Assassin

by Leland Thoburn


The assassins themselves were unimportant. They were disposable, like arrows. If captured, they had no useful knowledge of their masters, the Hashashin, and their desire for death made capture rare. If one failed, no matter, there would be another. Eventually one would get through. They always did.
Two months earlier, the assassin had almost succeeded.
It was a Saturday and Saladin, the Sultan of what is now Egypt and Syria, answered the muezzin’s call to prayer. He was joined by every able bodied Muslim, regardless of rank. The most powerful man in the Islamic world regularly prayed beside bricklayers, merchants, tribesmen, or whomever Allah placed beside him. Not that it mattered. In the eyes of Allah, all were equal.
But it mattered to Ohmad. Ohmad was one of Saladin’s bodyguards - a young but ambitious member of the elite Royal Guard. The Hashashin were notorious for their ability to infiltrate even the most secure inner sancta. At prayer, however, the only obstacle would be Saladin’s bodyguards. Ohmad swore an oath that that would be enough.
He saw the sudden movement, and moved just as quickly. The blade intended for Saladin sliced Ohmad’s cheek instead, while Ohmad’s blade found more vital organs. A few minutes later, prayers resumed.
There were three notable outcomes from this first, failed attempt.
First, Ohmad was promoted to chief bodyguard. From then on, Ohmad would be the one closest to Saladin.
Second, Ohmad’s already fierce visage was now rendered more so by a bright red scar that ran from eye to mouth.
Third, another assassin was harvested from amongst the currents and eddies of humanity that poured across the trade routes of the Middle East.

* * *

Siraaj had been three weeks in the desert, and he was thirsty, not just for liquid but for all of the satisfactions of the flesh. Most could be found in and around Hama. Not all had to do with women.
The sun had set, but the air was still warm with the residue the day. Siraaj wandered the marketplace. His first goal had been food, but as his eyes passed over the stalls he forgot about hunger. He had never conceived of the prayer rugs, tokens, and rare herbs that surrounded him. Of all that he saw, he was most captivated by the incense.
“How much?” he asked, fingering a small cube of Kyphi.
“Be gone, sand rat.” The shopkeeper angrily waved the boy away and turned to another customer.
Siraaj felt his cheeks burn with a flush. He felt shamed. He stared at the shopkeeper, then at that fragrant cube in his hand. He felt the eyes of everyone in the market upon him as he slipped the cube into his waistband. To his surprise, no one protested as he wandered away from the stall.
Siraaj walked no more than twenty feet before coming to his senses. He had never stolen before. He did not like being afraid, and he did not like being a thief. He slipped the now repugnant cube into a small urn by an herb-seller’s table, and turned away.
The growling of his stomach became irresistible. He turned from the marketplace and found what he was looking for in an alley off the main bazaar.
The stand was not much more than a few stools, jars, and an open pit fire from which the smell of roast lamb spread through the alley. A stoop-shouldered, hirsute man named Moosa squatted by the fire, turning a spit.
“Food?” Siraaj asked. Moosa nodded in the direction of a stool. Siraaj sat. Moosa carved the lamb and scooped emmer on to a plate.
Siraaj looked at the food. “Bismillaah. In the name of Allah and upon the blessings of Allah I eat.”
“Bismillaah,” growled Moosa with no enthusiasm. “You’re new to Hama, aren’t you?”
“Three weeks. Bostra,” were the only words that escaped the torrent of food which his fingers bore to his mouth.
Moosa nodded. He’d seen the type before. Young men - little more than boys - on their first journeys. Thin, beardless, and while not always naïve they were always unsure. Hunger eventually drove them to the cities.
“You miss your wife?”
“No wife.” Siraaj continued eating.
“You miss your family?”
Siraaj remembered his mother. The sight of her, alone in the caravan when he said his goodbyes, still hurt. The only antidote had been the excitement of his journey.
“You do miss them, uh?” Moosa persisted.
Siraaj became annoyed at the questions, but he did not wish to appear unsociable. He shook his head.
Moosa nodded. Behind his back, his index finger pointed down for one long second, then curled into his palm.
“You look thirsty. Some tea perhaps?”
Siraaj nodded and kept on eating.
Moosa brought a metal cup filled with a strong, pungent beverage unlike any Siraaj had tasted. There was a mustiness to it, or maybe it was just the omnipresent smell of livestock. But it was refreshing, and he drank from the cup which Moosa ensured was never empty.
Soon, Siraaj was sated. He looked around. All of the sights and sounds of the bazaar seemed to magnify for his private pleasure. The rhythmic singing of the Nasheed seemed to have no beginning, no end. He felt a deep contentment for that time and place. He reached for more tea. A lone star blinked in the deep blue of the evening sky. He watched it grow brighter. Siraaj felt a kinship with the star. It was alone, like himself. He stared at that star…

* * *

Siraaj did not know how long he had been asleep. He only knew that the bazaar was now dark, its few remaining inhabitants more furtive than festive. In a panic, he grabbed at his bags. Nothing had been taken, but his sudden movement made his head spin. Siraaj tried to rise, but every direction seemed the same - up, right, left, down. He let gravity take over, and fell to his knees.
Siraaj had tasted wine, and he knew the fog it engendered, but this was different. He stood and shook his head. He felt weak but managed to hold himself steady with the help of an urn. A shadow flitted to his left. Siraaj tried to clear his head. Another shadow moved to his right. Siraaj turned.
A bearded man, his eyes and mouth flared open, sprang up. The man screamed, and to Siraaj it was as if the banshees of hell had been released. A shock as of a thousand stampeding camels radiated from the back of his head, and then blackness.

* * *

When Siraaj awoke, he was naked. The softness of his bed confused him. He had never felt silk, and he had never slept on feathers. The room in which he lay was small - not much larger than his bed. Ferns grew out of vases embedded in the white marble walls. The sweet scent of flowers suffused the room. The light was indirect, washed clean of all tint by the stone. The room was everything that the hot, dry desert was not.
In the distance, Siraaj heard water trickling. He tried to sit up, but the movement made him dizzy, and he fell. He cried out as pain exploded from the back of his head.
He felt his scalp. Other than a lump and some matted blood, there seemed to be no serious damage.
Siraaj lay still. The only commotion was in his mind. Where was he? Surely this was a mistake. He was not deserving of such luxuries, and certainly he could not pay for them. He was planning the apologies he knew he’d have to make when a woman came into the room.
Siraaj had never seen a naked woman. Well, his mother, but he never thought of her as a woman, not that kind of woman. But here was a woman. She carried a platter of food. Another naked woman followed. She carried a pitcher and a cup. They knelt by Siraaj’s bed, their breasts bouncing lightly as they settled. Siraaj tore his eyes away, embarrassed and ashamed. He clutched a blanket close to his body.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The women smiled and laughed. “Here, eat.” The woman with the food scooped grilled sheep and rice onto a platter. The woman with the pitcher set it down and helped Siraaj sit up.
Siraaj became acutely aware of his erection, and folded his legs to his chest to hide his shame.
The women took turns feeding him. The grilled sheep was the best he had ever tasted. The drink was warm milk, sweetened with honey and containing the same musty taste he remembered from the market. The market! It came back to him now. Siraaj jerked up in bed, spilling the drink and startling the women.
“Where am I?” he demanded. The woman giggled, and lifted the cup to his mouth. Siraaj drank deeply, and as he did, he stared into the women’s eyes. He had never seen green eyes.
Soon, Siraaj didn’t care where he was. A warmth settled over him, and he lay on his bed. He straightened his legs - he was no longer worried about his erection or anything else.
The woman who had brought his food pulled back his blanket. She smiled and straddled herself across his middle, settling in slowly, and, it seemed, almost painfully. The woman who had brought the drink leaned over and kissed him with her tongue. Siraaj didn’t know about tongues, and its touch startled him. Almost instantly he liked what he felt, and he returned her caresses passionately.
The sounds of their lovemaking drew others into the room. Soon, Siraaj was surrounded by countless women, all naked, all intent on his pleasure.
For the next three days the women seemed to swirl about him, like leaves in a wind. Each day was a never-ending stream of “now”, each “now” as full of pleasure and sensation as he could imagine. He ate, drank, made love, and rested, to the exclusion of all else. Whenever he tried to ask a question, fingers pressed against his lips.
They came and went, like birds, bringing food and drink to his nest. Siraaj tried to count how many women there were, but he always lost track.
Soon, he discovered that one of the women was special - a petite, dark woman his age. Her eyes were large and round, made more so in contrast to her nose and mouth, both of which were small. While some of the women would look at him, only she could look inside him and touch him, below the level of the flesh. She had whispered her name to him in a moment of passion - Basami. Somehow, when they were coupled, nothing else could add to his pleasure.

* * *

Siraaj awoke. He lay still, basking in the serenity of the last three days.
The dizziness was still upon him, but it had become a familiar acquaintance, and he could now function in its spell. For three days he had ventured outside his room only for the toilet. Now he decided to explore.
Outside of his room was a hallway. The light that reflected off the stone bathed everything in a uniform whiteness. The only sounds were from the left - the trickling of water he had heard in his room. Siraaj turned towards it.
The stone walls were polished smooth, with flecks of gold carried on swirls of white and cream in the stone itself. Small, scowling lions’ heads made of stone adorned the walls at regular intervals.
Siraaj turned a corner. The hallway opened onto a courtyard filled with green bushes and fragrant red flowers. The sound was coming from a fountain in the garden’s center. Siraaj stared in awe - bubbling from the fountain was milk, not water.
Urns of honey stood next to the fountain. He dipped his finger and tasted. The sweetness curled his lips. He had known honey, but none like this - its sweetness was alloyed with a spice he had never tasted. It seemed to reverberate through his senses and overwhelm him with cravings. He ate until he could eat no more. Then, he sat down and closed his eyes.
Siraaj heard a noise and looked up.
An old man stood in front of him. His hair was long and gray and matched his beard. There was a kindly expression on his face. He was dressed all in white. He wore gold bracelets, necklaces, rings, and earrings such as Siraaj had never seen. “My friend.” The old man gestured towards Siraaj.
Something in the old man terrified Siraaj. He stood up, frightened, only to fall down. When he looked up again, the old man was smiling.
Siraaj ran back to his room, the lions’ eyes hunting him as he fled. He fell onto his bed and closed his eyes. He thought of his mother, and of his childhood in the desert. It was the only way to stabilize his thoughts when the dizziness overwhelmed him.

* * *

A noise like a flutter of wings awoke Siraaj. Basami had entered his room. She was carrying a platter, a pitcher, and a small bucket. For the first time, she and Siraaj were alone.
“Basami.”
She smiled.
“I like saying that name.”
“I like hearing you say it.” She kissed him gently, not as a prelude to anything, just a kiss. She lifted her head, and Siraaj thought he saw moisture in her eyes.
“Today is my day to feed you. I am glad.” She swept the hair back from her head. She scooped grilled fish and lentils into his mouth. Her fingers lingered on his lips, touching, caressing, until he licked the last of the food from her hands.
She poured him the familiar warm, musty milk and honey. As he drank, Basami began to rub scented oils over his body.
Siraaj looked her over carefully. “I once knew a nomad girl like you. She was gypsy, I was peasant, I couldn’t know her.”
“You can do as you wish here.”
“Where am I?”
“They have not told you?”
Siraaj shook his head. Basami continued caressing his skin, awakening the flesh.
“Basami, I-”
Basami’s lips closed on Siraaj’s. Soon, he felt the familiar timelessness and contentment settle on him, his every sense awakened to every pleasurable sensation, which Basami readily supplied.
When they were done, Basami kissed him every place she had touched. Her lips were light. Siraaj relaxed, his eyes closed, his senses given to the pleasure. Then, nothing. He opened his eyes. Basami was gone.
Siraaj settled back on his pillow and closed his eyes.

* * *

“Glory to Allah, and all that he brings.”
Siraaj thought the words part of his dream.
“Glory to Allah, and all that he brings,” the voice repeated.
Siraaj sat upright, startled. The old man from the courtyard rested on his knees beside Siraaj’s bed.
“Welcome, my friend,” the old man said.
“Thank you.” Siraaj slurred. Then, he sprang up and bowed quickly. He spoke rapidly as he remembered the appropriate reply. “Glory to Allah, and all that he brings.” Siraaj looked around. “Where am I?”
“Heaven,” the old man replied with a smile.
Siraaj sat down. He poured over the memories of the last week. Already the desert, the market, Hama - all seemed to be a world away. The only reality that remained was this bed, the women, Basami, and now the old man.
“How…?”
“Evil men assaulted you in the marketplace in Hama. Allah - may his glory never fail - saw you fall. He has taken pity on you and has chosen you for heaven, for his service.”
Siraaj felt a flash of guilt. He had studied the Quran glibly, no more or less diligently than his friends, and he felt unworthy. He looked at the old man. The smile seemed to forgive Siraaj his sins, and ecstasy washed away guilt. To be chosen - this was a dream beyond the expectation of any man.
“The pleasures of serving Allah know no limits.” The old man stood and swept his hand around as if to indicate Siraaj’s room and all that was in it. “Enjoy.”
As he left, eight women filed in, bringing meat, drink, and themselves. Siraaj lay back and smiled, his contentment now reaching beyond the physical to the very depths of his soul.

* * *

“How are you today, my friend?” The old man smiled as he entered the room.
Siraaj lifted himself slowly from his mattress. His head felt like it was drifting, as it had since he arrived - how many days ago? He could not be sure. Basami was real. He could be sure of little else. He had learned that the old man’s name was Hassan. Siraaj spoke. “Could a man be happier than in the service of Allah?”
Hassan knelt beside the bed. His visits had become both frequent and welcome, a break in the monotony of endless women. Their discussions had centered on the Quran and the duty of the holy.
“Would that others felt the same devotion as you, pious one. On earth, evil men weave the tapestry of Satan. Greed, pride, and drink have become gods to rival Allah. Already they lead the devoted into wickedness. ” Hassan shook his head sadly.
Siraaj became angry. “Surely Allah can do something…”
“Allah works through the souls of the blessed. When that is not enough…” Hassan shrugged his shoulders. His sad countenance was quickly replaced by the smile. “But this is none of your problem. Relax. Enjoy the blessings of Allah.” Hassan stood.
“Hassan. Is there nothing I can do?”
“No, no, you are in heaven my friend. The troubles of the world are behind you now.” Siraaj settled back on his bed, his face clouded with concern for the first time in days.
The flock filled his room. Basami was the last. She stared at Hassan, who looked at her briefly before walking out. Her eyes dropped, and sadness darkened her face. Siraaj tried to get her attention, but she would not look at him. Her sadness added to his concerns.

* * *

“Infidel!”
The word rent Siraaj like a knife. He jerked up in bed, the women fleeing his side like frightened pigeons.
“Heretic!”
Hassan stood in the doorway, pointing a shaking finger at Siraaj.
“What? But Hassan…”
Siraaj stood up to plead. His nakedness, a virtue over the last week, was now his shame.
“Burn in hell, heathen.”
“What have I done, please, Hassan-”
But the old man turned away. Siraaj fell to his bed in shock.
He poured over every event, every detail, every conversation to learn where he had offended. That he could find nothing only heightened his fears.
Hassan appeared again in the doorway. With him were two guards - muscular, younger than Hassan but older than Siraaj. They were men, in contrast to Siraaj’s boy.
“The blessings of Allah were not good enough for you, wicked one.” The tone of Hassan’s voice could cut granite.
“But Hassan, what have I done?”
“Do not presume to call upon your false friendship with me. Your wicked thoughts betray you. You would blaspheme Allah in his own house?”
“But Hassan -”
“You are no better than a dog which bites the hand of its master.”
“I have committed no such sin, I -”
“Silence, sinner. Thou shalt call me ‘Lord Protector’ henceforth.”
To the extent he could think at all, Siraaj thought feverishly back over the days of pleasure. He could remember no blaspheme, no sacrilege, no sin. Of course, Hassan must be right. Siraaj was sure he must have done something, if only he could remember what it was.
Hassan nodded to the guards, who moved quickly. Siraaj dangled helplessly as they carried him, roughly, out of the room and down a long hall to a room with no bed, no ferns, and very little light. They threw Siraaj onto the floor. It was wet and cold. Siraaj huddled in a corner, grasping his legs close to his chest to stay warm. He began to shake. Water dripped in the corner, but it was too dark for Siraaj to see.
Siraaj was sure that if he could just remember what he had done, he could set things right, but his mind was clouded. He could not think.

* * *

Banished. Condemned. The words chased themselves around Siraaj’s head like rats in a granary.
He stood, naked. Hassan was seated on a high dais. On either side of Hassan stood the guards, magnificent in their white, green and yellow silks. Their black beards were so thick they almost served as masks out of which only their blazing eyes and scowling mouths could be seen.
“But Hassan -”
“You will be silenced permanently if you continue to blaspheme my name.” Hassan nodded to the guards, who removed daggers from their belts.
“A thousand apologies, Lord Protector, I meant no disrespect, but I know not what I have done.”
“Your false innocence only shames you in front of Allah.”
Siraaj bowed his head and cried.
“Thou art banished from heaven, condemned to live an eternity in hell. May you burn, heathen; enemy of all that is holy.” Hassan waved his hand to the two guards, who approached Siraaj, blades drawn.
Siraaj turned to run. His feet slipped, and he fell. He spun on to his back as the guards reached him, blades held high.
“Wait.” Hassan stood and gestured to the guards. He turned his attention to Siraaj.
“You were once a devotee of Allah. Perhaps there is a way.”
Siraaj lay on his back, naked and still, staring up at the men and their knives.

* * *

Siraaj awoke. He was lying in a ditch. His head throbbed, and he felt scraped and bruised. He was thirsty, and his mouth tasted of copper.
He was grateful for the warmth of the setting sun as he lay, trying to piece together the confusion broiling in his mind.
The pleasures seemed infinitely distant. The only reality he knew was a disgrace so great not even death promised relief. Every time he recalled Hassan’s words, he recoiled. It was in the afterlife that he had already failed. Now there was but one escape.
Hassan had said that, on Earth, there was one so wicked, so evil, that heaven wept with despair over his every living breath. If Siraaj could only erase this stain from the world he would be welcomed back to heaven as a hero, to be feted for eternity, to take his place in the pantheon of the immortals. The evil one’s name was Saladin.
Siraaj unsheathed a dagger that hung from his belt and felt its tip. He felt hopelessly unworthy. He stood and wiped the dust off his clothes, and begged a ride from a passing caravan.

* * *

By the time Siraaj reached Damascus, his head was clear. The driver had been kind. He had fed Siraaj what he could and let him rest. He had tried to engage Siraaj in talk, but how could Siraaj talk of heaven to those who had not seen? He knew only the solution of silence. He thanked the man and began his search.
The marketplace in Damascus was larger than even Hama. Siraaj walked about, his eyes open in wonder at the hundreds of stalls and their crimson, purple and green prayer rugs, the plants and herbs, the clothes, the tokens and beads, and the people. The incense in the air reminded him of his misadventure in Hama. He turned away. Siraaj had forgotten how hungry he was. No matter. Soon, he would no longer want.
The hurt of Hassan’s words faded as Siraaj looked about at the marketplace and the people. The women were wrapped, but Siraaj now knew what lay beneath, and he could sense which ones were beautiful. One woman looked at him, her grey eyes smiling, and Siraaj felt the tug of his loins.
The memory of pleasure made Siraaj long for life; to live a normal, human life until the end of his natural days, free of the threat of eternal damnation that now hung over his head. He longed to eat, to listen to music, to relax on warm autumn evenings, to make love, and to drink tea. As he thought of these pleasures, he wavered. Could he escape the doom that hung over him? Could he disappear into the crowd, leave Damascus, settle in a far corner of the world, perhaps even go to Armenia? He felt guilt, as if Hassan knew his every thought, but he turned. He walked slowly past stall after stall, his every sense on alert for the wrath that he knew must be coming. But there was nothing. Siraaj kept on walking.
Near the outskirts of Damascus, he saw the desert and something snapped. He knew, if only he could get lost in that desert, he would be free and no one - not even God - would find him.
A small, dirty wagon lurched towards him, rocking gently from side to side in rhythm to its squeaking wheels. But even this humble wagon promised freedom, and for the first time Siraaj felt hope.
He spoke to the master, explaining that he was an orphan, and offered his help on the road ahead. The master listened. Behind him, a woman - not much more than a girl - stuck her head outside the wagon.
Siraaj froze. The girl looked like Basami. He barely heard the master explain that there was no room, even for one so thin as Siraaj. The master snapped the lead lines, and his camels began to shuffle, taking the wagons, and the Basami-girl, away. She ran to the back of the wagon and stared at Siraaj. For a moment their eyes locked. A hand reached from behind and pulled her back into the wagon’s darkness. Siraaj heard her cry out, but she did not reappear. He stared until he could see only dust.
Siraaj looked down. His dagger was still in his belt. He touched it and turned around.

* * *

Siraaj heard the muezzin’s call to prayer. From all corners of the marketplace, men came. Poor men, rich men, old men, sick men. Powerful men.
He saw a man, unremarkable by any standard except that he had bodyguards. The one on his left was the grimmest man Siraaj had ever seen. A violent scar rent his face from eye to mouth, leaving him with a scowl that was the very embodiment of evil. Surely, he thought, this one was Saladin, but when he inquired he was told no, that one was Saladin’s bodyguard. Saladin was the small, fat, common man he had first seen. Siraaj saw the evil one scanning the crowd. Siraaj averted his eyes quickly.
All around him men were settling on their knees. Some talked. Some began to pray. Some stared blankly ahead. Siraaj moved as if looking for a suitable place, his eyes never on Saladin, but his attention never elsewhere. He could approach no closer than the five men, tightly packed together and kneeling, who encircled Saladin. Siraaj thought maybe he should wait another day. But out of the corner of his eye he saw the evil one looking at him. He knew he had been seen. He would never be allowed to get this close again.
Siraaj knelt, and waited. He felt his knife, felt its tip, and felt its sting. He licked the blood off his finger. This earthly blood would soon be of no consequence. He counted down the moments until he would see Basami again. Then, he moved.

* * *

“Ohmad, you think they will attack today?” The guard named Rashakin looked at his friend.
Ohmad answered the question by not acknowledging it. Instead, he scanned the multitude, looking for the slightest of hint of impiety. The eyes were the key. Eyes too restless, or too still, drew his attention.
Ohmad had identified three worth watching. He assigned one to each of the guards. Ohmad took the tall, effeminate young man for himself.
This young man had been drifting closer to Saladin, his eyes careful never to be seen. Ohmad thought the eyes a little too careful. Then, at last, this one had glanced at Ohmad. Stealthily. If Ohmad had not been looking, he would not have seen. But he had, and he did, and Ohmad knew.
Rashakin thought Ohmad wrong. He believed that a sad, old man on the other side of Saladin was the greater risk. Thus it was that Rashakin drifted away, edging ever closer to a potter whose greatest crime heretofore had been indolence.
Ohmad, on the other hand, remained focused. He saw the young man lick a finger and move.
Before Ohmad could think, he was running and pulling at his scimitar. He saw the young man leap forward. Ohmad jumped over a man who was still supine. The assassin reached Saladin while Ohmad was still ten feet away.
A dagger flashed skyward. Ohmad pushed aside an old man and reached Saladin as the assassin’s blade fell. Sunlight glittered off dagger and sword alike. The sound of a blow filled the air, and the dagger fell to the ground, rattling on the stones between prayer rugs. A second later, a severed arm joined it, spraying a nearby grain merchant with blood. Ohmad heard a cry of despair, something like “Basami,” retch from the lips of the would-be assassin.
A wide berth opened around Saladin, and now Ohmad had room to work. He swung his blade with a practiced efficiency, back and forth, in a sawing motion, systematically severing body parts and littering the ground with the blood, flesh, and organs of another true believer.
Ohmad rested his blade on the ground and caught his breath. This one had been too close.
Men returned to their prayers. Saladin turned and looked up at his bodyguard. “Thank you, my friend.” Ohmad bowed his blood-splattered head. Both men knew, without saying, that soon, there would be another.

THE END