commander's ability to know what his men were thinking and saying, to know it even better than his subordinates.
But that tiny distrust of Bu Ali bothered him. No reason for it. Bu Ali was the most loyal captain he had ever had. And the most efficient. Maybe it was just the man's big ass. By the Prophet! I must look at what he does and not at his ass. The man had done an excellent job on the raid. I'll have to think of some reward for him in Baghdad.
Casca was brought to him in chains, escorted by two Mamelukes with bared swords. They would take no chances on this one acting up again. They had not forgotten the fate of two of their number who had ventured too close to those strong, scarred hands.
Forced to his knees by Bu Ali, Casca waited for Mamud to acknowledge him.
'Raise your face to me, barbarian, that I may look upon you.'
Bu Ali's sword point sped up Casca's response.
Mamud waved away a bothersome fly as he very carefully examined the face of this one. Rather square in structure… Gray-blue eyes with an odd — distant? — look to them… as if all that is happening to him is no more than a single moment of minor discomfort that will soon pass…
Most odd! I have never seen that look in a man's eyes before! At least not in one who fought with such ferocity. Why does he have the look to him that is most often seen in the eyes of poets and dreamers for whom the present reality of their stations is often less important than their dreams of what might come to pass? Yet the man is obviously designed more for battle than for verse as shown by the great bands of muscles knotted around his sunburned neck and shoulders.
'Talk to me, barbarian. It is obvious that you are not a member of the others' tribes. From whence do you come? Who are your people?'
Locking Mamud's eyes with his own, Casca growled out through dry vocal cords: 'I have no people and claim no land as my own.'
He was going to add, 'But, if you must know, I was born in Italy.' Before he could say that, though, Bu Ali had struck him across the back with the flat of his sword to teach him more respect when addressing his betters. Mamud gave a small grin of approval. Reward and punishment were always the best tools for teaching men and animals their place. This was not being cruel, for Mamud considered himself to be a most gentle and enlightened person. Rather, he knew that this method saved both slave and master many hours of unpleasantness in the long run. One must always start off on the right foot.
Casca knew all this, too. But he could also play the game. If Mamud wanted to know where he was from, let him ask again. Shit! The Persian son of a bitch probably didn't know where Italy was anyway.
Mamud motioned for one of the guards to bring a stool from his tent. He sat where he could better see the object of his interest.
And the man was interesting! The slap across his back from Bu Ali's blade did no more than cause a momentary spark in the light-colored eyes. Good! The beast had some sense in that square head of his. He didn't overreact to circumstances beyond his control. Very, very good! Mamud was pleased with himself once more that here was proof he was correct in his judgment that this one had merit.
He decided to test his judgment a bit further.
'Remove his chains and bring him a stool that he may speak in more comfort. Also bring tea and meat.'
Bu Ali obeyed, but with just the slightest hesitation as though he was terribly concerned with his master's welfare, and Mamud noted this with approval.
What Mamud didn't know, of course, was the touch of wishful thinking that slipped momentarily through Bu Ali's mind: the strange one had strength enough to kill Mamud in the blinking of an eye.
Casca was curious. An unusual act on the part of a man who considered one to be property. So he accepted the offer of hospitality and sat upon the low stool, but cautious of what might take place. The nobles of the East were noted for their volcanic changes in temperament.
As courteous as if he were in the palace of the Caliph, Mamud poured tea and offered Casca his selection from a tray of meats. Casca had been a prisoner too many times to refuse food and drink when it was offered. He ate and drank, watching… waiting… for Mamud to make his next move.
That is, if indeed he was playing one of the games that Persians loved so.
Mamud was in an expansive mood. He waited for his 'guest' to drink a bit and eat a few pieces of meat. Stroking his beard, he watched Casca, his dark eyes sparkling with anticipation, for, like all of his race, Mamud loved a good story and, by the Prophet! there had to be a good story in this strange one. He knew from the scars crisscrossing this one's body that he must have a history of extraordinary dimensions to relate.
Primarily because he was still alive!
'My dear sir — ' Mamud refrained from reminding Casca of his current station in life. '- let us for a few minutes forget our differences and merely visit with each other, as men of good will do when they meet. And, I assure you, I am a man of good will, though I can understand why you might harbor some less-than-friendly feelings toward me. Yet, if I can put away my part for a time, can you not do the same? It may prove to be to both of our advantages before this night is through. I have a feeling that I am not going to see the last of you in this life, and if that is the case, I would prefer that your feelings toward me be not those of dark thoughts of vengeance. If you accept my terms, then we shall sit here and speak of the things men know and dream of… and by this we shall be the wiser. Do you agree?'
Casca looked closely at the smooth, tanned, but bearded face leaning toward him with such intent.
Intent, yes. But the intensity was not that of one with a devious nature, or one who threatened. Casca thought he understood: the Persian son of a bitch suffered from the malady. That could be to my advantage…
'Yes, Lord Mamud. I will speak to you this night and tell you, if not all of my story, then some of it.' He slid easily into the flowery cadences, the Persian tongue in which he spoke helping him. 'For I have traveled to many corners of this world of ours and seen people and things that were wondrous to behold.'
'Yes, Lord Mamud, I will speak to you. But blame me not if what I say smacks of the dreams of those who eat the lotus!'
CHAPTER THREE
Casca accepted Mamud's offer of hospitality and settled down on the stool near the campfire, his face reddened by the charcoal glow. With his gray-blue eyes locked on the dark brown ones of his new owner, he began. He spoke in low tones that added much to the credibility of his stories.
He told of the Dragon Throne of distant Chin where the bolts of precious silk (such as that in Mamud's robes which he had damaged) came from. He told of the Wall that Runs Forever, built hundreds of years before to keep out the barbarians who lusted after the riches of Chin with greedy eyes.
The stars overhead turned in their eternal courses as Casca took Mamud with him to the frozen lands of the North where stark gray holds stood as sentinels over craggy valleys and fjords. Mamud's eyes sparkled when Casca spoke of the beauty of the women of the Northlands; Mamud's desert warrior heart pumped faster as he listened to his captive speak of the Roman arena and the men who fought and died there for the amusement of the Caesars and the Roman mob.
Mamud, like all of his race, loved a good story — true or not. But there was something about the manner in which his muscled and fierce-looking 'guest' spoke that made the head of Mamud ibn Said swim in confusion. There was just absolutely nothing in the man's voice that Mamud could detect that indicated he was telling a lie or a fable. No, there were too many things, as when Casca's hands trembled and the thick bands of muscles quivered on his back while he told of the arena and of killing the giant prince of Numidia, Jubala, for what Jubala had done to one of Casca's friends. There were too many things that said it was all for real, that the anger in the man's voice and the hate as he told of killing Jubala were real, real anger, real hate. Mamud had never doubted before his own ability to judge the truth from a man's words. But now… Surely no man could have experienced all that this one spoke of. By the Prophet! How odd!
Casca noticed his host's consternation and smiled thinly. He knew there was no way he could make Mamud
