Ambush!
And a damn good one.
Something not quite right on the hillside had caught Casca's eye — the glint of metal in the morning sun, the unnaturally straight line of a bowstring, the wrong kind of shadow on the naked rocks. Not much. But from Casca's earliest days of soldiering in barbarian lands he had learned to use his eyes if there were hostiles around, which could be damn near anytime.
Looking closer, he was certain of the archers being there, but he couldn't tell how many or who they might be. But if there were archers, then on the other side of the rise there were probably horsemen.
Damn! Mamud's Mamelukes were probably going to have their hands full. Particularly if Casca let nature take its course, which he thought about doing. Hell, it was not his fight. And if the strange hostiles jumped the Mamelukes, well, he might just be able to get his ass out of there.
On the other hand… he knew what Mamud was like. He had no idea who the commander of the hostiles might be, but if the son of a bitch had chutzpah enough to attack Mamud this close to Baghdad, then he was probably a pretty tough bastard.
Still…
Shit! I'll split it down the middle. Warn the Mamelukes, but just watch the battle. So he yelled, pointing toward the rise.
One thing could be said for the Muslims: they could quit praying and go to fighting fast enough even to satisfy Casca. He watched in approval as they sprang for their weapons (and smiled to himself, wondering how many battles had been affected by some soldier wanting to piss… Oddly, now he had lost the urge.)
But the archers had been sighted almost too late. In fact, probably the reason Casca had seen them was that they were preparing to fire. Now the volley came.
Scrawny little bastards, Casca thought. Bandits. Probably from the hills.
But he had to admit their aim was deadly. And they were fast. They were getting off a second volley by the time the horsemen, yelling like a legion from Hades, topped the rise and swept toward the camp. They would Damn!
Casca had been standing watching the battle, his legs spread a little with one foot on a small rock, when one of the bandit arrows whished between his legs, not the width of a single alif from the family jewels.
That was too much!
It was bad enough having to live for centuries waiting for the Jew to return.
But to wait castrated…
Without the solace of women…
Casca was damned if he was going to stand for that.
Roaring like a bull who sees his herd being taken away from him, Casca grabbed the jirad of a Mameluke downed beside him and hurled it at the archer who had shot at him. All Casca's rage was behind the throw, and the weapon smashed through the bandit's guts as fast as through thin air.
"Kasim!"
Casca turned.
A grinning Mamud threw him a scimitar.
Then the horsemen were upon them.
To meet a shower of jirads from the Mamelukes.
Casca's warning had been almost too late, but not totally so. A few Mamelukes even had time to draw their bows. The whistling arrows and raining jirads knocked enough of the bandits from the saddle to break the charge just as it was ready to overrun the camp. Most of the battle was joined on foot.
A downed bandit, dirty, yelling, came at Casca, the short sword in his hand not unlike a gladius. Casca swung the scimitar. The curved blade, red in the morning sun, sliced down through the bandit's suddenly upthrown left arm almost as though there were no bone there, only flesh, and landed solidly in the bend of the bandit's sword arm, neatly cutting the forearm away and spraying red blood into the morning light, the bandit's sword tip coming within a handsbreath of Casca's face before falling away. Casca's scimitar glistened as he pulled it back on the follow-through stroke, blood and morning sun now indistinguishable on the damascened steel.
Damn fine weapon…
But there was a horseman coming at him from the left.
Casca whirled.
No need.
There was Mamud beside him, grinning, scimitar flashing — and when a jirad from behind them downed the bandit, Mamud made short work of the hostile.
"Allah be praised, Kasim! Great sport, eh? Glorious work!" He swung the scimitar and grinned from ear to ear as it sliced into the belly of a particularly ugly bandit.
The bastard really enjoys fighting. Casca could see that Mamud was one of those rare commanders who are happiest when they themselves are in the thick of the battle.
He could see something else, too.
The Arab slaver was a pretty good tactician. He had Casca on his right; Bu Ali on his left, in a kind of arrowhead formation with himself as the point. And when Casca risked a glance backward he saw that all the Mamelukes had taken up the same rough "arrowhead" groups, the points facing out toward the incoming bandits. They had probably kept the idea from the Greek Sassanids of Persia, who continued the phalanx formation for centuries after the death of Alexander. In some cases it was pretty effective.
A big, hairy, tough, ragged-clothed bandit who looked as if he had a large amount of northern blood in his veins was coming after him. Casca ducked and swung. But the bandit surprisingly parried his cut.
The son of a bitch!
They met again each holding the other's sword wrist in a strong grip. Fetid breath from the bandit's green mossy teeth and gums nearly made him gag. But the man was strong. Casca knew he couldn't take much time wrestling with him. As they pushed against each other he raised his right foot and suddenly stomped down with a callused heel on the man's arch. Bones broke. In agony the outlaw released his grip on Casca's wrist as he tried to run away on one foot like a child playing a one legged game. Casca ended the man's agony with a clean slice across the esophagus.
One minute the bandits were bearing down on them and all was in doubt. The next, the momentum had shifted. Momentarily without an opponent, Casca looked across an open space of ground, and his eyes locked on to those of a small, wiry man who had an Oriental look to him, the same man Casca had caught glimpses of during the hottest part of the battle, but always the wiry man was just out of reach of danger.
Must be their leader, Casca thought. Odd. A bandit leader scared for his own ass… He could see the look in the man's eyes. Pure hate. Guess he knows I'm the one who warned the camp.
As he watched, the bandit leader called in his men, and they made haste to get away.
Bu Ali wanted to go after them.
"No," Mamud decided. "Too much trouble. Not worth the effort." He beamed. "Ah, Kasim. Glorious, what?" He looked toward the east. "We were interrupted in our prayers. We must thank Allah again. Come, Kasim, you are an Arab now. I make you one. You will join in our prayers. Bu Ali, call the men together, and when they are prepared, we will have prayer."
This time Casca made sure he pissed before Mamud started praying.
There were two things that Casca did not know.
When he was miles away from the unsuccessful raid, Yousef, the bandit, reined in his horse and looked back.
The scar-faced one, he told himself, I'll cut out his heart and eat it…
And Bu Ali He lined the men up for prayer all right.
But a curse, not a prayer, was in his own heart.
A curse of jealousy for Kasim al Jirad the interloper, the man he was afraid might take his place in the esteem of Mamud.
We'll see about that…
Casca had mixed feelings as Baghdad appeared up ahead. It was a blur on the horizon of the plain. How long has it been? he asked himself, searching back in his memory and trying to recall what the city had been like then… and what women he had associated with it.
But his memory would bring him neither Baghdad nor women… only Ctesiphon.
Ctesiphon.
Less than a day's journey from Baghdad.
Ctesiphon.
Where he had fought in that first great battle after the Jew had damned him to live until His Return.
"You are thoughtful, Kasim."
It was Mamud, pulling up to ride beside him. For, since the battle with the bandits Casca had been given a horse and treated now more like a veteran Mameluke than a newly-captured slave destined for the block at Baghdad.
Casca frowned, then smiled. Shit! Mamud meant well. Might as well play along with him. "Yes, lord."
"Ah…!" The dark brown eyes of Mamud burned with an inner knowledge.
Obviously he wanted a response from Casca.
"What is it, lord?"
"I know you Franks. I know what's on your mind. And you can get it in Baghdad."
"What, lord?" Shit! Not many hours ago he made me a Muslim. Now I'm a Frank again. But Casca was not really angry, just amused. He had come to like the slaver, particularly after seeing him fight. In Casca's code any man who was very good at what he did was a friend. And Mamud was a damn good fighter.
"At the Cafe of the Infidels."
Seeing the complete puzzlement in Casca's eyes, Mamud laughed. "Ah
…! You have not been to Baghdad before."
"Well…"
"It is a great city. And it is a Muslim city. The Prophet is honored — as well he should be."
What the hell is he getting at? Casca always got nervous when religion became the topic. Too many damn unhappy memories.
"But," Mamud continued, "there is an understanding. Until you Franks follow the Prophet there is some provision for you. Hence the Cafe of the Infidels."
"The Cafe of the Infidels?"
"Ah, yes. Wine. And women. Particularly for you, Kasim, since you carry the air of a warrior — Miriam."
"Miriam?"
"A red-headed Jewess. Most unusual. I am told she is quite beautiful. And very good in bed."
"Yeah, but…"
"Oh, that. Do not worry, Kasim. Tonight you are free to come and go as you please. Tomorrow? Why, yes, tomorrow you must bring me a profit. I am not in business for my health. Tomorrow I sell you. But I tell you, Kasim, I am certain you will go to the Nizam al Mulk. A very fine master for you; a very good profit for me."
They were just topping a rise. Baghdad was closer now, the spires of minarets beginning to dance like lance points in the sky over the city's blur. And there was something else in the depression just ahead of them.
What in Hades is that?
Mamud laughed at the look on Casca's face. "The caravan of the Sheikh Faisal ibn Said? Ah, yes. It is a little unusual."
That, thought Casca, was an understatement. Ahead of them were half a dozen scruffy-looking but enormous covered carts pulled by teamed mules. And on the side of each cart, lettered with pigment that had once been red but now was faded, was the identical quatrain from the 55th Sura of the Koran: "Which of His manifold blessings dost thou so ungratefully deny?" The calligraphy was excellent, but everything else about the caravan from the apparently-aged leader and the raggedly-clothed drivers to the rough-looking mules and creaking axles said poverty.
Mamud lowered his voice. "The Sheikh Faisal — I doubt if he is really a sheikh — has been blessed by Allah." He touched his forehead to indicate that Faisal wasn't playing with a full set of dice. "But his men are great artists. They can carve a verse from the Koran in less time than it takes to make a lance."
Apparently assuming Casca could not read Arabic, he made no comment concerning the writing on the side of the carts.
"He had his harem with him. They must be a sorry lot."
The poverty of the ragtag caravan was depressing to Casca. But only for a moment.
After all, it said he was back in a world where eccentrics were accepted — the world of peacetime.
That meant no more killing.
Maybe I will go to the Cafe of the Infidels…
Bu Ali rode by him, turned and smiled.
It was an odd smile.