Nexus Point

16

The Sami was pleased with all he had done this night. Soon, he knew, the plan would unfold, and the matter between him and the Kadi would be decided once and for all. It was already wakening while he waited in the Tower of Sinan, his thin hands tracing a path over the strange figures that were drawn on the scroll. Messages, he thought. Messages from Egypt. How the Kadi doted over them, afraid to speak any thought or render any judgment without consulting the scrolls. What were they that he should revere them so? They were no more substantial than the parchment they were traced upon—something to be crumbled in his hand, or put to the flame. He teased the fire of a candle with the edge of the scroll, watching as the fiber burned and charred at the edge, sending a thin trail of smoke up into the still air.

Words… Why should they matter so? The thought that any real thing could ever be written was folly to him. A man could make his way in the world by knowing, and by action. What was behind the heavy wooden door to this very chamber? He could only know by looking. And so tonight he would look. He would open his eyes and see what the mettle of the Kadi truly was.

In the dark hour, just before the setting of the moon, his guards came to the chamber of maids. The women were lounging in a hot steam bath, the smoke from the smoldering coals scenting the air and adding to the misty haze of the room. The Sami smiled to imagine their fear and surprise when his men set upon them. They were sent to find the harlot, Samirah, and drag her away to the tower. When the hour came he listened for the shrill cries echoing from the vaulted chambers of the castle. It was done, and he went to the tower where the woman was held, to work his persuasion upon her, and set his will in motion.

The light from a single torch painted the bare walls in hues of ruddy orange and sable. The guards turned with a milky fear in their eyes, then fell to their knees as they recognized the Sami when he entered, their heads bowed in supplication.

“Withdraw,” he told them, and his command was obeyed at once. The dry, scraping echo of the bolt on the door soon faded to silence, chased by the fleeing footsteps of the retreating guards. The harlot, Samirah, stared at him shaking with fear and the chill of the cold wall at her back.

He could see, behind the fear, the glimmer of recognition in her eyes. He saw how her breath came fast, for she had no doubt heard the tales describing the fate of those who were taken from the harem. They were bound in cold chains, tortured, the skin flailed from their bodies, and then cast about with black sorcery to be made witches and concubines of demons. The Sami laughed inwardly to think how he had long cultivated such rumors, feeding them as one might lay fresh wood on a fire. Once the fear had taken hold it would burn on its own, and he could see that the flame was well kindled in the eyes of the woman when he came to her. The Sami remembered how she struggled to turn her head away when he approached, but his eyes caught and fixed her gaze, as though she was already benumbed by some unspoken charm.

Yet, he did nothing. It was enough for him to simply hold the woman’s eyes with his own, until the unblinking strength of his will surrounded her like an icy fog. He could feel her fear, and knew that the longer he waited the more she would dwell upon the inner dread that consumed her with each passing moment. He would do nothing. Her own fear would be enough to suit his purpose.

When the moment came he recognized it at once. Her eyes grew glassy with tears and she gave a last sigh of resignation, broken to the terror that she conjured from within. At last he spoke to her, though his voice was soft and measured, his words carefully chosen.

"There are those who would sooner die than defile themselves by consorting with our enemies. It seems that you are not so pure as your face and form might show.”

Again the silence and the waiting, where each second became a dark space that Samirah filled with a thousand demons of her own making. Her breath came fast, yet she remained frozen, paralyzed by the unbending regard of the Sami. His eyes were like blue fire, scoring her, shaming her, promising just punishment.

“Hear me,” he said at last. “You will do a thing now that may yet redeem your soul from the blackness I perceive. You will gain atonement for your sin."

The glimmer of hope in her eyes was a hunger now, and he knew he could mold her as he wished. He took a deep breath, his hand upon his bearded chin, as though considering, and with each gesture, each subtle stroke of his finger, the woman became his willing servant.

"Atonement," he repeated, binding her with the very rope he extended to the pit of her fear. "Tonight you will go to the stranger, as you have these five nights past. This time you will take what I shall give to you, a small vial, a cleansing potion, and you will mix it with the evening drink. Do you hear?”

She held her breath, desperate to still the trembling of her body. “Do you understand?” The Sami repeated, and Samirah struggled to speak, but her voice was lost, a frightened breath that was barely a whisper. The Sami’s eyes held her, pressing into her, breaking her. The moment seemed interminable. He did not need her answer to know that all would be as he had spoken it. Still, a brief reminder of things that might be seemed appropriate to him as he turned to leave her.

“Hang now in these chains,” he told her. “Let your arms grow numb and your legs weaken in their iron grip. Know them well. Feel the coarse, cold rock upon your naked back. Hear the scrabble of rats in the straw upon the floor. This will be your abode if you should fail me. You will hang here for an age and more, and the guards will be sent to pleasure themselves and complete your shame.”

He pried open the bolt of the door, and slid through the portal on soundless feet. The business of the night was only just begun.

An hour later seven men stood in a damp chamber at the base of the high tower of Massiaf. It was the first time they had ever set foot in this hidden chamber of the castle, and dread began to possess them from the moment they heard the summons to meet there with the Sami. Now their eyes gaped at the scene before them, as if unwilling to believe what they were seeing. Their bodies shivered, the evening chill simply magnifying the cold terror that gripped them from within. By God, by holy God, the voice from beyond was speaking to them!

A silver platter sat on the stark inlaid floor stones. It was awash with freshly spilled blood, and there, square in the middle of the platter, was the disembodied head of a young initiate! They knew the man, a late recruit in the Sami’s den of Assassins. He had only just finished his first rite of initiation, drinking the cup of Paradise. While most would still languish in dreams after such an experience, his sleep had been final. Now his severed head sat in a pool of blood, the face bruised with livid welts, the flesh of his cheeks and forehead pale and sallow.

And the head spoke!

The eyes rolled in a dreamy trance and the mouth lolled open, slack and swollen. The head spoke to them! It warned of a great danger that had come upon them, a man sent by the enemies of Islam through a sacred passage reserved only for the highest initiates, only for the most pure. Yet he had defiled it with his presence, and cast a spell upon all who touched him. The head spoke!

It berated them for allowing such transgression, shaming them for their lack of vigilance. It cursed the name of one they were sworn to obey, and held him in blasphemy. The Kadi General, it told them, was weak and beset with an evil eye. He had fallen under the spell of the unbelievers. His judgment was skewed and he was delirious with his own self-importance. Then, last of all, the head spoke the will of Allah in this matter. The Kadi must die.

The seven men listened in horror, as the severed head gasped out a gruesome, gurgling scream. Then the eyes dimmed and fluttered closed. The purple tongue lolled out and was silent at last. The head returned to the dead, its message spoken, its decree branded into the hearts of all who listened. Their eyes were glassy with tears as they watched the ghastly scene conclude. Then a voice spoke from the high stone chair.

“So,” it whispered. “You have heard.” The Sami stood up, clutching the milky green amulet at his breast and extending a long arm, hand pointing at the seven men to drive home the charge that had been ordained for them. “You have seen and heard the will of Allah, with your own eyes and ears. Do not deceive yourselves, for such magic is very powerful, and can only be worked in times of great need. You are here, and now you know what you must do.”

The Sami spoke, and the men listened as he told them that they had been chosen to defend the faith and cleanse the castle. “The stranger must die,” he told them. “Have no fear. That is a task I will reserve for another. You need never see him, or risk his evil eye. I will accomplish it with my own devices. But yours is the greater task. For the evil eye has walked among us and poisoned the hearts of many. You have heard that even the Kadi General is among those led astray. He too must die, and you will bring holy retribution upon our enemies by the working of this deed. So, hear now, and obey. Go to the armory and take up weapons as you choose. Say nothing to anyone! Wash, in the manner taught to you, and pray before you set this task before you. Go to the Kadi and bear this scroll.”

He reached into the folds of his long white gown and drew out a rolled parchment scroll, tied off with a slender leather lace. “Say that it was late received from Egypt, and he will be eager for it, I assure you. Then you know what you must do when you draw near to him. Leave no one in the room alive to bear witness. Return here when the deed is done. Bar the door, and heed no voice but my own.”

The seven men stooped in a deep, respectful bow, then rose and left the room in silence, their faces as pale and drawn as the severed head on the platter before them. The Sami allowed himself a smile as he remembered his ploy, remembered how he rushed to the great oaken door and threw home the bolt. He stooped to regard the severed head where it lay upon the platter, fearless, a devious grin twisting his features. A moment later he leaned down to grasp the edge of the platter, pulling hard. It separated into two haves, each with a semicircle cut in the center so that a small hole, just the width of a man’s neck, would be created when the halves were joined. There was a narrow pit dug in the floor and, in it, the body of the young initiate slumped lifelessly to one side.

The body moved, but the Sami had no fear. He knew that another man, one of his chosen guards, was also secreted in the bottom of the pit where he had been holding fast to the bare legs of the initiate, a sleek dagger held tight against the mans loins, lest he fail in the duty the Sami had demanded of him.

The Sami sat on his haunches while his favored guard squeezed out of the hole. “Well done,” he whispered. “He played the moment wonderfully. Your knife stroke was perfect, and he died well. Now, finish the job and cut off his head in earnest. There is a burlap sack beside my chair. Place the head inside and take it out to the inner courtyard tonight. Mount it there upon a sturdy spike. It will stand as evidence that what these seven have seen here tonight was true. For they will speak. No man could harbor the vision we played out for them in his heart for long. When they are accused in the matter of the Kadi, they will speak. The Kadi will die tonight, along with the intruder and all who have been sullied by his coming. It is only fortunate for me that I stayed my hand when I moved to kill the man in council chambers. I did not touch him, and so I was not defiled.” He drew his robes tight about him.

“You have done well,” he said “but if your heart darkens at anything we must do this night to purify these chambers, remember only the words that were spoken to you long ago: that everything is permitted… Everything.”

He let the words hang in the air, knowing they would brand his man, and remind him of the rite of obedience he swore. “There is a wolf among us now, and we must be like wolves ourselves if we are to save the moment. This subterfuge was necessary to assure obedience, but for you I say this: tonight a bird came to me where I waited in the Eyrie of Sinan. Yes, it is forbidden to all, but not to me. See here where I keep the keys fastened at my belt? I waited there for news from Alamut, and a messenger came to my window. It bore this!”

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 Falafel: 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.

For all his misgiving about being held a hostage, he could think of much worse treatment. Yet he felt a twinge of guilt when he thought of Jen, the grad student he had been living with this last month. He had been helping the poor woman sort through her confusion over the consequences of the mission. Now, here he was consorting with this Arab beauty in the night, in Syria, of all places, which is where he surmised this place to be.

Samirah never spoke, at least not with words that he could understand. Yet the language of her body was clear and obvious across all cultural barriers. She meant to give him pleasure, undoubtedly at the behest of the leaders of this group, and she played her role with a skill that left Paul exhausted when she was through, wanting only sleep and the last warm embrace of her body next to his. Perhaps they meant to kill me with kindness, he thought. It was said that you could catch more flies with honey than vinegar, but he had little doubt that the other leader, the one they called the Sami, might prefer harder methods. What did these people want from him? Why were they holding him here? When would he get a chance to contact his friends at home?

He watched while Samirah quietly set the little tray she had been holding down beside a pillowed cushion. She reached for the small brass pot, and Paul saw that her hand was shaking slightly as she poured a thick liqueur into the porcelain cup. It had a scent akin to kahlua, yet with something added—probably hashish, Paul guessed. Samirah poured, her hand unsteady, almost quavering, and Paul wondered if she was chilled. The lower rooms where he was quartered became very cold at night, and the sun had long since set.

He leaned up on one elbow to take the cup but, as he did so, he sensed something wrong with the woman at his side. The light from the oil lamp revealed a trace of wetness on her cheek, and Paul saw the glistening trail of a tear there. She was crying!

As if aware of his attention, Samirah turned her head to one side, but Paul could see that she was only pretending to tend to the pot of liqueur, averting her face from him.

“Samirah?” he said. “What’s wrong?” He knew she would not understand his question, but his tone of voice carried the meaning clear enough.

She turned to him. Eyes bright with tears, and a squall of pain darkening her softly contoured features. She seemed to be struggling with some emotion, her lower lip quivering as she fought for control. Then, in a sudden motion that surprised Paul she reached out with her slim brown arm and batted the porcelain cup away, spilling the sweet, dark liqueur on the flagstone floor. Before Paul could react to that, she lunged at him, her arms embracing him as she wept.

For the hundredth time in this strange encounter, Paul found himself inwardly wondering what was going on. It was clear that Samirah was deeply moved by something. Her arms tightened around him, pulling him close, and her lips sought the nook of his neck where she kissed him softly, tenderly, with an affection that seemed driven by the turmoil within her. It was as if she was trying to say goodbye, he thought. His heart leapt at a sudden sound. There was a dry scrape as the wooden door creaked open and he heard the whisk of metal being drawn from a leather scabbard. Someone else was entering the room, a shadow advancing on them with weapon in hand.

18

The shadow vaulted across the room, prompting Paul to tense up with sudden anxiety. He instinctively rolled to his side to shelter Samirah, who lay upon him, in harm’s way. A fearful revelation pulsed in his brain and made him realize that this was the end of the long hospitality he had enjoyed here. He extended his arm, to ward the intruder off but, to his great surprise and relief, he saw the face of Jabr Ali S’ad illuminated in the ruddy glow of the lantern.

Jabr rasped something in Arabic, and Paul felt Samirah’s soft body tense up. She moved at once, gathering herself and drawing her robes tight about her slim body. “Come, Do-Rahlan!” Jabr’s whisper carried the weight of great urgency. “You cannot stay here this night. We must move quickly!”

He spoke to Samirah again, somewhat harshly. Paul saw how he eyed the stain of the spilled liqueur. How could he berate the woman for that? Yet, Samirah was clearly shamed. Her head lowered, face streaked with tears. Paul had the distinct impression that he was missing something in the equation, but he sensed the danger and rising tension in the room. He started to move, reflexively, pulling his loose robes tight and tying them off with a woven sash. As he stood up he turned to see Samirah, hastening away through the opening in the wood lattice. Jabr’s dark eyes followed her, but with little warmth.

“What’s happening?” he asked, his eyes instinctively searching the darkness for signs of hidden danger.

“The Sami’s men are moving tonight. A severed head was planted in the courtyard moments ago. It is a sign of evil. There is no time to explain, but we must go—and with great haste. Follow me, Do-Rahlan. It will be dark, and you will not know the way. Here, hold fast to the sash of my robe, and stay close. Move as quietly as you can. Come!”

Jabr led the way to the far end of the room and through a low stone arch there. It was the same passage that they had taken the previous morning on the way up to the Kadi’s council chambers, and the same two dour guards were waiting silently in the shadows as they passed the gate. This time they bent right to another landing where the stairs fell in a steep descent. As before, one of the guards took the van, drawn sword in hand. Jabr and Paul followed after, and then the last guard trailed in their wake.

The winding stone stair seemed interminable. Along the way he was dogged by the feeling of urgency that seemed to infect Jabr and the two guards. Then an odd thing happened. About half way down, by Paul’s reckoning, he heard the shuffling of other footsteps behind them. He strained to see, but the lighting was very poor here, and he could not make out what the commotion was before the sour faced guard came up from behind to nudge him on. Jabr had noticed his hesitation, and pleaded with him to hurry on, clearly worried. Paul’s legs ached by the time they halted at the bottom. It was a small Donjon, sturdily built with heavy mortared bricks and a low arch formed from wedges of coarsely hewn stone. The atmosphere of the place had a musty, muggy feeling, and he could see the gleaming trails of water seeping through cracks in the walls, and greenish moss on the stonework.

“Hold on,” he said. “Where are you taking me?”

Jabr gave him a wide-eyed glance, his finger covering his mouth to indicate silence. “We must be very cautious now,” he whispered. “We must move you to a new location, a hidden chamber. I will explain later.”

That’s done it, Paul thought. There was some unresolved argument between the Sami and the Kadi, and now he was being moved. He began to realize, with a sinking feeling, that he was probably a hostage after all. The two sides were just quarreling over his fate. Perhaps the argument was over whether he should be kept alive as a propaganda tool, or killed outright, like many Westerners had been slain at the hands of Muslim radicals in recent years. The only hope he held was the notion that this group seemed to want him alive.

He hurried on, through the low arch and down a long circuitous underground route that eventually ended in a black iron gate. Jabr produced a key, and the gate grated open. “I regret that our accommodations will not be so comfortable now,” he said, gesturing for Paul to pass through.

The gate opened to a small portal chamber with a similar gate on the far wall. The outermost opening was supported by massive basalt lintels, dark with age and wear. Once inside Paul was surprised at Jabr’s next statement. “I must ask you to undress,” he said hurriedly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Please, there is very little time. You must change clothing.” One of the guards tramped in with an armful of dull brown burlap.

“As you wish,” said Paul, feeling very uncomfortable about this situation. “What about the clothes I was wearing when I arrived?” He suddenly realized that he had his wallet, money, keys and other personal effects with him that had gone missing.”

“I’m very sorry,” Jabr said quickly. “They were all destroyed by fire. It is customary when anyone comes through the well. Please, we must hurry.”

Paul didn’t like the sound of that. Now there would be no easy way he could identify himself to the authorities if he ever obtained his freedom. He wondered if they meant to kill him here and now. Were they merely reclaiming the finery he had been dressed in so they could dispose of his body in these rags? He took up the garment, unhappy to see how it was soiled and muddied, as though only recently cast off by a traveler on the road. Was this to be his burial gown? Resigned, he undid the woven sash at his waist, and moments later he was tying off the new robe, if it could be called such, with a simple twine rope.

“The hood,” said Jabr. “Please cover your head.”

Paul reached back to pull the drooping hood up onto his head, realizing that he must look like a cloistered monk in these heavy brown robes.

Jabr squinted at him. “That will do. Be careful not to show your face. We must move quickly now.”

It comforted Paul to see that both the guards, and Jabr himself were changing into similar garb. It was now evident that they meant to secret him away from the castle, and they seemed in a great hurry.

“Alas,” Jabr forced a smile. “Samirah was nearly turned by the Sami. I think she meant to poison you tonight, or at least she was pressed to that deed by some great fear. I am sorry to have burst in upon you in such an unseemly manner, but if you had taken the cup from her hand I think your sleep would have been very dark. Sadly, you will not enjoy her company tonight. Before you count your losses, consider that your life may be gained by this move. Things did not go well with the Sami. The severed head is an ill omen. His men are afoot in the castle and there may be bloodshed soon. The Kadi has ordered me to secure your life, but the next few hours will be critical. Another will lie in your place, dressed in your robes, and carry out the ruse that you are still in your quarters as before. I do not envy him. Come, we must make haste!”

The guards pushed open the outer gate and they passed through to emerge at the stony edge of a steep precipice. As his eyes adjusted Paul soon saw a narrow path winding down into a cloven gully, lit by a low setting moon, and partially obscured by the hills. The whole setting was overshadowed by the brooding prominence of a great castle that had been built on a high limestone hill. The walls leapt up from this point, as if they had grown from the sheer cliffs about them. The tawny stones were scored with the weathering of wind and occasional rain, yet they seemed impregnable—a massive fortress of brick and rock spiking up into a gray-black sky.

Paul realized that their long descent had taken them below the level of his original quarters. Apparently the castle builders had exploited many natural crevices and hollows to delve out a series of underground passageways and vaults beneath the rugged limestone elevation.

“Follow quickly,” said Jabr. “Keep to the shadows. The way may be open for a time, yet we must be very careful. I do not think that the Sami could to spy us out in this light, even from the Eyrie of Sinan, but he will certainly have watchers on the outer towers. This way is seldom used, and not easily seen from above. We must reach the chamber of hiding before the Sami realizes you are gone.”

So much for drifting to this place on the underground river, thought Paul. He was on a high range of coastal mountains, and the terrain about them looked nothing like Wadi Rumm. How could he have reached this promontory height from an underground cavern? Think now, he told himself, you must have been driven here while unconscious. He was very confused, but pressed by the immediacy of the danger.

There was now little doubt in his mind that the Sami had argued for his death in the council that morning. He probably meant to stab him or cut his throat, but something stopped the man when he approached. Perhaps he could not risk such an obvious act of defiance in the presence of the Kadi. Paul thought of Samirah and the decoy that would take his place in the room where he had been quartered. He wondered what would happen to the girl if Jabr’s suspicions about her complicity in the plot proved true. The subtle clues began to mount up in his mind, and he understood why she seemed so upset. The porcelain cup had been filled with a lethal agent. She had been ordered to poison him! Yet, though her fear compelled her to obey, and pour the dark liqueur for him as before, something else happened there. She dashed the cup away, protecting him on an impulse. He must tell Jabr that Samirah should not be harmed.

The way led them down into a steep ravine, overgrown with scrub and thorn. The thick outer garments were coarse and itchy, but they made good sense to Paul now. He was grateful for the protection they afforded as the small party slipped through the gorge, descending all the way. They walked for nearly half an hour before they came upon two horses tied to a withered tree stump. One was a gray-flecked mare, and the other a sturdy caramel plow horse with heavy fetlocks and muddied hooves. Jabr approached them silently, and Paul saw that he had produced a small handful of brown sugar, which he used to quiet the horses while the two guards took up their reins and prepared to mount.

“We will ride two men to each horse,” said Jabr. “I will go forward with Hamza, and you will follow with Aziz. They are good men both. Have no fear.” He watched while Paul cast a sidelong glance at the plow horse. “Do you ride well?”

“To be honest,” Paul confessed, “I’ve never been on a horse in my life.”

This brought a moment of real surprise to Jabr’s eyes. He stared at Paul, as if trying to see through him, see into him to some understanding of who he was and why he had come. “You are no Templar,” he concluded. “That much is certain. And I doubt if you are a sergeant or even a squire if you have never set your cheeks upon the back of a horse. The Sami was wrong. Come now, Aziz will assist you.”

Yes, thought Paul. I’m no Templar—but who in blazes are you? Where in God’s name am I—or must I call upon Allah now to find that out? He knew that much of the world still lived in backward, almost medieval conditions, but this was too much. How could a band of Arab radicals be occupying the ruins of an old castle with complete impunity? All those sites were considered antiquities now and carefully managed by local governments. Yet these men ran about with turbans and swords as if they were acting out some private little fantasy here. It was all too strange. Nothing made sense!

Paul needed the help of both guards to get up on the back of the plow horse. Once he was safely mounted, the guard, Aziz, leapt deftly aboard, seating himself behind Paul and urging the beast on.

Paul squinted through the hood of his robe at the landscape around him. He was struck by the barren emptiness of it all. The hills were sparsely vegetated, falling off to a tumbled lowland below. He could see no sign of the village Jabr had mentioned. It was very odd. There were no lights, no glow of cities in the distant darkness of the night. Wherever this castle was, it must surely be remote. He looked over his shoulder at the stark outline of the castle in the distance and suddenly knew what was wrong.