"Kasim…" Bu Ali's voice was low. "Put on this clothing."
The other two Mamelukes untied him, apparently not caring whether he tried to escape or not. They merely stood silently while Casca dressed in the darkness of the alley entrance.
"Wait," Bu Ali ordered.
Some minutes later a cart pulled by a single mule came slowly down the street and stopped by the group. Bu Ali came close to Casca and said, his voice low: "Kasim, they will wrap you in a carpet, and you will go on a journey. No, it is not to the copper mines of Khorramshahr. It is to a higher destiny that Allah calls you. There will be a caravan. Go in peace. Do not let yourself be discovered."
Suddenly he embraced Casca, holding both arms around him. "Nu salam aleikom — Peace be with you." Then he added softly, "Brother."
It was not the most comfortable journey even though just before they rolled him into the carpet one of the Mamelukes had handed Casca a small pot of gummylike substance and said, "Eat this. It will still the pain."
Like thickened honey. Bittersweet. Odd. Casca had eaten this stuff, not really wanting to know what the hell it was. He had a strange feeling of not really giving a damn about anything. His head, which should have hurt, if not from the blow on it earlier, at least from the hangover the young Arab's "wine" had brought on, had no feeling whatsoever. In fact, he felt light all over, like he was slipping in and out of dreams. Somewhere in the back of his brain was the leftover crumbs of a dream where this same bittersweet "candy" had been forced into his mouth. A dream? Or a memory? Somehow it did not matter. There were a lot of things that didn't matter. Like, had he ever gotten to bed Miriam or not? And the Sultan's palace. Shit! He couldn't have been stoned enough to try that. And the Sultan himself. Was that little queer really Malik Shah, third, and so far the greatest of the Seljuk rulers? But if he was a fag, what the hell was he doing with a harem? These thoughts and others like them bubbled through Casca's mind. And in between them he slept. Rolled up in the darkness of the carpet, he really didn't know what was happening to him, where he was being taken, how long it would take. When he was awake it was like a dream. When he slept there was only a silent darkness, peaceful as the death forbidden to him.
Hassan al Sabah came personally to inspect this unexpected "Novice." He had not yet decided how he would react to Bu Ali taking matters into his own hands. Such a thing was not to be tolerated. Yet
… an intuitive sense of opportunity smoldered in the back of his brain. Like all who are touched by the dream of personal greatness, he felt in his heart that the Destiny which had such great things in store for him might bring those things in strange and unusual ways.
Besides, the message from Bu Ali was that this Kasim was "a scar-faced Frank."
A Frank with a scar on his face? Casca Rufio Longinus, the Roman of the Lance, had been scar-faced. What if…? He stared thoughtfully at the rolled-up carpet.
"Unroll him," he ordered.
Casca awoke to see an eagle-beaked old Arab staring into his eyes. Yet he saw the old Arab as kindly, fatherly almost. Immediately Casca liked him. Somewhere in the back of his mind there was a reason for the liking. For a moment the images of old men he had known flickered in his brain… Glam… Shiu Tze… others… He closed his eyes.
Hassan al Sabah was disappointed. No, this could not be Longinus. Scar-faced? There was only a thin one, running the length of a lady's little finger from the side of his right eye to just above his mouth. It gave this Kasim a slightly sinister look… that would probably turn on some seemingly reluctant maid, the Franks being what they are, Hassan thought. He regretted now that he did not know more about Longinus, but certainly if he had been remembered as "the scar-faced one" his scar would have to be much more prominent than this. No, the man on the carpet was not Longinus.
However…
If he could be trained…
Perhaps the time might come when he could be put forward as Longinus…
At the moment Hassan had no full-blown use for such an impostor in his mind. But, on the theory that it might be useful to have such a one on hand, he decided not to have Kasim thrown from the parapet of Castle Alamut into the Bottomless Pit on the west side, which was what he had originally planned to do. After all, if this Kasim was as good a fighter as Bu Ali's message said he was he might prove very, very useful.
Casca stirred, and his eyes opened again.
"Welcome," Hassan said in his most fatherly voice. "Welcome to Castle Alamut, my son."
Bu Ali had called him "brother." Now this eagle-faced one called him "son." Shit! Casca thought, I don't know whether I'm ready for this family business or not…
CHAPTER SEVEN
The manner in which Casca entered into the ranks of the Assassins was the way things usually happened to him. It seems that I have no control over what happens to me. He wasn't complaining, though. Life at the Castle Alamut these last few weeks had been very easy indeed. Maybe too easy, but what the hell, he would enjoy it while he could.
The indoctrination had been handled very smoothly. Besides the Koran those with special gifts were instructed in many manners of disguise and on techniques by which they could gain access into places that were normally denied the ordinary man. Threats of violence were seldom used. All of the Novices were made to feel as though they were well loved brothers who were part of a large family. And Hassan al Sabah was the father figure, the wise and caring patriarch who, it was known without the words being said, would dispense reward and punishment without favor.
He was drawn to the eagle-faced Arab now just as much, if not more, than at their first meeting. There was a quiet sincerity to the man that he had seldom found before. He even considered telling Hassan of his life but quickly decided against it. Persia had been good for him, the few moments which he enjoyed like now. But he had an instinctive distrust of any cult. In spite of that, he looked forward to the many hours he spent with the tireless leader of the Alamut who never seemed to need rest and had never once shown any sign of distress or anger. Even when he had two of his Novices thrown from the battlements for treason his face only showed great sadness as though their betrayal of him had been due to some failing of his own.
He would talk with each of his disciples when he had the time of the greatness of their plan and what it would mean to the world. Of course not all understood the philosophy he expounded and to these he would direct the more simple truths. "Obey and gain Paradise, which will release you from this life of sorrows to sit at the foot of Allah and be among the Blessed." His quiet confidence and burning eyes inspired all who sat or walked with him along battlements during the evenings when the night winds came out of the desert and sang among the towers and crags of the eternal mountains.
It was on the narrow walks of the parapets that Casca preferred to speak and listen to him. Usually these talks were in the late evening, or at twilight. A time and a place that seemed to appeal particularly to Hassan. Of late Hassan had spent more time than normal with the new scar-faced Novice, but if the other Novices resented the special attention paid to Casca they did not say anything. Discipline in the Castle was practically perfect, much better than anything Casca had seen in any formal army. Odd. He had heard stories about the Assassins — about the evil they worked — but after these few weeks he was convinced it was all wrong. Hassan felt he had a mission in the world, to clean it up, to limit the power of the few to do as they pleased with impunity. The Hashassin were to be a balance to those who claimed the right to rule the world.