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seen anybody heal as fast as you do. But it was a near thing."
"Then I'm . . . all right?"
"I hope you are. Because I intend to test you just as soon as you're able . .
. to perform at your best, that is. I've never had a man of my own choosing,
one I 'put together myself,' so to speak. No, Roman Nose, I'm betting -- and
hoping -- you'll be as good as new. Now, drink this. It will put you back to
sleep again."
* * *
So Casca lived with the women. Even when he was well enough to be up and
about, Miriam insisted that he continue the charade. Something about
"in­spiration." Casca did not tell her that he had never needed
"inspiration" before. To tell the truth, though, he did dread moving back with
the men, because he knew, the first smartass who made a crack would get his
grinning face smashed in. And that didn't seem quite fair, considering all the
risks these men had run for him. Besides, at least three more times the
caravan was stopped by groups of the Sultan's men, and each time it was the
disguise as a woman that saved Casca. Miriam and Ruth had it easier. Ruth was
dressed as a young boy -- the Sultan's men probably thought "eunuch" -- and
for Miriam, slovenly dress, a smear of dirt on her face, and black hair
changed her com­pletely. Casca thought the black hair was probably
original, since, when he asked how she got his hair red, she answered, "Henna.
From Egypt."
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Miriam was unlike any whore Casca had ever known. She did have one failing
though, religion. (After his own unfortunate experience with the
reli­gious, Casca tended to see danger signals in the pious­ness of
others.) Yet he had to admit that Miriam, like Faisal, saw religion as
something that made life better rather than the other way around, which was
what Casca had so often seen. She delighted in reading to him stories from the
religious scrolls Faisal had stored in secret compartments in his own cart.
One story in particular she came back to over and over -- the story of Rahab
the whore who had hidden two Israelites under the cane rush of her roof in
order to save them from the king's men. Casca suspected Miriam saw in Rahab
the whore a reflection of herself. It seemed that she had helped Faisal often
before. There was a secret passageway into the seraglio.
"Then I wasn't dreaming?"
"The pain you must have been in, you might have been dreaming. Of death. But,
no, we were there. It was the night agreed on for me to come for Ruth."
"Lucky for me."
"Luck? No, Roman Nose. The hand of God."
There was no point in arguing with her. She had this faith in a God of
Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob so deeply ingrained in her that Casca resisted the
temp­tation to kid her about it. Hell, she even gave credit for his rapid
healing to her "prayers" for him. A nice twist, he thought. Here's a whore
who's more reli­gious than most "respectable" women I have known. Yet,
oddly, her religious feelings weren't obnoxious. Kinda nice, in a strange sort
of way.
The primary thing about her was, of course, her body. Somewhere there probably
were more beautiful bodies -- nothing is ever so good it can't be bettered
somewhere else, Casca had to remind himself. But this body here and now was
damn, damn good, and increasingly he looked forward to bedding her.
There was one problem, though. This intimacy with women was too much. This
eating with them, bathing with them, dressing with them -- this living with
them constantly did things to a man. Casca wondered if-
"Tonight."
"What?"
Casca had been hunkered down on the hard board seat at the front of the cart,
watching the line of moun­tains ahead toward which they jolted, when
Miriam had come up behind him and spoken into his ear in a voice so low it was
almost inaudible.
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"Tonight," she repeated. "You're well now. We've waited long enough. Tonight I
bed you -- or you bed me, if your manly pride insists it be that way."
* * *
That night, two things:
One, he was healed completely.
Good as new.
And, two, she was very, very good . . . .
* * *
"Time to go." It was Faisal's voice, rousing Casca out of sleep. When he
looked up, his arms still around the nude body of the sleeping Miriam snuggled
against his own naked flesh, he saw amused approval in Fais­al's eyes.
"Time to go," Faisal repeated. "Before the dawn comes."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Dawn found Casca miles from the caravan, riding an old French warhorse and
wearing a secondhand suit of armor but with a brand-new identity. He was now a
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knight, and he had a rolled-up parchment scroll in a brass case to prove it.
"Not that it will do all that much good," Faisal had said. "I've never known a
knight yet who could read and write, and the monks are so poor at it -- about
all they can do is stumble through a little of their Bible -- that almost any
piece of paper with writing on it will impress them."
So Casca was now Sir Cayce Noire of Ruthmir in Ireland.
"Why Ireland?"
"I don't know. An old man's private whim I suppose. When I was younger -- much
younger than you -- I was a soldier, a mercenary. I soldiered with a lot of
men, but one I recall said he came from Ireland."
"'Where's that?' I asked."
"He said, 'in the Western sea, ' and, frankly, I don't know where that is --
or whether such a place actually exists. But he was a damn good soldier. You
are, too, so it fits. Besides, it's a good idea to have you from some very
unfamiliar place. An Irish mer­cenary in Norman armor. The 'Noire' is for
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that black boss on your shield. The 'Ruthmir' I made up from Ruth and Miriam.
There again none of the knights you might meet is going to show his ignorance
by admitting he never heard of such a place. That's the beauty of dealing with
ignorant people, my Roman friend. The one thing they least want known is the
depth of their own ignorance."
So Casca had set out in the darkness for a castle in the hills ahead that
Faisal knew about. It was on the route the Frankish pilgrims took to Jerusalem
and was patrolled by a group of monks antagonistic to the order in Jerusalem.
(The order of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem to which Friar Dilorenzi
had be­longed.) Casca did not tell Faisal that it was he who had
assassinated the friar. These monks were com­peting for the "honor" --
there must be money in it somewhere, Casca interpreted -- of aiding the
pil­grims, and they were putting together a military arm.
"A perfect opening for you," Faisal had said. "You can 'consider' joining
them, go with the next band of pilgrims heading west, and then when you get to [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]