The Sami produced a swatch of silken cloth, holding it out for the other man to see. “Two drops of blood! Do you see them? This is the lifeblood of Sinan himself. I sent word to him of dark doings here five days ago. I begged him to advise me, and asked what must be done in the matter of the Kadi’s meddling with this stranger. Do you see the blood? Two drops! It is his mark that two must die. It is the only way.” His eyes bored into the man, searching him for any sign of weakness or infirmity.
“Finish! Sever the head and set it upon a stake as I instruct you. Rumors will run wild, and when the others see the head so displayed, there will be no question of the truth.”
The guard bowed and turned to the body in the pit. It was not his to reason matters of magic. Discernment was for another. His was the strong arm, and the deft cut of the knife. He hefted his dagger in his hand, bowed low, and bent to the work that remained undone.
17
Paul was in his sleeping chamber, the evening meal filling him with a drowsy heaviness. He had dined with Jabr again, and the two had discussed the morning session with the Kadi.
“How strange when the Sami approached you,” said Jabr. “In truth, I believe he meant to slash you with his dagger!”
“I thought the same,” said Paul. “Who is that man? Why was everyone so afraid of him?”
“They are wise in that,” said Jabr. “The Sami is the Master of Assassins. It is he who initiates the faithful. Every man in this hold must pass the scrutiny of his eye, and it is not a pleasant experience to endure that man’s gaze. It is said he has an evil eye, and all men fear him. All the more reason for surprise when he stayed his hand in the council chamber.”
“And the Kadi,” Paul had asked. “He seemed to wrestle with the other in his mind. I did not know what the two were saying, but it was clear that they were not in agreement.”
“It is often so,” said Jabr. “The Kadi is judge. His is the eye of discernment. The Sami holds to subterfuge, and the work of a dagger. But come, we darken our meal with such talk, and my time is short. Let us eat. The platter is rich and full tonight, the Kadi’s gift for all you endured this morning at council. Look: this here we call Bukhari. It is rice and lamb, with onion and carrot. Try it! And here we have Falafeclass="underline" chickpeas ground with spices and fried in scented oil. To cool the palate we have Fattoush, a salad of cucumber and tomato, sweetened with mint. It is very good! There are many other delicacies here, Kufta, Labehnah, and Ma’amul. The last is a confection made from dates. The other things you must test with your own tongue. Perhaps you can guess what they are. After we finish, there will be time enough for kahwa—that you have called coffee.”
So they ate, and talked, but Paul noticed how Jabr deftly avoided any question asked about the castle and what these men were doing here. Near the end of the meal Paul made a point to press Jabr for a chance to make a telephone call.
“See here, Jabr” he ventured. “You have been very gracious, and I am deeply indebted to you for your courtesy and hospitality. But I have friends that are probably wondering where I am now, and worried that something has happened to me. And I’m worried about my partner—the one who came to Wadi Rumm with me. Could I possibly make a phone call?”
Jabr scratched his beard, smiling until Paul made his request at the end. “What is it you wish to make?” He seemed puzzled.
“A phone call. There must be a telephone here somewhere, yes? I won’t speak long, and I promise to compensate you for any charges, and of course, for all you have done for me here.”
“Charges? I hear the words, but the meaning escapes me. What is the purpose of this thing you wish to make?”
Paul just looked at him, a bit flustered and somewhat frustrated. They often met such roadblocks in their talk. Was Jabr being deliberately coy with him, feigning ignorance of the language as a way of politely refusing the request. Paul decided to press him.
“Then are you saying am being held here against my will, incommunicado?”
“En-comunicado?” Jabr frowned, considering the word. “Ah,” he said. “I have heard the Christians speak of this. It is the dire warning given by your Pope in Rome, a fatal sanction or punishment for grievous sins.”
“You’re talking about excommunication,” Paul corrected him.
“Yes! Exactly that,” Jabr smiled. Then his mood darkened. “Do you fear that you will be cast out of your church because you have treated with us here? Fear not. If your Pope in Rome passes fell judgment upon you, then you may join with us! Yes! The mercy of Allah is wide. He will welcome you to the bosom of Islam, if you seek his will in all things.”
Then Jabr launched himself on a lengthy explanation of mercy and compassion, the two virtues at the very heart of his faith as a Muslim. Paul could see that he artfully dodged his question, and sighed heavily, listening to the treatise on the Koran as politely as he could. It was beginning to dawn on him that he was certainly being held a captive here. His jailers could not be more pleasant, but the whole scenario suddenly had the stench of ‘hostage’ about it.
He recalled that there was a long tradition of hospitality in the Arab culture—even amongst enemies. If a man ate from the table of an Arab, or tasted of his salt, then he could not be harmed, and would even be treated with great deference and respect, as one would treat an honored guest. The custom had deep roots, dating back even to the time of the Crusades when the knights of Christendom were set in open warfare against the Arabs in the Middle East.
At the outbreak of the Arab revolt in the desert that made T. E. Lawrence so famous, Feisal was visited by the Pasha of the Turks. Here the Arabs had their oppressor at their mercy, but Feisal would not besmirch the hospitality and honor of his house. The Pasha was accorded a sumptuous dinner and allowed to leave unharmed. There was something to be said for character like that, he thought. A pity that the virtue was lost in modern day terrorist cells. The treatment of captives had not been kind over the last twenty years. But what did they intend to do with him? Did they think to bargain for ransom? No, these groups were financed well enough without that. Besides, who would pay?
In the end, Paul was frustrated and gave up his effort to make the call. Jabr finished his coffee and slipped quietly away with a promise to come again in the morning. Now Paul lay upon the soft silk-covered cushions, dozing in a dreamy sleep. Some time later he awakened to the familiar scent of jasmine, and caught the rustle of someone padding quietly through the door in the lacquered wood lattice at the back of the room. It was Samirah.
The woman glided to his side, eyes averted and the hint of a blush upon her cheeks. The dark curls of her hair were gleaming with oil, and a single white flower adorned her head. As always, her gown fell loosely from her shoulders, and she was nearly naked beneath it, her breasts softly shadowed in the dim light of a lantern, her legs painted by the wavering of the flame. A garland of silver circlets hung about her neck, catching the light as she settled on a cushion next to Paul. She was bearing a small tray with a simple spouted brass pot and a porcelain class. Another of her potions, thought Paul, remembering the night he first awakened here with Samirah at his side.
He glanced at the pot, his thoughts leaping ahead with anticipation. No doubt it contained some mild narcotic. These people have been plying him with small doses of some delightful liqueur each night. The taste was bitter sweet, and its effect was very pleasant, a shroud of enveloping warmth followed by keen sensitivity that left him feeling exhilarated. Then Samirah would sidle close to him, loosening his robes. She would wet her hands with oil and explore his lean body in ways designed to compliment the drug quite nicely. The long night was deeply satisfying for him. Samirah would shed her gown and stretch out next to him, her smooth body pressed tightly against his while they slept.