by Tony Roberts
After a brief discussion, Mehmet was permitted to attend. He was sent for by a messenger, with Casca’s summons. Mehmet came a short while later and was admitted into the tent, removing his helmet and bowing low. He was beckoned forward and came to stand next to Casca. Casca translated from Arabic, wondering if, indeed, Adhemar who was standing towards the rear, understood any of the language. Another thought struck him and he cast a sideways glance at Bohemond. Arabic was still spoken in some parts of Sicily, which until recently had been a Saracen island. The Normans had kicked them out but still retained some of the infrastructure and probably administrators. Arabic had to be spoken there, surely.
Raymond took over, brusquely shouldering the others out of the way. Bohemond and Godfrey in particular looked annoyed. “Who is the most powerful of the Muslim lords in this part of the world?”
Mehmet sucked on his teeth. “A map would assist in my explanation, effendi.” Casca translated the word effendi into lord, as ‘friend’ wasn’t quite the right word. Tatikus provided a map and it was spread out on the tabletop, and all crowded round. It was an old map, but it showed the main places of inhabitation, if in Greek. Casca named all the places for Mehmet’s benefit.
“Ah, so. The bigger the cities, the greater the prestige of the emir. Over in Mosul,” and he pointed to the east, “is the great emir Kitbugha, a mighty warlord with many soldiers. He is the most powerful of all in this part of the world. You do not want to go to war with him.” Mehmet’s hand flowed towards Antioch and paused at a place to the east. “Here is Aleppo. The ruler is Ridwan who is an enemy of Yagi-Siyan here in Antioch. It is not expected that he will come to the aid of Antioch. He is even the enemy of Dukak of Damascus who is the brother of his father-in-law, so even family connections are not sufficient to bridge the enmity towards the Ridwan of Aleppo.”
“Is there any other danger to us?” Bohemond asked.
“To the south,” Mehmet indicated Syria. “The Emir of Homs, Janah ad-Daula, may well assemble a force to attack. He is Dukak’s brother and the father-in-law of Ridwan.”
The Crusaders looked at the map. Two to the south and a big enemy to the east. No danger would come from either the west or north as it was Christian Armenian territory. “Very well,” Raymond said. “If we are not to attack Antioch in the near future, we must make sure our army is safely arranged around the city. We must watch the approaches from the south and east.”
“Baldwin and Tancred are out there,” Godfrey said. “We shall send messengers to them and advise them to be wary of any armies advancing from either Mosul or Damascus.”
The meeting began to break down into which unit was responsible for what, and Casca and Mehmet left. Casca didn’t wish to listen to the squabbling of the lords over the minutiae of everything. Mehmet looked at the walls of Antioch, then at his master. “Is it true that the Franks intend to take the city?”
“Oh yes,” Casca nodded. “Antioch is too great a prize to be allowed to remain unconquered, and also it would be foolish to allow such a great city to remain in your rear if you are to march down through Syria towards Jerusalem. It would threaten your supply route and an army could follow you and eat away at your stragglers and supplies, and eventually you’d be left with nowhere to retreat to.”
“It will be a terrible siege. Winter is coming.”
Casca agreed. They made their way through the camp towards their tent. It was getting dark by the time they got there and fires were being lit around the camp. Their own tent had a small light shining from within.
Casca threw back the flap and stopped in shock. Giselle was seated in her small chair, but sat opposite her, on the rough wooden desk, was Peter Bartholomew. “What the hell are you doing here?” Casca demanded, facing the Brotherhood agent.
Bartholomew smiled and levered himself upright. “Charming woman,” he indicated a silent Giselle.
“Leave her alone, you freak!” Casca snarled, bunching up his fists.
Bartholomew waved his hands in a placatory manner. “I haven’t touched her, I swear to God.”
“Did he touch you, Giselle?”
The woman shook her head. “He just entered the tent unannounced and asked where you were. I asked him to leave but he would not. He’s uncouth and rude. I don’t care that he’s a man of God.”
“He’s no more that than I’ve got tits,” Casca growled. “Alright you, out,” he barked at the priest.
“I must speak to you,” Bartholomew said. “That is why I’m here.”
Casca placed his fists on his hips. “You are talking to me. So go on and stop wasting my time.”
Bartholomew looked at Giselle and Mehmet. “Alone. This is not for their ears.”
Casca growled, but looked at the other two. “This won’t take a few minutes. Mehmet, take Giselle for a walk around the camp and see if you can get hold of something for dinner. By the time you get back this creature will be gone.”
Bartholomew smiled in an unpleasant way, and Giselle slowly got up and walked out, closely followed by Mehmet. Both gave Casca a long stare, and then glared at the unconcerned priest. Once they were gone Casca hooked a foot around the leg of Giselle’s chair and swung it round, sitting back to front in it, facing the priest. “Talk.”
Bartholomew smiled. “I have received word from the Elder. He is insistent that I bring you back to Castle Alamut to verify your identity.”
“Oh, wonderful. Just what I always wanted, a trip to the mountains. Go tell him to fuck off.”
“Now, Longinus, that is not the attitude. In a short while a few of our best agents will be arriving here to make sure you comply. If you do not, well an accident shall befall the woman.”
Casca knocked the chair over, stepped forward and sent a blurring right fist crashing into Bartholomew’s face. The priest toppled off the desk and landed on his back, stunned. Casca stood over him. “Now listen to me, you freak. I won’t be pushed around by your lunatic organization any more. I’m fed up with dancing to whatever tune you decide to play. That’s another thing; the tune you play differs every time I bump into you lot. Imprison me, don’t imprison me. Injure me, talk to me. Why don’t you make the hell your minds up? Get out of my tent, Bartholomew. You give me the creeps.”
The priest rubbed his stinging face. Blood dripped from his cut lips. He sat up. “Longinus,” he said thickly, “you cannot change the will of the Elder. He has decided to bring you in to make amends for his earlier error. He has trained Hashashin obeying his every will; you should know. Why worry? You will partake of the hemp once more and then you will not have a care in the world. You will spend the rest of your days happily in our hands, pleasurably smoking.”
Casca gritted his teeth, leaned forward and pulled Bartholomew to his feet. “Now listen, and listen good. I broke that hold over me during my incarceration underground. It wasn’t nice, but it made me determined that nobody ever again would control me like that. If I am to live this fucking horribly long lifetime, then I’m going to do it my way and not yours. Got it?”
Bartholomew nodded. Casca released him. The priest straightened his clothing and glared at Casca. “I suspected you would give me trouble. Therefore do not complain when you are taken and your woman is slaughtered. I am also informed that there is a relic here, somewhere. A bauble. It supposedly saved your life.” Bartholomew laughed. “We both know what a fraud that is, and I could expose it for the lie it is. What will that do to you?”
“I could beat you to shit,” Casca suggested.
“I serve the Brotherhood and God. My death is irrelevant. Go ahead. Killing a holy man is frowned upon, especially in an army summoned for God’s purpose. You’d be strung up. That would make our job easier; you would be cut down after your death and taken to Castle Alamut. So go on, beat me to death.”
Casca snarled in frustration. “Get out. Stay away. Tell the rest of your collection of freaks to stay away – or else.”
Bartholomew walked to the exit, still dabbing his thickening l
ips. He paused as he flipped aside the flap. “Sleep not; we will come for you one night.” He vanished from sight. Casca fumed, his fists balled. Bartholomew was a particularly slimy piece of work, yet he had talked too much. Casca at least knew when they planned to come for him.
Mehmet took Casca aside after he got back while Giselle tidied up the interior. “That priest is not a good man.”
“You’re right there, Mehmet. It’s a long story but he’s part of a big secret organization that had no love for me. I’ve killed many of their people in the past, and they’ve killed many of my friends. Watch out for him and his pals; he’s got a few in camp. Hashashin.”
Mehmet looked alarmed. “The eaters of hemp? They are members of that sect?”
“Partly. The hashashin are merely being used by this organization. You cannot identify who they are, they are in many places. Just be watchful for them. They could be anywhere and anyone.”
“Why did you not end that evil man’s life?”
“I was tempted, Mehmet, believe me. Sometimes, though, it’s best not to go with your instinct. A long time ago there was a wise man who once said: ‘the successful generals are those who know both when to fight, and when not to fight.’”
“A wise man, indeed,” Mehmet nodded. “So we wait.”
“Yes, Mehmet. We wait.”
* * *
They came for him about three weeks later. Casca had turned the tent into a virtual trap. To anyone who visited, nothing seemed amiss. It was, to all appearances, a normal nobleman’s tent, voluminous, airy, full of personal possessions and accoutrements. Giselle or her ex-husband had owned much of what was in the tent. She had her own ‘quarters’ within it, being separated from the ‘day’ area by a cloth screen, held up with wooden poles.
The entire tent was held up by three large wooden poles, which had been hammered into the earth and held in place by stout ropes tied to pegs which were driven into the ground outside. Rugs lay in places, to offer comfort to Casca, Giselle and Mehmet, as well as to make the place look more homely and attractive. A few hung from ropes suspended horizontally close to the tent sides to brighten the interior with color, and to break up the area.
There were chairs, a desk, a small table, chests, beds and clothes racks. This all helped to make it appear that there were a fair few ‘rooms’ there, which was what Casca intended. Around the tent edges, just inside the interior, he’d put a small trench and filled it with broken pieces of stone, glass and pottery. Camps always had a huge amount of broken pottery and it had been easy for either him or Mehmet to collect it on their everyday duties and walks. That way nobody could now sneak in the sides or back without making a noise.
He’d also placed weapons in concealed positions around the tent and showed Mehmet where they were. It meant they could appear unarmed but change that in an instant no matter where they were. There were also a couple of other nasty surprises he’d rigged and warned both Giselle and Mehmet away from them. There was no need for either to touch them, but he felt it best to warn them away from them.
It was a cold night in November, moonless, cloudy. Very dark, very black. Sentries went about their routine miserably, not looking into the camp. Their attention was to the outside. Therefore nobody saw the dark shapes converging on Casca’s tent. They had watched for a week now. They knew his routine, knew the routine of those nearby, and when it best to come for him. A wagon with two donkeys was ready within a short distance to take Casca from the camp. The other two would have to die.
Casca was lying next to Giselle, his arms around her. She often had bad dreams about death and dying and needed the comfort of her new man to reassure her at night. Some had gossiped about her finding someone so soon after her husband’s death but what choice did she have? No money, no home to go back to. Besides, he was minor nobility, like herself. He was a warrior. He spoke the local languages, he knew the region. He was going to Jerusalem. She would be foolish to turn down the opportunity.
Casca wasn’t stupid either. The offer of a warm body to sleep next to him at night and to make love to was something not to be turned down. He was also, he had to admit to himself, a sucker for a woman in distress. Giselle was not a bad woman; she was somewhat quiet but had this situation forced on her and it had left her friendless, alone and lost. His long life meant that no relationship would last and it colored his attitude to women. While he didn’t exactly use them, he had no intention of committing himself to a lifetime of togetherness. Lida had been one exception, and her death had left him utterly bereft.
His intention was to get to Jerusalem with Giselle and then leave her. Not because he was callous, but there was no future in them being together. He was leaving the Empire behind him because he’d been there long enough and it was time to go before people questioned why he never aged. He couldn’t stay with Giselle for too long. He had no idea what she had in mind for her future once she did get to the Holy City, but he guessed she would be occupied with getting recognition for Syagrius’ sainthood.
A sound alerted him. He never slept deeply. He was always just one noise from wakefulness. His eyes snapped open. Something wasn’t right. He lay there tense, his ears straining to hear anything. The hairs on his arms and neck rose. He began to bring his legs up, ready to spring into action. Giselle mumbled softly in her sleep. Casca’s arms slowly left her shoulders and waist and he placed an elbow underneath his side.
Another sound.
This was the chink of stone upon stone. Some bastard was sneaking in the back. Obviously had sliced the tent open with a knife. That was what had probably alerted him. The assassins were coming.
He slid out of the straw-stuffed bed. He was dressed in a pair of thigh-length hose and a thin cotton tunic. The cold air gave him goose bumps, but he was already halfway there with the sense of danger. He crouched low close to a chest and felt the surroundings. It was near pitch black but a couple of low fires nearby gave a tiny bit of light to see things faintly. There were only shadows.
A sword was close. The hilt was half covered with a casually left piece of cloth on top of the chest. The chest contained belongings they didn’t need whilst sitting in camp awaiting the fall of Antioch. He took hold of the sword. It was a short sword, ideal for close fighting in tents. The feel of one was familiar to him, one who was brought up with the gladius iberius, the old Roman stabbing weapon. An old friend.
Whoever was now entering the tent certainly wasn’t an old friend. His eyes caught movement. A dark shadow. There came another chink of stone. Someone had trodden in his little trench. There was a faint sound of a curse. Casca grinned to himself. Even assassins here human. He wondered whether to alert Mehmet, sleeping in the next ‘chamber’, but no doubt he’d hear the sounds of the struggle and take whatever course of action he deemed appropriate. He just hoped he didn’t think Casca was an enemy.
There seemed multiple shapes now gathering at the back of the tent. Casca took a pace forward. The lighter tent sides backlit the intruders whereas he would be in total darkness. He squinted, keeping the whites of his eyes as small as possible. Three shapes. They split up, one to the left, one to the right and one directly ahead.
They appeared to be dressed in burnooses or something like that. Head to ankle outfits. Risky, given that anything remotely Islamic looking would alert someone. Maybe they’d disguised themselves as something else in camp.
The one ahead came slowly forward, arm out wide, sword in right hand, pointed forward. Casca waited. The other two passed out of sight. They would be dealt with shortly. The one in front came close, free hand brushing the chest. Casca rose, sword angled up.
The blade sank into the man’s midriff, sliding in deep. Casca held him close, gripping him tight. The assassin stiffened in pain and shock, and his left hand struck Casca in a reflex action. The eternal mercenary withdrew the blade and struck again. This time he pierced the heart. The assassin couldn’t use his sword. He was too badly injured and held too close. Now his heart stopped, cut i
n two.
Casca allowed the body to sink to the ground and slowly turned. The sound of the brief struggle would have been heard. That and the thudding noise of the sword falling. The other two intruders would now be alerted.
Casca moved away from Giselle. He went to the right, because the one here would be closer to the woman and therefore the most dangerous. He slid past the chest and halted. Here was the edge of the sleeping chamber. A cloth screen that draped over a rope. The assassin was just on the other side, he could sense it.
Casca thrust forward through the screen. He struck the man but not fatally. He screamed. Casca cursed and struck again. He hit bone. The shock traveled up the blade to his hand. Casca stepped back. Giselle screamed, brought into consciousness suddenly. Mehmet, a few yards away, rolled onto his feet. “What in the name of the Prophet?”
“Intruders!” Casca snapped, seeing the shape of the second assassin collapse. The screen had two holes in it. “There’s still one in here, off towards you, Mehmet.”
Casca took Giselle by the arms. “Hush! He’ll come for you if you make noise.”
The woman stopped screaming. Whimpering she clutched onto Casca. He looked left and right. Nothing. Where in the name of hell was he? He was aware that Mehmet was on his feet and probably armed.
Casca turned full circle, still keeping physical contact with Giselle. His instincts were in full flow now. Besides his own health, he now was protecting his woman, and for that he would kill and kill. He gently put a finger to her lips, kissed her head briefly and motioned for her to lie down. Best to not get in the way.
The cloth screen imploded. A blade slashed through it and a dark shape hurled at Casca. Giselle screamed in terror. Casca fell backwards as the assassin took him over Giselle. He lay on his back, the Brotherhood member on top of him. Giselle was underneath, her hips and legs trapped. Casca held the man’s arms to his sides, stopping him from using his sword. He squeezed.