The Saracen

by Tony Roberts

  “But I can see you are a man of some ability and strength. Am I correct in thinking you are a warrior?”

  Casca inclined his head.

  “Ah yes, as I thought. But fallen on hard times. Tell me, are you Circassian?”

  Casca decided that this would be preferable to admitting he came from Western Europe, as this would not be such a good idea at the present. “Yes, sir, I am from that region but I now regard myself as a citizen of Damascus. I have taken the name Kasim.” Kasim had been his name the last time he’d been in the lands of an Islamic ruler, and he supposed it was as good as any other name.

  “Ah, Kasim. Yes, a good name. I am Imad-ed-din.”

  Casca drew in his breath; the name he knew from street gossip. This was none other than Salah-ed-Din’s Secretary of State, a diplomat in charge of Syria in Salah-ed-Din’s absence. This was almost as high as you could go without being at the top.

  Imad smiled at his reaction. “You know of me? Excellent. Let me advise you as to why I desire your presence; you may be wondering why this is so. In my position I am at the mercy of my master, Salah-ed-Din. He has shown great favor to me and appointed me his secretary and scribe. Alas, my master is at this moment unwell, as no doubt you have heard, such is the gossip on the streets of this beautiful city.” Casca wondered if Imad always spoke in such flowery sentences. He was to learn that this was so.

  Imad paused to whet his parched throat with a sip of cool spring water from the mountains of the Taurus. Sighing appreciatively, he resumed. “There may come a time when my master is no longer walking on this earth and sits with Allah in Paradise, but I pray to the mercy of Allah that He be patient and allow this humble servant of His to bask in the wisdom of my master for a long time yet.

  “However if my master does die, then there will be a struggle for the reins of power, and I fear my life will be threatened by those who do not enjoy my exalted position. One such person is the governor of Emesa who intrigues daily to place himself in a position to acquire the kingdom of Salah-ed-Din. It is certain he does not admire my humble talents in the same way my master does and I fear he would desire to place me in some dark and uncomfortable place away from the eyes of those who enjoy my company.”

  Casca waited patiently. This guy certainly knew how to talk; no wonder he was a skilled diplomat.

  “And regrettably he had struck a bargain with Anwar al-Qadi. Anwar has recently enjoyed the influx of great riches and had begun to buy out others of his kind in the city. His power grows daily. I am concerned that he will own a great many businesses through fear and this power base would undermine the enlightened and magnificent rule of my master. I need the protection of those who have earned the enmity of this criminal, and you, Kasim, are one such man. I can protect you here in my humble abode and within my employ, and in return you can render protection to me so I can continue with the difficult tasks of running the state in the absence of my master.”

  Casca grinned. It sounded like a good bargain; and he’d be much more comfortably off in this place than he’d been in the pay of the poor shopkeeper. “I can see no reason why not, sir. I agree.”

  Imad clapped his hands together in delight, then beckoned one of his attendants over to him. “Take this man to the wardrobe and see he is fitted out in a manner befitting a man in my employment, rather than having the appearance of a beggar in the lowliest quarters. You may also show him the place where he may enjoy the delights of hot water and soothing oils.” In other words, Casca mused, I stink like shit.

  A few hours later he stood admiring his reflection in a silver edged mirror. Clean, shaven, tidy and feeling a million dinars. His outfit was nice too. A quilted green tunic that went to his thigh, white baggy trousers, red socks and clean white and yellow shoes of soft leather; he wore a white sash and a waist belt of the same color and material from which hung a small ceremonial dagger and a hammer as well as a small leather bag containing his valuables. On his head he wore a soft round conical cap of light brown with golden curved designs woven into it, surrounded by a rim of brown felt. Down his back hung a light cloak of white linen.

  To complete his outfit he carried a heavy spear and when outside he would be permitted to wear a curved sword. This was more like it. Now let it rain; he was warm and comfortable and being paid a damned sight more for his trouble too!

  All he needed was for Salah-ed-Din to recover and return. Then perhaps things may get moving. But the longer he stayed away the stronger his enemies grew and he worried things might start to get troublesome. Imad may be a damned good orator and administrator, but he was hopeless at military matters and Casca soon realized he needed to take some heavy action against Anwar to stop him stirring up shit in Damascus.

  Luckily Casca’s commander, a tough guy by the name of Fasil, knew this too and persuaded Imad that it would be better to show authority and slap the forces of treason down rather than to allow them to fester under the surface, sapping the vitality of the city. Many merchants had complained recently of Anwar’s excesses, extorting more and more from them as his power increased and it was affecting their ability to make a profit. Those who refused to comply were attacked and blame put on the ineffective rule of Salah-ed-Din.

  It was time to teach the racketeer Anwar a bloody lesson.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Anwar’s base was, inevitably, in the poor part of the city. It was reached either along the Street of Jars, a well-known place of ill repute, or via a maze of back alleys. Both routes could easily lose those who were unfamiliar with them in no time fast.

  Fasil decided it was best to hit them at the front entrance fast and hope not too many got away through the many secret exits that doubtless would be used. Some hope Casca thought as he lined up amongst his new comrades on the parade ground inside the citadel. That morning Imad had arrived, deciding it was safer to remain at the citadel while Fasil and his unit kicked ass downtown.

  Fasil strutted along the line of men, detailing their mission that morning. Anwar, he told them, was plotting to corrupt the city so it would switch allegiance to the enemies of Salah-ed-Din. It was their duty to defend the name of their leader and purge the city of the uncleanliness of this evil criminal. “You are the favored of Allah,” he shouted, studying the row of expressionless men, “and Allah Himself will be watching you. All you find within this nest of vermin are to be slaughtered to show everyone that the rule of Salah-ed-Din is the right one, the only one.”

  Casca felt the old pre-action excitement flowing through his veins. He’d had one or two skirmishes since he’d returned to the lands of Syria but this was the first time he’d fight as part of a proper military unit since leaving Japan. It felt good.

  They filed out and marched through the streets, following Fasil who was on horseback. Most of the men carried spears and swords, but a couple had bows and their job was to get onto rooftops and pin the enemy down. Word got out swiftly that they were on the move and eyes followed their passage wherever they went. As they marched into the poorer areas the eyes became more wary and furtive. Here the rulers of the city were less favored and seen as enemies, not friends, no matter who they were. They may be paid from time to time to sing the praises of whomever but in reality they didn’t give a damn who was in charge; they were still taxed, forced to obey rules and laws they hated and they were still dirt poor.

  They wheeled in front of Anwar’s warehouse he used as a base and Fasil bellowed out that all within should surrender on orders of Imad-ed-din, representative of the benevolent and loved Salah-ed-Din. Behind him his archers clambered up onto the roofs and took aim at the warehouse and roof.

  Having got no reply Fasil waved his men forward and the biggest amongst them, Casca included, ran at the door, spears ready. They shoulder charged it and the door shuddered, a splintering sound which was quite audible. A second charge and the door caved in and the unit burst through into the building. They spread out, pushing aside the hanging rugs and fabrics that filled the area; one or
two tripping over discarded objects, but no one opposed them.

  One of the unit found a rear door wide open; it led to one of the back alleys and it was clear the people in the warehouse had ran off. The offices were searched, but again everyone had fled, leaving abandoned papers, scrolls and books lying scattered over the tables and floor. Fasil came in and scowled, examining the mess. “So our vermin have run away, have they? Taken the most important papers too, yes?”

  One of the men nodded, indicating a gap where some ledgers would have been. Fasil cursed. “We need to know where these vermin live and take them.”

  “Too many places to search, sir,” a young spearman replied, “and we don’t know who they are anyway.”

  Fasil agreed. “No matter, we have their goods. They shall be confiscated along with this property, and a reward made for the head of Anwar. Not that anyone will come forward, though; I think that dog will lay low for a while before venturing into daylight once more.”

  Casca was disappointed. He’d been looking forward to some action and this all seemed an anti-climax. He returned to the citadel, and then later that day escorted Imad back to his home and settled once more into the daily routine of patrolling the premises, checking visitors as they arrived or left, checking rooms to make sure nothing was missing and relaxing during rest periods.

  He found it boring, but at least he was comfortable. He struck up a friendship with a fellow guard, a bright young fellow from Damascus called Siddig Mushtaq. Siddig had black curly hair, a long neck and hooked nose which gave away his Arabian ancestry. He enjoyed poetry and often read out from a few books he had. One, Casca was intrigued when told, was called the Ruba’Iyat by Omar Khayyam. Casca leaned over to read the book in Siddig’s hands but it was in the Farsi script and he wasn’t too good at reading it.

  “You enjoy this poetry?” Siddig was pleased at the interest Casca – Kasim – was showing. He didn’t often get many of his colleagues doing that.

  “Omar Khayyam,” Casca mused aloud, smiling, “Persian court astronomer a hundred years ago.”

  “Yes!” Siddig exclaimed, surprised. “How did you know? Most of these fellows here are ignorant of such things.”

  Casca grinned and lay back on his bunk. “I remember hearing stories about him many years ago.” Casca wasn’t being entirely truthful, his mind cast back to a starry night in western Persia nearly a century ago. There he had spent a night or three with a very drunken Omar Khayyam and his son, testing out a very strong improved wine that left him the following morning wondering how bad a headache could possibly get.

  “Ah, yes” Siddig replied, bringing Casca back to the present. “A wise man who wrote such beautiful lines…listen… ‘At dawn came a calling from the tavern / Hark drunken mad man of the cavern / Arise; let us fill with wine one more turn / Before destiny fills our cup, our urn.’ Ah, such wonderful words.”

  Casca agreed, thinking the old sot had obviously tested each word to the full before putting them to paper. He leaned over again. “How did you come by this book? It isn’t all that common.”

  Siddig reverently shut the pages. “Ah, my father is a merchant and regularly travels east to Baghdad. He purchased this from a man who had little else to pay for the goods he wanted from my father. A fair exchange, as my father presented me with this on my eighteenth birthday.”

  “A valuable gift indeed. So why are you here, a guard in the pay of the ruler of Damascus? I mean, I’m a fighter, a warrior. It’s what I am, it’s what I know. But you, friend, are a poet, a dreamer. Not exactly the best line of work for you, is it?”

  Siddig smiled. “My father has three sons. The eldest follows him in the trading business. The second is learning medicine in Baghdad and I, well I chose this in preference to chasing bandits in the mountains of Mosul! My father made sure I got this post, it is a comfortable one, do you not agree?”

  Casca admitted it was. Siddig was a lifelong court ceremonial guard, enjoying the comforts of the palace to any other posting. Casca could get sent to a war at any time but a few, like Siddig, would never go. The only danger he would face would be a revolt, and if Salah-ed-Din died away in Harran, it was almost certain the forces of the emir of Emesa would move to overthrow Imad.

  The winter came and no further trouble was reported from the elusive Anwar. The merchants demanded, and got frequent street patrols in their areas and instances of extortion fell away dramatically, and trade picked up again. Spies came and went from the house and Casca often picked up tasty morsels of information, either first hand or from one of the other guards. Salah-ed-Din was still alive but dangerously ill and the vultures were circling, ready to pounce. His brother was active in Egypt, exercising his troops just to show he would be ready if the worst happened.

  To relieve the boredom some of the guards smuggled in women to the barracks of the house and many nights were spent enjoying these courtesans. Casca indulged, but Siddig declined, preferring he said the delights of Omar Khayyam’s words.

  As the winter began to fade news arrived from the north that Salad-ed-Din was recovering and rejoicing broke out in the city. Casca breathed a sigh of relief and slapped the surprised Siddig on the back. The young man had no idea how close he had come to seeing action, thinking his life would be spent in enjoyable comfort of the palace and house.

  Within a month the Saracen leader was well enough to begin his journey back to Damascus, but on his travels he stopped over in Emesa and a few nights later the emir was found dead in his quarters. No foul play by Salah-ed-Din was suspected, however. After that all intrigues ceased.

  It was a bright spring morning when Casca and the others were ordered to put on their parade best and sent out to form a guard of honor. The gates opened and in rode a procession, headed by none other than Salah-ed-Din.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Saracen leader was an impressive sight, dressed in a padded rust-red quilted jacket with sleeves that ended at the elbow. Under this he had a silken shirt that went to his calves and was buttoned up the front. It was of gold and tan and adorned with symbols of winged creatures. He wore high boots of soft leather and around his head a scarf of thick white cloth. Under this Casca could see a chain mail coif and guessed he wore more armor under his shirt.

  His horse was barded with a long coat of gold colored cloth and the bridle and reins were of the best quality leather. Guards rode alongside, heavily armored and carrying banners with Arabic script emblazoned across them. The sounds of the crowd cheering came to them from outside and it had been clear he’d been enjoying the return to his capital.

  Salad-ed-Din himself was a stocky man with features Casca knew were common in the hills of Anatolia. Lean, hard and adorned with a dark mustache and pointed beard. Thick eyebrows rested above bright eyes with deep black pupils and his teeth flashed whitely as he greeted his Secretary of State Imad. He dismounted and embraced him and they went off together, talking animatedly, into the palace.

  The parade was dismissed and the men returned to their normal daily duties, chatting about their leader’s return. Casca was posted to palace guard duty that day and stood rigidly by the doorway of the inner chamber, another colleague on the other side of the opening, each with spears pointed to the ceiling. Slaves went about their menial tasks of cleaning and arranging furniture, pretending to look busy, and making sure the room was scented.

  “So I understand you kept good order here while I was away?” Salah-ed-Din’s voice suddenly floated to them from outside, and into the room he came with Imad. Salah-ed-Din had dispensed with the helm and armor but was still dressed richly. He glanced at the two guards to make sure they were correctly placed and postured, then looked again at Casca. Casca certainly stood out from the others, having light colored eyes, a scar down one side of his face, and the very fact he was bigger than the others made him noticeable.

  “Imad, who is this one? I do not remember this guard!”

  Imad turned and smiled. “Ah, a useful man, a Circassian named Ka
sim who joined this household before the winter. He earned the enmity of those who would wish harm upon you, O Benevolent One.”

  Salah-ed-Din looked interested and nodded, glancing once more at Casca before sitting down. Once seated, paperwork came at him from all sides and courtiers appeared with problems or requests or petitions. Imad answered many but Salah-ed-Din made some judgments and asked his minister some searching questions. When the time came to shift duties, Casca and his colleague went to leave the room, but Salah-ed-Din commanded him to wait.

  Puzzled, Casca stopped and waited. The Saracen leader completed the signing of some document before beckoning Casca to approach. Casca complied and stopped before the raised seat, bowing low. What the heck does he want, I wonder? Salah-ed-Din studied his new guard and leaned back. “Where did you get such scars, Kasim? I see more on your arms when you move. I have not seen such marks before. It tells me of a man who has seen plenty of fighting.”

  Casca stood to attention and thought rapidly. What to say? A shaft of inspiration hit him. “Lord, I was unfortunate to fall into the hands of the Lord of Kerak who tortured me. I was thrown off the castle walls but by some miracle I survived. I have sworn revenge on that man.” It was true enough up to a point and he didn’t want to tell anyone he’d received many of these scars over a period of a thousand years. They’d try to stone him to death – not that that was possible, but they’d put him through hell finding they couldn’t even do that!

  Salah-ed-Din looked impressed. “By the Will of Allah you have been spared for a purpose not yet known. Follow your destiny, Kasim, and all will be revealed why you survived. I favor those who show loyalty to me or my ministers and Imad here tells me you have served well so far. He is happy for me to transfer you to my personal guard, and I would be pleased that you join that special corps.”