by Tony Roberts
The pilgrims for their part accepted the healing of Casca as their doing; having been to Mecca they felt that part of the power of the Ka’aba was with them and this accounted for the transformation of their strange guest’s curing. How they would use this new ability they weren’t sure, but more than one had decided that perhaps medicine would play a part of their life from now on.
They approached the city from the south and took the eastern approach, close to the aqrabani canal, one of the many man-made waterways that served the city, and entered through the Bab Sharqi gate, the eastern limit of the famous Street Called Straight.
Damascus was the same as Casca remembered; he’d been here on a few occasions before, and the noises were familiar. Vendors cried out to attract potential buyers, camels snorted, horses whinnied. The hubbub of people filled the air and the smells were unforgettable too. Spices mixed with animal droppings, sweat mixed with the aroma of jasmine. The closely packed houses of the bazaar quarter always concentrated these smells and noises, and it was only over by the richer quarters and maybe the river that things changed.
What he needed was to find some means of earning money. He was dirt poor and possessed only the rags he was dressed in, and even these were not really acceptable. He bade the pilgrims farewell in the shadow of the Great Mosque in the northern quarter of the city and watched as they trundled off into the distance, then surveyed the street. Trees offered some shade from the sun so he sat under one and contemplated his immediate future.
He wanted to meet Salah-ed-Din and see what this man was like. He’d had a taste of the Crusaders and they hadn’t changed much. He disliked their stupid ignorance and this would, he knew, eventually bring them down. He didn’t want to be part of their kingdom. Besides, he had a score to settle with that bastard Reynauld, and it wasn’t likely the other Crusader leaders would do anything against him.
But on the other hand the Saracens would, given the chance.
He decided the citadel was the best place and that was on the banks of the river Barada, to the north-west. He got to his feet and began making his way through the maze of streets towards the river. People thronged the streets but he was big enough to push his way through, although one or two curses followed in his wake. The scent of jasmine and the spices sold by merchants brought back memories of being in this part of the world before. People cried out for potential buyers to see their wares, and camels brayed and spat as handlers fought to bring the bad-tempered beasts under control. Casca dodged past one particularly fractious specimen and waved away the bleating of a pushy date seller.
The throngs of people breathed life into a city and Casca smiled as he plowed his way past the horde on his way to the river.
The citadel stood directly across the river, the entry by way of a massive barbican reached by a stone bridge. On either side were immense towers, each of three stories. Casca felt vulnerable as he walked across the bridge and stood in front of the huge gate. A guard, resplendent in his scale armor and shiny conical helm, halted him and looked him up and down in distaste. He smelt as bad as the river, the guard concluded.
“What is your business here?” he demanded.
“I wish to enroll in the army of Salah-ed-Din,” Casca replied simply. He still spoke awkwardly, as if he had a lisp.
The guard smirked and turned to a companion who was sheltered in the shadow of the gateway. “Are we accepting street beggars?”
“Only for arrow practice,” his companion said with humor.
Casca sighed. “Is Salah-ed-Din recruiting?”
The guard’s humor faded. “No. He is at Harran near Aleppo. Have you not heard? He is ill and it is said he may die. Now be gone!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Reynauld was not pleased at receiving Raymond at his castle but he had no choice but to accept him. He chased away all the hangers-on and ordered the castle to be cleaned up. Plenty of rubbish was thrown off the ramparts shortly before Raymond arrived, and in that time Gerard de Ridfort had turned up, his horse blowing hard. Ridfort’s excuse was to inspect his Templars based at the castle but Reynauld knew it was to stand with him against the regent.
Raymond saw Ridfort standing alongside Reynauld and approached with a wry smile. He bowed and courteously greeted both. Neither made much effort to return to greeting; fixing him with hostile glares. Raymond chose to ignore their rudeness and looked around at the castle. “Everything alright, de Chatillon?”
Reynauld nodded. “Why wouldn’t they be?”
Raymond eyed the big, bearded man. “No problems with Saracens, I take it.”
“There never are. I don’t know why you are here, Tripoli. If I had a problem I’d inform you.”
Raymond smiled. “I doubt that. You might inform your friend there,” he indicated Ridfort who stiffened visibly, “but me? No, I doubt that. Not unless it were to get you out of a political mess you created and couldn’t escape from.”
Reynauld balled his fists. Ridfort stepped forward. “I don’t think insulting your host is gracious, Tripoli. Either you have come to inspect the castle or you are here for another reason. Now what is it?”
Raymond slapped his gauntlets into his palm and looked again at the castle. “I understand, Lord de Chatillon, that you recently entertained guests here? The de Beaucaires?”
Reynauld slapped his thigh. “Ah, so that’s what this is all about! That bitch has been whining to you? She’s insane. I threw her out with her father for consorting with Muslims!”
Raymond made a gesture of polite surprise, then extended his arm. “Shall we continue this conversation in your quarters rather than out here in the sun? I am tired after a long journey and require refreshment. I trust you have food and drink to hand?”
Reynauld led the others up into the deepest part of the castle to his quarters, richly furnished and possessing a view of the eastern countryside unmatched anywhere else in this part of the world. A stout table stood in the centre of the room filled with food and goblets of wine. Raymond acknowledged the spread and picked up a particularly smooth looking olive and a piece of goat’s cheese.
Ridfort quaffed some wine and stood in one corner of the room, looking out over the countryside while Reynauld stood glaring at Raymond. There were three others in the room; Raymond’s chief household retainer, Meurtrier, and a Templar captain. Raymond studied Meurtrier for a moment, wishing the man wore something over the hideous wound which he was displaying proudly, but he supposed it was all deliberate to try to put him off.
“So,” Reynauld said belligerently, “what did that stupid girl say?”
“Lady de Beaucaire,” Raymond admonished the Lord of Kerak, “informs me you tried to force your unwelcome attentions upon her. Furthermore,” he raised his voice a moment as Reynauld went to protest, “you then abducted her from my territory, injured her father the Lord de Beaucaire, and on top of that imprisoned one of their retainers. What do you say?”
Reynauld sneered and picked up a juicy leg of chicken and proceeded to chew on it. Raymond waited patiently while the leg was devoured. Reynauld threw the bones out of the window and wiped his arm across his beard. “Lies. Did they tell you this retainer, as they call him, was in fact a Saracen spy? He’s dead. Bastard Muslim!”
Raymond took a draught of wine and cleared his throat. “Any spy should be interrogated and what they tell you should then be reported to me!”
Reynauld laughed, sneering. “Hah, you mean report it back to that coward Saladin. I hear he’s dying by the way, one less evil filth to worry about!”
“I’d advise you to be careful as to what you say, Lord de Chatillon. So, did you learn anything from this – spy?”
“No. He tried to escape and fell off the ramparts,” Reynauld smiled. Clearly a falsehood but one that couldn’t be proven.
“So where is the body?”
“At the foot of the eastern ramparts near the gatehouse. Want to see him?”
“I think his body ought to be given a proper burial. My
information is he wasn’t a spy but a mercenary.”
Ridfort turned and spoke. “He was involved in an attack on some of my men. I lost a few in that fight. What do you say about that?”
“Undoubtedly they were on a peaceful journey,” Raymond said sarcastically. “Where was this, ah, ‘incident’?”
Reynauld turned to Ridfort who looked back at Reynauld. Raymond cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, if I learn it was on the pilgrim road I shall take steps to punish you.”
Ridfort laughed. “You think so? What can you do? You have no real authority; that lies with the Council and they would never contemplate taking any action against us!”
Raymond said nothing. Ridfort was right. The only way he could ever best these two was by war, and they commanded too many men. Raymond was faced with two options; either do nothing or invite the Saracens in to destroy both Ridfort and Reynauld. He couldn’t do that, he knew. “Just be careful in what you do. Remember once the king reaches the age of seniority he shall have the power to deal with you. Enjoy yourselves now; that may not last for much longer.”
“And if he dies? Then your power is over and you’ll be at the mercy of the Council! Be wary lest you are found guilty of collusion with the Saracens. I’d be the first to testify!” Ridfort stood angrily in the middle of the room.
Reynauld grinned. “So, my cowardly regent, you can do nothing. Your visit here was a waste of time. You can prove nothing. Take the body of that spy and do with it what you will. If the de Beaucaires say anything publicly I shall deny it, and what can they prove?”
Raymond put down his goblet. “I shall stay the night and make an inspection of the castle defenses. I expect you to provide comfort and shelter to my men and horses. And I want that body brought up to the castle.”
Reynauld shrugged. He gave the orders but when the retrieval party returned they gave some odd news; the body was not to be found. Reynauld went out himself to inspect the area. They scoured the land around and found nothing. Reynauld felt a shiver pass over him for a moment, remembering the man’s eyes and words. He’d return to kill him. No, surely not! He was dead! Animals had dragged him off…. Yes that was it.
Raymond was not pleased at the lame excuse Reynauld gave, but for the first time he actually believed the Lord of Kerak was telling the truth; he really didn’t know where the body was.
____
Summer burnt itself out and autumn arrived, and with it the rains. Casca scowled at the pelting rain and stamped his feet miserably in the doorway. He disliked his job but it put money in his pocket and he could afford to stay in a place with a roof and buy himself some clothing. Not that it was anything good, but a hovel was better than the street, being pissed on by stray dogs. His clothing may stink of goat but it kept him warm and decent. People tended to avoid him and he didn’t mind that; but he didn’t want unwelcome advances from sexually frustrated goats either. Luckily there seemed to be a shortage of those in Damascus.
The shopkeeper who had hired him desired he should stand in the doorway and out of the shop interior, as his wares were for guests to peruse in comfort, and the smell of goat was not conducive to a measured examination or the delicacies of haggling over prices. Casca didn’t care less. If buyers wanted to haggle over the price of brass kitchenware then that was their prerogative. What Casca was really there for was to ward off unwelcome money collectors who demanded more protection money for the shopkeeper, Iskendar, to cough up.
Casca had already redesigned one collector’s face and the fellow was now walking round sporting a nose that was bent at a jaunty angle. The news had gone round that Iskendar had a bouncer, a large man with eyes like a clear mountain lake, probably a Circassian, and he would not play the game.
Therefore that morning, one of the collectors, a mean bastard by the name of Anwar al-Qadi, had hired a squad of no-nonsense street fighters to teach both Iskendar and the Circassian a lesson.
Casca saw the crowd approach and groaned under his breath. He saw wooden sticks waving and he didn’t doubt a knife or two were present under clothing. The crowd came closer, shouting and gesturing threateningly. Casca stepped out into the rain and stood there, arms folded, daring them to approach.
The crowd stopped, not expecting to be faced off, but as in the nature of all rent-a-crowds, the noisiest ones (usually at the rear), encouraged the group to press on. Casca unfolded his arms and flexed them. “Now, my pretty ones,” he announced, “who will be first for my dentistry lesson?”
One of the stick wielders yelled bravely and charged, expecting the others to join him, but they waited to see how things worked out. One punch later and the stick man was sitting in a puddle holding his bleeding mouth. Casca now held the stick and slapped it in his left palm. “Next, please.”
A man waved a knife in the air. “Unclean pig,” he snarled, “I shall carve you into a thousand slices!”
“I’m here, my brave warrior.” Casca lazily swung the stick and suddenly three came at him, one with a stick, the knifeman and a third, hollering wildly. Casca’s stick swung swiftly and hammered into the head of the knifeman, sending him to the ground. The stick man found his wrist caught in a vise-like grip and Casca’s forehead smashed into his nose, splintering it. The third man received a kick in the balls and he sank to the ground, groaning deeply.
The rest of the crowd stood there, full of apprehension. Casca was still standing, untouched, while four lay or sat at his feet in various states of distress. One tried to get to his feet but Casca slammed the stick down onto his head and the man collapsed.
“Anyone else for pain and suffering?” Casca inquired loudly. The rest decided they wanted no part and dissolved into a fleeing rabble, throwing their sticks away as they went. Casca shrugged and looked at his four victims. Two were out cold, a third was crying into his bloodied hand and the fourth still grasping his aching groin. Casca pulled this one up and thrust his face into the man’s. “Who sent you?”
The man told him. Casca dropped him to the ground and ordered him to clear off. The man complied, limping badly, followed by bloody-nose. Leaving the two unconscious men in the street, Casca entered the shop, soaking wet. Iskendar tutted and began to wave him out, but Casca held up a hand.
“Some people just tried to wreck this place. I stopped them and they told me who sent them. I intend going over to his place and sorting him out.”
Iskendar frowned. “Who is it they say it was?”
“Anwar al-Qadi. Know him?”
Iskendar clutched his head in fear. “Oh no! He is the meanest man in the city! Even the city guard is afraid of him! He owns many places and has many men to do his bidding! Perhaps I should have paid.”
Casca shrugged. “Maybe, but it’s too late for that now. As soon as he hears I took care of his collectors, he’ll think you won’t pay at all. I bet one or two of his spies were in that crowd. You should expect a visitation very shortly.”
Iskendar howled and ran about the shop shutting things down. “I shall go visit my cousin in Aleppo. In the meantime I suggest you flee too! Many who have crossed this man have ended up in the river.”
Casca put his fists on his hips. “Then why did you not pay him to begin with instead of hiring me?”
“Ah, it was not he who demanded money! It was another. I suspect Anwar has taken over his ‘patch’ and now I fall into his territory. Oh this is terrible!”
Casca was paid off and trudged out into the rain, grumbling about crooks and frightened shopkeepers. He was standing there when a man approached him, furtive and seedy, glancing about. “Honored sir,” he said, “my master wishes you to speak to him. He had seen your strength and courage and desires you to work for him. Please, follow me.”
Casca shrugged. He had no job, little money and little prospects; particularly if the biggest criminal in Damascus was after his ass. “Why not?” he murmured and followed the smiling man, wondering what in the name of Hades he was getting himself into.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The house he was in – palace would be a more accurate description – was marble-floored and adorned with fountains and gardens. Everyone was richly dressed, men and women walking in conversation or enjoying the luxuries of life, and Casca felt terribly out of step dressed in his poor clothing.
The messenger had shown him to a side door in an alleyway and a guard had allowed him entry before relocking it after he passed through. He had then been escorted by another guard to a covered walkway that went three sides round a square ornamental garden and into the house proper. Plants stood on stands and high white ceilings echoed to footsteps of people as they passed by on their errands. Screens of arabesque hid alcoves and divided rooms from the passageway.
Casca wondered who the heck owned this place and what he was wanted for. He wasn’t kept waiting too long, for a smartly dressed courtier beckoned him forward and Casca passed through an arched doorway, past another screen and into a room filled with the scent of incense and attended by bare-chested black slaves wafting fans of huge ostrich feathers. Sitting in the center of all this was a man dressed simply in black and white; his turban was white and his undergarment the same color, but his outer baggy tunic was black and decorated with tiny white swans. He wore a full black beard and he regarded Casca with intelligent deep black eyes.
Casca bowed and remained where he was. The man put a hand to his chin and thought for a moment. “I am told you defeated an unruly mob sent by Anwar al-Qadi this morning.”
“I did, sir.” Casca was still unsure as to who the heck this guy was, but he certainly spoke with authority.
“And now you are wanted by Anwar.” It was a statement and didn’t really need an answer. The man smiled and waved the matter aside as though it mattered not. “I dislike criminals in the city taking matters into their own hands. As long as you are employed as a bodyguard to a poor shopkeeper then I fear you are vulnerable to Anwar’s desire for revenge.
