A big, hairy, tough, ragged-clothed bandit who looked as if he had a large amount of northern blood in his veins was coming after him. Casca ducked and swung. But the bandit surprisingly parried his cut.
The son of a bitch!
They met again each holding the other's sword wrist in a strong grip. Fetid breath from the bandit's green mossy teeth and gums nearly made him gag. But the man was strong. Casca knew he couldn't take much time wrestling with him. As they pushed against each other he raised his right foot and suddenly stomped down with a callused heel on the man's arch. Bones broke. In agony the outlaw released his grip on Casca's wrist as he tried to run away on one foot like a child playing a one legged game. Casca ended the man's agony with a clean slice across the esophagus.
One minute the bandits were bearing down on them and all was in doubt. The next, the momentum had shifted. Momentarily without an opponent, Casca looked across an open space of ground, and his eyes locked on to those of a small, wiry man who had an Oriental look to him, the same man Casca had caught glimpses of during the hottest part of the battle, but always the wiry man was just out of reach of danger.
Must be their leader, Casca thought. Odd. A bandit leader scared for his own ass… He could see the look in the man's eyes. Pure hate. Guess he knows I'm the one who warned the camp.
As he watched, the bandit leader called in his men, and they made haste to get away.
Bu Ali wanted to go after them.
"No," Mamud decided. "Too much trouble. Not worth the effort." He beamed. "Ah, Kasim. Glorious, what?" He looked toward the east. "We were interrupted in our prayers. We must thank Allah again. Come, Kasim, you are an Arab now. I make you one. You will join in our prayers. Bu Ali, call the men together, and when they are prepared, we will have prayer."
This time Casca made sure he pissed before Mamud started praying.
There were two things that Casca did not know.
When he was miles away from the unsuccessful raid, Yousef, the bandit, reined in his horse and looked back.
The scar-faced one, he told himself, I'll cut out his heart and eat it…
And Bu Ali He lined the men up for prayer all right.
But a curse, not a prayer, was in his own heart.
A curse of jealousy for Kasim al Jirad the interloper, the man he was afraid might take his place in the esteem of Mamud.
We'll see about that…
Casca had mixed feelings as Baghdad appeared up ahead. It was a blur on the horizon of the plain. How long has it been? he asked himself, searching back in his memory and trying to recall what the city had been like then… and what women he had associated with it.
But his memory would bring him neither Baghdad nor women… only Ctesiphon.
Ctesiphon.
Less than a day's journey from Baghdad.
Ctesiphon.
Where he had fought in that first great battle after the Jew had damned him to live until His Return.
"You are thoughtful, Kasim."
It was Mamud, pulling up to ride beside him. For, since the battle with the bandits Casca had been given a horse and treated now more like a veteran Mameluke than a newly-captured slave destined for the block at Baghdad.
Casca frowned, then smiled. Shit! Mamud meant well. Might as well play along with him. "Yes, lord."
"Ah…!" The dark brown eyes of Mamud burned with an inner knowledge.
Obviously he wanted a response from Casca.
"What is it, lord?"
"I know you Franks. I know what's on your mind. And you can get it in Baghdad."
"What, lord?" Shit! Not many hours ago he made me a Muslim. Now I'm a Frank again. But Casca was not really angry, just amused. He had come to like the slaver, particularly after seeing him fight. In Casca's code any man who was very good at what he did was a friend. And Mamud was a damn good fighter.
"At the Cafe of the Infidels."
Seeing the complete puzzlement in Casca's eyes, Mamud laughed. "Ah
…! You have not been to Baghdad before."
"Well…"
"It is a great city. And it is a Muslim city. The Prophet is honored — as well he should be."
What the hell is he getting at? Casca always got nervous when religion became the topic. Too many damn unhappy memories.
"But," Mamud continued, "there is an understanding. Until you Franks follow the Prophet there is some provision for you. Hence the Cafe of the Infidels."
"The Cafe of the Infidels?"
"Ah, yes. Wine. And women. Particularly for you, Kasim, since you carry the air of a warrior — Miriam."
"Miriam?"
"A red-headed Jewess. Most unusual. I am told she is quite beautiful. And very good in bed."
"Yeah, but…"
"Oh, that. Do not worry, Kasim. Tonight you are free to come and go as you please. Tomorrow? Why, yes, tomorrow you must bring me a profit. I am not in business for my health. Tomorrow I sell you. But I tell you, Kasim, I am certain you will go to the Nizam al Mulk. A very fine master for you; a very good profit for me."
They were just topping a rise. Baghdad was closer now, the spires of minarets beginning to dance like lance points in the sky over the city's blur. And there was something else in the depression just ahead of them.
What in Hades is that?
Mamud laughed at the look on Casca's face. "The caravan of the Sheikh Faisal ibn Said? Ah, yes. It is a little unusual."
That, thought Casca, was an understatement. Ahead of them were half a dozen scruffy-looking but enormous covered carts pulled by teamed mules. And on the side of each cart, lettered with pigment that had once been red but now was faded, was the identical quatrain from the 55th Sura of the Koran: "Which of His manifold blessings dost thou so ungratefully deny?" The calligraphy was excellent, but everything else about the caravan from the apparently-aged leader and the raggedly-clothed drivers to the rough-looking mules and creaking axles said poverty.
Mamud lowered his voice. "The Sheikh Faisal — I doubt if he is really a sheikh — has been blessed by Allah." He touched his forehead to indicate that Faisal wasn't playing with a full set of dice. "But his men are great artists. They can carve a verse from the Koran in less time than it takes to make a lance."
Apparently assuming Casca could not read Arabic, he made no comment concerning the writing on the side of the carts.
"He had his harem with him. They must be a sorry lot."
The poverty of the ragtag caravan was depressing to Casca. But only for a moment.
After all, it said he was back in a world where eccentrics were accepted — the world of peacetime.
That meant no more killing.
Maybe I will go to the Cafe of the Infidels…
Bu Ali rode by him, turned and smiled.
It was an odd smile.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Cafe of the Infidels was like every grogshop Casca had ever been in. Settled on a long bench before a rough table in the smoky semidarkness and sipping the trade wine, which certainly wasn't to be compared to Falernian! — he reflected that, no matter what the country or the century, wine shops did what the Jew had damned him to do: they stayed as they were.
Mamud had kept his word. After they had arrived in Baghdad and settled the other slaves in the compound (done the housekeeping) he had told Casca he had the night to enjoy, had even sent Bu Ali with Casca to point out the Cafe of the Infidels.
As if I couldn't find my way around… Momentarily the thought had flickered in Casca's mind — familiar as he was with the devious intrigue of Persians as a whole — that maybe Mamud had some ulterior motive in dwelling on this one particular place. On the other hand, there probably weren't all that many places in Baghdad a non-Muslim could go to have himself a time. Still…
The cafe was, of course, in the meanest section of town, not far from the Tigris, and it was not much to look at. Bu Ali pointed it out, and Casca offered to buy him a drink though he knew that Bu Ali, Mameluke or no, was ostensibly a Muslim. He wanted to see how Bu Ali took it.