by Tony Roberts
“Well it seems you cheated him, Walid,” Casca said reasonably, “so perhaps a refund is reasonable, rather than setting this creature upon this man.”
Ben Asid inclined his head once to Casca. Walid set his face in a firm scowl and waved at his servant. “Teach this rude interrupter who I am and that I am not to be treated in this manner!”
The man-mountain grinned, revealing gaps in his teeth, and pushed Ben Asid aside contemptuously. The next moment much of what teeth he had left were shattered as Casca’s flying kick hammered into his face, sending him staggering back against the warehouse wall which shook at the impact. Dust flew up obscuring the injured man and Casca as they hit the ground in a heap. He got up quickly just in time to see the servant emerge from the dust cloud, blood pouring from his lips, nose and gums, and murder in his eyes.
Casca reached forward, much to the servant’s surprise, and grabbed him by the collar of his loose robe. He pulled him forward so that his already bloodied nose connected with Casca’s head-butt. There came a sickening thud. Both men staggered slightly, but the servant screamed and clutched his ruined face, trying to find what was left of his nose. Bone splinters had been driven into his cheeks and the pain was immense.
Casca shook his head and his vision cleared. It had been like butting a rock wall, but he was still a going concern. What his forehead looked like was another story, but he’d find out soon enough. He stepped up to the staggering man and sent one foot into his groin, then bunched his hands together and, as the servant doubled up, brought both down hard on his exposed neck.
The unfortunate crashed to the ground like a falling tree and remained where he fell, blood slowly seeping onto the ground by his head. Casca grunted and dusted himself off before stepping up to an open-mouthed and now apprehensive Walid. “Pay him you fat ugly thief,” Casca said evenly. “Or do I insert your head up that camel’s ass?”
The camel carried on chewing, not knowing just how much danger it was in. Walid paled and nodded emphatically. “As you say, good sir, I sold Ben Asid here faulty goods. I apologise most sincerely!”
“It is always gratifying to see wisdom emerging out of a misunderstanding,” Casca smiled, sarcasm heavy on his lips.
Ben Asid smiled ironically and indicated his son to hand over the camel to Walid who gave back the money he’d received for it the previous day. The camel made a disgusted-sounding grunt. Perhaps, Casca mused, it had understood the threat he’d made about Walid’s head after all.
As the three walked away from Walid who was looking at the camel with distaste, Ben Asid turned to Casca and thanked him for the part he’d played. He then introduced his son. “This is Mubarak, my only son. Whom do I have the honor of thanking for settling an injustice?”
Casca introduced himself before stopping in the street. “I am a recent arrival from India and am in need of employment. Can you help me? I need to get to Jerusalem and currently, as you see, I have little means by which to pay for the journey.”
Ben Asid smiled. “Ah, Casca, do not worry. In return for the service you have performed for me this day I shall employ you as my guard. I am a merchant who takes goods to Damascus from here by camel train, and I often need protection for the hazardous journey.”
Casca nodded. Damascus was as good a place as Jerusalem, although it was in the lands of Salah-ed-Din. Getting from one place to the other ought to be simple enough. “What of the journey, Ben Asid?”
The merchant sighed, indicating Casca to accompany him along a side street. “When we get close to the Dead Sea we enter the lands owned by the knights of two castles who belong to the King of Jerusalem, and often they violate the peace treaty that has been signed between the King and Salah-ed-Din. Particularly the Lord of Kerak, one they call Reynauld. He is a devil that one!”
“Surely the King can command his nobles to honor the peace!” Casca frowned.
Ben Asid pulled a face and shook his head. “The king is not in control of his subjects, my curious friend. The king commands respect but he is not blessed with good health, so it is said, and he may be dying. It would take a strong and wise council to hold the more bloodthirsty nobles in hand.”
By now they had reached a long wall with one door set in it and Mubarak opened it, leading the two men into a courtyard pleasantly stocked with plants and a fountain. Screens of carved wood shaded a walkway from the sun and a house lay beyond. The merchant led Casca into a cool interior and showed him seating where he could rest. Before long they had refreshing drinks in front of them.
“By your appearance, Casca,” Ben Asid said after a long appreciative draught, “you are a man of martial aspect. And you do not have the look of a man of Arabia or Egypt. Are you of the West?”
Casca nodded. “But not necessarily one who agrees with the West, particularly if it attacks non-warriors.” Casca disliked the notion that Reynauld descended on helpless pilgrims or trade caravans. That was a mark of a coward. He would have to see for himself, and if Ben Asid was right, they would be journeying close to Reynauld’s home base.
The Arab trader agreed, then looked closely at Casca’s meagre clothing. “By the Prophet! You are without arms or clothing fit for one in my employ! Mubarak, go take this large soldier and allow him to choose suitable apparel from my stock.”
Casca rose and grunted a thanks, then stopped as Ben Asid held up a hand, a slight smile on his lips.
“Ah, but the cost of them will of course come out of your salary.”
Casca grunted again and smiled sardonically. Poor he was and poor he would remain. “I see why you are a successful merchant, Ben Asid. What about a weapon?”
“I have one or two swords in this house you can test and see. Select the best one to your taste. I shall not charge you for that, for I fear you will have need of it on our journey, especially if that devil Reynauld is active.”
With that in mind, Casca followed the young Arab out of the room, his mind troubled.
CHAPTER THREE
Walid fumed as he sat in his office, not noticing the untidy pile of papers scattered on his desk, nor the even more untidy heap of humanity lying on the bench against the far wall, moaning and clutching its messed-up face.
By the Prophet! Walid was not a man to allow any insult to go unpunished! Ben Asid he could take care of at his leisure, and indeed he would do so, but in good time. No, he was more concerned with the large brutish newcomer who had assaulted his injured bodyguard and, more seriously, insulted him. He, Walid the Merchant! A man whose reputation was known along the Red Sea coast and whose business was eagerly sought!
Those who spoke of dishonest dealings were of no importance, for they soon saw the error of their words, particularly when his bodyguard pointed out their mistake. And if they refused to see sense, why then they joined the fishes in the sea. No, nobody crossed him and got away with it.
Walid eyed the softly moaning man once more and made up his mind. He had family here in Ayla, and even more in the Hajj cities of Madina and Mejja. They had contacts throughout the trading world and it would be easy to track the infidel to his destination and then deal with him. He would make enquiries as to Ben Asid’s intentions, helped of course with the fertile use of coin, and arrange an ambush where nobody would witness it. Then the skeletons of the victims would be covered by the desert and vanish forever. Such is the will of Allah, blessed be His Name!
The fat merchant smiled to himself and began writing a letter to his cousin, a ruthless man who knew many desert jackals who would kill for a shiny coin or two. They could of course, keep any possessions they found. All he wanted was assurance of the large infidel’s death. If Ben Asid died too, then that was Allah’s will. Either way, the meddling newcomer was a dead man.
____
Casca looked at his reflection in the shimmering flat pool of water in the stone drinking trough set in the cool interior of Ben Asid’s home. A white turban covered his head, a necessity in these climes. He also wore a long flowing white robe edged with
green, a good Islamic colour that, he thought. Under this he had a poor-quality chain mail hauberk, something warriors on both sides wore these days. Around his waist was tied a cloth belt, wrapped into twists and reinforced with cord. Through this hung a curved sword, a scimitar, but no scabbard. He was not wealthy enough to own one, and as his new employer said, until he began earning his keep he would remain penniless.
Casca grunted and rasped a hand through his stubble. Another thing he’d do when he had money was to get himself shaven. Still, his talents as a warrior had always earned him coin and he knew it wouldn’t be too long before he had the reassuring clink of metal in his pockets.
“Ah, Casca,” Ben Asid announced his arrival into the room, “you look more the part of a man I would employ!”
“It is a comfortable fit, Ben Asid,” Casca said by way of return, turning around to face his new boss. “I feel more like myself!”
The merchant smiled, flashing a set of gleaming white teeth. “I have learned that Walid is enquiring as to our route to Damascus. He may well have coin to spread to willing hands, but I have the ears and mouths of the citizens. Walid is not liked here and the defeat of his bodyguard has encouraged some to reveal to me what Walid is intending.”
“And what is he intending?” Casca didn’t like the feel of this.
“If Walid is true to his habit, then he intends a permanent way of dealing with us.”
“Great thundering hooves of death!” Casca used a phrase he’d heard in Chin over the past few years. The Jurchen tribes had taken him in and the barbarians, like many north of the rich lands of the Chin, had been horsemen to a man. “Can we avoid his intentions?”
The Arab merchant smiled again. “I have spread the word we are to go east of the lands of Kerak, which would be a sensible thing to do, and indeed expected. Ah but my large friend, this means of course we must go west of that route.”
Casca gripped the hilt of his new sword. “And that means?”
Ben Asid shrugged apologetically. “We must pass through the lands of Reynauld. And to get there we will have to cross the desert away from the normal trade route.”
Casca groaned. If it was anything like he expected, it would be a bitch.
CHAPTER FOUR
So it turned out. The caravan, a small one of only twenty beasts, was guarded by as few as half a dozen men as well as Casca. Ben Asid had brought along a dozen or so drivers, and they took the direct route north towards Outremer, rather than turn either east or west to join the well-established trade routes. Ben Asid reckoned that the likely ambush point would be to the east, shortly around the place where the route turned to head towards Damascus.
That wasn’t to say the west was a possibility, but to go that way would mean crossing the desert to Egypt and adding weeks to their journey. In that wilderness thousands had perished over the centuries, and going at his time of year would almost certainly add more, and Walid’s cronies wouldn’t need to do their work.
So they therefore took the route to the north. Here lay the treacherous, shifting sands that shimmered evilly under the hammering sun, burning moisture wherever it could. Somehow flies survived and made the men and beasts’ lives a misery. Casca trudged on alongside the camels, using their shadows to take away the worst of the sun’s rays, but it made little difference as he knew it would. The scenery was totally barren, a sea of sand punctuated by islands of rock and not a sign of vegetation anywhere. He cursed the desert again and again, aching from the millions of particles that found their way into every nook and cranny of his loose clothing and rubbed his skin into sore spots.
The others too, suffered. Conversations were few and far between as each man saved his breath for the energy-sapping walk. Towards midday they rested, usually where outcrops of rock thrust themselves through the sand, and cloth screens were thrown up to protect man and beast from the glaring sun. Even then, they rested in a heat-induced torpor, fitfully dozing until it was cool enough to continue the journey.
Ben Asid rationed the water, knowing that once they were through this particular part of their journey, then they could find springs to replenish their stock. The camels stolidly endured the heat as only they could. It was during this time of burning thirst and aching legs that the Arab traders studied Casca deeply. This man was not as others of his type. They knew westerners to be rough, uncouth and mainly ill-mannered, yet this one was quieter than most and possessed such knowledge and wisdom that surpassed even some of their learned men. Indeed, a strange one, this warrior from the west.
Casca answered the few questions that came his way with safe replies, not wishing to give too much away. He smiled to himself from time to time as he sat and thought during their rest periods, knowing the truth would be incomprehensible to these men. He lay back and studied the deep blue sky and thought back to one of the times he was recently in this part of the world, when he had been known by two different names and took two different missions, each he would probably never do again
He had been then known as Kasim al-Jirad, “Kasim the Spear” by the Muslims after he had been taken captive and enslaved, known by that name because of his prowess with the spear. He had somehow been inducted into the Hashashin, the fanatical killing sect of Hassan al-Sabah, and trained to carry out political murders, something he had readily done after partaking of the hemp plant. He had fallen under the Assassins’ spell and had been a changed man. He thought back to that time and was still shaken by how easily he had been molded by others to do their bidding, all because of his liking for the pipe and its’ addictive contents…. If ever it got to be widely available then some ruthless bastard could damn well have thousands of people at his bidding. It was a sobering thought.
Fortunately his years trapped underground had broken the hold the hemp had on him and now he avoided it lest he become once more a slave to the plant. He wanted to be in control of his own destiny, such as it was, and not be controlled by some burning weed.
Casca chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip, thinking of the last journey he’d made in the lands of Palestine. He’d been part of the Crusade to retake Jerusalem, insinuated into the Crusader army by the Byzantine Emperor Alexius, and that journey had horrified him to the core as to how brutal and ignorant the western knights really were. The butchery of the sack of Jerusalem still made him sick and if the Crusaders were little changed from that he knew he would readily enrol into Salah ed-Din’s army to help throw these barbaric people into the sea. He wasn’t pro-Christian or pro-Muslim, just a man who picked – as best he could – the side with right.
And it damn well helped if they paid well too.
“Ah, Casca,” Mubarak said, breaking the mercenary’s train of thought, stumbling up the slight slope to sit alongside the larger man.
“How are you finding this heat?” Casca inquired, loosening the folds of cloth from his face to speak clearly.
“Bearable – just!” Mubarak smiled. “My father says we must cross that ridge ahead before night so we can see our way down, and at the bottom is a spring where we can refill our water skins.”
“That’s good news,” Casca replied, making a mental note of that. Who knows, in a hundred years or more he may have need of such knowledge. He’d discovered that during his thousand years and more of existence the knowledge he’d picked up from places he’d visited paid off time and again. He nearly always returned to places he’d been to, whether it be in a few years or centuries. Place names may change, peoples may come and go with their empires, but the land, well, it remained the same.
He grinned to himself for a brief moment. No, that was not completely true. His mind wandered back to a time and place far away, when he had been an interested spectator on horseback, watching from a low wooded hill down on a stunning scene, a funeral. If he had been discovered he’d have been hunted down and then who knows what? He’d probably been thrown into the tomb he saw being built and incarcerated. He shivered despite the heat of the day. Then probably he’d have remained ther
e to this very day, for the builders of the tomb had diverted a river to cover the tomb to hide it from anyone. A river!
The man put to rest within that tomb, Attila of the Huns, would remain there undisturbed throughout history, for nobody knew where it was. Except, of course, Casca knew. But for the moment he had no access to river moving equipment or the men, and such a project would attract attention. He was sure those who now occupied the land the river flowed through, the Magyars of Hungary – or as they called it, Magyarorszag – would want what rested in that tomb. Attila had been buried with riches beyond belief, enough to make a kingdom overflow. And people would kill for such riches; Casca knew that all too well.
Attila and his treasure would have to remain undisturbed for the time being.
Casca’s mind returned to the present and the searing heat of the day. He longed for a cool drink of water, and knew he’d have to suffer his tongue swelling in his mouth before he got his next one, something he hated from experience, but once they were through the desert they would be safe from thirst.
But then they would have to tackle nastier dangers.
CHAPTER FIVE
Reynauld of Chatillon belched and patted his ample girth, grunting in amusement at the flicker of disgust that played across the features of his table companion, a dainty young lady from Ascalon, a daughter of one of the minor lords who had recently arrived at his castle. She and her family were guests by invitation, for her father wished to secure an alliance with a powerful lord who held ample lands, and who would come out on top from the current political wrangling that was afflicting Outremer.
Reynauld cared not one jot for the alliance of an underling, he merely wished to bed the wench and his gaze kept on straying to her tits, marveling at their size. How could one so young possess such ample tracts? No matter, the sooner he plowed her fields the better. The lady Eleanor de Beaucaire kept her eyes on the table, but even this was not a pretty sight, scattered as it was with discarded pieces of food and greasy knives, upturned cups and wine stains.
