The Jasmine Lady bent over him again, and suddenly he had the plan
…
Casca waited for his chance. The next time she came over him, breasts hanging mockingly just above his face, the gleaming knife in her right hand catching the light, razor-sharp edge held in that flat, odd way that made the knife seem an extension of her hand — or the single deadly steel claw of a beast — he tried to gauge the angles involved, to time the right moment to act. But the effort was almost more than he could manage. By now the pain, though beyond actual feeling, was in some dark region of his brain affecting his thinking and vision. He felt that he was going mad. He fought the silent storm in his brain, knowing that he might be just seconds from unconsciousness.
Then…
She halted her movement.
To taunt him.
Casca lunged.
Threw his head upward all that he could move.
He had only inches to work with, but that was enough; the end of her pendulous breast was in his wide-stretched mouth. Immediately he bit down, bit with all his strength. She screamed. Blood spurted, momentarily blinding his left eye. This close he had no depth perception with the single eye, so he had to guess for the timing of the strike with his fingers as her wrist with the knife jerked down. He was off. Only by a little, but off. Desperately he curled his fingertips inward, felt the sharp edge of the knife, and, though he cut as much of his own flesh as he did the silk rope when he forced the blade back, he made the slash. He was now free from the forearm to the fingers.
Immediately he swept his arm in the only arc possible to him, hoping that his fingers would reach the burning lamp. They did. With room to spare. The lamp upset. The hot oil it had held flamed up, lighted by the wick, and the burning oil fired the cloth of Chin on the table where he was bound.
Now, if he could only ignite his ropes…
Clawing with his fingers on the returning sweep of his arm, he did manage to grab the burning cloth and jerk it toward him. He did not wait to see if the oil that spilled on the ropes would burn them through.
He had other things to do. Just as his arm made the return arc, he released the bloody bit of her breast and at the same time got her wrist with his fingers. He had correctly guessed that she would jerk back, and with a rolling motion of his finger grip, he broke the knife free from her grasp and had it in his hand.
The oil was burning. Marching fingers of flame were circling his body, and where they touched the ropes, the ropes themselves caught fire.
Though he had the knife, he could not use it to get at the ropes that held his elbows. And at that moment one of the women bending over his penis dropped her knife. The point cut into his scrotum. The temporary numbness in his mind was overthrown, and he screamed with unbearable pain.
Yet he could still use the knife on the other wrist. He swept the blade across his body cutting the wrist ropes and immediately reached up with both hands, plunging the knife into her unhurt breast. When she grabbed for the breast, with almost a continuation of his movement, he caught both of her wrists and pulled down with all his might.
The leverage was difficult, but her involuntary movement down helped somewhat. He managed to pull her partway across his chest, far enough so that he could force her mask into the fire. The flaming oil caught the black cloth of Chin mask immediately. The face was ablaze. Then her hair. She ran shrieking around the room.
Casca strained at the ropes. They were breaking — but taking, it seemed, an eternity. The flimsy clothing of the three women at the table was now ablaze, and the women were screaming. One rushed toward the window. Another, blinded by the flames, rushed straight into the wall. The collision of her burning body with the wall hangings set that material afire. In seconds the whole room was aflame, and now the women who watched were also screaming.
The screams of the women brought the eunuchs. Casca was not yet free, and he could see the head eunuch coming for him, a huge scimitar in his hands.
But he could also see the set, determined face of the little Jewish slave girl, Ruth. He could see her push over the huge amphora of oil so that it spilled into the path of the eunuch. The eunuch slipped, and the scimitar fell from his grasp and hit the tile floor, its clatter lost in the rising screams of the harem women.
But Casca was now free. He tried to get over the edge of the table, but pain and weakness held him back. He, too, was afire, the ropes that clung to his bloody flesh, the oil spilled on him, both burning.
"Please, help me!"
The little Jewish girl was calling to him for help. The third harem torturer, though dress afire, was heading toward her, dagger in hand.
Casca yanked the knife from the breast of the screaming Jasmine Lady and threw it. The blade turned over twice in the air, and then the point buried itself into the back of the neck of the woman, and she pitched forward, falling just short of the young girl.
The effort gave Casca a second burst of strength. He managed to get off the table and get the scimitar. But he was still bent over when the second eunuch was upon him, swinging a sword. Casca pulled the scimitar upward in a sweeping circle, somewhat ragged because of his weakness, and slit the eunuch's throat. Not expertly, but it did the job. Then he slashed the first eunuch across the face and saw blood, and then saw the nose disappear.
He was losing consciousness, and his eyesight was going, coming back only in short, blurred bursts. He had a vague image of eunuchs with swords slipping in the blood and oil and tangling in a burning, twisting heap as the oil caught fire and blazed up, but it may have been only a wish, a dream.
All dreams.
He was gone now.
"Come, stranger. Come. There is a secret way out."
This dream, this voice seeming to sound in his brain, was even stronger than the others. He could even imagine a touch — that he was holding the hand of Ruth the young slave girl.
But, again, he had slipped into darkness.
Still, ragged pieces of dreams, like ravenous birds, bit at his mind. None of them made sense. There were moments when he had images of cold stone walls. Of dampness. A tunnel? None of it mattered. It was only the breaking up of a dying man's brain.
Then there were no dream pieces.
Only blackness.
The strangest dream of all.
No images.
Only words. He heard Ruth call out the name Miriam. Then another voice. Miriam the whore? "We'll have to carry him."
Then only the merciful darkness. The silence. The nothingness..
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"You ready to wake up, son?"
Casca opened his eyes.
The face bending over him was that of an old Arab — or was it? The face was fully-bearded, and the beard was gray. The eyes were world-weary but kindly. And the voice was gentle.
If I'm dead, wherever I've gone, the people here sure don't fit the descriptions given out by any of the religions I've known.
He was going to close his eyes again and start this dream all over when he saw beyond the man leaning over him the faces of two women — the grinning, redheaded Miriam, the whore from the Cafe of the Infidels; and the shy, smiling Ruth, the slave girl from the Sultan's seraglio.
"What-" he began, but the old man put gentle fingers on his lips.
"No. There's no point in you asking the questions. It's obvious what you want to know, and it won't take long to tell you. But, first, lie quietly and listen. Your healing still has a long way to go." The old man's voice was soft, but it carried a great deal of authority. Casca's first reaction was that it was a very clear, rational voice. Then it suddenly dawned on him that what he was thinking must have shown in his face, for the old man smiled slightly and said, "Yes, Latin. I can use Arabic if you wish. Or Aramaic. Or any of half a dozen other languages you prefer, but in your delirium you were crying out in Latin, a language neither of these girls speak, so they called me. If Latin is your native language, why then we will use it, though of course that means the two girls here will not know what we are talking about."