Carl understood all too well. Casca Rufio Longinus had seen nations rise and fall, men and religions grow old and unneeded. He shook the thoughts from him. Casca alias Carl Langers was to live in this time. Yet if he could have he would return to the other time also.
A chill ran over Langers. In only a few minutes the temperature had dropped twenty degrees. "Let's go back now," he said. "There is much to do. We will meet again perhaps in one or two days. At that time be ready to go. Also, if you find out anything more about Sunni Ali, contact me immediately."
Mamud led the way back. Carl watched him carefully. His steps were strong, sure, his back still as straight as a jirad, a spear. He knew the old man would carry his weight, more than carry it. When one was ready to die as he was, the last reserves of strength from body and soul stood by to be called on. He envied Sharif Mamud his death. For he knew that the hand of Allah had touched the old man. He was ready for paradise. Carl wished him well in the afterlife. In sha' Allah, the will of God.
Gus was ready for them. Nothing remained save the bones, which had been well picked, sucked, and smacked over by the fleshy lips of the big German. When they returned, Gus was wandering around outside of Sharif Mamud's tent eating a handful of sweet dates for dessert.
Carl left Sharif Mamud at the door of his tent, telling him "Rest well and dream the dreams of old. For I know that they will come to you again and this time your dream of freedom will be realized, for that is what you seek and what you shall find."
Mamud nodded his head. It was good to speak to one who understood. The scar-faced ferengi was more than he seemed. There were depths to the man's soul that were deep, very deep, and in those depths were great sorrows. Mamud wished for him, too, to one day find peace.
" Salaam aleikum, my friend." He spoke the parting words.
" Aleikum salaam, Sharif Mamud ibn-Hassani. Peace be with you. Till we meet again." To his large friend he said, "Come on, Gus, let's get going. Monpelier should be there by now."
Gus climbed into the driver's seat and started up the Land Rover. The ride back to the fort seemed much longer. Or perhaps it was just that Carl felt very, very old.
CHAPTER FIVE
He did not like the caves; they choked him with their closeness. Holes in the earth were the domain of the dead. The walls were stained with smoke ten thousand years old and covered in parts with prehistoric paintings. It stank inside of stale death, not of the invigorating purity of the desert.
Guards at the entrance to the caves bowed as he passed, their faces, like his, kept hidden beneath the black indigo-dyed veils. He was their master and they were his dogs to do his bidding. Their only reason for existing was to obey and serve. Sunni Ali felt the same discontent for them: the warriors of the Tuareg had too long been confined. Soon it would be time to set his dogs loose to reclaim their ancient heritage.
Striding across a cleared area between larger-than-man-sized boulders he went to his tent, ignoring the rest of his encampment whose tents had been set to take advantage of what shade was cast by the boulders of the mountain. But his eyes missed nothing. Sentries stood on high points to observe all that passed in front of their eyes, eyes which could see much farther than those of ordinary men, eyes which had been trained in the constant glare of the Saharan sun. His women he had sent away. There was no place for women in the affairs of men. They were a distraction at this time. He would be served only by the men of his tribe.
Resting on cushions of woven horse hair, Sunni Ali crossed his legs and removed his veil. His face was stark, surprisingly pale where the sun had not touched it. The bones of his cheeks were prominent, giving him the gaunt and intense look of a desert falcon. He wished nothing at this time and waved away his attendants. He wanted only to think.
When the weapons came he would gather to him the tribes of the desert and make war. He did not have any illusions about being able to win a major war, but he could make it so expensive for the enemy in terms of life and cost that his people would be granted their freedom. Freedom from artificial boundaries, freedom to ride as they had for a thousand years, obeying only the laws of Allah, blessed be His name, and those of the desert. Let the rest of the world do as it wished. Let them destroy themselves in their quest for power. He wanted only that which was theirs and the return of their way of life without interference. If it meant that thousands would die, that too would be in the hands of God.
Once he had possession of the weapons the boy's father had promised, Sunni Ali would then call a great gathering of the tribes to him. Already he had sent emissaries to the Bedouin and the other Berber. He heard back from them that they would wait and see if he could deliver on his promise. Rifles alone were not enough to fight tanks and airplanes. Courage they had, but too many times in the past they had seen the bravery of their fighting men destroyed by the more modern weapons of the invaders. To wage war they had to know that they had at least a fighting chance. That is all. No one would have believed a guarantee of victory, but a fighting chance was all that was required for them to gather their warriors and once more come out of the desert to drive the invaders and infidels from their lands. Who knew? If they were successful in their first attempt then it might be that the other tribes of the Berbers and even some of the Arabs would come to ride with them and declare a great jihad, a holy war.
Sunni Ali saw all this clearly. In the remote regions of his mind there was the thought that perhaps, just perhaps, he could be the flame which would rally all the followers of the prophet together and once and for all rid themselves of the ferengi. Then the tribes could go back to settling their differences among themselves as they always had.
Legend and prophecy had forecast the birth of a great one who would rally Islam. It was possible that it could be him. He did have the space between his teeth that the prophets had said would mark the Mahdi.
Sunni Ali lost sight of reality in his dreams, dreams he had as a child reborn. He had listened to the storytellers talk of the past when they were free men, of the great warriors who with sword and fire brought the word of Allah to the unbeliever. He believed in dreams. Oft-times at night he would go deep into the desert, his eyes locked upon the heavens if he waited long enough he could see the passing of stars, comets, and constellations. In them were his dreams.
The ferengi had two weeks, not one minute longer, more to give him that which he had demanded. Then the boy would watch his wife die slowly, a slice of her being taken away every day. Once there was nothing left of her but madness, he would start on the son of the arms dealer. Unless, of course, the old man reconsidered once he knew what had happened to the girl.
Taking a path up the side of the mountain, he passed sentries whose eyes sparkled with the fire of devotion above the folds of their veils.
" El kher ghas. "
He acknowledged that all was well.
Sunni Ali found what he desired, a place where he could look out into the distance to where the hand of God touched the sky and the earth as one. It was good to let the great quiet seep into his soul. It was pure, clean. That is all that he wished for. He knew of the cities to the West and the Orient, of their sickness of soul and heart. He was no fool.