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Casca was awake before Jerusalem, but he waited until the city stirred, until
long after "the phantom of false morning died" -- as one Persian poet said --
and true dawn was bloodying the stones of the ancient city. When he was
certain Dilorenzi's household was awake, he climbed the courtyard wall and
went to the oil-soaked timbers piled by the scaffolding. He took from under
his woolen robe the purchase from the Greek soldier, and broke the jar on the
oil as he had been instructed, but when he tried to take the stopper from the
vial of seawater, the resin that made it waterproof resisted. He was
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pulling on it when the surprised face of the cook appeared in the kitchen
window. The cook yelled in alarm.
Giving up on the stopper, Casca picked up a rock and held the vial over the
Greek fire mixture. When he broke the vial, and the water hit the mixture,
flames exploded, and one piece of broken glass drove itself upward, narrowly
missing his face. But the oil caught fire as planned, and the flames roared up
the scaffolding. Casca ran to the side of the doorway.
The young Greek slave was first out. Casca felled him with a single blow of
his fist and pulled him clear of the rope loop. The big cook was next. Casca
used a timber on him, hitting the dirty head with enough force to topple the
cook forward. His left foot, though, was still on the rope loop, and at that
moment Dilorenzi, naked, eyes bleary with sleep, appeared in the doorway.
Casca did not have time to move the cook. He grabbed the rope and heaved,
hoping the loop would clear or the cook would move, and yelled at the top of
his lungs.
The ruse worked. The cook jerked his foot at the yell, and Dilorenzi was
transfixed. The loop caught him around the ankles and tightened. Immediately
Casca dropped the rope, moved to the friar, felled the fat monk with a blow
behind the ear, ran back to the rope, and heaved. The monk was heavy. Casca
threw his weight into it. The naked Dilorenzi rose, head down, hanging by the
heels. Casca pulled him up, secured the rope to the scaffold, drew the
butcher's knife from under his robe, and moved toward the dangling friar.
By now the young Greek slave had come to and the cook was trying to rise to
his feet. Most of the scaffolding was in flames, but not yet near the
doorway. An uproar was beginning in the streets, and men were running,
hoping to peer over the courtyard wall.
Casca slit Dilorenzi's throat. Blood gushed out, a red fountain now in the
bright sunlight. The fat monk, dying, hung like a side of meat from his own
doorway.
He had considered his Turkish victims fit only for slaughter, so Casca paid
him back in his own coin -- slaughter.
Then Casca headed toward the courtyard wall, bloody knife still in his hand.
Nobody tried to stop him.
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* * *
Bu Ali had completed his assignment. Dressed as a Sufi like Casca had been, he
assassinated Nizam al Mulk with a dagger while Nizam was traveling with the
court between Isfahan and Baghdad, in the Frankish reckoning October 14,
1092.
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Bu Ali got clean away and returned to Castle Alamut expecting high praise
from Hassan al Sabah for a job excellently done.
He arrived an hour after word of Kasim's much more gaudy execution of Friar
Dilorenzi had come, electrifying the castle.
Kasim . . .
Jealousy burned in Bu Ali's heart.
One of these days . . .
* * *
Hassan al Sabah's eagle eyes gleamed. This Kasim was a find. One must make
better use of his talents. There was, for example, the matter of the Emir of
Apnea. The Emir had already been given the Golden Dagger, and Bu Ali had been
given the assignment since it was recognized at Castle Alamut that Bu Ali was
the best. Now Hassan called for Bu Ali.
Bu Ali was with Casca at the time, both heading for their "trip to Paradise,"
the reward for their deeds. Bu Ali looked forward to this, and there was need
for haste since he had to get back to Baghdad and Mamud. The slaver must not
discover that the captain of his Mamelukes was an Assassin and the
cock-and-bull story of a visit to a sick uncle a bald lie. Therefore it pained
Bu Ali to watch Kasim go ahead of him, and it pained him even more when he had
to wait for Hassan. The leader of the Assassins was in one of his meditative
moods, and by the time he had Bu Ali in his presence it was already too late
for the Mameluke's "trip to Paradise." But perhaps he has some special reward
for me . . . .
"The matter of the Emir of Apnea . . ."
"Yes, my lord?"
"I have changed my mind. Kasim will get that assignment."
"Kasim?"
"Yes." For a moment Hassan saw an odd look in Bu Ali's eyes, and the thought
occurred to him that perhaps Bu Ali might know of Kasim's past.
But there was no need to pump the Mameluke. Kasim himself would supply any
answers needed. He had already seemed eager to talk. Up to now it had not
seemed important to Hassan. Now he began to consider more and more the
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possibility of using Kasim as an impostor for Longinus. The matter of the
scarred face could be taken care of. After all, one could put on a man's face
as many scars as one wished . . . .
* * *
Unknown to Hassan, the Assassin spy in the Emir's household, the man who had
planted the dagger, had been caught and taken to the Emir's torture chamber.
Before he died he had told his torturers the only pieces of information which
he had -- the date, the place, and the method of the Emir's assassination.
Unlike most such matters, this Hassan had revealed the details of his victim's
demise. Now the Emir knew these details -- but not who the Assassin would be.
He also knew the place.
And the method . . .
Ah . . . !
* * *
Yousef the bandit did not know of Casca's role as an Assassin. But the image
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of the scar-faced man had been branded in his brain. Yousef had fallen upon
hard times ever since the ill-fated raid, and he blamed his bad luck upon the
scar-faced one. It was he who spotted Yousef and his bandits up in the high
ground just before Mamud and his slave caravan would arrive safely in Baghdad.
He had alerted the slave master at the moment when his archers were about to
release their arrows. It was a brilliant ambush, but the scar-faced one had
ruined it. Everything had gone wrong since that time. Even now, as Hassan gave
the assignment to Casca, Yousef was standing in an alley in the Emir of
Apnea's city, having gone there for temporary refuge and reduced to the status
of a petty criminal who stole from those unwary enough to go out into the
streets alone at night.
The scar-faced one . . .
If Yousef ever saw him again he would make him pay dearly.
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