Barry Sadler - The Assassin

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 believe him. Only one gone mad, or touched by the hand of Allah, would believe such stories. So with dark humor in his own mind Casca continued, deliberately telling Mamud the whole story of his journey over the face of the earth.

All that night Casca wove his tale. Once begun, he found it difficult to stop, and it was only when the stars began to sink below the Persian horizon that, dry-voiced, he came to the close of his saga. Yet even then he saw the regret in Mamud's eyes that the night was coming to an end.

Casca got to his feet and stretched. Even he had enjoyed hearing himself tell his own story. The mood of depression, the sense of something strange about to happen to him, was gone. Shit! After what's already happened to me, what else can? Yeah, he could handle it.

Mamud beckoned to Bu Ali, and the Mameluke captain came and took Casca by the arm to return him to the slave coffle. The pair had taken only about three steps when Mamud suddenly called them to a halt, walked over to Casca, and looked him long in the face and eyes.

"If you give me your word not to try and escape during our return to Baghdad, then I will not put you back in the line, nor chain you. I have the feeling that our fates are now intertwined in some manner, though I know not how. Such is in the hands of Allah, His Name be praised."

That shook Bu Ali. He looked from his master to Casca, wondering what had transpired during this long night. Never had Mamud released a slave before he was properly sold on the block!

Casca gave his word. "I promise that I shall give you no trouble while on the road."

He found that he liked the Arab slaver who, after all, was just a businessman trying to turn a profit on a commodity for which there was a great demand. This Casca understood and didn't take personally. He had been a slave before.

To Bu Ali, Mamud ordered, "Leave him free. He will not go anywhere." Turning to Casca, he said, "Find yourself a place in the caravan. We will talk again."

Casca started to leave, but Mamud again stopped him.

"By the way, what is your name?"

"Cas-"

"No! By the Prophet, may you no longer be the barbarian I captured, but one new! If Allah wills that our destinies be intertwined — even as master and slave — then from this moment on, I name you anew. The Franks have such ugly words. I will not have a barbarian name called in my presence. From now on you will be known as Kasim al Jirad after the manner in which you nearly took me to Paradise!"

Mamud beamed with self-satisfaction. Like all of his race he had the necessity for ending things on a dominant note. All night long he had been cast in the passive role of the one who listened.

Casca didn't care. If the Persian wanted to rename him "Kasim the Spear" it was all right with him. He had used other names over the centuries. One was as good as another.

For that matter, maybe it was a good thing. It had been a long time since he had had any dealings with the Brotherhood of the Lamb. Might be a good idea not to speak of Casca Rufio Longinus. But, why bother? He smiled inwardly as he looked at Bu Ali, old Big Ass. With people like that around there were not likely to be any Brotherhood of the Lamb fanatics running loose.

Bu Ali walked with Casca back to where the slaves were kept under guard. "You know, Kasim, my master has taken a strange liking to you. It is a sign of his favor that he has chosen to give you a new name. If you do not offend him, he could arrange it so that you are placed with an owner who will treat you well."

The camp was beginning to stir. Before the sun had fully risen they would be on their way. Two more days to Baghdad, then Casca would have a better idea of what his present destiny in Persia would hold for him. He hoped that it would not be as bad as when he had served in the armies of the Sassanid King of Kings, Shapur the Great.

Even the land was changing for the worst.

During the trek from the mountains of the Caucasus Casca had seen such changes. Even in Shapur's time Shapur had been concerned with the loss of arable fields to the desert, and now it was easy to see that he had been right. They had passed fields and villages that prospered, yes, but not as many as before. Now, in fields where grain was once grown as far as the eye could see, there was only vacant land, its poor condition shown by the sparse flocks of sheep and goats that picked among the visible rocks searching for tufts of yellow grass. Where once there were cities and orchards, now there was sand, barren rock, and the animals of the desert. Desert. Why were there oases in the desert, green spots that flourished around pools of water that bubbled up from the ground, seeming to come from nowhere? Casca recalled the half-forgotten words of wise men at the court of Shapur. They believed that there must be invisible rivers of water hidden far underground (qanats, they called them), which occasionally reached up to the surface. "Looking for the face of God," the priests at the court had said. The religious part Casca was sure he could do without. So far, religion had only brought him trouble. Underground rivers. A strange idea, but then there were strange things in this world. Like the pools of bitumen, oil, and tar. Where did they come from?

The smell of cooking fires preparing the morning meal for both slave and Mameluke came to his nostrils, but it stirred no hunger in him. What he had eaten at Mamud's fire was enough. He noticed that the Mamelukes cast wondering eyes on him when he wasn't put back into the slave line. This was stopped when Bu Ali told them of Mamud's order concerning "the one now known as Kasim al Jirad."

With the rise of the sun over the plains, the faithful were called to prayer. Facing toward Mecca, they proclaimed their belief in Allah and His Prophet, Mohammed. Neither Casca nor the other slaves participated in this five-times-daily ritual, Casca for a very different reason. He had known Mohammed. Having heard in Jerusalem that a new "messiah" had come, he had gone to see if it was Jesus returned to free him of his curse of life. Another disappointment. Though in many ways he had liked Mohammed, the Arab definitely was not the Jew from Galilee.

Now, watching the Faithful kneel in prayer, Casca smiled thinly to himself, wondering what Mamud and others of the Faith would think or do if they knew that he, Casca — their Kasim al Jirad — had ridden at the side of their prophet at the very beginning of their religion's birth. Either make me a saint… or stone me…

Damn!

Suddenly he had a problem. One not nearly so lofty as gods and prophets. Damn!

Unknown to Casca, he also had another problem.

Beyond the camp of Mamud's party there was a brush-covered mound.

And behind that mound, dark eyes focused on the back of one of Mamud's Mamelukes standing guard as the others prayed. Similar eyes were likewise on the other five guards set out around the campsite.