Casca 13: The Assassin

by Barry Sadler

  So neither group was prepared for what happened when they were almost within charging distance of each other. The pool blew up. The small muddy pool suddenly shot a plume of water high up into the air, high as the mosque at Isfahan, and then almost immediately afterward exploded upward into a great blooming mass of water, mud, and rock, roaring like a lion whose testicles have been caught in thorns.

  Before the exploding material had a chance to land on the hapless men of God, from straight out of the ground where the middle of the pool had been and where now there was a huge, spurting fountain of crystal clear water, shot a man – a very dirty, muddy one in ragged clothes that had almost rotted off – a man so filthy that even the clear water propelling him upward could not cleanse him.

  There was one other thing about him. He was as mad as hell.

  When he opened his mouth, the roar that came out of it seemed to the startled pilgrims to be ten times louder than the roar of the waterquake.

  Instantly the coming battle was forgotten by both sets of pilgrims. They turned and fled, believing that Casca's roaring body was some sort of bad omen from their respective gods. One fearful monk was in such a rush to be gone from this place of horror that he took off on foot, leaving his bewildered ass behind.

  Soon there was little evidence that the pilgrims had even been to this watering hole. The spring – and Casca – stopped roaring.

  Silence.

  Casca's eyes had been in total darkness for several years. So at first all he saw was light, lots and lots of very wonderful light. When his eyes eventually did focus the first thing he saw was the ass the terrified monk had left behind.

  Casca grunted. "Fellow, I come out of a hole in the ground, and the first thing I see is an ass." His voice didn't work right. Roaring had been one thing; this trying to say words was another. But the ass didn't seem to mind. He brayed. Then lifted his nose to sniff.

  Casca grinned. "Yeah, fellow, I guess I do smell kinda strong." By now his eyes were working fine. He looked around him.

  He was standing knee-deep in what was apparently the shallow end of a very large pool of clear, bubbling water. At the other end of the pool there was quite a flow of water over a rocky ledge, a miniature waterfall more than a cubit high. The run-off formed a fast flowing stream, glistening in the sunlight. It had already begun to cut a channel in the dry soil. All around was evidence of the explosion of water and dammed up pressure that had brought Casca into the air once he had pierced the underground dam that held back the qanat, Casca saw all this, saw also how the green vegetation grew up toward the rise where the trees were. The green ... the trees ... they show where I was, he thought, a sense of wonder in his brain.

  The ass brayed again.

  "All right, fellow." Casca began to strip off the rotted remnants of the clothes he had been wearing when he was thrown into the Bottomless Pit. As he did so he noticed the material that littered the ground on the trail to and from the oasis. Whoever I frightened away when I came out of the ground must have been in a hell of a hurry. He even retrieved a vial of scented oil some dandy had lost. Naked, he walked to the miniature waterfall and scrubbed himself thoroughly.

  He was not yet ready to step into any deep water... not for a while anyway.

  The warm sun felt good, and Casca felt good. When he finished washing he rubbed himself down with the perfumed oil and came back to the ass who had now moved a step or two but was still stubbornly holding the territory.

  "How do I smell now, fellow?"

  Now he needed clothing. But, despite all the litter on the ground, there wasn't any. The ass, though, had a pack on its back, and the animal made no move to shy away when Casca went for the pack.

  The pack held clothes. Brand-new, clean clothes. But the clothes were for a fat monk – a black robe and a cowl. It was the habit of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem.

  Like Friar Dilorenzi.

  No problem, though. Casca felt too good to worry about the past. He held up the robe to the sunlight. Never thought I'd make it to the Church. Guess they must be taking all kinds nowadays.

  He didn't really relish wearing the hot robe, not right now anyway. The sun felt too good on his naked flesh. He pawed around in the pack and found a brand new loin cloth which he put on. Standing in the sunlight he flexed his muscles. He felt young. Too bad he was alone...

  Suddenly he had the feeling eyes were watching him, and he whipped around, looking toward the underbrush and the trees beyond. He saw the thin sliver of smoke in the greenery; then he smelled the odd odor. He shaded his eyes from the sun and finally saw two men in the near cover.

  They came out then, two happy drunks – an imposing-looking noble with slightly-graying temples and wearing rich robes, and a young man whom Casca recognized. The drunk young Arab from the Cafe of the Infidels. The one with the powerful "wine." Only he was several years older now.

  Casca waited.

  "Ah, Kasim..." the young man was just drunk enough to be happy, still sober enough for his eyes to glitter in amusement. "In the Name of the Prophet I ask you, 'Dost thou always reside in muddy springs?'"

  Casca grunted. The ass brayed.

  The older man was obviously much drunker than the younger one. He looked at Casca, struck a pose as though he was declaiming – or rather as though he was satirizing the look of someone declaiming – and began to recite poetry: "'Come fill the cup, and in the fire of spring.

  "Your winter garment of repentance fling.' Ah... I see your winter garment, friend. But where is thine cup? Tis not possible to fill thy cup if thou hast no cup."

  Casca grinned at the young Arab. "How do you put up with him?"

  "He's my father. Here, Kasim, thou must meet him. Father, the semi-naked savage before thine eyes is Kasim al Jirad, the one who saved my ass from the Rh'shan. Kasim, my father, the one and only Court Poet and the Court Astronomer of Persia, Omar. Or, as he preferreth thou callest him, Omar Khayyam, Omar the Tentmaker."

  "He's your father?"

  "I am a bastard, Kasim. Nevertheless he is my father."

  The older man was not as drunk as he had seemed. There was amusement in his glittering brown eyes and maybe just a slight cynical glow. But his voice was affectionate, and the hand he put on the young man's shoulder was gentle. "The young man is a genius, sir. An alchemical genius." He tilted his head up and back toward the trees and wrinkled his nose. "Dost thou smell the paradisiacal odor which cometh from the alembic?"

  Ah... !

  Later, much later, the world looked even better to Casca. His belly was full of the roast whatever-it-was – maybe goat, but what the hell – that the young Arab had been cooking over slow coals back under the trees, and in his hands he held a big handleless mug of the young Arab's "improved wine."

  The older man really was Omar Khayyam, Court Astronomer and Court Poet of Persia. Why was he out here at what had been up to this time a very insignificant oasis?

  ''Well, Kasim, thou knowest of course that the Prophet forbiddeth the fruit of the vine short of Paradise.

  “Well, now if I choose to consider that the Prophet might have spoken poetically here – and who better than I to consider the Prophet a poet? – why, those of a more orthodox view of the matter might have my head. That is, if I shouldst exercise such interpretation of mine own devising of the Holy Writings in Baghdad, or Nishapur, or Babylon. But if I shouldst indeed journey into the wilderness to seek the solitude under the stars and thereby perform my duties as Court Astronomer to whomever might be the ruler of Persia at the time, then all will be satisfied. And incidentally while I am alone or with some boon companion such as mine own son, bastard though he might be, or you, sir, I can exercise my particular views of what might be the will of Allah the Merciful, the Compassionate- and surely the understander of the blessings of the fruit of the vine, since He hath so graciously promised its said blessings in the glorious environs of Paradise – Ah...! I do wonder what wast I had to say..."

  Casea grinned. "Old man, tho
u art a hypocrite."

  The gleam came back into Omar Khayyam's brown eyes, and he quoted: ''I am myself with yesterday's seven thousand years."

  "All right. I get the picture."

  "Besides, O savage Kasim," the young Arab added, "it would not be wise to run wine through the alembic in the heart of Baghdad. One mayest expect that even there where the odors are many the, ah, perfume of the alembic would attract attention."

  "So you come out here where you'll be alone to improve your wine and do your drinking?"

  "A crude way to put it, sir, a crude way,” The more Khayyam talked the more sober he seemed to get. "But thou hast put a small handle on the vessel of truth.”

  Truth. Something in Casca's mind took him back in time... back to a courtroom scene... Pilate, fat Pilate the Roman judge... What is truth? the cynical Pilate had said. The cynicism in Omar Khayyam's eyes was gentler, more civilized... laced with a friendly merriment.

  "What is truth?" Casca asked him.

  This time it was Omar Khayyam who grinned and then quoted gleefully: "'Myself when young did eagerly frequent

  "'Doctor and saint and heard much argument

  '" About it and about that, but evermore

  "'Came out by the same door by which in I went.”

  The young Arab passed the "wine" again. All in all a very pleasant way to be welcomed back to the world of the living. Casca found he liked the worldly-wise and civilized "Tentmaker." He was, indeed, an excellent drinking companion. And at night, when he showed Casca the stars in the clear skies of Persia, he was obviously a very good astronomer. Much of what he had to say was beyond Casca's understanding – and not much use to the scar-faced one, either. When would he need to recognize Algol and Deneb and Betelgeuse?

  The shooting stars, though–

  That first night not just one, but three bloomed briefly in the night sky at the same time, and Omar Khayyam laughed at Casca's excitement. "Not unusual at all. In fact, sometime this month there may even be a "shower' of them."

  "What are they?"

  "Ah!... Well, those that hit the earth–"

  "Hit the earth?"

  "Yes. I have never seen one myself, nor known anyone who has, but the ancient writings speak of a few men who have seen these flame across the sky and land – and where they landed there would be a glowing hot stone no larger than a grape."

  "Anybody ever been hit by one of these?"

  Omar Khayyam laughed. "There is no record of that ever happening."

  "And all the time I thought they were a sign of good luck." Casca remembered the shooting star that night in Mamud's slave coffle and his feeling that something important was going to happen to him.

  Somehow that brought to his mind Hassan – because the shooting star bad been over the Elburz Mountains. "'Tis said that you were a friend of Hassan al Sabah."

  "Yes." In the darkness his face was not visible, but Casca caught an odd, wistful tone in his voice. "And of Nizam al Mulk, too. When we were young men we swore undying allegiance to each other. We were all young, then. The whole world was young."

  "And now?"

  "Now is yesterday's tomorrow."

  "Bu Ali?" Omar Kbayyam asked.

  It was either the second or the third night that Casca asked about him.

  "Yes."

  "Ah!... The big Mameluke bodyguard. The favored of the Jasmine Lady.”

  "Baghdad?"

  "Baghdad."

  Now Casca knew Bu Ali's whereabouts – and also the significance of the Jasmine Lady.

  It was time someone paid for his suffering....

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  When Bu Ali had returned to Castle Alamut and stood before the Master his legs turned to water and his bowels threatened to let go of their control. Hassan said nothing for a long, long time. Simply sat upon the cushions behind a low table inlaid with mother of pearl. He too accepted fate for what it was. The loss of Kasim was not the fault of Bu Ali. It would serve him nothing to punish the man. As for Kasim, now it seemed he would never know if he had been close to the truth. If indeed Kasim was the spawn of Satan, then not even the fall into the bowels of the earth would kill him and one day, one year, one century he would return. If he was not the Roman, then there was no loss, only another man dead and of no real importance to his plans. He would continue as would the Brotherhood.

  To Bu Ali he said, using the tones only a father would use on a well-loved son who had done his best but failed at an assignment, "Return to Baghdad."

  Bu Ali was ready to do anything the Master ordered but said, "Lord, there is the problem of explaining my absence to Mamud the slaver." Hassan rose to his feet and went to the window and looked out over the high mountains.

  "Mamud and the other Mamelukes who were with you will be no more by the time you reach the city. I will have other work for you there."

  Bu Ali knew he'd been dismissed and already other more important things were on the mind of the Old Man of the Mountain. He left the presence of Hassan al Sabah feeling like one whose life had hung by the merest thread, as indeed it had. The next morning Hassan had his eldest son strangled to death for failing him in a mission and for the drinking in public of forbidden wine. He could have other sons but the discipline he demanded must be enforced upon everyone equally, for he was a fair man.

  Baghdad. Casca set out for it on the back of the ass that had been left behind. By now the two of them had gotten to know each other very well, and while the back of the ass didn't afford the most comfortable ride, it beat walking. Casca was wearing the oversized robes of the fat monk. He grinned when he thought of what he must look like, and he wondered what kind of reception he would get from the guards at the gate, but he was dead serious when he thought of what he intended doing to Bu Ali. So, if entering Baghdad as an infidel monk riding on an ass was going to be an act of foolhardiness, why let it. He had been pushed around long enough. Now he was going to strike back – and nothing or nobody was going to get in his way.

  He had really enjoyed his "vacation" with Omar Khayyam. Casca was not much for poetry, but he could see how one could hide a message in the fancy verses and say things that one could never get said otherwise.

  Khayyam had also brought him up to date – more or less – on what was happening. Hassan aI Sabah's power was growing day by day, and the Golden Dagger was feared not only in Islam but in Frankish circles, too. As for the Franks – what the Muslims called all Europeans – they were becoming more aggressive about their right to visit Jerusalem. There were frequent clashes with Muslim groups. Actually there was something close to an undeclared war going on. Omar Khayyam had been particularly dubious about Casca wearing the monk's robes since there was talk that this group, originally set up to aid Frankish pilgrims to and from Jerusalem, was to become a military order.

  Khayyam even knew the intended name: the Hospitallers. But Casca figured he would just take his chances.

  Something up ahead bothered him. He was approaching a low rise (one of the many in this terrain) and the other side was bidden to him. Casca hunkered down on the ass, outwardly careless, inwardly alert.

  The two bandits that had left Yousef on what was to be Yousef's last day on earth had joined forces, and having discovered the basic details about each other, found they made a very agreeable twosome.

  They were not the most successful bandits in Persia, but they did manage to handle their own needs quite successfully. This particular day they had waylaid a rich noble, killed him and his slave, and were gleefully pawing through the late noble's possessions when Casca's ass plodded over the top of the rise.

  Neither of the two bandits had recognized Casca, though he had recognized them. One, Shojan, had been the thrower of the jirad into Casca's gut. Now all they saw was a harmless Frankish monk who had made the mistake of taking his ass into Muslim country. Naturally they went for him. It was a nice clear day, and the sun was quite bright.

  At the moment of closing all three recognized each other. But it w
as the bandit who bad thrown the jirad and now held a dagger who yelled: "O holy mother of Mohammed!"

  "You got your religions mixed up, fellow," Casca grunted, grabbing the arm with the dagger, twisting the bandit around, then bringing up his knee to form an anvil on which, both hands now on the arm, he broke the arm bones as casually as one would a bundle of reeds. The bandit's high-pitched scream of pain stopped the second one in mid-step, but the scream didn't last too long since Casca grabbed him by his chin, bent his head back, and broke his neck.

  This made an impression on the second bandit.

  He swung the scimitar at Casca with all his considerable strength, having come to the instant conclusion that the quicker this scar-faced man was killed the safer would be Persia, and more importantly, himself.

  The sharp steel sliced through the air like the lightning of Allah. It did not, however, meet any flesh.

  Unaccountably Casca was not in the place where the scimitar cut. The next thing the bandit felt was the full force of Casca's kick, smashing both his testicles. He bent over in terrific pain. He did not feel anything else because Casca's blow to the back of his head broke his neck, too.

  The ass brayed.

  "Save the applause, fellow," Casca answered him tolerantly. "Wait till I get Bu Ali." He surveyed the plunder left by the two dead bandits.

  The noble they had killed had apparently been only moderately well-off, but there were two extra robes in the pack on the mule the servant had been leading, and the noble was not too far from Casca's height and weight. Maybe a little bigger. I guess I've got to grow some, Casca thought. The world around me seems to be getting bigger. Come to think of it, it did seem to him that in the centuries since the Jew had damned him to eternal life the men around him had been growing taller and heavier. Odd. It was something that he would have to talk over with Omar Khayyam, if he ever saw the Persian poet again.

  Back to business. I guess I'm just putting it off. Killing men – even when they come after you – must do a little something to you that you have to get over.