Casca 13: The Assassin (4 page)

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...

"Kasi
m!"

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 Ma
melukes 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.

Damn fine weapon...

But there was a horseman coming at him from the left. Casca whirled. No need.

There was Mamud beside him, grinning,
scimitar flashing and when a
jirad
from behind them downed the bandit, Mamud made short work of the hostile.

"Allah be praised, Kasim! Great sport, eh?
Glorious work!" He swung the scimitar and grinned from ear to ear as it sliced into the belly of a particularly ugly bandit.

The bastard really enjoys fighting
. Casca could see that Mamud was one of those rare commanders who are happiest when they themselves are in the thick of the battle.

He could see something else, too.

The Arab slaver was a pretty good tactician. He had Casca on his right; Bu Ali on his left, in a kind of arrowhead formation with himself as the point. And when Casca risked a glance backward he saw that all the Mamelukes had taken up the same rough "arrowhead" groups, the points facing out toward the incoming bandits. They had probably kept the idea from the Greek Sassanids of Persia, who continued the phalanx formation for centuries after the death of Alexander. In some cases it was pretty effective.

A big, hairy, tough, ragged clothed bandit who looked as if he had a large amount of northern blood in his veins was coming after him. Casca ducked and swung. But the bandit surprisingly parried his cut.

The son of a bitch!

They met again each holding the other's sword wrist in a strong grip. Fetid breath from the bandit's green mossy teeth and gums nearly made him gag. But the man was strong. Casca knew he couldn't take much time wrestling with him. As they pushed against each other he raised his right foot and suddenly stomped down with a callused heel on the man's arch. Bones broke. In agony the outlaw released his grip on Casca's wrist as he tried to run away on one foot like a child playing a one legged game. Casca ended the man's agony with a clean slice across the esophagus.

One minute the bandits were bearing down on them and all was in doubt. The next, the momentum had shifted. Momentarily without an opponent, Casca looked across an open space of ground, and his eyes locked on to those of a small, wiry man who had an Oriental look to him, the same man Casca had caught glimpses of during the hottest part of the battle, but always the wiry man was just out of reach of danger.

Must be their leader
, Casca thought.
Odd. A bandit leader scared for his own ass
... He could see the look in the man's eyes. Pure hate.
Guess he knows I'm the one who warned the camp
.

As he watched, the bandit leader called in his men, and they made haste to get away.

Bu Ali wanted to go after them.

"No," Mamud decided.
"Too much trouble. Not worth the effort." He beamed. "Ah, Kasim. Glorious, what?'` He looked toward the east. "We were interrupted in our prayers. We must thank Allah again. Come, Kasim, you are an Arab now. I make you one. You will join in our prayers. Bu Ali, call the men together, and when they are prepared, we will have prayer."

This time Casca made sure he pissed before Mamud started praying.

There were two things that Casca did not know.

When he was miles away from the unsuccessful raid, Yousef, the bandit, reined in his horse and looked back.
The scar faced one,
he told himself,
I'll cut out his heart and eat it
....

And Bu Ali
–

He lined the men up for prayer all right.
But a curse, not a prayer, was in his own heart. A curse of jealousy for Kasim al Jirad the interloper, the man he was afraid might take his place in the esteem of Mamud.
We'll see about that....

Casca had mixed feelings as Baghdad appeared up ahead. It was a blur on the horizon of the plain.
How long has it been?
he asked himself, searching back in his memory and trying to recall what the city had been like then... and what women he had associated with it.

But his memory would bring him neither Baghdad nor women... only Ctesiphon.

Ctesiphon.

Less than a day's journey from Baghdad.
Ctesiphon. Where he had fought in that first great battle after the Jew had damned him to live until His Return. "You are thoughtful, Kasim."

It was Mamud, pulling up to ride beside him. For, since the battle with the bandits Casca had been given a horse and treated now more like a veteran Mameluke than a newly captured slave destined for the block at Baghdad.

Casca frowned, then smiled. Shit! Mamud meant well. Might as well play along with him. "Yes, lord."

"Ah ...!" The dark brown eyes of Maraud burned with an inner knowledge.

Obviously he wanted a response from Casca. "What is it, lord?"

"I know you Franks. I know what's on your mind. And you can get it in Baghdad."

"What, lord?"
Shit! Not many hours ago he made me a Muslim. Now I'm a Frank again
. But Casca was not really angry, just amused. He had come to like the slaver, particularly after seeing him fight. In Casca's code any man who was very good at what he did was a friend. And Mamud was a damn good fighter.

"At the Cafe of the Infidels."
Seeing the complete puzzlement in Casca's eyes, Mamud laughed. "Ah...! You have not been to Baghdad before."

"Well..."

"It is a great city. And it is a Muslim city. The Prophet is honored as well he should be."

What the hell is he getting at?
Casca always got nervous when religion became the topic. Too many damn unhappy memories.

"But," Mamud continued, "
there is an understanding. Until you Franks follow the Prophet there is some provision for you. Hence the Cafe of the Infidels."

"The Cafe of the Infidels?"

"Ah, yes. Wine. And women. Particularly for you, Kasim, since you carry the air of a warrior, Miriam."

“Miriam
.”

"A red headed Jewess.
Most unusual. I am told she is quite beautiful. And very good in bed."

"Yeah, but..."

"Oh, that. Do not worry, Kasim. Tonight you are free to come and go as you please. Tomorrow? Why, yes, tomorrow you must bring me a profit. I am not in business for my health. Tomorrow I sell you. But I tell you, Kasim, l am certain you will go to the Nizam al Mulk. A very fine master for you; a very good profit for me."

They were just topping a rise. Baghdad was closer now, the spires of minarets beginning to dance like lance points in the sky over the city's blur. And there was something else in the depression just ahead of them.

What in Hades is that?

Maraud laughed at the look on Casca's face.
"The caravan of the Sheikh Faisal ibn Said? Ah, yes. It is a little unusual."

That,
thought Casca,
was an understatement
. Ahead of them were half a dozen scruffy looking but enormous covered carts pulled by teamed mules. And on the side of each cart, lettered with pigment that had once been red but now was faded, was the identical quatrain from the 55th Sura of the Koran: "Which of His manifold blessings dost thou so ungratefully deny?" The calligraphy was excellent, but everything else about the caravan from the apparently aged leader and the raggedly clothed drivers to the rough looking mules and creaking axles said poverty.

Mamud lowered his voice. "The Sheikh Faisal
– I doubt if he is really a sheikh – has been blessed by Allah." He touched his forehead to indicate that Faisal wasn't playing with a full set of dice. “But his men are great artists. They can carve a verse from the Koran in less time than it takes to make a lance."

Apparently assuming Casca could not read Arabic, he made no comment concerning the writing on the side of the carts.

"He had his harem with him. They must be a sorry lot."

The poverty of the ragtag caravan was depressing to Casca.
But only for a moment. After all, it said he was back in a world where eccentrics were accepted the world of peacetime. That meant no more killing.
Maybe I will go to the Cafe of the Infidels
...

Bu All rode by him, turned and smiled. It was an odd smile.

The Cafe of the Infidels was like every grogshop Casca had ever been in. Settled on a long bench before a rough table in the smoky semidarkness and sipping the trade wine, which certainly wasn't to be compared to Falernian!
he reflected that, no matter what the country or the century, wine shops did what the Jew had damned him to do: they stayed as they were.

Mamud had kept his word. After they had arrived in Baghdad and settled the other slaves in the compound (done the housekeeping) he had told Casca he had the night to enjoy, had even sent Bu Ali with Casca to point out the Cafe of the Infidels.

As if I couldn’t find my way around
.... Momentarily the thought had flickered in Casca's mind familiar as he was with the devious intrigue of Persians as a whole that maybe Mamud had some ulterior motive in dwelling on this one particular place. On the other hand, there probably weren't all that many places in Baghdad a non-Muslim could go to have himself a time. Still...

The Cafe was, of course, in the meanest section of town, not far from the Tigris, and it was not much to look at. Bu Ali pointed it out, and Casca offered to buy him a drink though he knew that Bu Ali, Mameluke or no, was ostensibly a Muslim. He wanted to see how Bu Ali took it.

Bu Ali's voice constricted a bit as he forced a polite response from it. "No, Kasim. It is not permitted by the Prophet. But for you, until you follow the True Way..." Bu Ali left the sentence unfinished.

So Casca now found himself alone at a table in a dark corner of the small, crowded room, his back against a wall, a cup cradled in his hands, and his thoughts guttering lazily in his mind like the slowly smoking lamps.

He checked out the patrons. There was the usual crowd of losers one would find anywhere, men whose faces one never remembered. But there was more than the usual number of quiet men, tough men. They made the cafe seem more of a club ... like wine shops he had remembered from his early days in the legion where most of the patrons were legionnaires. There was no sign of the woman Miriam. Maybe he had to ask for her. And, oddly, there were no "characters," exotics, the odd men you expected to find.

No, that wasn't right.

At a table to his left sat a young, fresh faced boy, obviously drunk, very drunk. And just as obviously an Arab. Not only the facial structure, but even in the dim, smoky light the dark brown eyes. Casca couldn't quite put his finger on what it was that made the kid unusual. Something, though. The memory of other young men in other wine shops across the years rose in his mind, and he moved irritably, puzzled at why tonight he should be so sunk in memories.

Then he saw the big Circassian, the bearded man who looked like a bear, the bully.

Casca hadn't noticed him before; the big man must have been sullenly drinking. Now he was baiting the fresh faced Arab kid. He had pulled out a dagger and slammed it point down into the table. Right now he was working on the kid verbally the usual remarks about his ancestry. What he was really doing was setting the kid up, and the boy apparently didn't have enough experience, or was too drunk, to know that the big Circassian intended to cut him up.

Circassian?
Shit! He looked more like he was from one of the tribes of barbarians far to the north. Casca searched his memory.... The ones called Rh'shans? More to the point, what dumb bastard of an owner let a brute like this loose with a dagger nearly half as big as a gladius? But, hell! It was none of his business.

That was when Miriam appeared.

On a cleared off tabletop back against the wall, more or less well lit by a couple of extra lamps. Apparently she was a dancer. And apparently she was also going to do the dance of the veils.

Casca smiled,
then sipped on his wine. If the trade wine weren't Falernian, neither were the veils the costly stuff Salome had used on Herod. There had been a lot of wear and tear on this fabric, and it had been cheap to begin with. And as for Miriam, she was no Salome. Momentarily Casca's face darkened as he recalled the time, long ago now, when a young woman had danced this same dance of the veils for him personally. Damn all memories... This Miriam was no young girl. She had been around.

And yet...

There was something oddly appealing about Miriam, something that seemed intended to draw him to her, something more than her looks. Mamud was right though, she was red headed, and she was beautiful, and she had a damn fine well-built body. Maybe it was because she was a Jewess. Casca felt an affinity for the people of Abraham despite his experience with the Jew. Maybe it was because she was no longer a young girl, but, like him, knew her way around. Maybe –

A small, pearl handled dagger slid across the table in front of Casca at the same time as the noise of the struggle behind him. He had forgotten the Rh'shan bully and the young boy. He turned.

Apparently the Rh'shan had finally prodded the boy to attack him, had kicked the kid's pearl handled dagger from his fingers, and now was standing over the fallen Arab youngster loudly describing what he intended to do with the dagger he held in his own big ham of a hand.

He never finished.

Something happened to him. Something quick, odd, and Oriental. (When the lamps glittered, was the shade of Shiu Tze momentarily in the room? And did the shade of Shiu Tze smile approvingly at what his "big nosed barbarian" protege had just done?) The Rh'shan found himself turned completely around, his weapon gone, the point of the pearl handled dagger digging into his throat, icy gray blue eyes looking into his, and a voice as cold as a death wind from the steppes saying: "Get your ass out of here, or you'll never live to draw another breath."

The Rh'shan did not argue the point. There was something in the cold eyes, something in the flat, matter of fact
voice, that told him the scar-faced man would kill him instantly if he so much as even opened his mouth. The icy eyed one was Death himself; he needed no big dagger, nor to be big himself. Whoever he was, whatever he was, this was one who could be neither bullied nor bluffed. The Rh'shan backed away. And when he got to the door, he turned and ran.

The sound of his footsteps echoed in the street and sounded even in the cafe.
Because it had gotten very, very quiet in there. Casca tossed the dagger back to the young Arab and regained his own seat and waited for Miriam to begin her dance.

It was not nearly so quiet in the palace of the Sultan where Bu Ali stood, his throat dry with fear as he looked into the brutal and suspicious eyes of the ruler. Bu Ali was afraid that he had gotten himself in over his head, that he was about to slip off a very narrow path of duplicity and intrigue. Yet, because of the man Kasim, what choice did he have?

"You say the Grand Vizier will buy this slave Kasim as his bodyguard?"

"Yes, my lord."

"So? What is that to me?" The Sultan's snake black eyes were probing deep into Bu Ali's.

Sweat formed on Bu Ali's upper lip. They both knew what it was to the Sultan. Nizam al Mulk, Grand Vizier, was not only the foremost supporter of the Seljuk Turk conquerors, he had been to all intents and purposes the regent for this Sultan during his childhood years, and even now probably held as much power if not more than the Sultan. Bu Ali knew this, knew that Nizam had antagonized the Sultan's favorite, Taj al Mulk, and made an enemy of the Sultan's wife, Turkon Khatun. It was the thought of the Sultan's wife that brought the sweat to Bu Ali's entire body.

Because he feared that it was she who was on the other side of the screened wall behind him.

Certainly someone was there, someone who smelled of jasmine, and, oddly, of the smoke of Paradise Bu Ali knew so well from Hassan's Eagle's Nest. It had to be a woman, for the faint sound of music and laughter from the seraglio came through the ornate lattice.

A woman.
It unnerved Bu Ali to think that the Sultan would allow a woman to listen to what they were planning. He was beginning to regret that he had taken it upon himself to plot this concerning Kasim.

"What is that to me?" the Sultan repeated. "The bodyguards of the Vizier are not of my concern. Unless, of course, you are suggesting that I take this slave for my own bodyguard?"

This time there was a faint, muffled laugh from behind the screen.

Oddly, it restored Bu Ali's courage. If the Sultan could be swayed by a wife or concubine then he was no more to be feared than other men.
"My lord, I have it from the Vizier's slaves themselves that this night he found the Golden Dagger in his bed."

"Ah
... !" the Sultan's eyes gleamed a bit brighter. Then the suspicious look returned. "This night, you say? But what has this to do with the ferengi you said was named Kasim by Mamud the slaver?'

Bu Ali tried to pick his words carefully. "I can only say lord that there is something strange about the man. And as you know Mamud has been the good friend of Nizam al Mulk for many ye
ars. Perhaps they have special plans for one such as this Kasim? Never before had Mamud granted such liberties to a slave and they did spend long hours alone in deep talk. Perhaps they have come to an understanding which is not to my lord's benefit."

The Sultan considered the many possibilities.
The hundreds of tenuous spiderwebs of intrigue that dominated palace life. "But what has this to do with the dagger of Hassan al Sabah?"

Bu Ali moved closer on his knees. "Lord, is it not known that the Old Man of the Mountain always demands a price for the continuance of life, and that that price is not always gold. It can sometimes be paid in the form of a service. Perhaps this stranger is to be the tool of that service?"

The Sultan's eyes grew narrow with suspicion. It was true there had been much bad blood between him and the Grand Vizier, whose personal power grew with each passing day.

From behind the curtain the woman spoke for the first time, voice deep and husky. "Listen to him. If he is right and the Vizier has made a pact with Hassan al Sabah, his once good friend, to take your life then you must act first. If he has not then what is the value of one more slave. You will lose nothing by taking precautions."

He waved the woman to be silent. To Bu Ali he spoke. "What do you suggest? That the slave Kasim be killed?"

Bu Ali looked at the Sultan. The room they were in was rich with ornaments and bright with many lamps. By the glow of these lamps he spun out his plot....

When he had finished, the Sultan nodded in approval. "That is better than killing him. And if he was indeed to be an assassin's tool it would just warn them. By this plan there could be no true suspicion that we suspected him of anything at all. You please me Mameluke. You shall be rewarded of course... if all goes well."

Then from behind the screen the woman spoke once more, and added darkly, "And if you fail, or speak of this night, then for your reward you shall be given to the women of the harem for their pleasure."

Bu Ali shuddered; he was not a coward as had been proven in battle many times. But he understood all too well what was meant by pleasure for the women of the seraglio.

Casca, meanwhile, was enjoying a pleasure of a different sort. The affair of the Rh'shan had shocked the young Arab into a near sober state. He had joined Casca after finding out his rescuer's name, bringing with him a small amphora of a drink he insisted Casca sample. The
cafe was back to normal, and Miriam was beginning her dance. Eyes on her, Casca lifted the amphora.

"What in Hades is this?" In his time he had drunk some pretty weird concoctions, but this was like not
hing he had ever tasted. Strong. Like a dozen wines all rolled into one.

The young Arab laughed, enjoying the look on Casca's face. "You like it?"

"Like it? Hell, it burns like fire. What is it?"

"Wine."

"Wine? Not like any I've ever drunk."

"Well, it's been, shall we say, improved."

"Improved?"

"Run through an alembic. The weak part left behind. We're drinking only the strong."

Alembic? Casca didn't know what that was. But whatever it was it sure made for the most potent wine he had ever consumed. He lost most of his interest in Miriam's dance and settled down to do a little serious drinking.

Alone.
The young Arab was not even halfway through his own amphora before he passed out...

Casca fully intended to make arrangements for bedding Miriam after she finished her dance, but the strange wine of the young Arab did odd things to him. He decided he needed a walk in the night air to clear his head before he came back to bed the exotic dancer.

He had just turned into an alley to throw up when, from both sides, heavy ropes snared him and something big and hard smashed into his skull. Just before he lost consciousness he was aware that a thick leather bag was being lowered roughly over his head.