'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 had 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 Khayyam 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 al 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 hidden 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 was the bandit who had 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 midstep, 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. But that was a foolish thing to think. He looked over at the ass and said out loud: 'That right, fellow?'
The mule brayed, and Casca felt better. No sense in having his mind entangled in strange ideas. He had Bu
