had to be informed that he was going to die. And the world would have to be made aware of the sentence of death that all might always believe in the word of the Sheikh al Jebal.
Sulman bowed his way out of the presence of his master to do as he was bid.
Hassan, too, left the battlements.
For it was the Time…
He went to the entrance. There he made the signs of blessing to the fully-armed and most loyal Fidai who guarded the entrance, and started down the long flight of stairs cut through five-hundred feet of the living rock of the mountain and leading down to its very heart. Only Hassan and the chosen few who were privy to the truth were permitted to enter a chamber there more sacred than the Kaaba or the city of Jerusalem.
At the bottom of the flight of stairs the door had the emblem of the fish upon it. Hassan knelt and removed his sandals. Reverently he pushed open the door, the only barrier now between him and that which he worshiped most on earth, and entered.
Closing the door behind him, he crawled forward on his knees. His figure was lit by the copper glow of lamps burning with the purest of oils. The light guided Hassan into the great hall cut from the rock so that hundreds might gather here inside the bowels of the mountain and worship the 'Holy of Holies,' the object set in a golden bracket at the end of the hall.
The spear of Casca Longinus, the assassin who had killed Jesus.
Hassan kissed the stone floor and looked upward at the spear in worship and in awe, memories burning in his brain.
Long had been the years before he rose to the leadership of the Brotherhood of the Lamb. But now the spear that had slain Jesus was in his trust. The sect of Ismaili Muslims which formed the basis of his power was only a tool to be used and then, if broken, cast away. The Ismailis were exactly what he had needed. Shunned by the dominant Shiite faction, the Ismailis were ill-treated, if not persecuted. Thus they gave Hassan a foundation of thousands of men and women with grievances against the existing power base reigned over by the Seljuk Turks and their lackeys.
Hassan touched his head to the stone floor, then again raised his eyes in reverence to the spear and prayed for guidance in his Holy Mission, the one Nizam had rejected.
Chaos.
They, the Chosen Ones, would create the conditions necessary for the return of the Lord — they would create chaos. Chaos must rule, and Armageddon be at hand. Those Hassan had gathered to him were only a small part of the plan the Brotherhood had to bring chaotic conditions about. It might take centuries, but all over the known world the Faithful waited. Some were men of great power. Others worked the fields. A few even wore the robes of the high priests of the Christians or the Imams of Mohammed. But all knew they were chosen above all others on the earth for their sacred task. And if that task was not completed in their lifetimes, then their sacred duties would be passed on to those who came after them, who were equally worthy and would be permitted to enter the sacred order of the Brotherhood of the Lamb. For they all had one thing in common…
They were patient, for time was their great ally. Through the teachings of the founder of their order, Izram, the 13th Disciple, who had witnessed the death of Jesus at the hands of the scar-faced Roman, only they knew the path that Jesus had left for them to follow:
Find Casca Longinus, and he would lead them to Jesus on the day of the Lord's Return.
For Jesus had cursed the Roman to wander the earth until the Second Coming, saying that Longinus would only be granted the peace of death on the day of the Second Coming when they would meet again.
Hassan continued to gaze at the spear. There had been a time when the Brotherhood had known where Longinus was, perhaps known his every movement. But then there had been a time of confusion. And, unfortunately, in Hassan's rise to power there had been certain unavoidable… ah… removal of certain personages who might have known of the Roman's whereabouts, so that now the Brotherhood had lost track of him completely.
Hassan sighed.
If only I had the Roman in my power…
'On your feet, you over-muscled lump of camel shit!'
The knot of braided leather lay open a half-inch strip on Casca's back. He had stumbled and fallen face first on the burning earth, and the other captives in the slave coffle would have cursed him for jerking them to a halt — if they'd had the extra strength to waste on a curse. All of their breath was needed for the miles yet remaining until they reached the slave pens of Baghdad where they would be put on the auction block.
Casca was assisted to his feet by a boot to his rib cage followed by a strong jerk on his leash. If his hands hadn't been tied, he would have seriously considered breaking the guard's neck. As it was, he contented himself with wondering why Arabs and Turks always made insults with references to camels and goats.
Well, different countries, different people. The men guarding him were the property of the Seljuk Turks, the newest of the many masters who had ruled over Persia. But those in the slave line with him were from the mountains of the Caucasus, light-haired and fair-skinned men who would bring high prices at the slave markets. They were even more valuable than their women for whom the Seljuks and the Persians had a great passion.
Casca considered that oddity, but not for very long. He still had the feeling that something strange was about to happen to him. Only, now it was beginning to piss him off. Even more than his treatment in the slave coffle. After all, he had been a slave before.
But there was something new, unknown.
Whatever it is, by Mithra, let's get it over with!
Mamud gave the order for camp to be made once more. Two more days and they would be in Baghdad. Mamud was reasonably pleased; the return journey had been for the most part uneventful. Only six of his captives had died on the trail: two from wounds they had received during their capture; one by suicide — biting his own tongue in two and bleeding to death during the night; one by execution for attempting to escape; the other two just lay down and quit.
Mamud had seen the last happen before. It was as if they had just given up their will to live. Very strange, but not uncommon when dealing with savages.
Again his method of dealing with new captives by depriving them of food and water had more than proved its value. Under the influence of thirst and hunger he was able to separate those who were going to be the easiest to condition and train from those more recalcitrant who still showed signs of defiance. These latter he had to watch, for they were the ones who would either attempt to escape or attack his guards if given the opportunity. To preclude this they were placed in shackles of iron and kept under the watch of his best men. Actually these recalcitrant ones were the men he valued the most. Once they accepted their condition they would make the best bodyguards for their new masters. And such men were usually the most loyal.
The strangest one of these men, though, was the selfsame troublemaker who had torn his robe. This scar- faced one was not like the other captives from the Caucasus or Armenia and had little intercourse with them. He kept to himself. Now, why? This one, Mamud mused, if he has any intelligence, could be worth a small fortune.
Mamud walked across the camp to where the ones in iron were kept, his right hand resting on the silver- chased hilt of his dagger.
'Bu Ali!' he called.
The captain of his Mamelukes responded with alacrity to his master's voice.
'Yes, lord? What is it you wish of me?'
'Bring me the scar-faced slave, the one who bandied the throw of his jirad with such skill it nearly took me to Paradise.'
'To hear is to obey, my master,' Bu Ali replied, his voice so silkily subservient that it irritated Mamud, though he certainly did not want the opposite out of the captain of his Mamelukes.
Mamud resisted the temptation to add: 'And you better not forget it!' He watched as Bu Ali moved toward the prisoners, for the thousandth time wondering what it was about the man that from time to time brought forth just a shadow of doubt from the back of his mind. True, Bu Ali did have one unfortunate — well, almost a deformity. His hips were as big as a woman's, and his butt swelled out even more, which was why the men under him had given him the nickname Big Ass. Not to his face, of course. And not to his knowledge. Mamud prided himself on his
