by Tony Roberts
The ground was littered with bodies, dropped equipment and rocks. He stood up, wiping his brow, and grabbed his sword. His men were ready to rejoin the battle. The amir, judging the moment, waved the men on and Casca advanced alongside his unit, past the retreating men who were taking a rest, and into the conflict once more.
The infantry that had not surrendered held onto the northern horn and Casca was battling up this. They were fighting tired and beaten men, and suddenly it was over. The soldiers simply refused to fight any more and threw down their arms and pleaded for water. One poor individual knelt at Casca’s feet and begged to be put out of his misery. “Please, either kill me or give me water!”
Casca passed his bottle to the man. “You fought as well as you could. Here, take it and keep it. I have more.”
The man sobbed in relief and greedily drank the entire contents, shutting his eyes and sinking slowly onto his ass, head down, totally spent. Casca moved on and stood at the top, looking down on the final moments of the other fight. The knights and the nobles here battled like fury, but the end was not long in coming. Suddenly the king’s tent fell and a huge roar went up. That was the signal for all remaining fight in the Crusaders to cease. Fighting stopped and prisoners were grabbed by the victorious troops.
Casca turned and looked over the scene before him. The beaten Crusaders were being pulled up by the men and taken away as prisoners. It was all over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
After every battle the feeling was the same; he felt drained and tired, and damned thirsty! Casca made for the thuql, located somewhere in the trees near Lubiyah, and began walking down the hill, taking care to avoid the corpses littering the landscape. Birds were already circling, patiently waiting their turn, and Casca grimaced; he didn’t want to be around when they started feeding.
Sabat intercepted him. “Captain, the Lord Salah-ed-Din wishes you to attend his tent. It is yonder,” and pointed across the slope close to where the nobility had made their last stand. Surprised, Casca nodded. “Sabat, make sure the men have water. When they have finished make camp in the trees near the village down there, okay?”
“Of course, Captain,” Sabat grinned widely. “I shall have fresh lamb roasting by the time you return.”
“I won’t ask where you got it either, you thief!”
Sabat laughed and carried on towards the men while Casca turned in the direction of the open-sided tent Salah-ed-Din had erected on the hill. Bodies were being dragged away by hard working men as Casca passed by, and suddenly he looked down at his outfit and saw it was spattered with blood. Not his, but a few luckless Crusaders’. Wiping some off he shrugged, it wouldn’t make much difference. He was covered in gore, dirt, ash, sweat and who knows what else?
Guards stood at attention at the sides of the tent and Casca was stopped by an amir who checked him first, to make sure the man with the filthy face wasn’t a Crusader assassin. He recognized Casca after a moment and let him through. The tent was, thankfully, shady and Casca stood for a moment looking round the interior. Salah-ed-Din hadn’t wasted time in getting it set up, and cushions, seats and rugs were already scattered across the stony ground. Standing outside on the other side, looking forlorn, were the enemy leaders. He saw a man in rich clothing with a neatly trimmed black beard that Casca took to be the King, and then he smiled in triumph. Standing alongside the King was none other than that mad bastard Reynauld de Chatillon.
Salah-ed-Din rose from his seat and motioned Casca to remain where he was. With the Saracen leader were his son, al-Afdal, his secretary Imad, and both the commanders of the left and right wings, Gokbori and Taqi. Salah-ed-Din turned to the King and Reynauld and invited both in. The two men wearily entered, staring at the man who had utterly defeated them. Salah-ed-Din then took a cup and filled it with water, cooling it with snow he had in a box. Casca wondered where the hell he’d got that! “You must be thirsty, esteemed King,” Salah-ed-Din said, passing the cup to Guy. The King stared in disbelief at it for a moment before taking a welcoming draught.
Pausing to gasp at the shock of the coldness, he looked at the gaping Reynauld. Wordlessly, he passed it to him. Reynauld seized the cup and threw the contents down his throat. Salah-ed-Din frowned and stepped forward. “Tell the King, Kasim,” he said to Casca, “that it was he, not I, who gave that man drink.”
Casca conveyed the message. The King looked at Casca in surprise. Casca removed his helmet and faced Reynauld. “Remember me, you murdering swine?”
Reynauld dropped the cup in shock. “You! A filthy Saracen spy! You should be dead. I didn’t believe Meutrier when he said he’d seen you, but he was right after all!”
Salah-ed-Din stepped towards Reynauld. “Tell this creature that twice I have sworn to kill him; once when he tried to attack the holy cities of Mejja and Madina, a plan too audacious for words, and again when he treacherously attacked that caravan!”
Casca smirked. “He says he’s sworn to kill you. Twice. You shouldn’t have attacked that caravan.”
Reynauld’s face swelled in rage. “That caravan was on my land! It was mine to do with as I pleased! No filthy Muslim is going to tell me what I can and cannot do on my land!”
Casca looked at Salah-ed-Din. “Lord, do you want me to translate what he said?”
The Saracen leader shook his head. “I understood the tone of his words very well. This creature is evil beyond words. I swore to kill him on the Qu’ran; but I see you have fought well this day and for that, as well as for services you have performed and for the injustice he had done to you, I give you this man for you to deal with.”
Casca bowed in surprise, thanking his leader. He drew out his sword and turned to Reynauld. “Now you bastard, you’re going to get what’s long overdue. Someone give him a sword.”
Reynauld opened his mouth in shock but Casca’s hand blurred and slapped the bearded nobleman across the face, an insulting act in any society. Reynauld slowly wiped his mouth and looked round for a sword. One guard threw his blade onto the floor in disgust and stepped back, allowing the Lord of Kerak to stoop and pick it up. King Guy stood and watched in horror, powerless to speak or act. Salah-ed-Din and his entourage sat back to enjoy the entertainment, the Saracen leader holding out his hand for another refreshing drink. He had no doubt his strange warrior would prevail.
“Now you overstuffed, arrogant, stupid man, I’m going to finish your wretched existence. I don’t often enjoy killing somebody, but today I’m making an exception.” Casca snarled at the wild-eyed crusader lord.
“Go on then, traitor, do your worst. At least I’ll have the satisfaction in slaughtering your cowardly hide and one or two of these fools here before they take me down. Try taking me!”
Casca screamed in rage and attacked, his sword arcing down from the roof of the tent. Reynauld blocked it and tried to push Casca back but the scarred warrior stood his ground and faced the bare-teethed Templar, inches apart, as their blades locked and strained against the other. Reynauld had become used to throwing his bulk around and intimidating opponents, but here was one who refused to back off. He didn’t know what to do.
Casca pushed and pushed but was making no progress, so he changed tactics. Remembering the words of Shiu Lao Tze, he used the Lord of Kerak’s weight against him. Suddenly he let go and stepped aside. Reynauld lunged forward, caught off balance. Casca’s blade flashed and the Lord of Kerak gurgled in pain and staggered back, clutching a throat already pumping out blood. He sank to his knees, choking, before pitching forward to lie there, his blood soaking into the thirsty rug.
The King put his hand to his mouth and stepped away, fear evident on his face. Casca wiped the blade clean and stepped back, regarding the dead man. “That was too quick a death,” he said in French.
King Guy gibbered. “Please, oh please, spare me!”
Salah-ed-Din smiled and turned to Imad, standing next to him. “You may reassure him that a king does not slay a king. But that man had transgressed all bounds, so wha
t happened, happened.”
As the Secretary was reassuring a trembling Guy, Salah-ed-Din faced Casca. “Now Kasim, I wish you to remain here by my side for the rest of the campaign. You have been a loyal servant; I have shown you great favor. It would be wrong not to repay such favor by not serving me, is that so?”
Casca bowed. “That is true, lord. I will happily serve you for the rest of this campaign.”
He knew he had little choice, as he was now in debt to the Saracen leader for the favor he’d been given.
Salah-ed-Din grinned. “I must see to certain matters involving the nobles; they are to be escorted back to Damascus and held as my prisoners. But we have another task I need fulfilled, concerning the soldiers of the two military orders, the Templars and the Hospitallers.”
Casca’s heart sank. He had a feeling he knew what was coming next. “What of them?”
“I do not desire them to be made prisoner. They are sworn enemies of the one true Faith and their actions in the past has decided their fate. Arrange for them to be executed, apart from their Master. Away from my sight, of course.”
Casca saluted and moved out of the tent, cursing. What the hell was he now? Salah-ed-Din’s executioner? Well shit, he didn’t care much for that! He took one of the Saracen guards by the arm. “Where are the Templar and Hospitaller prisoners?”
“Over there, Captain,” the guard replied, pointing to a group of about two hundred, huddled in a group set apart from the rest. Guards armed with spears made sure nobody did anything stupid.
Casca thanked him and stamped over to the guard sergeant. “I come from Salah-ed-Din. These prisoners are to be executed, all of them.”
The sergeant nodded, as though he’d expected the command. After all, why keep these infidels separate? Casca stood before them and thought he’d never seen a gloomier looking bunch than these. “Who is the Grand Master?”
“I am,” a bearded man stood. “I am Gerard de Ridfort, Grand Master of the Temple.”
“You’re a nobody now, so cut out the title. You’re to come with me.” Casca jerked a thumb at the filthy man. He turned to the sergeant again. “Anyone up to a spot of throat slitting?”
The sergeant grimaced. “There are some Sufi fanatics who have just arrived; they would gladly dispatch infidels to their doom.”
Casca felt relieved. “Okay, fetch them.”
Gerard stumbled up to Casca. “You speak good French for a Saracen.”
“I’m no Saracen. I’m a mercenary, as European as you.”
Gerard was outraged. “You, a Christian, fighting for the Muslims! May God strike you….”
“Oh shut it,” Casca snapped, tired with it all. “The reason I fight on the side I do is that I try to choose the side with the moral high ground, if only to keep from having more nightmares. I don’t always get it right but in this case I think I have, especially if being a Christian means being an asshole like you.”
“You will suffer eternal damnation for this, you turncoat!”
Casca chuckled, staring at Ridfort, then he began shaking with laughter. “Eternal damnation?” he began whooping with laughter uncontrollably. “You stupid fuck; I’m already suffering that!” Ridfort remained staring in disbelief at the hysterical man; clearly he was mad. Perhaps God had already destroyed his mind.
Casca straightened. “Ah, I’ve not laughed that much in ages.” He wiped his eyes. “And I’m no Christian or Muslim. I’ve been initiated into both but I didn’t remain long, and I sure as hell don’t intend staying long once this little party ends. You see, I don’t care much for the up-their-own-ass people who run things, and you can’t argue against them else you get burned, hung, speared or given some other tolerant fate.”
Gerard shook his head; he really didn’t understand what this man was saying. You had to believe or else your soul was damned forever.
The sergeant returned with a group of long robed men with the air of fanatics about them; you could always tell, it coated them like a cloud of insects. Casca pointed at the two hundred prisoners. “Salah-ed-Din commands that these prisoners here are to be slaughtered. I think you are the right people for this task.”
The Sufi leader smiled in pleasure. “Ah, a most enjoyable task, I assure you!” He hollered to his men and they produced long knives and closed in on the horror-struck military men. Gerard grabbed Casca’s arm in desperation. “You can’t!”
“I can,” Casca said, angrily tugging his arm out of Gerard’s grasp. “I already have. Let go of me. I won’t show any pity; what pity have you ever shown anyone opposed to your narrow-minded views?” He turned away as the screams began and walked towards the tent, Gerard following in despair. “I will pray for God to strike you down, you evil devil!”
Casca stopped and turned to face the sickened Grand Master. “Oh please do, it might be the most decent thing anyone’s done for me in a long time!” Gerard stood open-mouthed, not knowing what to say. Casca sighed, shook his head and beckoned Gerard to follow him towards the tent.
After delivering the Grand Master to Salah-ed-Din he was given permission to go, so he took a long deserved rest and found Sabat by the simple matter of following his nose and the smell of roast lamb. He sat with his men and leaned against a tree, finally able to relax after the long hard day. Here in the trees the smell of the rotting corpses wasn’t something to disturb the enjoyment of a good meal, and most of the soldiers had left the battlefield by the time dusk fell. The tally hadn’t looked good. Of the seventy men in the unit, fifteen had died and another twelve were badly hurt. Replacements would be forthcoming, mostly from a unit that had been very badly hit and was being disbanded, the survivors making up losses in other units.
Salah-ed-Din retired back to the village of Lubiyah where he entertained the king and the nobility, treating them to a meal and more importantly, a nice drink. Casca let the rich taste of freshly cooked lamb coat his tongue as he chewed and listened to the excited chatter and singing of the men. Sabat sidled up to him and squatted. “Captain, is the roast lamb good?”
“Yes; stolen roast lamb tastes very good.” Some of the men close by laughed, and Sabat had the grace to look slightly embarrassed.
“Ah, Captain; is it true that today you killed Arnat?”
Casca opened his eyes and looked at his unspoken batman. He nodded. “I also gave the command to slaughter two hundred soldiers who had surrendered.” He still felt bad about that, but what else could he have done? Someone else would have carried it out if he’d’ve refused. And then after that he would’ve been busted down to camel shit cleaner-up, grade two. Not that he could forget the screams; they would haunt him for weeks. He didn’t mind killing an enemy honestly, but executing prisoners really wasn’t his favorite pastime.
Sabat shrugged. “It is kismet; such is the way of things. But the man who killed Arnat, well that is something different. You have my eternal respect, Captain.” Sabat bowed and backed away respectfully. The other men muttered in hushed tones and bowed, one after the other. Casca had no idea that Reynauld – or Arnat as he was known – had evoked such feelings amongst these people. Killing him had raised Casca in their eyes to a new level of respect, something almost approaching awe. He knew something about Reynauld having tried to attack the holy cities a few years back, but hadn’t heard the details. It’d been a close-run thing from what had been said, and this had made the now dead Lord of Kerak someone to be feared. He was only sad that Meurtrier wasn’t there. He probably was running the castle in Reynauld’s absence.
“Sabat, pass the word around; we’re to accompany Salah-ed-Din personally on the rest of the campaign, which means we’ll be guarding him from time to time. No misbehaving now, you understand?”
Sabat looked surprised. “Of course not. We are to be Salah-ed-Din’s escort? How long will the campaign be?”
“Who knows? A few weeks I suppose. Now the Crusader army has been destroyed there’s nothing left to stop Salah-ed-Din taking the cities. There may be a few garrisons
that will hold out, but I would be surprised if many resist. They just haven’t got the manpower.”
“But we must be back within four months, captain. Our families will need us to return by then!”
Casca looked at Sabat for a moment, then remembered something in the law about wives being allowed to divorce if their men were away for a long period of time. “I would think Salah-ed-Din is aware of this, eh?”
“Yes, yes of course!” Sabat nodded eagerly. “You say the cities will surrender? Even Jerusalem?”
“That may be the tough one, but without a field army and no relief, I can’t see it holding out for long.”
Sabat raised his hands to the sky. “Ah, the city of Jerusalem back in our hands! Praise to Allah!”
Casca smiled, then his mind whirled back to the dreadful day the Crusaders first took that city, and the bloody slaughter that took place. It had disgusted him and he’d turned his back on the Crusaders. He hoped with all his might that Salah-ed-Din would show more restraint when the time came that he retook it. Jerusalem had always been painful to him, one way or another, and yet again it seemed he would be going there to fight.
He stood up. “Get some sleep, Sabat; I want the men ready to march at dawn.”
He walked off and stood for a while looking over the battlefield and the dead littering the place. They would be left to rot and feed the carrion birds. But as for him, he’d continue as he had done for eleven centuries. He wondered about returning to Jerusalem and when that came to pass, would his curse finally be ended?
He hoped beyond hope for that, but he had wished that so many times before and been disappointed. Jerusalem, it all started there. He lifted his head and wondered aloud as he’d done many times before: “when will I be free of this curse?”
And the wind rustled through the trees, the sound coming to Casca’s ear almost like a voice, and he swore it spoke to him, “when we meet again.”
