by Barry Sadler
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 nothing 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.
CHAPTER SIX
Faint music. Distant laughter.
The smell of perfume... women's perfume. Damn! I've died and gone to Paradise. Casca opened his eyes.
Bright lights. Beautifully carved walls. Well, damn. The Muslims had it right after all. Somehow he had died and gone to Paradise, and here he was in the Muslim Paradise, because this was obviously a very, very fancy heavenly whorehouse.
Then – reality kicked him in the butt.
Wherever he was, and he had no idea where nor how he had got here, it sure as hell wasn't Paradise.
He was stripped buck naked and tied to a marble column in what he recognized now as the anteroom in somebody's very fancy palace, an anteroom apparently very close to the seraglio. Standing around him were half a dozen armed eunuch guards, a snaky eyed son of a bitch in very rich robes of Chin (obviously somebody of very big importance), Bu Ali, and Mamud. "...tried to get into the seraglio," Snake Eyes was saying. "Mamud, such discipline is deplorable."
"My Lord."
Snake Eyes raised his hand. "Spare me your excuses or apologies. Yesterday was a holy day, and Allah – Blessed be His Name – has filled my soul with mercy and compassion. Even for a Frankish dog. Had this happened tomorrow, when such excess of mercy would have left my soul, I would have taken the utmost pleasure in seeing that the death of this dog be arranged so that the pain would match the severity of the crime. But tonight... ah ... tonight. A simple little beheading." Snake Eyes smiled. "As a matter of fact ..." The smile became even greasier, the eyes even more cunning.
The damn fag is crazy, Casca thought.
"As a matter of fact, perhaps not even a beheading. My mercy is great this night. And besides, I do admire the nerve of the Frankish dog. Yet I would not want to encourage another to try the same thing. Killing him is too public a matter. Disappearance, I think. Ah, yes. Disappearance. We will send him to the copper mines of Khorramshahr. There he will be of value to us. And there no one will believe any fantastic story he may tell of trying to slip naked into the Sultan's seraglio."
Sultan! So that's who old Snake Eyes was.
"My lord."
Again the Sultan raised his jeweled hand to interrupt Mamud. "I know, Mamud. You have an investment in this piece of Frankish offal. It is not just that you should suffer loss. Therefore, here." He tossed the slaver a small leather purse taken from the folds of his garments. "I am sure this will more than cover the value of this slave."
"You are most generous, my lord."
"Yes. I am, am I not? And you will remember that when you serve us in the future, as you have so well in the past. Now I am bored. Guards! See that the Frankish dog is taken immediately to wherever such slave dogs go."
He turned and walked out of the room.
While the eunuchs were untying him, Casca caught one glimpse of the bemused look in Mamud's eyes. He smells a rat. Wonder what in Hades this is all about...
Mamud bowed his way out of the Sultan's presence, wondering what game was being played and whether he should report this odd circumstance to Nizam al Mulk. There was definitely something most odd about the whole arrangement. Of course, he did not believe for an instant that Casca had ever even been close to the seraglio.
He never reached the slave barracks, of course. Outside the Sultan's palace Bu Ali had three of his Mamelukes, and they took custody of Casca from the eunuchs. At one point Mamud apparently started to say something to Casca but thought better of it. He had liked Kasim, but he knew it was much too risky and foolhardy to interfere in the plans of the Sultan. After all, Kasim was only a slave, a good one, but a slave nonetheless. He left, going alone down the street in the opposite direction to that taken by Bu Ali, the Mamelukes, and Casca.
Now, what...
Bu Ali had halted the group at the entrance to a dark alley. He motioned, and one of the Mamelukes took a sack from his shoulders and approached Casca. "Kasim." Bu Ali's voice was low. "Put on this clothing."
The other two Mamelukes untied him, apparently not caring whether he tried to escape or not. They merely stood silently while Casca dressed in the darkness of the alley entrance.
"Wait," Bu Ali ordered.
Some minutes later a cart pulled by a single mule came slowly down the street and stopped by the group. Bu Ali came close to Casca and said, his voice low: "Kasim, they will wrap you in a carpet, and you will go on a journey. No, it is not to the copper mines of Khorramshahr. It is to a higher destiny that Allah calls you. There will be a caravan. Go in peace. Do not let yourself be discovered." Suddenly he embraced Casca, holding both arms around him. "Nu salam aleikom, Peace be with you." Then he added softly, "Brother."
It was not the most comfortable journey even though just before they rolled him into the carpet one of the Mamelukes had handed Casca a small pot of gummylike substance and said, "Eat this. It will still the pain.”
Like thickened honey. Bittersweet. Odd. Casca had eaten this stuff, not really wanting to know what the hell it was. He had a strange feeling of not really giving a damn about anything. His head, which should have hurt, if not from the blow on it earlier, at least from the hangover the young Arab's "wine" had brought on, had no feeling whatsoever. In fact, he felt light all over, like he was slipping in and out of dreams. Somewhere in the back of his brain was the leftover crumbs of a dream where this same bittersweet "candy" had been forced into his mouth. A dream? Or a memory? Somehow it did not matter. There were a lot of things that didn't matter. Like, had he ever gotten to bed Miriam or not? And the Sultan's palace. Shit! He couldn't have been stoned enough to try that. And the Sultan himself. Was that little queer really Malik Shah, third, and so far the greatest of the Seljuk rulers? But if he was a fag, what the hell was he doing with a harem? These thoughts and others like them bubbled through Casca's mind. And in between them he slept. Rolled up in the darkness of the carpet, he really didn't know what was happening to him, where
he was being taken, how long it would take. When he was awake it was like a dream. When he slept there was only a silent darkness, peaceful as the death forbidden to him.
Hassan al Sabah came personally to inspect this unexpected "Novice." He had not yet decided how he would react to Bu Ali taking matters into his own hands. Such a thing was not to be tolerated. Yet... an intuitive sense of opportunity smoldered in the back of his brain. Like all who are touched by the dream of personal greatness, he felt in his heart that the Destiny which had such great things in store for him might bring those things in strange and unusual ways. Besides, the message from Bu Ali was that this Kasim was "a scar faced Frank."
A Frank with a scar on his face? Casca Rufio Longinus, the Roman of the Lance, had been scar faced. What if?... He stared thoughtfully at the rolled up carpet.
"Unroll him," he ordered.
Casca awoke to see an eagle beaked old Arab staring into his eyes. Yet he saw the old Arab as kindly, fatherly almost. Immediately Casca liked him. Somewhere in the back of his mind there was a reason for the liking. For a moment the images of old men he had known flickered in his brain ... Glam... Shiu Tze... others... He closed his eyes.
Hassan al Sabah was disappointed. No, this could not be Longinus. Scar faced? There was only a thin one, running the length of a lady's little finger from the side of his right eye to just above his mouth. It gave this Kasim a slightly sinister look... that would probably turn on some seemingly reluctant maid, the Franks being what they are, Hassan thought. He regretted now that he did not know more about Longinus, but certainly if he had been remembered as "the scar faced one" his scar would have to be much more prominent than this. No, the man on the carpet was not Longinus.
However... if he could be trained... perhaps the time might come when he could be put forward as Longinus...
At the moment Hassan had no fun blown use for such an impostor in his mind. But, on the theory that it might be useful to have such a one on hand, he decided not to have Kasim thrown from the parapet of Castle Alamut into the Bottomless Pit on the west side, which was what he had originally planned to do. After all, if this Kasim was as good a fighter as Bu Ali's message said he was he might prove very, very useful.
Casca stirred, and his eyes opened again. "Welcome," Hassan said in his most fatherly voice. "Welcome to Castle Alamut, my son."
Bu Ali had called him "brother." Now this eagle faced one called him "son." Shit! Casca thought, I don't know whether I'm ready for this family business or not....
CHAPTER SEVEN
The manner in which Casca entered into the ranks of the Assassins was the way things usually happened to him. It seems that I have no control over what happens to me. He wasn't complaining, though. Life at the Castle Alamut these last few weeks had been very easy indeed. Maybe too easy, but what the hell, he would enjoy it while he could.
The indoctrination had been handled very smoothly. Besides the Koran those with special gifts were instructed in many manners of disguise and on techniques by which they could gain access into places that were normally denied the ordinary man. Threats of violence were seldom used. All of the Novices were made to feel as though they were well loved brothers who were part of a large family. And Hassan al Sabah was the father figure, the wise and caring patriarch who, it was known without the words being said, would dispense reward and punishment without favor.
He was drawn to the eagle faced Arab now just as much, if not more, than at their first meeting. There was a quiet sincerity to the man that he had seldom found before. He even considered telling Hassan of his life but quickly decided against it. Persia had been good for him, the few moments which he enjoyed like now. But he had an instinctive distrust of any cult. In spite of that, he looked forward to the many hours he spent with the tireless leader of the Alamut who never seemed to need rest and had never once shown any sign of distress or anger. Even when he had two of his Novices thrown from the battlements for treason his face only showed great sadness as though their betrayal of him had been due to some failing of his own.
He would talk with each of his disciples when he had the time of the greatness of their plan and what it would mean to the world. Of course, not all understood the philosophy he expounded and to these he would direct the more simple truths. "Obey and gain Paradise, which will release you from this life of sorrows to sit at the foot of Allah and be among the Blessed." His quiet confidence and burning eyes inspired all who sat or walked with him along battlements during the evenings when the night winds came out of the desert and sang among the towers and crags of the eternal mountains.
It was on the narrow walks of the parapets that Casca preferred to speak and listen to him. Usually these talks were in the late evening, or at twilight. A time and a place that seemed to appeal particularly to Hassan. Of late Hassan had spent more time than normal with the new scar faced Novice, but if the other Novices resented the special attention paid to Casca they did not say anything. Discipline in the Castle was practically perfect, much better than anything Casca had seen in any formal army. Odd. He had heard stories about the Assassins about the evil they worked but after these few weeks he was convinced it was all wrong. Hassan felt he had a mission in the world, to clean it up, to limit the power of the few to do as they pleased with impunity. The Hashassin were to be a balance to those who claimed the right to rule the world.
Casca could agree with much of that thinking. And that really had been what most of Hassan's conversations with him had been about. He had not tried to pry into Casca's past, and Casca had volunteered no information. Hassan was grooming Casca. He could sense that in this man's strong knotted body there was a potential, which if brought out and developed would be of great value. Perhaps the ferengi would one day enter the ranks of the Dais and be given the real truth of their mission on earth. Hassan needed men of special gifts and loyalties to carry on his work. One of the Dais would succeed him after his death. It was vital that he have only the best material from which to pick his successor.
Casca was sent for at the hour when the night was at its darkest and the stars the most distant in the heavens. With the other Novices he was taken in silence to the place of waiting and meditation.
They lined up in two silent ranks of ten men each and kneeled. Expectancy hung on the air as did the scent of rich oils from the brass lamps which lined the walls cut from living stone. The other Novices were eager. And awed. But Casca had been around a bit longer.
Their group leader, one of the Dais, came into the room and began the rites of acceptance into the Brotherhood of the Hashassin. Signaling them to rise he led them in a single line across the room where there was a raised block, almost an altar, of rough stone.
Brass basins of water. At the group leader's command they stripped to loincloths and submitted to a symbolic rite of purification, the group leader sprinkling each on the forehead with one of those odd little string looking things priests in every religion Casca had known had used, and for which he could not remember the name.
Not that it mattered. Then something got his attention. The line ahead of him was disappearing. As each Novice got his forehead sprinkled, he was led behind the altar... and disappeared.
Wonder how they do that?
When his own turn came he found out. Behind the altar was an absolutely black shadow, and when he stepped into it, there was nothing underfoot. He fell in the darkness, landing on some kind of soft surface that gave. Stretched leather, he thought, but there would have to be a lot of skins sewed together. As soon as he landed, hands found him in the darkness, and he was pulled over the edge to the group.
All this in silence, except for the feeling that somewhere far away there were drums beating very faintly, drums in the heart of the solid rock.
When the last of his group had landed, they were led into a narrow, twisting passageway in the rock (Casca could feel the rough stone on either side), and after the passageway they made two sharp right angle turns in opposite directions, into wha
t looked like a huge cavern room, lit by great smoking, flaring torches. Directly in front of them, dominating their attention, was a great round stone, a wheel twice as tall as a man and nearly two cubits thick, that rolled in a track of the same stone as itself and was now rolled back uncovering a huge tomb in the rock.
Casca had seen many of these before, but never inside the heart of a mountain. As a matter of fact, hadn't the body of the Jew been put into, a similar tomb? Only, that had been in a garden.
Garden.
For the first time he noticed the faint smell in the air ... like flowers? He couldn't tell. Besides it was dominated by the heavy smoke scent of the torches. Yet there was definitely an odd fragrance in the air...
"... know ye that for him who follows the Way of the Hashishi death is but the opening portal into Paradise, a foretaste of what will be yours on the other side of the tomb. And that ye may know the saying is true, put on now the robes of resurrection before you enter this tomb; drink now the elixir that promises Paradise before you enter the darkness. Come now, Hashishi!"
Casca watched. Each Novice in turn was given a white robe which he put on. Then he was given some drink from a golden chalice, after which he walked through the opening into the darkness of the tomb beyond and stood, a gray white figure in the shadows. When it came his time, he went through the same procedure.. He had a rather futile hope the "elixir" might be wine, otherwise forbidden to the Faithful. No such luck. Water and honey, with some kind of flavoring substance he could not identify.
When they were all inside the tomb, the leader gave a signal and the figures on the torchlit side began rolling the huge door shut. When it closed the darkness in the tomb was absolute. That didn't sit too well with Casca. Too many memories...