The Cafe of the Infidels was like every grogshop Casca had ever been in. Settled on a long bench before a rough table in the smoky semidarkness and sipping the trade wine, which certainly wasn't to be compared to Falernian! — he reflected that, no matter what the country or the century, wine shops did what the Jew had damned him to do: they stayed as they were.
Mamud had kept his word. After they had arrived in Baghdad and settled the other slaves in the compound (done the housekeeping) he had told Casca he had the night to enjoy, had even sent Bu Ali with Casca to point out the Cafe of the Infidels.
As if I couldn't find my way around… Momentarily the thought had flickered in Casca's mind — familiar as he was with the devious intrigue of Persians as a whole — that maybe Mamud had some ulterior motive in dwelling on this one particular place. On the other hand, there probably weren't all that many places in Baghdad a non-Muslim could go to have himself a time. Still…
The cafe was, of course, in the meanest section of town, not far from the Tigris, and it was not much to look at. Bu Ali pointed it out, and Casca offered to buy him a drink though he knew that Bu Ali, Mameluke or no, was ostensibly a Muslim. He wanted to see how Bu Ali took it.
Bu Ali's voice constricted a bit as he forced a polite response from it. "No, Kasim. It is not permitted by the Prophet. But for you, until you follow the True Way…" Bu Ali left the sentence unfinished.
So Casca now found himself alone at a table in a dark corner of the small, crowded room, his back against a wall, a cup cradled in his hands, and his thoughts guttering lazily in his mind like the slowly smoking lamps.
He checked out the patrons. There was the usual crowd of losers one would find anywhere, men whose faces one never remembered. But there was more than the usual number of quiet men, tough men. They made the cafe seem more of a club… like wineshops he had remembered from his early days in the legion where most of the patrons were legionnaires. There was no sign of the woman Miriam. Maybe he had to ask for her. And, oddly, there were no "characters," exotics, the odd men you expected to find.
No, that wasn't right.
At a table to his left sat a young, fresh-faced boy, obviously drunk, very drunk. And just as obviously an Arab. Not only the facial structure, but even in the dim, smoky light the dark brown eyes. Casca couldn't quite put his finger on what it was that made the kid unusual. Something, though. The memory of other young men in other wineshops across the years rose in his mind, and he moved irritably, puzzled at why tonight he should be so sunk in memories.
Then he saw the big Circassian, the bearded man who looked like a bear, the bully.
Casca hadn't noticed him before; the big man must have been sullenly drinking. Now he was baiting the fresh-faced Arab kid. He had pulled out a dagger and slammed it point down into the table. Right now he was working on the kid verbally — the usual remarks about his ancestry. What he was really doing was setting the kid up, and the boy apparently didn't have enough experience, or was too drunk, to know that the big Circassian intended to cut him up.
Circassian? Shit! He looked more like he was from one of the tribes of barbarians far to the north. Casca searched his memory…. The ones called Rh'shans?
More to the point, what dumb bastard of an owner let a brute like this loose with a dagger nearly half as big as a gladius?
But, hell! It was none of his business.
That was when Miriam appeared.
On a cleared-off tabletop back against the wall, more or less well lit by a couple of extra lamps. Apparently she was a dancer. And apparently she was also going to do the dance of the veils.
Casca smiled, then sipped on his wine. If the trade wine weren't Falernian, neither were the veils the costly stuff Salome had used on Herod. There had been a lot of wear and tear on this fabric, and it had been cheap to begin with. And as for Miriam, she was no Salome. Momentarily Casca's face darkened as he recalled the time, long ago now, when a young woman had danced this same dance of the veils for him personally. Damn all memories… This Miriam was no young girl. She had been around.
And yet…
There was something oddly appealing about Miriam, something that seemed intended to draw him to her, something more than her looks. Mamud was right though, she was red-headed, and she was beautiful, and she had a damn fine well-built body. Maybe it was because she was a Jewess. Casca felt an affinity for the people of Abraham despite his experience with the Jew. Maybe it was because she was no longer a young girl, but, like him, knew her way around. Maybe A small, pearl-handled dagger slid across the table in front of Casca at the same time as the noise of the struggle behind him. He had forgotten the Rh'shan bully and the young boy. He turned.
Apparently the Rh'shan had finally prodded the boy to attack him, had kicked the kid's pearl-handled dagger from his fingers, and now was standing over the fallen Arab youngster loudly describing what he intended to do with the dagger he held in his own big ham of a hand.
He never finished.
Something happened to him. Something quick, odd, and Oriental. (When the lamps guttered, was the shade of Shiu Tze momentarily in the room? And did the shade of Shiu Tze smile approvingly at what his "big-nosed barbarian" protege had just done?) The Rh'shan found himself turned completely around, his weapon gone, the point of the pearl-handled dagger digging into his throat, icy gray-blue eyes looking into his, and a voice as cold as a death wind from the steppes saying:
"Get your ass out of here, or you'll never live to draw another breath."
The Rh'shan did not argue the point. There was something in the cold eyes, something in the flat, matter-of-fact voice, that told him the scar-faced man would kill him instantly if he so much as even opened his mouth. The icy-eyed one was Death himself; he needed no big dagger, nor to be big himself. Whoever he was, whatever he was, this was one who could be neither bullied nor bluffed. The Rh'shan backed away. And when he got to the door, he turned and ran.
The sound of his footsteps echoed in the street and sounded even in the cafe.
Because it had gotten very, very quiet in there.
Casca tossed the dagger back to the young Arab and regained his own seat and waited for Miriam to begin her dance.
It was not nearly so quiet in the palace of the Sultan where Bu Ali stood, his throat dry with fear as he looked into the brutal and suspicious eyes of the ruler. Bu Ali was afraid that he had gotten himself in over his head, that he was about to slip off a very narrow path of duplicity and intrigue. Yet, because of the man Kasim, what choice did he have?
"You say the Grand Vizier will buy this slave Kasim as his bodyguard?"
"Yes, my lord."
"So? What is that to me?" The Sultan's snake-black eyes were probing deep into Bu Ali's.
Sweat formed on Bu Ali's upper lip. They both knew what it was to the Sultan. Nizam al Mulk, Grand Vizier, was not only the foremost supporter of the Seljuk Turk conquerors, he had been to all intents and purposes the regent for this Sultan during his childhood years, and even now probably held as much power if not more than the Sultan. Bu Ali knew this, knew that Nizam had antagonized the Sultan's favorite, Taj al Mulk, and made an enemy of the Sultan's wife, Turkon Khatun. It was the thought of the Sultan's wife that brought the sweat to Bu Ali's entire body.
Because he feared that it was she who was on the other side of the screened wall behind him.
Certainly someone was there, someone who smelled of jasmine, and, oddly, of the smoke of Paradise Bu Ali knew so well from Hassan's Eagle's Nest. It had to be a woman, for the faint sound of music and laughter from the seraglio came through the ornate lattice.
A woman. It unnerved Bu Ali to think that the Sultan would allow a woman to listen to what they were planning. He was beginning to regret that he had taken it upon himself to plot this concerning Kasim.
"What is that to me?" the Sultan repered. "The bodyguards of the Vizier are not my concern. Unless, of course, you are suggesting that I take this slave for my own bodyguard?"
This time there was a faint, muffled laugh from behind the screen.
Oddly, it restored Bu Ali's courage. If the Sultan could be swayed by a wife or concubine then he was no more to be feared than other men.
"My lord, I have it from the Vizier's slaves themselves that this night he found the Golden Dagger in his bed."
"Ah…!" the Sultan's eyes gleamed a bit brighter. Then the suspicious look returned. "This night, you say? But what has this to do with the ferengi you said was named Kasim by Mamud the slaver?"
Bu Ali tried to pick his words carefully. "I can only say lord that there is something strange about the man. And as you know Mamud has been the good friend of Nizam al Mulk for many years. Perhaps they have special plans for one such as this Kasim? Never before had Mamud granted such liberties to a slave and they did spend long hours alone in deep talk. Perhaps they have come to an understanding which is not to my lord's benefit."
The Sultan considered the many possibilities. The hundreds of tenuous spiderwebs of intrigue that dominated palace life. "But what has this to do with the dagger of Hassan al Sabah?"
Bu Ali moved closer on his knees. "Lord, is it not known that the Old Man of the Mountain always demands a price for the continuance of life, and that that price is not always gold. It can sometimes be paid in the form of a service. Perhaps this stranger is to be the tool of that service?"
The Sultan's eyes grew narrow with suspicion. It was true there had been much bad blood between him and the Grand Vizier, whose personal power grew with each passing day.
From behind the curtain the woman spoke for the first time, voice deep and husky. "Listen to him. If he is right and the Vizier has made a pact with Hassan al Sabah, his once good friend, to take your life then you must act first. If he has not then what is the value of one more slave. You will lose nothing by taking precautions."
He waved the woman to be silent. To Bu Ali he spoke. "What do you suggest? That the slave Kasim be killed?"
Bu Ali looked at the Sultan. The room they were in was rich with ornaments and bright with many lamps. By the glow of these lamps he spun out his plot…
When he had finished, the Sultan nodded in approval. "That is better than killing him. And if he was indeed to be an assassin's tool it would just warn them. By this plan there could be no true suspicion that we suspected him of anything at all. You please me Mameluke. You shall be rewarded of course… if all goes well."
Then from behind the screen the woman spoke once more, and added darkly, "And if you fail, or speak of this night, then for your reward you shall be given to the women of the harem for their pleasure."
Bu Ali shuddered; he was not a coward as had been proven in battle many times. But he understood all too well what was meant by pleasure for the women of the seraglio.
Casca, meanwhile, was enjoying a pleasure of a different sort. The affair of the Rh'shan had shocked the young Arab into a near-sober state. He had joined Casca after finding out his rescuer's name, bringing with him a small amphora of a drink he insisted Casca sample. The cafe was back to normal, and Miriam was beginning her dance. Eyes on her, Casca lifted the amphora.
"What in Hades is this?" In his time he had drunk some pretty weird concoctions, but this was like nothing he had ever tasted. Strong. Like a dozen wines all rolled into one.
The young Arab laughed, enjoying the look on Casca's face. "You like it?"
"Like it? Hell, it burns like fire. What is it?"
"Wine."
"Wine? Not like any I've ever drunk."
"Well, it's been, shall we say, improved."
"Improved?"
"Run through an alembic. The weak part left behind. We're drinking only the strong."
Alembic? Casca didn't know what that was. But whatever it was it sure made for the most potent wine he had ever consumed. He lost most of his interest in Miriam's dance and settled down to do a little serious drinking.
Alone. The young Arab was not even halfway through his own amphora before he passed out…
Casca fully intended to make arrangements for bedding Miriam after she finished her dance, but the strange wine of the young Arab did odd things to him. He decided he needed a walk in the night air to clear his head before he came back to bed the exotic dancer.
He had just turned into an alley to throw up when, from both sides, heavy ropes snared him and something big and hard smashed into his skull. Just before he lost consciousness he was aware that a thick leather bag was being lowered roughly over his head.