maiming had, it appeared, come randomly; some had survived apparently unscathed, only to find that the person standing beside them had been ripped to pieces. A small child screamed silently over the body of her dead mother. A man staggered across blood-stained paving stones, carrying his own severed arm. A police car skidded noiselessly to a halt, its lights flashing, no siren. The air itself felt acrid, harsh, burned.