Bu Ali, too, intended to look for Casca — only he knew where to look. But at the moment he had a problem; he couldn't get away from the man who had bought the three slaves. He had already drunk enough coffee to piss the Tigris over its banks, but here came the damn stuff around again.
The host droned on and on.
The hour of the parade was fast approaching…
Bu Ali made a silent prayer to Allah to intercede and release him from this long-winded ass. But if the finger of Allah had been in the deal, it apparently wasn't around this morning. The host droned on and on. The hour of the parade was fast approaching…
By the time the streets had filled with people waiting for the parade, Casca had polished off the last of the trade wine and was feeling no pain. No pain whatsoever. Now from the distance came the sound of the advancing parade. In fact, from up in his olive tree, Casca could see the tops of the banners over the roofs of the intervening houses.
Time to go to work…
Clumsily, he twisted around from his cramped perch in a fork of the olive tree branches and was joining the two halves of the jirad together when something sharp poked him in the ass. Simultaneously there was an identical punch just above his butt, and two more on either side of him — not what one might reasonably expect from an olive tree branch.
He looked down at his rear.
Steel. Very sharp Damascus steel. The heavy blade of what looked like an Oriental version of a halberd was getting ready to jab him again.
Casca looked up into the no-nonsense eyes of the captain of the Emir's bodyguard standing on the rooftop just above him. Soldiers on either side held bows drawn taut. The captain stroked his forked beard and smiled almost with sympathy at what was going to happen to the fool in the tree. There was no point in his trying to get away.
Casca groaned. Once more his luck in Persia had turned sour. They had him.
CHAPTER TEN
"Hmm…"
The Emir of Apnea prided himself on his "creative" and "imaginative" approach to torture. Not for him the humdrum and obvious. For such a pleasant hobby one must think of a pleasant approach, must not one? So he studied the rather forlorn and obviously drunk Casca carefully with four of his soldiers holding him, two at each side. Symmetry, the Emir thought idly.
The parade had halted. And, though the street was filled with the procession and lined with the crowd, there was relative silence now that the Emir had dismounted from his horse and waddled over to the olive tree to personally inspect the stupid dog who had had the temerity to try to assassinate him. The Emir waddled because he was a short, fat, roly-poly little man with a big butt. He was wearing his ornate robes of state, and the net result was that he looked like a very, very fancy big duck. The crowd was quiet because they knew they'd damn well better be. Casca had his mouth shut because he didn't have anything to say right now.
"Hmm…" Again the Emir grunted. He was considering possibilities. Like most men of his race he let his mind work on several levels at the same time, delighting most in the devious passageways to his objective. This Assassin, now… why not use him to make a laughing stock out of old Eagle-Face Hassan? "Hmm…" Hassan's minion had gotten drunk and bungled the job. Hardly a credit to an "invincible" Hassan. So why not — for the crowd's sake (and Hassan's reputation) — turn it into one big joke?
But how?
Inspiration came to the Emir, and he smiled, his small pig's eyes glittering. He called one of his aides to him, pointed at the metalworker's shop down the street, and whispered instructions in the man's ear. The secrecy was not necessary, but the Emir thought it a nice theatrical touch for the crowd.
He turned his attention to Casca. This luckless one wore the five-day beard of the two-day drunk; he was pretty shaggy.
"So… Hassan al Sabah sends me a hairy dog. I must repay him in opposite fashion. It is symmetry. It is Allah's law of opposites." Then to the soldiers: "Strip him!"
They pulled the Sufi robes from him, and had Casca down to his loincloth.
"That, too."
What the hell has the little bastard in mind? Casca thought. He was getting sober fast. He was also getting ready to try to get the hell away from here.
"Now, tie his right hand to that branch."
That was when Casca started his kick. His legs were still free, so Unfortunately, while the captain of the Emir's guard did not know the fighting methods Shiu Tze had taught Casca, he did know prisoners, and before Casca could get started, the broad shaft of a jirad was between his legs.
"Now, the other hand to that branch." The Emir pointed. Then, "Left leg there. And right leg there." He turned to his aides. "You will notice, gentlemen, that this hairy dog is now suspended between the heavens and the hells and that his feet are pointing toward Mecca."
This was a fairly accurate description, assuming the religious part be accepted on the Emir's terms. The naked Casca did indeed lie flat on his back on nothing, suspended by arms and legs from four branches of the olive tree. It was not a dignified position. The crowd had begun to sense that the Emir was making fun of Hassan's man, so a small wave of low laughter was now rolling around the olive tree, and a few more necks were craning up to see this absurd object. Shit! Casca had been in trouble before — lots of times. But at least there had been a little dignity to it. And whoever had been after him had taken him seriously, which was as it should be: torture and killing were fairly serious matters. To make it a fun thing — now that was cutting it too fine. Who the Hades was this Emir of Apnea anyway? At the moment Casca decided he wanted the Emir dead about ten times more than Hassan, and he wanted to do the job himself. The only trouble was, he didn't know how he was going to get loose from the olive tree. That was the trouble with getting slung up; there just wasn't any way to get loose. At least not as far as he could see…
"So… What do you gentlemen suggest I send to Hassan in return for this hairy dog?"
Naturally there was no response. The Emir's aides held their positions of honor partly because they knew when to keep their mouths shut. But, on the other hand, the Emir was now beginning to frown because he had not gotten an answer. So the captain of the guard offered him:
"Lord, it is written upon thy face that thou hast already determined the perfect answer to this impertinence."
"Ah…!" The Emir beamed. "Yes. He sends me a hairy dog. I return him a plucked chicken."
Chicken? What the hell…
The aide who had been sent to the metalworker's shop was holding two long iron objects that Casca now saw were tweezer-pointed. The Emir took one, put the tweezer point against Casca's hairy chest, and pulled a hair. "Observe. This is the middle of this hairy dog whose feet point toward Mecca. You — " the Emir selected one of the more intelligent-looking of the peasant bystanders "- start here and move toward the head." He tossed the peasant the tweezer-pointed tongs. "You-" He selected an old crone. "Start here in the middle and move toward Mecca."