Assassins

By Nicholas Snow

A novel of intrigue, love,

mystery, betrayal, and the worlds oldest

terrorist organization.

This is a novel which draws on the magic of A Thousand and One Nights and the realism of history and political life. The herowarrior, minstrel and poet, Nureddinis divided between his commitment to sultan Saladin and his love for the beautiful enchantress Laila. Saladin aims at uniting the fragmented Arab world against the Crusaders; Laila is queen and supreme houri of the artificial paradise set up by the terrible Old Man of the Mountain, who terrorizes his enemies and reduces his followers to a state of blind obedience. Involving suspense, love, poetry, conspiracies, warAssassins is, above all, the story of a powerful love relationship that triumphs over all adversities.

In an inventive style. . . Nikos Kyriazis artistically transmutes historical materials into fiction of great literary and emotional impact.

--Kostas Sardelis

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jul 6, 2007
• ISBN: 9781467016261

Nicholas Snow

Nicholas Snow is the pen name of Nicholas Kyriazis. He has a diploma and PhD in Economics from Bonn University in Germany. He has worked as a consultant for the European Parliaments Directorate for Research and Documentation, the National Bank of Greece, the Greek Ministers of National Economy and Defense and served as Secretary General for Public Administration during the period 1993-1994. He was a visiting scholar at the Economics Department at Harvard University and visiting professor at Trier University in Germany. He is currently associate professor at the Economics Department of the University of Thessaly, Central Greece, president of Alpha Trust Andromeda Investment Fund (listed on the Athens Stock Exchange) and vice president of Ergoman Telecommunications. He has contributed papers to academic journals and articles to the Greek press and he has published 11 novels and one book of poetry in Greek. In April 2005 the President of the French Republic ordained him a Knight of the Legion of Honourfor his contribution to European ideals, science and literature.

Book preview

© 2009 Nicholas Snow. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 11/13/2009

ISBN: 978-1-4343-0215-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-1626-1 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2007902397

Cover Design: Kostas Houhoulis

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Other Works by the Author

Historical Novels

A Trilogy of the Persians Wars (524 B.C.E.- 449 C.E.)

Artavasus, the Persian (Estia, 1994)

O Xenos Mou O Themestoklis (Estia, 1994)

Nikomidis, O Athinaios (Estia, 1995)

OAetos tis Photias (Estia, 1998)

Novels

Paichnidia me Ti Photia (Kastaniotis, 1996)

O Diavlos horis Photia (Kastaniotis, 1998)

O Diavolos sis Pente Akrivos (Estia, 2002)

Maria ton Glaron (Ellinka Grammata, 2001)

O Ippotis kai O Chyrokephalos (Estia, 1999)

Kataramenos Thesavros (Ellenka Grammata, 2004)

Poems

Tis Elpidas (Kastaniotis, 1998)

Studies in International Relations-Defense

Gia mia Nea Isorropia Dynameon Ellados-Tourkias

Estia: Series Politics and History 33, 1997

Ellada-Tourkia: Amyna kai Oikonomia

Estia: Series Politics and History 41, 1999

To Prosopo tou Polemou ston 21o Aiona

(with Stelios X. Spanos; Estia, 2000)

Translated

Poetry

Of Hope (Euroeditor, 1988)

Fiction

Themestocles, My Enemy, My Friend, Kosbil Publications, 2004

The Shield, Author House, 2005

Of the author’s twelve novels, Assassins is the third to appear in English.

Contents

Chapter I 

THE CARAVAN  

Chapter II 

BEDOUINS 

Chapter III 

KHAYYAM AND NIZAMI 

PART II 

ALAMUT 

Chapter IV 

ALAMUT 

Chapter V 

LAILA 

Chapter VI 

NAKIB 

Chapter VII 

BEAUREGARD 

PART III 

THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN 

Chapter VIII 

Rashid al-Din Sinan 

Chapter IX 

SALADIN 

NOTES 

GLOSSARY 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR 

ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR 

Chapter I 

THE CARAVAN  

THE CARAVAN LEFT Cairo through the Bab an Nasr gate just as the final prayer of the day was about to begin.¹ Late-comers about to enter the city before the closing of the massive doors—farmers from nearby fields, beggars, a few roving merchants, and several fakirs—stood aside, as the caravan exited and headed toward the northern trade-route following the banks of the Nile.

As sunset splashed reddish-orange streaks in the western sky, the landscape grew more serene, sweet, transparent. During the day, searing sun-rays had baked the ground, the stones, the fields, the buildings, blurring lines of definition, and the sky had turned from bright blue in the morning to blue-gray later in the afternoon. Now, behind her walls, the city settled for the night. Fires were lighted and the crowds in the streets thinned. Muezzins ascended the minarets and summoned the faithful to the fifth prayer of the day.

Not far from the city, the tall horseman dismounted, looped the reins of his handsome Arabian, Allah’s Minion, around the trunk of a palm, knelt, faced toward Mecca, and prayed reverently, touching his forehead on the ground. Concluding his devotions, he remounted and continued his journey at a leisurely pace, passing by fields, palm groves, and humble rural dwellings. As darkness came on, he dismounted once more and—with an appreciative caress—watered the stallion at an irrigation canal. Leaving the animal to graze on the thick grasses, he sat down to take a sip from his flask and a modest repast of dates, bread, and cheese. Afterwards, he secured his mount for the night, spread his mat, lay down, and gratefully wrapped his blanket around him. The night air was refreshingly cool following the pounding heat of the day.

He awoke refreshed at the crack of dawn, washed, ate moderately, performed his morning devotions, and again took the road northward. Now the route was crowded. He observed with interest the surrounding variety of humanity—farmers and their oxen going to work in their fields, shepherds leading flocks of sheep and goats, women bearing baskets of laundry to wash in the river, an army patrol, a number of traveling merchants, their goods strapped to camels or donkeys. Some merchants were even hawking their wares as they moved along the road. Numerous small children were frolicking, bickering, ogling the passers-by, begging, and tangling in the travelers’ legs. Shouts, laughter, jabbering, an occasional wailing of an infant, blended with the bleating of sheep and goats, the joking of farmhands, women’s gossip, venders’ cries, and snatches of song drifting over from the river.

The sun had not reached the zenith when the rider caught sight of what he was looking for—the caravan on the road ahead. Urging Allah’s Minion into a gallop till he reached tail of the procession, he approached the guards. Adjusting his pace to theirs, he pitched his greeting so as to be heard above the ruckus.

Greeting, my friends; tell me, please, who is in charge of this caravan?

Abu Hasan al-Bakilani, merchant of Cairo, God bless him with long life.

Headed to Damascus? the horseman inquired.

Yes, responded one of the guards. Why do you ask?

Where can I find Abu Hasan? the horseman returned. The tone of his voice—that of a man who was used to command, an impatient tone which brooked no opposition—elicited a quick reply:

The caravan-head’s midway among the riders. You’ll recognize him easily—he’s shaded by a big umbrella.

The horseman made his way past camels loaded with Egyptian and African goods—leather, elephant tusks, papyrus, ebony, cloth, and the like—brought from afar, from the Red Sea, as well as valuable items from distant, virtually mythic, islands of the East—spices, perfumes, pearls. Midway in the procession he came upon a richly dressed, middle-aged merchant riding a mule with an ornate saddle and saddle-cloth. Beside him tread a black slave, holding a brightly colored umbrella open against the sun.

God shield you, Abu Hasan al-Bakilani! boomed the horseman.

Momentarily irritated by the interruption, Abu Hasan examined the rider carefully before responding.

God shield you also, traveler. Your name, please.

Nureddin, the horseman answered.

Nureddin… said the merchant, awaiting a follow-up. The horseman added nothing. In his own good time, he would selectively reveal his identity to members of the caravan.

"Well, Nureddin, the merchant replied. What is it you want of me?"

Like you, sire, I’m headed to Damascus. I wish to join your convoy. I ask for nothing but the security of the caravan. I will pay well for whatever I consume, and my arms are at your command.

The traveler had his reasons—Abu Hasan thought—not to state his full name and particulars of his occupation. Hasan was curious. Should the stranger join them, his curiosity would be satisfied. But, then again, perhaps not. The fellow could well be one of Saladin’s secret agents. On the other hand, there might be no mystery at all. In any case, what did a caravan leader have to lose? Another skilled warrior was always advisable. Of course, officially there were no dangers, since all the way to Damascus they were within territory controlled by Saladin. A treaty with the infidels of Jerusalem was also in effect. However, could the Franks really be trusted? Among them were those who were not obedient even to their own king, treaty or no treaty. Also, there were highwaymen—Bedouins who, though calling themselves men of the faith, were worse than the Franks when it came to plundering… . Indeed, an additional armed man such as this strong fellow would do no harm.

He scrutinized the traveler anew. His striking, pure-bred stallion, was superior to any mount of the convoy guard—a horse that would honor an emir, an officer of the Sultan’s court. The lithe muscular horseman was young, around twenty-five. His clothing was commonplace but well-made, new and clean, aside from the dust of travel. His equipage was of high quality, though unembellished. The round shield, with a steel front, was of a type common among the soldiers of Islam. The same was true of the bow, quiver, helmet, and battle-axe that hung from the saddle. The vest of chain-mail, however, which was strapped behind the saddle, appeared to be of the highest quality—a work of fine craftsmanship, most probably done in one of the famous armory shops of Cairo. The merchant perused the links that formed the vest, noting the make of each and admiring their precise fit. Indeed, this vest of mail was of great worth, suitable equipage for an emir.

As his gaze rested on the sword which hung from the traveler’s belt, the observer’s heart skipped a beat. To some it might appear a common weapon encased in an ordinary sheath. However, Hasan knew weapons, and this was a truly special sword. He observed the ornate bronze guard of the handle which served the dual function of protecting the hand and balancing the weight of the blade. The sheathed blade did not show, but its shape was apparent. It was curved,² with a slight bend in the middle. It was one of those swords which they had begun to produce in Damascus, forged of very special steel which made it extremely sharp, durable, flexible. Hasan knew the value of such weapons. Each was worth a small fortune—as much as a flock of sheep or a dozen camels. He had sold such a sword to an emir in Cairo, and his profit had been equal to the sale of ten African slaves.

What do you say? May I join the caravan, Abu Hasan?

The voice of the horseman interrupted the merchant’s thoughts.

We embrace all who walk the path of God. You are welcome to join us in our journey, traveler.

The merchant’s eyes scanned the horseman’s face, with its slightly curved nose, dense black beard joined to the mustache, regular lips, eye-brows which almost met, eyes very light green approaching brown, the color of honey, in which there was a gleam—of hardness, intelligence, or pride; perhaps a blend of them all?—and the forehead, in the middle of which fell a curl of dark hair, a rich dark brown, almost black.

The horseman smiled in response to the welcome, revealing gleaming white teeth. Many thanks, Abu Hasan. May compassionate Allah amply repay your kindness.

Abu Hasan could not restrain himself; his curiosity won out.

May I take a look at your sword, sire? he asked.

In a swift, graceful movement which declared the warrior, Nureddin unsheathed his sword and offered it to the merchant, hilt forward. Hasan took it for close examination. He had not been mistaken. It was indeed of Damascus steel. The blade glittered in the sunlight—slim, razor-sharp, an object replete with elegance and danger, virtually alive, poised to attack. Beautifully etched in gold on the upper edge were words that might be a saying from the Quran. The merchant savored the splendid balance of the sword in his hand, as if it were an extension of his arm.

He reluctantly returned the blade to Nureddin, for he passionately fancied claiming it as his own. This sword was even finer than the one he had sold. He had never held such a weapon in his hand. If it were his, it would be a prized possession, or he would put it up for sale back in Cairo… . What price would it command—three hundred dinars? No—far more! Five hundred, at least—six, or more with a little luck, given his bargaining skills and a suitably eager customer.

If you should ever be willing to part with your blade, sidi Nureddin,³ said the merchant, I would be eager to make the purchase worth your while. Everyone knows my shops in Cairo, Gaza, and Damascus, and all agree that Abu Hasan fairly estimates an article’s worth and pays accordingly.

Nureddin smiled. I do not doubt that for a moment, sidi Abu Hasan! However, sure as I live, my sword is my own, as is my faith. With it I defend my life and my cause, and will not part with it.

The day took its course, which the travelers measured by the passage of the sun and the time of prayers. Following the evening prayer, they halted, preparing for night. Fires were kindled and suppers prepared. Nureddin attended to his Arabian and secured it for the night. Then he strolled between the rows of camels and horses, past campfire after campfire, around which seated on the ground were small groups of travelers sharing food, drink, stories, anecdotes, and jokes, as twilight gave way to moon and stars in the firmament, appearing faintly at first, then more sharply.

Pondering whether he should seek hospitality from one of the camp-fire groups, or preserve his solitude, he surveyed the faces in each of the gatherings. In one of the groups were the armed guards of the caravan, warriors like himself. Here he knew what he would hear: tales of battles, campaigns, manly exploits, dramatized personal deeds, delicious anecdotes about women, about delectable flesh sold in the bordellos of Cairo, Damietas, Gaza, Damascus, Edessa, Hamas, Halepi, Bagdad, Isfahan, and so many other cities; anecdotes about exotic temptresses—slaves from the north, with eyes the hue of sea and sky, and tresses the color of ripe wheat or burnished gold, and other beauties from Africa, with glowing black skin and curly ebony locks, or from India, with swarthy bronze complexion and eyes like coals, or women from the end of the earth, with amber skin and almond-shaped eyes … . Shifting from love to the fortunes of war, the travelers would tell, too, of the haughty Franks whom they had captured, or how they had been forced to submit to the foe’s barbarity… .

Around other fires were men of ink and quill, those who kept books for merchants, who knew the precise worth of things from a horse shoe and the price of elephant tusk from Damascus, Iconium, Bagdad, or Constantinople, to the cost of a flask of water on the road from Damascus to Bagdad or Mosul. Nureddin knew, too, the sort of stories told here, aside from the value of things: of bargaining, of shrewd dealings, of profit, of a dupe to whom was palmed off an item for triple its worth… .

Around another fire were gathered men of faith, one or two ulemases, a sufi with his students, several hadjes returning from pilgrimages to Mecca or Medina. Nureddin could imagine discussions he would hear by this fire concerning the Muslim creed, the might of Islam, sayings about the life of Mohammed, citations from the Quran, disputes and displays of theological learning and devotions, praise of the good works of some individuals and condemnation of the irreverent acts of others. Such discussions surpassed both his personal theological knowledge and his devotional life. He admired men of faith, some of whom even approached saintliness, but he felt distant from them, closely tied to the world. Their discussions, which he had attempted to follow on several occasions, eventually bored him.

Further on, somewhat separate, were the fires of workmen and slaves, who performed the most humble but necessary work of the caravan—loading and unloading, care of the goods, attending to the animals. Nureddin imagined that if they discussed something—always in low voices, so as not to be heard by their employers and owners—they would speak of how kind or mean one master was in comparison to another, of hope for a better future, of purchasing their freedom or receiving it as a gift, of the likelihood of finding a kinder master or employer in another city, of the bargains offered by some vender, or problems that had arisen with one of their animals … . No, he had no place by this camp-fire. He did not look down on these workers any more than upon most men of his own class, but he had nothing in common with them.

He was preparing to spend the night in solitude, when—passing by the most distant of the fires—he heard someone call out:

May Allah be with you, brother traveler. Please honor us with your company. Come share our fire.

He paused, gazing at the man who had addressed him. In the flickering light of the fire, he saw a figure like a saint or prophet, as seen in illustrations. His heart thrilled with the thought that here was such a man of flesh and blood right before his eyes, not merely an image on paper or papyrus. The aged traveler was between seventy and eighty, his brow channeled like a plowed field; skin dried by the sun, by desert journeys, by sea voyages, by mountain crossings; lips thin, colorless, the same hue as the skin. Life’s experiences had almost drained his body of vitality. His cheeks were sunk, and from his chin fell a broad, thin, white beard. His neck was long and wrinkled, and his torso was wrapped in a plain robe of white wool. His arms, which projected out of his sleeves from the elbow downward, were spindly—bones and veins standing out. He was wearing a turban reaching down low on his neck, hiding his hair, if he had any.

Nureddin felt the old man’s eyes meet his own. Though the elderly face was wrinkled, the eyes were very lively—lively as few eyes are. They glittered, sparkling from the fire light, but their glow was not merely a reflection of the flames; it was a glow—Nureddin felt—which sprang from a deep, esoteric radiance. They were powerful eyes that had seen many things, had understood much, had perceived with good will—eyes of a person who had understood and forgiven human weaknesses and rightly gauged human strengths. Yes—their glow was the glow of wisdom.

Captivated, Nureddin sat down.

Your name, traveler? asked the old man.

Nureddin.

I am Abu Firas, said the old man. May I introduce my friends. Hamid al-Din Zumhur is in commerce and is Abu Hasan’s partner. Hamid nodded in greeting to Nureddin, who returned the nod. Afdal al-Athir is journeying to learn about the world before determining whether to join the business of his father, an Egyptian landowner, or to enter the service of our sultan, Saladin, may Allah bless him with long life.

Afdal, around the same age as Nureddin, smiled at him with the shared understanding of youth among older people.

Said al-Adim Kirmani, finally, is traveling to visit relatives and friends in Damascus. At the same time, he is garnering information and impressions for a book about the nations of Masrak.

I am going to Damacus. I, too, wish to learn more about the world. There I will decide what to do—whether I will settle down somewhere, or continue my journey. Nureddin spoke with intentional vagueness. And you, Abu Firas—where are you headed?

Wherever Allah guides me, the old man smiled. At my age, all roads are the same. I place myself in God’s hands, with no further thought, no matter where I may be. As long as I’m alive, I am learning—enriched by each moment, each journey.

So, you are searching for irfan, Hamid said.

Perhaps I am searching. Perhaps not. I have learned that knowledge comes to him whose mind is open—to whoever is ready to listen, to discuss, to think.

And what about the word of God? put in Afdal, perhaps with a touch of irony. Do the holy Quran and its interpretation not suffice?"

"The holy Quran does not prohibit knowledge, inquiry. On the contrary, our sacred book teaches us to revere truth. And, as the wise al-Kindai said,⁴ we must not hesitate to acknowledge truth, whatever its provenance, even if it appears ‘old fashioned’ or comes from foreign sources. For one who seeks wisdom, there is nothing of greater value than truth as