Casca 13: The Assassin (2 page)

"
Allah bismillah Mohammed. Allah Akhbar!
" Allah is God, the only God, and Mohammed is His Prophet. "
lmshallah,
" His will be done...

Once he was changed into fresh robes and sitting on civilized cushions where he could at least have a decent view of the sunset, he permitted Bu Ali to serve him his meal ... a simple warrior's dish of stewed lamb with a touch of sage robbed into the tender flesh, set on a plate with curried rice and cakes of wheat touched with just a breath of honey from
Syria .... Ah!

His men dined on the fare he considered best-suited to their less sensitive palates: curds and horsemeat washed down with water.

The taste of the cakes was sweet in his throat as he lay back on the cushions. Back to Baghdad! It was with no sense of regret that he was at last going to be able to leave these wild, inhospitable lands for the refined environment of a civilized city. These rugged, barren lands were not even fit for the uncouth Franks – as were called all ignorant and ill-mannered men of the West, whether they came from the Rhine or from Italy, whether they came as merchants or as pilgrims to Jerusalem. Franks ... They had no part in the future destiny of a simple slave trader. Or did they?

Mamud's beard itched from the bite of sand
fleas, and he took it as an omen – one of the lesser blessings of the Most High to let all know that, no matter what their station in life, the greatest of His creations could be hurt by the least .... Ah! Yes ...

By Allah! It would be good to have a bath and a massage to rob away the miles he
had traveled on a saddle fit only for a Kurdish tribesman. It would take weeks to rid his buttocks of the thick pad of calluses that had attached themselves to his flesh.

Through the open flap of his tent he could see his Mamelukes guarding his slaves. It was a good harvest of strong men who would bring fine prices. The thought of the fine prices warmed Mamud's heart; but the reason for the high prices bothered him.

Of late there had been an ever-increasing demand for men who were not of Persian or Arabian descent to be used as bodyguards. It was all due to those accursed fanatics of Hassan ibn Hassad, the Sheikh al Jebal. Hemp-eaters. Assassins.

Assassins.
One never knew when they would strike, and there was nothing that could be done to scare them off. Indeed, when captured they went to their deaths eagerly, joyfully. How can one deal with men who do not fear death? What was the power the Old Man of the Mountain had over his followers that they obeyed his every wish without consideration of their own lives?

Mamud warmed his tea from a brass pot and sipped, luxuriating in the small comfort it gave him. At any rate, the Assassins were good for his business. Newly captured slaves such as he sold, being not only foreigners but infidels as well, were not likely to be followers of Hassan at Sabah, and so they
made good guards. And, since the Assassins of Hassan at Sabah might be one's own body slave – or even men of noble birth – no wonder there was such a market for men pure of the unclean contamination of the Assassins who had, to Mamud's knowledge, never failed to make their kill, usually after warning the victim in advance with a gold-handed dagger ....

Thinking of the scar-faced one he had lashed earlier, Mamud looked again to his catch. It was as he turned his head that in the corner of his vision he saw the flash of light in the now-darkened western sky.

A shooting star? An omen from Allah?

Thinking as he was at the moment of profit and the new slave, Mamud chose to consider it an omen of good fortune. The scar-faced one was very strong.

Mamud would take him to Baghdad and offer him up to Nizam al Mulk. The Vizier was known to be a connoisseur of fine fighting men. He would pay well for one such as this.

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!

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 o
rder 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 M
aster 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 Cas
ca 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 h
ad 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?"