Where Rosses bleed

                                                                                                                                                                                                        The River Tigris bore the morning light in silence, its rippling waters scattering glints of gold across the walls of Baghdad. Above the city, the sky slowly shed the deep blue of night as the first rays of dawn set the turquoise tiles of domes and minarets ablaze. The fragrance of roses from gardens hidden behind high walls mingled with the scent of spices beginning to drift from the bazaar. Merchants raised their shutters, pigeons traced wide circles above the rooftops, and the muezzin’s call floated over the city like an invisible thread binding earth to heaven.

Sheikh Abd al-Rahman moved slowly among the faithful. People made way for him with reverence; some kissed his hand, while others bowed their heads as a sign of respect. For years, his sermons had condemned without hesitation those who shed blood in the name of faith and spread terror among fellow Muslims. To most, he was a learned scholar. To others, a father to the community.

Before reaching the mosque, he stopped beside a bush of white roses. He carefully chose a delicate blossom, still adorned with drops of dew, and wrapped it in a white linen handkerchief. The day before, his little granddaughter Fatima had asked him, in her crystal-clear voice, to bring her “the most beautiful rose in Baghdad.” The thought drew an almost childlike smile from him. He imagined the joy in her eyes and promised himself that he would not linger after the prayer.

The Great Mosque unfolded its stone arcades before him like welcoming arms. The marble still held the coolness of the night, the columns rose like palm trees turned to stone, and the light filtering through the intricately carved lattice windows wove lacework of gold and shadow across the Persian carpets. From beneath the dome descended a silence so profound that even the rustling of robes seemed a prayer.

He raised his eyes for a moment.

Among the bands of light stretching across the marble floor, he thought he saw a shadow glide soundlessly through the last rows of worshippers. He could not see its face. Only a fleeting presence, immediately swallowed by the kneeling multitude. A faint shiver passed through his soul, and for an instant he felt the weight of an unseen, unwavering gaze upon the back of his neck, as though two burning eyes were watching his every movement.

He slowly lowered his gaze and calmed his thoughts. Within the house of God, a man was meant to leave his fears beyond the walls.

The imam ascended the pulpit, and his voice filled the mosque.

“Every soul shall taste death…”

The verse flowed over the faithful like the echo of an ancient decree spoken at the dawn of the world. The sheikh listened with his head bowed and his heart at peace.

“A man may conceal his deeds from his fellow men,” the imam continued, “but not from Him who sees what hearts seek to hide. Life is brief, and power, wealth, and the sword shall all return to dust. Only righteousness and faith shall endure before Allah on the Day when every soul must answer for its deeds.”

The sheikh closed his eyes and allowed the words to enter his soul. For decades, he had begun each morning with the same humility, and not a day had passed without his examining his conscience before God. He had prayed for peace, for his family, and for a world he saw changing with terrifying swiftness.

Yet in recent months, unease had weighed ever more heavily upon his heart.

He did not fear death.

He feared the men who had come to believe that death was the highest expression of faith.

From the hidden strongholds in the mountains of Persia and Syria, more and more tales were spreading about the al-Hashshashin. Some called them heretics, others fanatics, while still others dared not even speak their name. It was said that they entered palaces without being seen, that they struck in broad daylight, and that they fulfilled their oaths even at the cost of their own lives. No one knew where they would appear. No one knew who would be chosen next.

Time and again, from the pulpit, the sheikh had condemned their teachings and their methods. Faith, he told the congregation, could not be built upon the dagger and terror. Allah demanded justice, not murder concealed in shadow.

For a moment, his thoughts returned to the white rose hidden beneath his robe. He imagined his granddaughter’s smile when he placed it in her hands after the prayer, and the unease within him faded for a little while.

The imam continued his sermon.

“Remember that no man knows his appointed hour. He may make plans for tomorrow, yet his soul may be summoned before the sun has set.”

The sheikh bowed his head once more.

He did not know that somewhere among the final rows of worshippers, another man listened to the same verse—not as a summons to repentance, but as a sign that the hour of judgement had come.

The prayer ended, and the rows of worshippers rose almost as one. The murmur of footsteps filled the mosque like a wave breaking against the marble columns and flowing towards the doors. White garments, turbans, hushed voices, and the fragrance of incense mingled in a slow, almost solemn movement.

The sheikh adjusted his robe and, without realising it, brought his hand to the pocket in which he had placed the white rose. He smiled. He pictured Fatima’s face lighting up with joy when he gave it to her.

He took another step.

Then one more.

In the next instant, the world broke apart.

A sharp pain pierced his chest, so sudden that his breath stopped between two beats of his heart. His knees weakened, and his sight blurred. Instinctively, he looked down and caught, for a single moment, a glimpse of the dark hilt of a dagger vanishing from his robe.

A dervish stood before him.

Or at least, that was what he appeared to be.

His rough, dust-stained woollen cloak concealed almost his entire body. His face, however, remained uncovered.

He was surprisingly young.

Black hair fell almost to his shoulders, while a beard groomed with near-ritual precision framed his finely shaped features. Above his left eyebrow, a thin scar cut across his skin like a memory time had refused to erase.

Yet none of these things remained in the sheikh’s mind.

The eyes.

They possessed an intensity that defied every trace of humanity. They were neither angry nor hurried. They watched him with the serenity of a man fulfilling his destiny, and it was precisely this serenity that made them more terrifying than any cry of hatred.

For one brief instant, the sheikh understood.

All his sermons. All the warnings he had delivered from the pulpit. All the tales of men who killed and vanished like shadows.

One of them now stood before him.

“The Old Man of the Mountain sends you his regards.”

The words were spoken without triumph, almost with reverence, as though they were the final formula of an ancient ritual.

The assassin withdrew his weapon with the same precision with which he had driven it in. No movement was wasted, no gesture betrayed hesitation. He seemed to have rehearsed that sequence hundreds of times, until it had become as natural as breathing.

The sheikh felt his strength abandoning him. His knees gave way, and his body slowly collapsed upon the cold marble of the mosque.

Cries erupted around him.

“The sheikh!”

“Allahu Akbar!”

“Seize him!”

The crowd split apart in an instant, only to collide with its own panic. People shoved one another as they tried to escape, while others rushed towards the fallen man, unable to understand what had happened. The echo of their screams climbed into the dome and tore apart the silence that had reigned only moments before.

The first guards forced their way through the worshippers, yataghans in hand.

“Close the gates!”

“No one leaves!”

But the command came too late.

From the heart of the crush, a dense cloud of choking grey smoke suddenly rose. For several moments, the mosque disappeared behind an impenetrable veil. The guards coughed and stumbled blindly forward, colliding with people and columns as they struggled to make out even the faintest silhouette.

They found nothing.

The man who, only moments before, had knelt humbly beside the other worshippers had vanished with the smoke. He had left behind neither a name nor a face anyone could describe—only the memory of a presence so ordinary that no one had noticed it.

The sheikh lay motionless upon the cold marble.

His breathing grew weaker with every passing moment. Blood flowed painfully from his wounded body. With the last of his strength, he slipped a hand into the folds of his robe and drew out the linen handkerchief. The white rose slowly slid from between his fingers and fell beside him.

One petal touched the marble.

Then another.

A thin stream of blood crept silently towards the flower, circled its stem for a moment, and began to climb across the white petals, staining them a deep crimson.

In the sheikh’s eyes, Fatima’s face appeared one final time.

He had only wanted to bring her home a rose.

The morning light continued to pass through the stone latticework, tracing the same lacework of gold and shadow across the floor of the mosque.

The white rose rested beside his lifeless hand, and the sheikh’s blood kissed its petals with horrifying tenderness, changing their colour one by one. When the old man’s eyes closed for the final time, the rose was no longer white.

It had become red.