Casca 13: The Assassin Page 3

  What Mamud didn't know, of course, was the touch of wishful thinking that slipped momentarily through Bu Ali's mind: the strange one had strength enough to kill Mamud in the blinking of an eye.

  Casca was curious. An unusual act on the part of a man who considered one to be property. So he accepted the offer of hospitality and sat upon the low stool, but cautious of what might take place. The nobles of the East were noted for their volcanic changes in temperament.

  As courteous as if he were in the palace of the Caliph, Mamud poured tea and offered Casca his selection from a tray of meats. Casca had been a prisoner too many times to refuse food and drink when it was offered. He ate and drank, watching ... waiting ... for Mamud to make his next move. That is, if indeed he was playing one of the games that Persians loved so.

  Mamud was in an expansive mood. He waited for his "guest" to drink a bit and eat a few pieces of meat. Stroking his beard, he watched Casca, his dark eyes sparkling with anticipation, for, like all of his race, Mamud loved a good story and, by the Prophet! there had to be a good story in this strange one. He knew from the scars crisscrossing this one's body that he must have a history of extraordinary dimensions to relate.

  Primarily because he was still alive!

  "My dear sir” – Mamud refrained from reminding Casca of his current station in life – “let us for a few minutes forget our differences and merely visit with each other, as men of good will do when they meet. And, I assure you, I am a man of good will, though I can understand why you might harbor some less-than-friendly feelings toward me. Yet, if I can put away my part for a time, can you not do the same?

  “It may prove to be to both of our advantages before this night is through. I have a feeling that I am not going to see the last of you in this life, and if that is the case, I would prefer that your feelings toward me be not those of dark thoughts of vengeance. If you accept my terms, then we shall sit here and speak of the things men know and dream of ... and by this we shall be the wiser. Do you agree?”

  Casca looked closely at the smooth, tanned, but bearded face leaning toward him with such intent. Intent, yes. But the intensity was not that of one with a devious nature, or one who threatened. Casca thought he understood: the Persian son of a bitch suffered from the malady. That could be to my advantage...

  "Yes, Lord Mamud. I will speak to you this night and tell you, if not all of my story, then some of it." He slid easily into the flowery cadences, the Persian tongue in which he spoke helping him. "For I have traveled to many corners of this world of ours and seen people and things that were wondrous to behold.

  "Yes, Lord Mamud, I will speak to you. But blame me not if what I say smacks of the dreams of those who eat the lotus!"

  CHAPTER THREE

  Casca accepted Mamud's offer of hospitality and settled down on the stool near the campfire, his face reddened by the charcoal glow. With his gray-blue eyes locked on the dark brown ones of his new owner, he began. He spoke in low tones that added much to the credibility of his stories.

  He told of the Dragon Throne of distant Chin where the bolts of precious silk (such as that in Mamud's robes which he had damaged) came from. He told of the Wall that Runs Forever, built hundreds of years before to keep out the barbarians who lusted after the riches of Chin with greedy eyes.

  The stars overhead turned in their eternal courses as Casca took Mamud with him to the frozen lands of the North where stark gray holds stood as sentinels over craggy valleys and fjords. Mamud's eyes sparkled when Casca spoke of the beauty of the women of the Northlands; Mamud's desert warrior heart pumped faster as he listened to his captive speak of the Roman arena and the men who fought and died there for the amusement of the Caesars and the Roman mob.

  Mamud, like all of his race, loved a good story – true or not. But there was something about the manner in which his muscled and fierce-looking "guest" spoke that made the head of Mamud ibn Said swim in confusion.

  There was just absolutely nothing in the man's voice that Mamud could detect that indicated he was telling a lie or a fable. No, there were too many things, as when Casca's hands trembled and the thick bands of muscles quivered on his back while he told of the arena and of killing the giant prince of Numidia, Jubala, for what Jubala had done to one of Casca's friends. There were too many things that said it was all for real, that the anger in the man's voice and the hate as he told of killing Jubala were real, real anger, real hate. Mamud had never doubted before his own ability to judge the truth from a man's words. But now ... Surely no man could have experienced all that this one spoke of. By the Prophet! How odd!

  Casca noticed his host's consternation and smiled thinly. He knew there was no way he could make Mamud believe him. Only one gone mad, or touched by the hand of Allah, would believe such stories. So with dark humor in his own mind Casca continued, deliberately telling Mamud the whole story of his journey over the face of the earth.

  All that night Casca wove his tale. Once begun, he found it difficult to stop, and it was only when the stars began to sink below the Persian horizon that, dry-voiced, he came to the close of his saga. Yet even then he saw the regret in Mamud's eyes that the night was coming to an end.

  Casca got to his feet and stretched. Even he had enjoyed hearing himself tell his own story. The mood of depression, the sense of something strange about to happen to him, was gone. Shit! After what's already happened to me, what else can? Yeah, he could handle it. Mamud beckoned to Bu Ali, and the Mameluke captain came and took Casca by the arm to return him to the slave coffle. The pair had taken only about three steps when Mamud suddenly called them to a halt, walked over to Casca, and looked him long in the face and eyes.

  "If you give me your word not to try and escape during our return to Baghdad, then I will not put you back in the line, nor chain you. I have the feeling that our fates are now intertwined in some manner, though I know not how. Such is in the hands of Allah, His Name be praised."

  That shook Bu Ali. He looked from his master to Casca, wondering what had transpired during this long night. Never had Mamud released a slave before he was properly sold on the block!

  Casca gave his word. "I promise that I shall give you no trouble while on the road."

  He found that he liked the Arab slaver who, after all, was just a businessman trying to turn a profit on a commodity for which there was a great demand. This Casca understood and didn't take personally. He had been a slave before.

  To Bu Ali, Mamud ordered, "Leave him free. He will not go anywhere." Turning to Casca, he said, "find yourself a place in the caravan. We will talk again."

  Casca started to leave, but Mamud again stopped him. "By the way, what is your name?"

  "Casca"

  "No! By the Prophet, may you no longer be the barbarian I captured, but one new! If Allah wills that our destinies be intertwined – even as master and slave – then from this moment on, I name you anew. The Franks have such ugly words. I will not have a barbarian name called in my presence. From now on you will be known as Kasim al Jirad after the manner in which you nearly took me to Paradise!"

  Mamud beamed with self-satisfaction. Like all of his race he had the necessity for ending things on a dominant note. All night long he had been cast in the passive role of the one who listened.

  Casca didn't care. If the Persian wanted to rename him "Kasim the Spear" it was all right with him. He had used other names over the centuries. One was as good as another.

  For that matter, maybe it was a good thing. It had been a long time since he had had any dealings with the Brotherhood of the Lamb. Might be a good idea not to speak of Casca Rufio Longinus. But, why bother? He smiled inwardly as he looked at Bu Ali, old Big Ass. With people like that around there were not likely to be any Brotherhood of the Lamb fanatics running loose.

  Bu Ali walked with Casca back to where the slaves were kept under guard. "You know, Kasim, my master has taken a strange liking to you. It is a sign of his favor that he has chosen to give you a new name. If you do
not offend him, he could arrange it so that you are placed with an owner who will treat you well."

  The camp was beginning to stir. Before the sun had fully risen they would be on their way. Two more days to Baghdad, then Casca would have a better idea of what his present destiny in Persia would hold for him. He hoped that it would not be as bad as when he had served in the armies of the Sassanid King of Kings, Shapur the Great.

  Even the land was changing for the worst.

  During the trek from the mountains of the Caucasus. Casca had seen such changes. Even in Shapur's time Shapur had been concerned with the loss of arable fields to the desert, and now it was easy to see that he had been right. They had passed fields and villages that prospered, yes, but not as many as before. Now, in fields where grain was once grown as far as the eye could see, there was only vacant land, its poor condition shown by the sparse flocks of sheep and goats that picked among the visible rocks searching for tufts of yellow grass. Where once there were cities and orchards, now there was sand, barren rock, and the animals of the desert. Desert. Why were there oases in the desert, green spots that flourished around pools of water that bubbled up from the ground, seeming to come from nowhere? Casca recalled the half-forgotten words of wise men at the court of Shapur.

  They believed that there must be invisible rivers of water hidden far underground, qanats, they called them, which occasionally reached up to the surface.

  "Looking for the face of God," the priests at the court had said. The religious part Casca was sure he could do without. So far, religion had only brought him trouble. Underground rivers. A strange idea, but then there were strange things in this world. Like the pools of bitumen, oil, and tar. Where did they come from?

  The smell of cooking fires preparing the morning meal for both slave and Mameluke came to his nostrils, but it stirred no hunger in him. What he had eaten at Mamud's fire was enough. He noticed that the Mamelukes cast wondering eyes on him when he wasn't put back into the slave line. This was stopped when Bu Ali told them of Mamud's order concerning "the one now known as Kasim al Jirad."

  With the rise of the sun over the plains, the faithful were called to prayer. Facing toward Mecca, they proclaimed their belief in Allah and His Prophet, Mohammed.

  Neither Casca nor the other slaves participated in this five-times-daily ritual, Casca for a very different reason. He had known Mohammed. Having heard in Jerusalem that a new "messiah" had come, he had gone to see if it was Jesus returned to free him of his curse of life. Another disappointment. Though in many ways he had liked Mohammed, the Arab definitely was not the Jew from Galilee.

  Now, watching the Faithful kneel in prayer, Casca smiled thinly to himself, wondering what Mamud and others of the Faith would think or do if they knew that he, Casca – their Kasim al Jirad – had ridden at the side of their Prophet at the very beginning of their religion's birth. Either make me a saint ... or stone me ...

  Damn!

  Suddenly he had a problem. One not nearly so lofty as gods and prophets.

  Damn!

  Unknown to Casca, he also had another problem. Beyond the camp of Mamud's party there was a brush-covered mound. And behind that mound, dark eyes focused on the back of one of Mamud's Mamelukes standing guard as the others prayed. Similar eyes were likewise on the other five guards set out around the campsite. The eyes of the men of Yousef the outlaw.

  Driven from their tribal lands by the Seljuk Turks, this band of outlaws from a dozen tribes had come together for a career in banditry. Now, instead of raising goats and sheep, they survived by raiding caravans.

  What had begun as a necessity for survival had turned to a life they would not have changed if they could. The years of preying on others had made them what they were now – animals little better than those of the wild. Now it made no difference to them what the cargo was, or to whom it belonged, so long as it could be sold or traded to their profit. They could kill Turks or members of their own tribes with equal relish. And, as for right now...

  The slaves under the guard of the Mamelukes were worth much gold. So they were going for it.

  There were sixty bandits. The leader, known only as Yousef, was a small, wiry man with eyes that showed a touch of the Orient in them. Right now he was thinking himself especially clever for daring to raid this deep into the heartland of the Seljuk empire, almost on the doorstep of Baghdad itself. He had gambled on the guards becoming less alert as they approached nearer to what they thought were secure lands.

  He had set twenty archers on the high grounds around the camp, arrows notched, target on the guards. The rest of his men were out of sight, just beyond the mound, waiting for the first flight of arrows. Then they would attack.

  They had followed the Mameluke caravan for two days, waiting for the right place and moment to attack. Now, with most of Mamud's men immobilized in prayer, the time was right.

  Casca's sudden problem was purely biological; he had to piss. And he knew enough about religious people, especially Muslims, that he had better wait until after prayers were over. Mamud would take a very dim view of any act that might "profane" the sanctity of this moment. The urge, though, for Casca was abnormally strong.

  Whether it was the tea he had drunk during the night, some trick of his mind, or all the time he had spent wool-gathering, or musing when he should have been "performing his morning ablutions," he didn't know. All he knew was that he had to piss – and badly.

  And, of all mornings, this had to be the one when Mamud, never before an innovator in anything religious, chose to extend the ritual. Shit! One of the things that could be said for the Muslims was that they had things down so simple. Just a handful of memorized words and a few acts, and that was it. But now Mamud, inspired no doubt by the night of stories, felt called upon to recite a couple of Suras from the Koran and to explain to Allah – in long and flowery sentences – just how good he had been to His servant Mamud during this raid.

  And all the time Casca was needing more and more to relieve himself. Hell! He never should have remembered the wise men speaking of the qanats. The idea of all those underground rivers flowing was overpowering. Would Mamud never finish?

  Frantic for help – any kind of help – Casca lifted his eyes toward the high ground outside camp. That was when he saw Yousef's archers.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ambush!

  And a damn good one.

  Something not quite right on the hillside had caught Casca's eye the glint of metal in the morning sun, the unnaturally straight line of a bowstring, the wrong kind of shadow on the naked rocks. Not much. But from Casca's earliest days of soldiering in barbarian lands he had learned to use his eyes if there were hostiles around, which could be damn near anytime.

  Looking closer, he was certain of the archers being there, but he couldn't tell how many or who they might be. But if there were archers, then on the other side of the rise there were probably horsemen.

  Damn! Mamud's Mamelukes were probably going to have their hands full. Particularly if Casca let nature take its course, which he thought about doing. Hell, it was not his fight. And if the strange hostiles jumped the Mamelukes, well, he might just be able to get his ass out of there.

  On the other hand... he knew what Mamud was like. He had no idea who the commander of the hostiles might be, but if the son of a bitch had chutzpah enough to attack Mamud this close to Baghdad, then he was probably a pretty tough bastard.

  Still...

  Shit! I'll split it down the middle. Warn the Mamelukes, but just watch the battle. So he yelled, pointing toward the rise.

  One thing could be said for the Muslims – they could quit praying and go to fighting fast enough even to satisfy Casca. He watched in approval as they sprang for their weapons (and smiled to himself, wondering how many battles had been affected by some soldier wanting to piss.... Oddly, now he had lost the urge.)

  But the archers had been sighted almost too late. In fact, probably the reason Casca had seen them was that they were
preparing to fire. Now the volley came.

  Scrawny little bastards, Casca thought. Bandits. Probably from the hills. But he had to admit their aim was deadly. And they were fast. They were getting off a second volley by the time the horsemen, yelling like a legion from Hades, topped the rise and swept toward the camp. They would – Damn!

  Casca had been standing watching the battle, his legs spread a little with one foot on a small rock, when one of the bandit arrows whished between his legs, not the width of a single alif from the family jewels. That was too much!

  It was bad enough having to live for centuries waiting for the Jew to return. But to wait castrated... Without the solace of women...

  Casca was damned if he was going to stand for that. Roaring like a bull who sees his herd being taken away from him, Casca grabbed the jirad of a Mameluke downed beside him and hurled it at the archer who had shot at him. All Casca's rage was behind the throw, and the weapon smashed through the bandit's guts as fast as through thin air...

  "Kasim!"

  Casca turned.

  A grinning Mamud threw him a scimitar. Then the horsemen were upon them. To meet a shower of jirads from the Mamelukes.

  Casca's warning had been almost too late, but not totally so. A few Mamelukes even had time to draw their bows. The whistling arrows and raining jirads knocked enough of the bandits from the saddle to break the charge just as it was ready to overrun the camp. Most of the battle was joined on foot.

  A downed bandit, dirty, yelling, came at Casca, the short sword in his hand not unlike a gladius. Casca swung the scimitar. The curved blade, red in the morning sun, sliced down through the bandit's suddenly up-thrown left arm almost as though there were no bone there, only flesh, and landed solidly in the bend of the bandit's sword arm, neatly cutting the forearm away and spraying red blood into the morning light, the bandit's sword tip coming within a hands breath of Casca's face before falling away. Casca's scimitar glistened as he pulled it back on the follow through stroke, blood and morning sun now indistinguishable on the damascened steel.