Casca 13: The Assassin Page 2

  Ah!

  Calling to Bu Ali to make certain that all the slaves' bonds were secured and the sentries alert, Mamud closed the flap of his tent and retired. He was at peace with himself, even though there were still many leagues to travel before he could indulge himself once more in those refined pleasures which made life worth living....

  Casca was not at peace with himself. He too had seen the shooting star, a thin scratch of light ending beyond the distant mountains, so minor that neither the guards nor the other slaves had noticed. But to Casca it was an omen, one more thing to feed the uneasy feeling that had been building in him all day, even before the fight in the rocks.

  I never should have come back to Persia. Something damned unpleasant is about to happen to me. I can feel it. I should have kept my ass away...

  It was not just being a slave. He had been that before. It was not the pain of his broken ribs ... or anything like that. No, it was something new. He was staring at the line of mountains, black against the starlit sky.

  Shit!

  CHAPTER TWO

  Hassan ibn Hassad, Hassan al Sabah, the Sheikh al Jebal, the Old Man of the Mountain, the leader of the Assassins leaned over the battlements of Castle Alamut in the region of Dayam, set high as an eagle's perch in the Elburz Mountains, and surveyed the valley six thousand feet below. In the darkening twilight he looked with approval at his domain. His eyes were sharp and burning, set in deep sockets over a proud, hooked nose and thin, humorless mouth. He had eagle features. He was the eagle of this Eagle's Nest.

  It had taken long for him to find and secure just the right place from which he could launch his program of terror upon the world. Now he had it. Here he had total control. Control which Nizam never dreamed of, he thought with satisfaction. Control such as few in the course of history had ever tasted. Hassad stroked his beard, now turning gray with time but still tough and strong, like his eyes, youthful. For they were as clear as those of a twenty-year old man and burned in their dark brown depths with an intensity and fire that only one who knows he has a mission in life can possess. A mission. And a passion.

  Passion.

  In Hassad's chest beat passions that the loveliest houri dwelling in Paradise could never sate. Their earthly counterparts were only receptacles for his seed by which he would pass on his heritage to those who came after him.

  But even the flesh of his own flesh was not immune to his wrath if they angered him or failed in their duty to him and the Holy Mission. They would then pay the same price that the lowliest-born infidel would. Tolerance and forgiveness lead only to weakness. Hassad was not one who would ever be weak. He could not. His was a great calling, passed on to him from centuries past, and he would not fail.

  His word was never broken. That was one of the secrets of his power.

  To all the world his word was always kept – for good or iII. Those that he marked for death always died. He was the Sheikh aI Jebal and he was not to be denied. When he cast a sentence of death on one who refused him his price, the doomed one knew the shadow of the dark angel was over him and a gold handled dagger would end his term on earth. And now even the most powerful man in Persia, the Vizier – and in actuality the regent – to the youthful Caliph of Baghdad was to receive the gold-handled dagger.

  It was with no regret that Hassad was now ready to order the death of his once-good friend and Counselor, Nizam at Mulk, Vizier to the Caliph of Baghdad. Nizam had been offered a chance to be one with Hassan, and thus live. But he chose the way of personal aggrandizement and power, Hassan said to his inner soul. He did not keep his word to me. He has not been faithful to the oath spoken twenty years ago when we were both young men. Hassad recalled the oath as though it had been yesterday, the oath witnessed by the strange one, the friend of both, Omar. Oaths such as that could not be broken with impunity, therefore Nizam had to die and by his death bring the world to know the awesome power that a few men can hold when they use their intelligence – and the minds of others – as their weapons. For everything is an illusion except death.

  Death, of course, was the one thing that both princes and paupers understood, and he, Hassan ibn Hassad, was the Grand Master of Death. Only those who served him were without fear of the Dark Angel, for he had already shown them their reward and had briefly opened up the gates of Paradise to them.

  Paradise. Before him lay the parable. Twilight had already darkened the bottom of the valley, but up there it was the time of the sunset, and Hassan gloried in the view before him. The red rays of the evening sun speared through a layer of low-lying clouds that brought with them the rare promise of rain. Hassan thought of himself as one who had prepared the soil of his fields for planting and had sown the first row of seeds.

  In the rain of time, when the earth had been properly enriched with the blood of his enemies, the seeds would sprout and grow and reseed themselves until he – and those few who knew the real reason for the Brotherhood's existence – would have prepared the way for the coming of the Master.

  He looked down into the black depths of his valley, the sun painting his eagle's face the red of blood.

  "Master?"

  It was Sulman, approaching him reverently, even though Sulman wore the robes of his rank which showed him to be one of the favored three who always had access to Hassan's ear, any time of the day or night. Through Sulman and his two peers in the highest rank of Dai al Kirbal Hassan's orders were passed down to the other ranks of the Brotherhood. From the Dais and the Fidais, who were the swords of the Brotherhood, they traveled down to the lowest order, the Lasiks, who served the others, performing the thousand daily tasks required to keep the castle in order.

  All was not forever fixed, however. The Lasiks, though servants and Novices now, might, if they progressed well enough, be permitted to have a sample of Paradise before their deaths, and could even advance up through the ranks to where they would be entrusted with the high honor of the gold-handled dagger, symbol of the Brotherhood, instrument of retribution, and the path which led to power.

  "Master?" Sulman repeated diffidently.

  Hassan gave him his orders, the command that Bu Tahir Arrani, one of the first of the Fidais and now serving the slaver Mamud ibn Said under the name of Bu Ali, was to be given the glory of being permitted to strike the death blow to the Vizier, Nizam al Mulk.

  But, Hassan continued, there would be some time yet before the Golden Dagger would strike. First, Nizam had to be informed that he was going to die.

  And the world would have to be made aware of the sentence of death that all might always believe in the word of the Sheikh al Jebal. Sulman bowed his way out of the presence of his master to do as he was bid. Hassan, too, left the battlements.

  For it was the Time ...

  He went to the entrance. There he made the signs of blessing to the fully-armed and most loyal Fidai who guarded the entrance, and started down the long flight of stairs cut through five-hundred feet of the living rock of the mountain and leading down to its very heart. Only Hassan and the chosen few who were privy to the truth were permitted to enter a chamber there more sacred than the Kaaba or the city of Jerusalem.

  At the bottom of the flight of stairs the door had the emblem of the fish upon it. Hassan knelt and removed his sandals. Reverently he pushed open the door, the only barrier now between him and that which he worshiped most on earth, and entered. Closing the door behind him, he crawled forward on his knees. His figure was lit by the copper glow of lamps burning with the purest of oils, The light guided Hassan into the great hall cut from the rock so that hundreds might gather here inside the bowels of the mountain and worship the "Holy of Holies," the object set in a golden bracket at the end of the hall.

  The spear of Casca Longinus, the assassin who had killed Jesus.

  Hassan kissed the stone floor and looked upward at the spear in worship and in awe, memories burning in his brain.

  Long had been the years before he rose to the leadership of the Brotherhood of the Lamb. But
now the spear that had slain Jesus was in his trust. The sect of Ismaili Muslims which formed the basis of his power was only a tool to be used and then, if broken, cast away. The Ismailis were exactly what he had needed. Shunned by the dominant Shiite faction, the Ismailis were ill-treated, if not persecuted. Thus they gave Hassan a foundation of thousands of men and women with grievances against the existing power base reigned over by the Seljuk Turks and their lackeys.

  Hassan touched his head to the stone floor, then again raised his eyes in reverence to the spear and prayed for guidance in his Holy Mission, the one Nizam had rejected.

  Chaos.

  They, the Chosen Ones, would create the conditions necessary for the return of the Lord – they would create chaos. Chaos must rule, and Armageddon be at hand. Those Hassan had gathered to him were only a small part of the plan the Brotherhood had to bring chaotic conditions about. It might take centuries, but all over the known world the Faithful waited. Some were men of great power. Others worked the fields,

  A few even wore the robes of the high priests of the Christians or the Imams of Mohammed. But all knew they were chosen above all others on the earth for their sacred task. And if that task was not completed in their lifetimes, then their sacred duties would be passed on to those who came after them, who were equally worthy and would be permitted to enter the sacred order of the Brotherhood of the Lamb. For they all had one thing in common...

  They were patient, for time was their great ally.

  Through the teachings of the founder of their order, Izram, the 13th Disciple, who had witnessed the death of Jesus at the hands of the scar-faced Roman, only they knew the path that Jesus had left for them to follow: Find Casca Longinus, and he would lead them to Jesus on the day of the Lord's Return.

  For Jesus had cursed the Roman to wander the earth until the Second Coming, saying that Longinus would only be granted the peace of death on the day of the Second Coming when they would meet again.

  Hassan continued to gaze at the spear. There had been a time when the Brotherhood had known where Longinus was, perhaps known his every movement.

  But then there had been a time of confusion. And, unfortunately, in Hassan's rise to power there had been certain unavoidable ... ah.... removal of certain personages who might have known of the Roman's whereabouts, so that now the Brotherhood had lost track of him completely.

  Hassan sighed.

  If only I had the Roman in my power...

  ___

  "On your feet, you over-muscled lump of camel shit!"

  The knot of braided leather lay open a half-inch strip on Casca's back. He had stumbled and fallen face first on the burning earth, and the other captives in the slave coffle would have cursed him for jerking them to a halt – if they'd had the extra strength to waste on a curse. All of their breath was needed for the miles yet remaining until they reached the slave pens of Baghdad where they would be put on the auction block.

  Casca was assisted to his feet by a boot to his rib cage followed by a strong jerk on his leash. If his hands hadn't been tied, he would have seriously considered breaking the guard's neck. As it was, he contented himself with wondering why Arabs and Turks always made insults with references to camels and goats.

  Well, different countries, different people. The men guarding him were the property of the Seljuk Turks, the newest of the many masters who had ruled over Persia. But those in the slave line with him were from the mountains of the Caucasus, light-haired and fair-skinned men who would bring high prices at the slave markets. They were even more valuable than their women for whom the Seljuks and the Persians had a great passion.

  Casca considered that oddity, but not for very long.

  He still had the feeling that something strange was about to happen to him. Only, now it was beginning to piss him off. Even more than his treatment in the slave coffle. After all, he had been a slave before.

  But there was something new, unknown. Whatever it is, by Mithra, let's get it over with!

  Mamud gave the order for camp to be made once more. Two more days and they would be in Baghdad. Mamud was reasonably pleased; the return journey had been for the most part uneventful. Only six of his captives had died on the trail: two from wounds they had received during their capture; one by suicide biting his own tongue in two and bleeding to death during the night; one by execution for attempting to escape; the other two just lay down and quit.

  Mamud had seen the last happen before. It was as if they had just given up their will to live. Very strange, but not uncommon when dealing with savages.

  Again his method of dealing with new captives by depriving them of food and water had more than proved its value. Under the influence of thirst and hunger he was able to separate those who were going to be the easiest to condition and train from those more recalcitrant who still showed signs of defiance. These latter he had to watch, for they were the ones who would either attempt to escape or attack his guards if given the opportunity. To preclude this they were placed in shackles of iron and kept under the watch of his best men. Actually these recalcitrant ones were the men he valued the most. Once they accepted their condition they would make the best bodyguards for their new masters. And such men were usually the most loyal.

  The strangest one of these men, though, was the self-same troublemaker who had torn his robe. This scar-faced one was not like the other captives from the Caucasus or Armenia and had little intercourse with them. He kept to himself. Now, why? This one, Mamud mused, if he has any intelligence, could be worth a small fortune.

  Mamud walked across the camp to where the ones in iron were kept, his right hand resting on the silver-chased hilt of his dagger.

  "Bu Ali!" he called.

  The captain of his Mamelukes responded with alacrity to his master's voice. "Yes, lord? What is it you wish of me?"

  "Bring me the scar-faced slave, the one who handled the throw of his jirad with such skill it nearly took me to Paradise."

  ''To hear is to obey, my master," Bu Ali replied, his voice so silkily subservient that it irritated Mamud, though he certainly did not want the opposite out of the captain of his Mamelukes.

  Mamud resisted the temptation to add: "And you better not forget it!" He watched as Bu Ali moved toward the prisoners, for the thousandth time wondering what it was about the man that from time to time brought forth just a shadow of doubt from the back of his mind. True, Bu Ali did have one unfortunate – well, almost a deformity. His hips were as big as a woman's, and his butt swelled out even more, which was why the men under him had given him the nickname Big Ass. Not to his face, of course. And not to his knowledge. Mamud prided himself on his commander's ability to know what his men were thinking and saying, to know it even better than his subordinates.

  But that tiny distrust of Bu Ali bothered him. No reason for it. Bu Ali was the most loyal captain he had ever had. And the most efficient. Maybe it was just the man's big ass. By the Prophet! I must look at what he does and not at his ass. The man had done an excellent job on the raid. I'lI have to think of some reward for him in Baghdad.

  Casca was brought to him in chains, escorted by two Mamelukes with bared swords. They would take no chances on this one acting up again. They had not forgotten the fate of two of their number who had ventured too close to those strong, scarred hands.

  Forced to his knees by Bu Ali, Casca waited for Mamud to acknowledge him.

  "Raise your face to me, barbarian, that I may look upon you."

  Bu Ali's sword point sped up Casca's response.

  Mamud waved away a bothersome fly as he very carefully examined the face of this one. Rather square in structure ... Gray-blue eyes with an odd – distant? – look to them ... as if all that is happening to him is no more than a single moment of minor discomfort that will soon pass ....Most odd! I have never seen that look in a man's eyes before! At least not in one who fought with such ferocity. Why does he have the look to him that is most often seen in the eyes of poets and dreamers for whom the pre
sent reality of their stations is often less important than their dreams of what might come to pass? Yet the man is obviously designed more for battle than for verse as shown by the great bands of muscles knotted around his sunburned neck and shoulders.

  "Talk to me, barbarian. It is obvious that you are not a member of the others' tribes. From whence do you come? Who are your people?"

  Locking Mamud's eyes with his own, Casca growled out through dry vocal cords: "I have no people and claim no land as my own." He was going to add, "But, if you must know, I was born in Italy." Before he could say that, though, Bu Ali had struck him across the back with the flat of his sword to teach him more respect when addressing his betters. Mamud gave a small grin of approval.

  Reward and punishment were always the best tools for teaching men and animals their place. This was not being cruel, for Mamud considered himself to be a most gentle and enlightened person. Rather, he knew that this method saved both slave and master many hours of unpleasantness in the long run. One must always start off on the right foot.

  Casca knew all this, too. But he could also play the game. If Mamud wanted to know where he was from, let him ask again. Shit! The Persian son of a bitch probably didn't know where Italy was anyway.

  Mamud motioned for one of the guards to bring a stool from his tent. He sat where he could better see the object of his interest. And the man was interesting! The slap across his back from Bu Ali's blade did no more than cause a momentary spark in the light-colored eyes. Good! The beast had some sense in that square head of his. He didn't overreact to circumstances beyond his control. Very, very good! Mamud was pleased with himself once more that here was proof he was correct in his judgment that this one had merit.

  He decided to test his judgment a bit further. "Remove his chains and bring him a stool that he may speak in more comfort. Also bring tea and meat."

  Bu Ali obeyed, but with just the slightest hesitation as though he was terribly concerned with his master's welfare, and Mamud noted this with approval.