Ali to get.
He shed his clerical garb and put on one of the noble's robes. He looked for a weapon. He had a choice between the noble's scimitar and a very good short sword one of the dead bandits had. Casca really preferred the short sword. It was almost a gladius.
He took the scimitar. Now that he had the chance to enter Baghdad without attracting attention there was no point in taking unnecessary chances. The noble had a pretty fair horse that had now wandered back and was grazing on what little grass there was in the rocky area under the rise. He was easy to catch.
It took Casca only a few minutes to assemble adequate gear — including a leather money pouch with more than enough gold and silver coins to finance his expedition into Baghdad. He decided to use the ass as his pack animal. He had grown fond of the beast. Face reminds me a little of Glam, he thought, remembering a barbarian friend, long ago dead. There were times when Casca wished he could be a normal human being, not some immortal freak. The friendship of the ass Oh, hell! I've got a job to do…
Baghdad. Casca got there when the dying afternoon sun blended all visual details so that, if there were any forgotten indication that he was not what he seemed to be, a travel-weary unimportant noble on a routine visit to the city, the guards at the city gate would not notice it. They did not. He found an inn, had a meal, and rented a room. He was set.
His reconnoitering stroll past the Sultan's palace did produce one incident. A young female slave was being dragged, screaming, back into the seraglio by two huge Nubian eunuchs. The guards at the palace gate were watching, and Casca could hear part of their conversation as he walked past: 'That little Ruth is a pain in the ass. Second time this week she's tried to escape.'
'Yeah… But if you had for a mistress who she has for a mistress…'
'Well… know what you mean.' Pause. 'Wonder why she wants to have Jewish slaves.'
'Better not wonder where she is concerned.'
'Yeah…'
It really didn't concern Casca. But he did feel sorry for the slave girl, although he couldn't afford to help her. And he did wonder who the mysterious 'mistress' was the guards had referred to. But again, it was not his concern.
There was one thing that Casca wanted that he didn't think he was going to get.
A woman.
It would be safer not to look for one. The fewer times he risked his Muslim noble disguise the better off he would be.
Well, he might just walk down this street a little ways and see what was going on. It wasn't much of a street. Narrow, crooked. Stone houses built right up to the edge. Not too prosperous-looking, either, though in the darkness of early night that might not be fair to judge. I guess I go by the smell more than anything. It just didn't smell prosperous even though it was only a couple of hundred cubits from the palace Bu Ali!
Damn! Here he had been so busy thinking about smells he had almost missed what his eyes saw. There up ahead of him, maybe four or five houses and shops up was Bu Ali. There was no mistaking that big ass, but he was doubly sure when Bu Ali turned to go into a cafe, and the lamplight showed the profile of his face. Bu Ali, all right.
Go in the cafe after him?
Wait until he goes out, then get him?
Check to see if Bu Ali uses this same route and goes to this same cafe each night — and set up an ambush?
Casca had had a woman on his mind; now he had to shift his thinking suddenly to Bu Ali. He turned into the dark alley he was abreast of at the moment, ostensibly to piss, actually to sort out in his mind what he was going to do about Bu Ali.
'Psst!'
Well, damn! Looking for a woman and finding Bu Ali. Thinking about Bu Ali and a woman finding him.
Her face was in shadow. Or veiled. But hell! Whores didn't wear veils. She was a shapeless darkness in the shadows against the opposite house wall. Then she apparently pulled open her robe — or whatever it was she was wearing — and her breasts shone like smoked ivory in what little lamplight and moonlight there was in the alley's mouth.
'You want a little?'
Her voice was husky. Almost familiar. That was no problem for Casca. He had known many, many whores. It had been a whore who put the scar on his face. A whore's voice would be familiar, no matter what the language or country. But There was something wrong here.
In Casca's brain all kinds of warnings were suddenly being voiced.
She moved slightly, and the breasts seemed to dance provocatively
… like the bellies of two Egyptian dancers seen in a three-quarter view.
Interesting.
Yet the voice in Casca's brain still said: Stay away from this woman. He thought he knew why. Though she had only said the one short sentence, and though her voice had the husky sound most whores he had known had, there was just the slightest touch of falsity to it. This woman was no ordinary whore. She either had been 'quality' — respectable, prosperous, upper class — or still was. It was the 'still was' that set every sensitive nerve alarm in Casca going. He remembered the Roman times of Nero when even that imperial bastard had roamed the midnight streets disguised as a thug.
For a thrill.
Roman matrons, highly respected by day, were said to have done the same thing. Just a handful. Hearsay maybe. But in every time and culture Casca had been in, where there were settled cities there was the rumor of rich, respectable women out on the town.
For a thrill.
And that thrill was for them — not for the dumb bastard who let himself be sucked into a weirdo broad's fantasies. Pure poison. Pure poison anywhere. But in a Muslim country… where the ordinary Muslim idea of a woman was of a sex machine operating solely for the benefit of males… Oh, no! This woman was a fake.
Yet, that might not be so. Societies changed. All he knew of the present Muslim world he had seen from the viewpoint of a slave — and he hadn't been in the cities enough, except on 'business,' to know what went on there. Maybe walking the streets was the way a whore worked in Baghdad. Still… baring the boobs bothered him. Better check this out. Maybe a little friendly conversation first. A jest or two. So he said:
'Those skinny little muskmelons you got there, do they have tits on the ends of them?'
He was not prepared for the exploding storm that came out of the darkness at him.
Not prepared for the stream of Arabic profanity that poured from the folds of the veil that hid all her face but the hate-slit eyes. 'Her' because she was wearing a black burnoose that gaped open showing that she was totally naked underneath and in the moonlight and lamplight it was obvious that she definitely had the other proper equipment to go with the breasts. 'Stream' because the oaths were coming so fast Casca could not keep up with them, particularly the ones he had never heard before, which surprised him to no end since he had not lived the gentlest of lives.
But he was prepared for the pearl-handled dagger. Maybe it was the lesson learned from the whore who had originally carved the scar on his face, but Casca invariably made it his practice when around whores — or ones who might be whores — to watch out for the knife. They came in all shapes and sizes, and women could hide them in the damnedest places. So he caught the striking wrist as soon as the steel glinted in the lamplight.
There was one surprise, though. This woman held the knife in a way he had never seen before, as an almost straight extension of the arm, butt cradled far back in the palm of the hand, almost to the wrist, and two fingers resting on top of and extending out over the top of the blade. Hell of a damn way to hold a knife.
Then he got an even greater surprise and promptly lost all interest whatever in the way this woman held a knife. When he caught the wrist he had pushed it up, and since she was coming at him at the time, that threw her up against him, breasts pressed against his robe, belly touching his clothes also. And that close, he could smell her.
