The old man sat down on a stool beside Casca's bed, and it was then that Casca realized that he was in some kind of very narrow bed, in a very, very small room. There was something extremely odd about the room, but he couldn't tell what it was.
What he could tell, though, was that under the soft covers, something bound him to the bed.
Again the old man anticipated him and smiled. "For your protection. To keep you from thrashing about and reopening the wounds. I think the girls can take them off now, but perhaps we shouldn't be in too big a hurry. Agreed?"
Casca nodded. Somehow he trusted this old Arab… though, come to think of it, the man might not be as old as he seemed. And there was something just a little non-Arab about the structure of his face.
This time the man laughed aloud. "You are perceptive, aren't you? All right, then, we'll satisfy your curiosity by starting with me rather than with where you are. I am the Sheikh Faisal ibn Said, a partly-senile, partly-addled old Bedouin who has a small, poor team of the best Arabic calligraphers in all of Islam. Wood, stone, metal, parchment — you name it. If you want the letters of the Koran written with style and flourish — and pious devotion, of course — why, wait until poor old man Faisal shows up in your neighborhood. And, he works cheap."
The glint of amusement in Faisal's eye was as impish as that of a small boy. "So you're liable to see Faisal almost anywhere. Harmless old fellow. Even has a small harem, as any good Muslim should."
Casca grinned. He suddenly remembered what Mamud had told him long ago about the caravan they had passed on their way to Baghdad, the one with the calligraphy on each cart bearing an ancient quotation from the Koran. Faisal again touched his lips.
"No. Now you are anticipating me. And, yes, there is another Faisal — though the name is not Faisal, the race is not Arabic, and the religion is not Islam. I am a Jew. Every drop of blood in my body is Jewish blood. Religion? The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Occupation? Well, yes, I am a good calligrapher. The best, as a matter of fact. It is true, however, that I also have a sideline, a small personal interest of mine that I have practiced for a number of years now without getting caught once. Well, I probably shouldn't brag about the once part. Once is all it would take. Even suspicion would be enough. My sideline? Why, my Roman friend, very simple. I believe in freedom. Freedom for all men — and women. And dignity. If one's idea of the Deity doesn't make his life richer and fuller, why, my friend, I would say his idea is wrong. But enough of religion since I am what is known as a 'liberal' in these quarters, and who the hell wants to listen to a liberal?"
"Well, now. My sideline. All abstract words. Of course, a calligrapher lives with words, so that shouldn't be considered unusual. But the trouble with abstract ideas is that you can't feel them or touch them or taste them or see them — or do anything constructive with them until they are translated into concrete acts or things. So my sideline was long ago translated into one very concrete act. The Arabs have enslaved many a daughter of my people, so, whenever I get the chance — and I get chances, my Roman friend — I steal the daughters of my people from their slavery and take them where they can be free. That's the reason for all the trappings of this caravan. These women are not my harem; most of them are rescued slaves I'm taking to freedom."
"Now, you. The only way I can hide you is to put you here with the women. Even when you're well enough to move about." Faisal smiled. "You see why I wouldn't let you ask questions? I like to talk, my Roman friend. I like to talk. And I cultivate the oddities in my personality so that I can continue to seem addled to the Arabs. He reached down and smoothed the bedcover under Casca's chin… as a father might an ill child. "I leave you to the women."
After Faisal's clear Latin, Miriam's Arabic at first sounded stilted in Casca's mind.
"Thou hast suffered much, O one with the scarred face," she said softly as she bent over him to pull back the covers. He could feel her fingers on his wrist unloosing the knots of the cords that held him, but he was studying the profile of her face, so he was not looking at his own body… or clothes.
There was a gentleness in her face that drew him.
Then "Damn!"
"What is it, O scarred one?"
The slave girl, Ruth, who had started to help Miriam, was also startled. Her brown eyes were wide.
"My clothes! What have you got on me?"
Now both women laughed.
"These look like women's clothes!"
"Ah, yes. But they are."
"Women's clothes?"
"But, of course. How else would one be dressed in the birthing wagon?"
"Birthing wagon?"
"Look, Roman Nose, we had to hide you. The Sultan was wild with rage when he found his palace afire. His men searched every inch of Baghdad. We had what they were looking for — you — bloody, out-of-your-head, raving you. So Faisal said put you in the birthing wagon, strap you down, make it look like you were just about to give birth, but give you something to keep you unconscious. It worked in Baghdad, so we decided to keep it up. And after a couple of days, after you had healed up enough so we could move you a little, we dressed you. Just in case. Good thing, too. Just the other day we were stopped, and one of the Sultan's men even insisted on looking in the birthing wagon. When he saw what you looked like sleeping, he was satisfied. By the way, how do you like your hair?"
"Hair?" Casca jerked his hand up to his scalp. There was still hair there. Plenty of it. What in Hades was she talking about?
Ruth brought him a small brass mirror and stood back, grinning.
"Damn!"
The hair was red — even in one of the silver mirrors favored by Egyptians over the brass ones like the Hebrews liked, it would still be red — the same red as Miriam's had been when he first saw her in the Cafe of the Infidels.
But it wasn't just the hair that shocked Casca.
"By Mithra! What in Hades have you done to my face?"
"Oh, Roman Nose, you didn't really think we women were born with the smooth faces you see, did you? A little something here. A little something there. A little rice flour. A touch of kohl. And a few other things." She smiled impishly. "We're pretty good, aren't we? How do you like your new face, the one that's saved your neck so far?"
Well, she had a point there. He held the mirror up again and liked what he saw even less than he had the first time. They had shaved his face so smooth it was impossible to see where the hairs had been, and they had put something on it halfway between paint and oil, so that even his scar — in which Casca had a certain pride — was no longer visible. He couldn't tell what they had done to his eyebrows — cut them, trimmed them, something — but now they had a thin, even line. His eyelids were darkened. It was no longer his face; it was the face of a woman. Not, however, a beautiful young woman. They had known the limitations of the material they were working with, and they had made him up as a woman a little the worse for wear.
"We women are magicians, are we not?"
Hmpf!
We women… where did she get that shit? Sudden fear gripped Casca.
"Er…"
"What is it, Roman Nose?"
"Am I… er…"
"Are you what?"
"The women… did they-"
Miriam laughed uproariously. "No! We got to you just in time. And I've never seen anybody heal as fast as you do. But it was a near thing."