INCENSE, MYRRH AND CAMPHOR OIL

by Sette Lupe

"After all, the Angel of Death had done nothing but abiding by the rules. After all, that was the thrilling part of the whole game, wasn't it?" The story of an archer in Jerusalem that plays with the Assassins like a moth to the flame of a torch.

I don't own the characters that appear in this story. They are property of Ubisoft and its developers. This is a non-profit work of fiction.

This story is dedicated to Elena, a dear friend who translated it for me from the Italian language (the only language in which I can write) to English, so I could publish it on this website. Thank you very much Elena!

INCENSE, MYRRH AND CAMPHOR OIL

If he had been born just a couple chilometers North he would have probably become an Assassin.
But that was just an "if", and he had only ever seen the walls of Masyaf from the outside.

From the highest point of the grazing lands he could see the gloomy ramparts of Masyaf, curled up on the promontory like a worried old man. From that same point he could smell the scent of Masyaf: incens, myrrh and camphor oil.
Sajid didn't like it, but a smell doesn't have to be pleasant if it is sacred. And Masyaf's was sacred to Nakir and Munkar, and most of all to Malak-al-Mawt, the Archangel who executed in the name of Allah.

The Assassins. He had often seen them ever since he was a child. And just like all the other people of their small village he had learned how to coexist with them, like a snake charmer learns how to move inside his own house without being bitten by his own reptils.

They would walk around the markeplace, stand in the square, or gallop along the main road on their long-legged horses.

Yet, they did everything as if they were ghosts. And that was precisely the key to coexist with them: treating them like ghosts.

Assassins didn't speak to commoners. They had no face nor voice under those white hoods of theirs. In no way would they interact with people and they didn't appreciate those who tried to approach them. The only exception was represented by those who had been chosen to tend to the fortress' supplying. Be it ghosts, humans or half-humans, everyone had material needs, apparently.

Sajid was able to tell their ranks apart from the uniforms they were wearing. He knew how to ignore them without being desrespectful or how to avoid them completely in the event of situations of political unrest. He had also learned from his mother and father to fear them just enough: he didn't underestimate the danger they represented, but he didn't let himself be overwhelmed by fear either.

And from his brothers...from them, he had learned how to tease the Assassins without being subjected to their wrath.

The Assassins were more tolerant when it came to children. They had never caused them real harm, but if bothered too much they might become unpredictable and dangerous.
They represented the most loved test of courage among the town's children, the ones who were always looking for adventures: the test consisted in getting as close as possible to one of the Assassins. If they went as far as having the guts to rile him up a little, the success was guaranteed.

Sajid was very skillful in doing so, and among his countless victories was that one time when he had managed to make one of the so-called Angels of Death lose his composure and escape unharmed.

Said Angel was the bodyguard of one of Those who Speak with the Outside World. He stood still and silent like an alabaster statue, exactly half a meter from his companion and wearing his distinctive pristine attire. You could recognize him from the five badges made out of embossed silver that were on display on his left armlet.

The Angels used to leave Masyaf only under special circumstances, whenever a mission required specific skills, and they headed back as soon as the task had been completed.
Seeing one of them going around the village for a thing as ordinary as a commercial transaction had caused quite a ruckus.

Sajid didn't let such opportunity slip. With other friends of his same age tagging along him, the little rascal had done a couple of gestures to ward off curses, then he had started to approach the Angel. First, he placed his hand on the patch of ground touched by the man's shadow, then, spurred on by his mates' muffled sounds of admiration and fear, he creeped up on the Assassin. He touched the hem of his cape, but other than the yelps and whoops of his friends he got no reaction from the white-dressed man.
He took hold of the cloth – Egyptian refined cotton – and gave it a light tug. That elicited more alarmed shrieks from his friends, but still nothing from the Angel. He turned his attention to the scabbard, brushing it with his fingers, then giving it a light push and making it dangle.

The Assassin heaved a sigh and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Feeling cocky, Sajid snickered.

Each of the Assassin's boots sported a scabbard with three thin throwing-knives, their hilt shimmering in front of his eyes. He reached out with his hand and touched one.

The Assassin moved at a breakneck speed; he jumped up in the air wriggling like a cat and lunged at the boy with a feral growl. He made it as far as two steps before stopping, but Sajid and his mates still kept running and screaming like banshees until they reached the edge of the village without looking back even once. It was only when they stopped that they realized that there was in fact no one following them. The Assassin was still located in the marketplace and was chuckling under his breath. At a rough guess, his son was the same age as that kid and he liked to play the same way.

Although his mother scolded him rather harshly that night, Sajid had already become an hero for all the village kids.

Some years later, he had reached mature age and he had been confronted with what would be the plans for his future. He had chosen to go to Jerusalem, the city whose tall white walls barely contained a cluster of buildings that expanded with the same order of a stormy sea, people of different cultures mingling in its alleys and squares.
Jerusalem, that rested between the Jewish upland and the Jordan's valley, offering its favours to everyone like a skilled paramour.
So many times it had been conquered, so many times it had been lost. But people had never abandoned it. They kept yearning for it and taking it.
Sajid had that chance too, now.

With that goal in mind, he worked hard to succeed. He joined the city guard and moved to the depot - where training took place – that was located just a couple of hours from his beloved Jerusalem.
He never turned down a task. Never he infringed a single rule.
He made himself known for his commitment and for his willingness to learn from those who were higher in rank.
And at long last, after going through many struggles, there it was: Jerusalem. All primped and ready to welcome him with open arms, ready to surrender to his hand that would be strong and firm after being appointed as one of its defenders.

Ah, such dreams for a naive and inexperienced boy who had never traveled or known anything beside the little place where he lived and the tales brough by merchants...

Since day one, his beloved Jerusalem had proved to be a rough lover: it welcomed him with nails as sharp as a wild cat and a temper as fiery as a poisonous snake. He went from fearing it to hating it. Then he just learned how to manoeuvre into that maze of alleyways along with the other guards. Alleys that were suffocated by abusive balconies and merchants' stands, where a throng of people too different from each other competed for a sliver of breathing space that wasn't big enough even for a rat.
He got used to the stench of decadying humanity that lingered near the poorest districts, along with the expensive perfumes that marked the rich areas and marble streets.
He learned to survive his job, meaning he had also found out how to cope with disillusionment.

The so much longed-for Jerusalem wasn't the paramour he had expected, but more like an old hag with too much makeup on her face and owning as many jewels as stories to be told.

In spite of everything, he fell in love with the city once again.

And then there were the Assassins. Rumor had it that their headquarters were located inside the city, but no one could tell where the place was. The Assassins were actually a lot more feared and less respected than in his homeland but all the legends about them were essentially the same he had heard since his childhood.

Since he had grown up among them, he had been granted a head start compared to a lot of his peers and he knew how to move. He had immediately learned how important abiding to certain rules was if you cared to make it home in one piece: don't stare, don't challenge them, don't chase after them to the point of driving them into a corner, don't waste your time searching through haystacks and into the darkest nooks and crannies - you might end up run across them for real.

And Amir, the patrol chief, did care enough for his life. His and all his subordinates'.

"I leave all the medals to those who are eager to rest under a tombstone, thank you very much," he had commented on more than one occasion, "What's the point of catching one of the Assassins if he drags me to Hell with him?"

He had found out that there were a lot that followed such way of thinking in the military base. Both the city guards and Jerusalem's Assassins had developed a code over time, albeit neither of the two parties had ever make a move to reach some kind of agreement.
They tolerated each other, if ever because people had quickly understood that Assassins – never mind what town criers stated – never hit randomly: they had to be provoked. If you didn't pry into their businesses you had nothing to fear, thus many guards left them free to move as they pleased. Special cases, aside, obviously.
Sajid enjoyed such challenges. He had liked that kind of game ever since he was a child.

Hardly a couple of months had passed when Amir deemed him trustworthy enough to take part to another type of interaction with the Assassins. Sajid didn't like what he heard, though: one thing was avoiding potentially dangerous fights with them, but plotting to the detriment of citizens...that was another thing entirely.

Amir had connections with someone from the faction, he exchanged confidential information for any sort of tip-off that could keep him out of troubles.

That morning had got off to a good start, with them choosing a different path for their usual patrol and swapping with another group of guards. The afore-mentioned path would lead them to the large street that divided the wealthy district from the less prosperous ones. It was a gathering place for many merchants, and they were sure to find a couple of Assassins too.

Around midday, the group agreed to rest a little. It was then that Amir was approached and pulled aside by a sage.

Sajid stared at them for a while but it seemed like the other had just been caught into a little quarrel between the sage and what looked like merchant of scrolls and asked to be the judge of said argument.

Bored, he let his eyes wander to the surrounding area: the square was crowded, but not so much that it was unpleasant, the plants were well-groomed and the flower lovely during that time of the year. Water spilled from a little fountain on a near wall, and there was a group of sages sat on the ground, conversing and laughing: it looked like they were having fun mocking one of them.

Minutes passed, but Amir was still stuck with the scroll merchant; a leathery type, you could say. The man wasn't very tall. He had a slightly darker complexion with hair and eyes black like the feathers of a raven, and he donned a short beard along the edges of his jaw. He was dressed with an elegant djellaba and didn't seem too intimidated by Amir's uniform: he was carrying on the quarrel with determined eyes and gesticulating with the parchment in his right hand, which he pointed at the other two alternately.
Sajid chuckled to himself, amused by the clear look of bewilderment that Amir was sporting while trying to stand his ground against the Saracen. He regretted not being able to hear what they were saying.

Then something else caught his attention: all the sages were wearing simple tunics made out of raw cloth, in a colour that was more greyish than white, but one of them had a dress of such a shining whiteness that even from afar one could tell it was high quality.
Sajid watched him closely: what the man was donning on his head wasn't a turban...more like a familiar hood...

"Masoun," he hissed nervously to the comrade sprawled on the bench beside him, "I think there's an Assassin among the sages. I believe he's keeping a watch over Amir."

Masoun didn't move. "Did he catch you looking at him?"

Sajid turned around to stare at the cluster of sages once more: it didn't look like the atmosphere had changed, but a man wearing a kefiah that covered half of his face was now confabulating with the strange monk. Sajid looked away quickly at the smallest movement of the man's hood.

"I don't know. It might be." Sajid started to feel the first bites of fear. There weren't any other guards around, Faaris was nowhere in sight and he had an hunch about what might have brought the Assassin there. As a matter of common knowledge, intellectuals and sages were under their protection.

"Well, then stop staring at him and keep calm. You'll see that he's just here for the geographer. Amir isn't in danger and neither are we, as long as we don't bug him."

"What?"

"The parchment seller. He is a geographer," the other explained, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, "And he's also one of the Assassins' contacts. His small shop is just around the corner. If you go past that place, you'll notice there's always one or two of them wandering around on the roof or in the surrounding area. It appears he has close connections with the Chief of the Assassins here in Jerusalem. Amir trades informations with him in order to know which places to avoid if you don't want to get into trouble." He added with a lopsided grin.

"You're kidding me." Sajid couldn't believe his own ears.

"Not in the slightest. That damn vulture keeps the assassins in line as much as the authorities, acting like a moderator between them. That's why no one dares lay a hand on him. People say he leans towards the Assassins' side, though. That's why there is always one of them guarding his side.
Anyway, Amir still managed to win his trust, this way we can avoid the biggest dangers by having him tell us which places to steer clear of and when."

Sajid felt like throwing up. Had the corruption in that city spread to such an extent?

When Amir joined them again, the boy couldn't bring himself to look him in the eyes, choosing to follow the other three comrades in silence and dragging his feet behind them instead.

"There's trouble brewing," the man told them as soon as they had put enough distance between them and the marketplace,"It's the first time I've seen the geographer look so tense. He didn't tell me what's happening – you know what that damn cripple's like. He is as sly as a fox and devious like a snake! Try as you might, he will tell you the minimum necessary and not a word more. However, they are preparing the ground for something big. The area North to Jerusalem will be at risk in the next few days."

Sajid was only half-listening, too disgusted by the whole matter, but he perked up immediately as soon as he heard Amir mention Masyaf's name.

"It looks like the old jackal might have set an Angel of Death on this Talal", he was explaining, a dark expression etched on his face, "May God have pity of his soul, because the geographer says that everyone should be careful with a guy like him walking around Jerusalem. The guy is a hothead. I heard that even the Assassin Chief of this city doesn't like having him around for more than it's needed."

"Why?" Masoun asked, " Can't they watch over their own adepts?"

"No, apparently. Unfortunately, I don't know anything else, but let's be on our guard until things calm down, understood?"

Upon saying that, he gave order to resume their patrol. Sajid kept his mouth shut the whole time, and when the shift ended he fled with just a quick nod of his head.

He felt dirty, he felt betrayed, but most of all he felt the accomplice of a devious swindle.
He thought he had found a good teacher when he had met Amir... but perhaps he had been wrong the whole time.

As he headed to the Barbican that same night, he felt an even worse traitor, a dirty being. Thanks to his uniform, he encountered no difficulties when he asked to have a consultation with the slave merchant. Still, reporting everything he had heard made nothing to lift the weight from his conscience, like he had hoped it would happen. He tried to think rationally, tried to convince himself that Amir was making a mistake and he had done nothing more than amending that same mistake, that he was saving a life with his tip-off. Yet, he didn't feel relieved at all.

A couple of hours passed, and along the feeling of betraying and betrayal came the frustration of not having been able to save the slaveholder: Talal had been killed in front of dozens of witnesses the morning after their conversation. His personal guards and a lot of the city ones had met the same fate. The Angel had ran away.

The world was crumbling, dragging Sajid with it.

He muttered that he wasn't feeling too well and asked for a couple of days of leave. After changing out of the uniform that so much stinked of cowardice and infamy and into a plain set of clothes, he wandered off the roads. He kept looking for something, anything that could help him mend his torn conscience, walking until the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon.
How he wished he could just go back home!

He prayed whichever God might help him, even though he wasn't sure praying would get him much far.

He was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he failed to notice a woman who was carrying a heavy jar perched on top of her head. The collision brought him back to reality and only his quick reflexes allowed him to grab the poor woman before she tumbled down on the ground. He waited for the unmistakable crash of the jar breaking in a hundred pieces, but no sound came. Upon lifting his eyes, he realised another man had caught it just in time.

Still a bit upset and confused from having been snapped out of his daze so suddenly, Sajid cracked a sheepish smile.

"Nice catch, bud" he chuckled, trying to ease some of the awkwardness.

"Yours wasn't bad either" The other countered in a playful tone.

The woman was still squirming into his arms. Her tunic had twisted around her ankles during her fall, and she was trying to regain her footing. As Sajid helped her, his eyes fell upon the jar and the hand that held it, out of habit.

Four fingers in his left hand. An Assassin... His heart skipped a beat.

On the armlet were five siler plates. That could mean only one thing: he was an Angel of Death.
Once he realized that, he almost let the woman fall on the ground.

What kind of mad nightmare was that. One moment he was in the middle of praying for some kind of help and a couple of minutes later...well, it's true that he hadn't pointed out what kind of help he wanted. An Angel of Death was still an Angel after all...wasn't it?

Someone up there was definitely busting a gut laughing at his own expenses.

In the meanwhile, the woman had managed to pick herself up, but her reaction caught them both off guard. She lunged forward and landed a kick on Sajid's shin, making him jump aside with a aqueak that was in equal parts surprise and pain. The woman then proceeded to snatch the jar away from the other man's hands, undoubtely having mistaken him for a young monk.

"You damn disgusting creeps!" She barked at them, "What the hell were you thinking of?!"

"But, ma'am," Sajid complained feebly, trying to calm her down, "We were just trying to help you..."

He failed miserably. The woman set the jar down brusquely and pounced on the closest of them, namely, the unfortunate Assassin. She used the straps on his chest to grab him and push him backwards onto the wall of a building. Sajid couldn't hold back a grimace at the loud thud of the Assassin's nape against the hard stone, and stood there speechless when he noticed that the man did nothing but let out a groan when his head hit the wall and raise his arms in a "I-surrender" gesture.

"To help me?" The woman shouted, giving him another push. "You think I don't know anything about the games you nasty creeps come up with?!"

The Assassin shot Sajid a confused glance from under his hood. Said boy was still rooted to his previous spot because of the woman's violent reaction, balancing his weight on one leg while clutching the other with both hands.

Caught off guard and being unable to come up with a plan, the boy just acted on instinct, without thinking too much.

"Ma'am, you're hurting him" He piped up. The words came out of his mouth with a tone a lot more pathetical than he would have wished for.

That only fueled the woman's rage: red-faced and with her veil all tousled, she looked like a banshee. She then proceeded to throw an impressive punch to the Assassin's shoulder – the highest point she could reach, since he towered over her of a whole head.

"And you go along with these kind of mischiefs? You, a monk, of all people?! Is your abbot aware that you are around doing such disgraceful acts?!"

The Assassin was clearly at a loss for words. "Ma'am, I think there is a misunderstanding..." he muttered weakly.

He had barely started his sentence before another punch managed to shut him up. "You think you can fool me? I know you go around tripping poor women and then proceed to fondle them under the pretext of helping them! Who do you think you're talking to? I'm a house-mother! A honest woman!"

Still not done with her outburst, she whipped around and pointed a threatening finger at Sajid. "Pray I don't run into you anymore, or I'll report you to the guards" she hissed. "As for you", she directed her attention back to the Assassin, "You'd better go back to your abbey and pray I don't find out which Order you're part of, or you'll see how many years of penitence I'll make you suffer!"

Once she finished taking her anger out on them, she abruptly put the jar back on her head and stormed away along the empty street, still grumbling under her breath.

The two men watched her leaving, mouth agape and still not able to react. The Assassin was still leaning against the wall he had been pushed against and Sajid stood not too far from him, with his hands still hanging mid air.

"Such a good house-mother...I bet her sons have tails" The Assassin mumbled without peeling his eyes away from the street. He had clearly forgotten about Sajid.

At first, the boy couldn't believe he had really heard the other speak. Assassins don't speak. They have no face or voice under their white hoods...but this one had both, it seemed. The moment his mind got over the surprise and the reality of what the other said finally sunk in...Sajid couldn't hold back a laugh.

"Yeah, keep laughing. I'm the one who got beaten up most..." He grunted, rearranging his belts and the clothes underneath.

At that, Sajid laughed harder. After regaining his composure, he wiped away the tears from his eyes and sized the other up. "Are you hurt?", he asked.

"No, I'm not," the other replied, slipping a hand under his hood to check for any injuries, "But I hadn't received such a beating since I was five!" he went on while he rubbed his left shoulder. There was a disbelieving look on his face. Sajid found that very funny...and yet incredibly human.

Suddenly, he remembered the other's identity and anxiety found its way back into his body. Still, it was difficult to be fearful of a man who – despite being armed to the teeth – had allowed to be beaten up by a woman because hurting her was clearly an abomination to him.

Sajid kept watching as the other took a few steps to make sure the "honourable house-mother" wasn't coming back with a group of guards - he was limping slightly with his left leg. Sajid had heard that Talal's murderer had been injured right on a leg when he had tried to escape. How many Angels carrying the same wound could there be inside Jerusalem at that moment?

Very interesting.

"Are you listening?" He was snapped out of his pondering by the man's voice.

"Ahem, what were you saying?"

"As I was telling you, it doesn't look like she called any Guards, but leaving this place would be a good choice. I wouldn't be that surprised if she came back with one of Jinna's squadrons tagging along her! One never knows."

Sajid chuckled. He looked friendly – maybe he longed for some company?
Such an odd Angel he had run into. "I'm sorry I'm so absent-minded. It's just that all sort of things have happened to me lately and I have so many things running around my head..." He apologized.

"You can say that again..."

Sajid frowned. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing." The other countered.

"My name is Sajid, by the way" He spoke without thinking, if only to see how the other would react. He held up a hand as a sign of friendship. Every ounce of common sense had left his body, clouded by curiosity.

The Assassin stepped back at the gesture. "We don't have names. Now, if you'll excuse me, I should really go." He mumbled trying to sidestep him to continue along his path.

No, he wasn't looking for company.

The corner of Sajid's lips turned further upwards into a full-on grin. Oh, and you have no voice either, right?, was his first thought, but he then opted to lay down the sarcasm in favor of a more compliant attitude. "Oh, that's right. I've heard a lot about your Order... Cistercian? Hospitaliers? I always forget it. Since there are – you know – so many sects, ahem, so many covens here in Jerusalem," he was quick to add, carrying on with the naive acting. "I'll treat you to a drink. It's the least I can do to thank you."

His proposal earned him an irritated groan from the Assassin, who crossed his arms and shifted his whole weight on the right leg.

"Is your leg hurt? I couldn't help noticing that you're limping. It was that woman's do, wasn't i-", he tried to push the issue.

The Assassin interrupted him before he could finish the sentence. "I slipped up this morning" There was a lot of annoyance hidden beneath his forced pleasantness.

If it's even possible to slip on a sword. "Marble steps, isn't it? They are a deadly weapon, I know. They are so smooth that-"

Just like that time he had tried to get a rise out of the Angel in the marketplace, he felt the thrill of danger welling in the pit of his stomach and fueling his excitement, but this Assassin had none of the patience of the one he had met when he was a kid.

"No. On a halberd," he snapped, looking very peeved. "Could we please just lay this off? The whole monk charade has dragged out long enough. It's getting ridiculous."

Suddenly, Sajid realized he was in serious troubles – the man was positively vexed. He remembered Amir's face and his words rang out in his head: he had thoroughly warned them against the Assassin sent by Masyaf, that the man was a hothead, someone who wasn't very subtle in his acting.

Once again, he felt danger looming over him.

"How..."

"You kept staring at my hand. Did you really think I wouldn't notice?", the Assassin huffed out, angrily lifting his left hand as if to prove his point and putting the injury in plain view.

Sajid realized that running away – like his guts prompted him to – wasn't an option. There was no way such an injury was bad enough to slow the man down and allow Sajid to escape. Besides that, he also had a plethora of throwing knives with him.

The Assassin seemed to calm down gradually the more he talked, though his words were anything but reassuring. "The second reason you're still alive is that this is actually the first time anybody has ever focused on the number of plates on my armlet. How did you know that? And why didn't you give the alarm?", he asked, cocking his head and reminding Sajid of a birds of prey that has spotted a little mouse.

"The second one? What's the first one?" Sajid hadn't been aware of his lips moving while I counted the plates of silver, but the other hadn't missed it at all.

"The fact that you didn't give the alarm, perhaps?", the white-clothed man countered, scorn and sarcasm dripping from his words.

"I was born in a village near the boundary line of Masyaf. Your folks used to go there pretty often and I started noticing that the number of plates on your armlets increased depending on the rank of the person wearing them. I didn't want to bother you...that's why I didn't say anything." Sajid explained hastily in an attempt of calm the other down. If he managed to come up with a plan quickly enough, he still had a chance of pulling it off/get away with it.

The Assassin seemed to ponder over his words. They were so close that Sajid could make out the strong scent of oil, myrrh and camphor that drenched the other's clothes. It wasn't a bad smell honestly, but Sajid didn't like it anyway. Perhaps because they were the three most used scents during the ceremonies dedicated to the fallen ones.

"Your left hand," he began suddenly, startling Sajid, "Can I see it?"
Sajid obeyed. He sensed that, were he to refuse, the other would show no hesitation in killing him and checking his motionless hand. He shakily put his palm over the one the Assassin was currently extending towards him.

The Angel of Death's hand was strong. Still, his grip wasn't painful: he let his thumb run over Sajid's fourth finger, as if searching for marks left by a ring. He then turned it with the palm facing up, unfastened the first buckles of his armlet, lifted the sleeve and proceeded to check the inner part of the wrist.

Sajid made no attempt to resist - that would have only been pointless and counterproductive. By the way, he knew what the Assassin was after. Amir had once explained to him that there were a lot of factions inside the city and each chief had developed/created his own identification mark: rings, tattoos, ritual cutting and many others. No doubts the Angel of Death wanted to make sure he hadn't run into someone belonging to a rival faction.

"You look like a good fellow", he commented in a pleased tone. Looking up, he held Sajid's gaze for a long moment. His eyes burned like pools of molten gold beneath the hood, a half-smile stretching the scar that marred his lip. Sajid inadvertently shuddered and lowered his gaze.

"I am."

"And pray tell me, how come a 'good fellow' such as yourself is taking an interest in an Assassin?"

Sajid ventured a glance at his interlocutor. He had been warned by Amir: the sept was on the alert. His behaviour had probably been suspicious enough for the Angel to believe he had hunted down some kind of spy or decoy. He'd better measure his words carefully if he cared to see the sun rise once again.

Standing so close to a guy like him didn't help him think clearly at all, however.

"I suppose my curiosity might have betrayed me. For a start – and for all I know – you shouldn't be allowed to speak with whoever is not part of your fact-"

"For a start, you are taking for granted that I'll let you live enough to tell anyone you've heard an Assassin speak", the other retorted.

This Assassin was nowhere near as patient as the one he had met when he was a child.

"I would never do that... Going around telling everyone about what happened today, I mean."

"Wouldn't you really?"

Just then, Sajid looked up, anguish etched on his face. He searched for the smallest glint of pity in the other's eyes, but he found none: his life had no value for that man. I don't deserve to die, he screamed internally. It was never his intention to hurt the other man, he just wanted to satisfy his curiosity, get a kick out of it, even...But his intentions were still as innocent as that one time in the marketplace. Innocent and naive like a moth dancing around a flaming torch.

All of a sudden, the Angel of Death did a strange thing. Or better, his eyes did. Sajid witnessed with baffling clarity the man's pupils getting unbelievably large, swallowing the golden of the iris and leaving only two thin strings that glistened on the edge of those bottomless pits. He barely contained the urge of running away; that couldn't possibly be human. Or at least, not completely.

The Angel stared at him silently for an endless instant, and his expression morphed from focused to confused, then to intrigued. Both irises went back to their original size. He seemed to be mulling over something, and Sajid prayed to any Deity that the man wasn't wondering about the best way to slit his throat.

"Does the offer for a drink still hold?", he suddenly asked.

Sajid jumped up. What?! What the hell... He felt his jaw drop, completely taken aback by the abrupt change in topic.

"Well?"

"What happened to the whole part about killing me?", the words slipped from his mouth before he could stop them. Perhaps asking such questions to an Assassin wasn't a very wise move, but the conversation was getting more crazy by the second and it was so surreal he might as well be in the middle of a dream.

"It was indeed an option. But I might grant you the opportunity of proving me how much you're good at keeping your mouth shut. If this doesn't stand well with you, I could always-", he explained amiably.

"No, no! Nice offer, but my life and I are very much fond of each other, thank you very much."

"Are you sure? It's not a burden at all. It will take me only a second", the hiss of the hidden blade gliding on the mechanism runners matched his words.

Sajid froze on the spot. If that was meant to be a joke, he didn't find it funny at all. Apparently his expression was, because the Assassin snorted and motioned for him to go first.

He obeyed, looking baffled. There was a tavern still open not too far from them; the Angel handed him a handful of coins. "The drink is on me, but I can't approach the innkeeper," he explained, "And remember to choose something that would be worth getting a hungover from, not that foul thing you guards usually drink."

That information, he knew that too. Sajid wondered if the man wasn't actually a mind reader. Maybe that was exactly what he had done earlier...

"How do you know I'm a Guard?"

"I saw you the other day in the markeplace. You were escorting your captain when he went to speak with our spokesman", he supplied half-heartedly while putting the money pouch back into his purse.

"Ah"

"Are you going to make up your mind or are you planning to wait 'til morning here on a street corner?"

He sure had a bad temper, for an Angel...

Once he bought a bottle of the best Arak available, he wasted no time going back. The thought of fleeing didn't even cross his mind. If that really was a dream – he was even more certain about it now – he wasn't at risk. If everything was happening for real, on the other hand...well, running away would be pointless

Besides, that might prove to be the chance of a lifetime.

Thus, in a matter of minutes Sajid found himself standing on the roof of an abandoned house in the middle of what looked like a storage place for old cratesand trunks forgotten nearthe marketplace, sharing a bottle of liqueur with an Angel of Death.

Never would have thought this might happen to him.

The Assassin was currently lying down leisurely like a cat under the moonlight. He had rolled up an old carpet to build a makeshift pillow and then proceeded to rest his legs on the flat lid of a big basket.

"Where did you get that?", Sajid motioned to the Assassin's injured limb. He wasn't really interested, but the man had yet to open his mouth since they had left the inn and he was clueless as to what to do to make him speak again.

"I told you already – I slipped on a halberd. Hadn't realized the handle was soaked with blood, so when I stepped on it I lost my balance and I fell on it. Well, my leg did."

"Sorry if I ask this...but why did you step on the handle of a halberd?" Sajid had to force himself not to be overly surprised. He was certainly dreaming, he was sure about that. Logic was something that belong to the awake ones only.

"To pressure my enemy into dropping it. Or to catch him quickly if he hadn't."

Sure, and then kill him. Right. Everything was right and extremely rational. The fact that it was humanly impossible was a different kettle of fish.

Sajid uncapped the bottle and gulped down a liberal amount of liquor to focus on anything but the fact that the other wasn't completely mortal for sure. He then handed it to the supposedly halberd-climber.

"Thank Goodness I was all the way across the city," he deadpanned.

The Assassin chuckled. "I'm surprised you weren't there when it happened. For a moment I thought every single guard of the whole Palestine had gathered around the Barbican!"

"Speaking of which, I heard you killed a lot of them," the words came out a lot more accusatory than he would have liked, but that person had the death of a lot of his comrades weighing on his conscience, after all.

"It was their life or mine. They left me with no choice."

"And what about Talal?"

The Assassin just shrugged. "It had to be done. That man was responsible of countless crimes and he was...Look, the less you know, the less your life is at stake."

Sajid nodded- if the slave merchant had incurred the wrath of the Assassins, it'd be best for him not to be aware of the shady business such man was involved in. It was another game – and its own set of rules – he had already come to accept.

"I don't approve of what your people are doing," Sajid blurted out. Those words might as well have been his death warrant.

"And I don't expect you to do that. I don't expect you to understand our motives either, to be honest. You have a right to your opinion and you should voice it."

Sajid took some time to let the other's words soak in. He was proving to be avery different person from what he had expected.

"Then why am I still alive?",the Assassin made to open his mouth to answer, but Sajid beat him to that, "And don't you dare tell me that the only reason is because I didn't give the alarm. No one believes that."

The other stood deep in thought for a while, staring at the moon as though he was seeking advice from the silvery aster. Then, he shrugged. "One of my chiefs used to tell me that would I ever need to get wasted, I'd better do that with some good company."

Sajid was dumbfounded. "What?!" The explanation that the Assassin had provided didn't have the slightest trace/semblance of logic.

"Moreover, the Inn where the people of my Order usually goes to is closed tonight, and I needed someone to provide me a drink... Seeing I had already decided to spare your life and we had already talked as well, I thought you could make yourself useful."

"This doesn't make sense at all!"

"As a matter of fact, it completely does. Striking a conversation with the first passer-by is far from being professional", the Angel of Death retorted indignantly.

"I fall under the "passer-by" category too, Assassin."

"No, you fall under the "extremely lucky Guard" one...For now, at least. And if I were you, I'd mind my tongue to avoid ending up in the "deceased" category," the other man warned him, handing him the bottle with a threatening grin. Sajid was starting to get used to the feeling of being constantly threatened.

"So I'm still alive because you didn't feel like getting drunk alone, did you? You know, if I believed I was dreaming before, now I'm sure of it."

The Angel of Death shrugged again. "I think it's natural to feel the need of doing something foolish, every now and then. Especially when it seems the world is crumbling all around you. To feel alive, I suppose," he explained, his voice becoming detached and wistful.

"It never happens to me. Feeling the need to act foolishly, I mean. Something bad comes your way and you start behaving like a madman? What kind of weird reaction is that?"

The Angel propped himself up on his elbows. "So, does wandering around one of the most dodgy districts of Jerusalem with your head up in the clouds, riling up a Prior and then following him on a roof to get drunk with him seem like a cautious behaviour to you? I think you'd better revise your perspective, you know" He remarked piercingly.

Sajid took a moment to meditate on his words and then chuckled – the Assassin was totally right. He had indeed made a long streak of careless acts that night. The fact that he was still alive was a miracle in itself. He opted to change subjects, since there was a tinge of anger in his interlocutor's words. "A Prior? That's who you are?"

The expression that flashed on the Assassin's face for an instant would have probably been the same if he had been stabbed in the stomach.

"What I am...I don't know it anymore." He mouthed back, letting himself fall back down on the rolled carpet. His voice was so full of suffering that Sajid felt bad for him: he must have hit a nerve, even though he had no idea he had said something offensive. Had the other committed some horrible act to achieve his rank?

The other, however, got a hold of himself quickly. He took a deep breath and abruptly sat back up. The usual sharp grin was back on his face too. "Pass me the bottle. That was exactly what I didn't want to think about tonight."

"If it's any consolation, I'm going through a bit of a rough patch too," Sajid offered. He felt a little guilty.

"How's that?"

"I think I've made a huge mistake. Or better yet, a lot of huge mistakes in the span of a couple of days. The one I respected and looked upon as my wisest teacher turned out to be very fake and despicable, and I'm no less than that. I considered myself a better person, you know? I recognized the mistake, but I did nothing to fix it. Rather, I did something...but not when I should have and perhaps it wasn't even the right thing to do."

Sajid realized what he was about to say and stopped short of admitting that he had warned Talal. Even if he were to come off as friendly, an Assassin was still an Assassin, and Sajid suspected it wouldn't be good for him if the man he was sharing Arak with were to know about his role in warning Talal of the warrant hanging over his head.

Once he regained his composure, he resumed his talk. "I should have acted instead of sitting by and let it happen."

"Are you talking about him having contacts with our Order?"

"Not to hurt your feelings, but I really don't agree with your modus operandi."

"As I already told you it is your right to do so. And, in any case, sometimes the regret of not having acted is better than having to face the consequences of a rectless act."

"I gather you know a thing or two about that, don't you."

"Might be. But I have a hunch about what you thought you had to do, and I can assure you it would have been extremely foolish." The Angel of Death delivered his comeback while handing back the bottle of Arak, and then lied down on his back again.

"I thought I should intervene and say something about what was happening in front of my eyes. To stop him, you know? I went as far as thinking about weeding out the problem at the root – you know what I mean"

Sajid leaned back against a battered crate. He was starting to feel dizzy and his tongue felt pasty as if someone had put cotton into his mouth.

"There it is, that's what I meant. In vino veritas, uh? My guess was right, and I state it again: it was a good thing you didn't act at all."

"In vino...what? And of course you'd think I'd better step back and not do anything – you are biased. What kind of advice is that?"

The Assassin sneered. "The expression is 'in vino veritas'. It means that if you drink too much you'll be more prone to let slip thoughts you wouldn't confess even under threat when sober. I take it you're not an admirer of Filocoro, are you?"

"Who would he be?"

"A guy who understood a whole lot of things about life," the white-clothed man heaved a sigh.

"Not that many, if you're using the past tense to refer to him. Something tells me he doesn't walk among us anymore."

"Sajid, Filocoro lived more than a thousand years ago," the Angel explained patiently.

"...Ah."

That elicited another laugh. "And, by the way, my advice wasn't biased. You wouldn't have obtained nothing more than a headstone in the nearer cemetery. Just think about it: there were two of us among the group of intellectuals, adding to the other four that were stationed in different points of the marketplace. Why do you think we were standing there for? We would have killed you before you even had the time to scream for help. And even if by any miracle you had managed to kill the geographer before ending up stone dead, another suitable substitute would have taken his place within three days at most."

Sajid let out a long sigh. The Assassin's reasoning was merciless. He hated to admit it, but the man was actually right.

After taking a long swig, he handed back the bottle.

"So that crippled magpie is more guarded than the sultan's daughter."

"Precisely," the other started, then promptly choked on a mouthful of liquor. "Wait, how did you just call him?" he spluttered, barely managing to sit up because of the coughing fits that shook his body.

Sajid felt a warning alarm ringing in his head, but decided to dare. "Crippled magpie, but I had no intention of...", he stopped in his tracks when he realized the other was cackling.

"I have to remember this one! Crippled magpie!" He definitely didn't take offence at what he had said.

"Are you going to tell him?" Sajid was growing restless. From what he had gathered, pestering the geographer wasn't a wise move.

The peals of laughter slowly tapered off and with a last snicker the Assassin managed to calm down. "No, I won't. This better remain between us, believe me. But I will remember it next time I have to put up with another of his tirades."

"He must be influential in your faction if he can afford to chastise an Angel of Death."

"Let's put it this way: he's extremely close to the chief of the Assassins here in Jerusalem. Much like as they were a single entity," the man answered in an amused tone. "But you'd better not involve yourself too much in those affairs."

"You are quite fascinating. You Assassins, I mean."

"I prefer women."

It took Sajid a couple of seconds to understand the joke, and the moment it finally sunk in he huffed out a laugh. "Idiot. I didn't mean it like that. Your sept and way of acting are fascinating."

"You used to despise us a couple of sips of Arak ago."

Once again, Sajid laughed. "I never said that. I told you that I don't approve of your way of acting. I don't approve of lions' either, but this doesn't change the fact that I regard them as extremely charming creatures. Rather, perhaps that's actually what appeals to me – the aura of danger."

"Yours is a risky fascination," the Assassin admonished him, "Our night talk doesn't change anything for me, you realize this, don't you? Tomorrow I would kill you on the spot without any hesitation, if you were to stumble on my path. And you would do the same with me if you were a wise one and if the occasion called for it."

Sajid nodded – he already knew that, he had always been aware of it. "Being risky is the best part. Makes me feel alive."

The corners of the Angel of Death's lips turned upwards into a bitter smile. "You'll burn your wings, little moth. You've had the luck on your side tonight, but it won't always go like this. Mark my words: go back to your village. You'll live a long and peaceful life."

Snickering, Sajid handed him back the bottle – which was almost empty at that point. "Come on, drink. Tomorrow we'll both be hung over enough to ensure us one more day among the living!"

The comment earned him a laughter from the Assassin. Their conversation became less and less serious and even less logical, the laughters more frequent. Neither of the two would remember much of that night after that.

"Sajid," the Assassin piped up, getting serious all of a sudden. The other boy had just drained the last drops of liquor. "We have a problem."

"What problem?"

"I don't know about you, but I'm unbelievably drunk, and we still have to get down from this damned roof."

They both laugh until they were on the verge of choking.

The two days of leave Sajid had requested came in handy then, since the hangover hit him hard the morning after their talk. He wondered if his odd drinking pal was in his same state. He kept replaying the previous night's events countless times in his head.

"Sajid, your life comes first," the Angel of Death had warned him before leaving, "Listen to me and forget about the Assassins. Leave those things for the hopeless ones like me. You have the opportunity to choose, so choose to live happily and without regrets."

Sajid had chuckled at that. "I'll think about it. I hope I'll get to meet you again, one day."

The Assassin had shot him a bitter smile. "I don't wish for that, because it would bring the end of one of us."
Upon ending his speech with those fateful words, he had vanished amidst the shadows of a narrow alley.

If the Angel of Death had meant for him to give up on the idea of leading the dangerous life of a city guard that gets passionate everything that revolves around the Assassins, his attempt had failed as much as the one to calm down the woman with the clay jar. Quite the contrary, Sajid actually started to pursue them more actively, to study them with more attention. He took his memories about the slave merchant, his encounter with the Angel of Death, even the renewed and somewhat changed obsession that those hours had stirred in him, and locked them all away in the depths of his soul. The resentment toward Amir, he buried that too. If he wanted to study them, he had to approach them, and that's where said man's connections might prove to be a true blessing.

In time, he learned to accept corruption and swindles as part of the life that he had chosen for himself. He didn't support them, he didn't carry them out. He just tolerated them because he knew better than fighting a losing battle against them. As he had done upon learning about the Assassins'existence and the true face of Jerusalem, he also accepted that the human race was extremely flawed in the way it created chaos around itself. He forgave Amir, and the other Guards tainted by corruption too.
Forgiving himself was harder, but he had mercy for his own soul. At the end of the day, what was him, if not an imperfect and flawed human being among many others that were as much imperfect as him?

He would not meet the Angel of Death ever again, or so he believed; that kind of Assassins used to leave the stronghold of Masyaf only if specific missions occurred and they went back as soon as possible.
Upon realizing that, he felt inexplicably sad. Yet, another part of him acknowledged that not crossing path with the man – or others like him – ever again would grant him a long and favourable life.

As much as he had thought it right to do so at first, no, he would not search for him anymore.

He had no more close encounters with another Assassin, and he didn't even try to get into the geographer's good books; he left those matters to Amir, since securing ties with those people clashed with his principles. Nonetheless, he became a great observer of their behaviour; he observed them come and go from Salomon's Temple, around marketplaces, or gravitating around the geographer's shop. He learned their preferred itineraries, their habits. And with the knowledge he had gathered along the years, he went back to his old child's plays- he teased them just like when he was a little boy, gloating over the troubled looks of his comrades whenever he approached an Assassin and over the awe that followed as soon as he escaped unscathed after his mischiefs.

People even started to call him the Assassin's Enchanter. It was just for mockery at first, but the nickname got soon used out of respect, because it was as if he had the power to lead them to act whichever way he wanted without even addressing them directly. If there were two or more Assassins standing on top of a roof, he knew just how to make them leave without sparking off any kind of conflict. Or he was able to lure them in a specific point of the city, like he had them on a leash. He could pinpoint them even when they had no visible marks to identify them, he picked up in advance their line of action and the ways to avoid it in order not to end up in the victim list. And, last but not least, he was one of the best at tracking them down and grant them a quick death whenever they did wrong. He turned into an model for all his comrades, an example to follow for the new recruits, a source of pride for the captains.

He was always careful not to chase them more than it was strictly needed, like a hunter that don't lead his preys to extinction because he would run out of trophys to show otherwise.
Still, he didn't allow them much mercy either. He felt happy like never before, proud of himself and content with the life he was leading.

His pride grew bigger when Abdul-Muhaimin – a rich arms dealer of that area – was given a backup formed of the best Guards of the whole Jerusalem by the authorities. Sajid was among them.

He disapproved of the merchant's way of acting or behaving: he was nothing more than a two-faced man, one without qualms or sense of honour. But Sajid carried on without showing his indignation; providing safety for everyone was his duty and whatever his opinion of the man might be, it wasn't relevant in the slightest.

He leisurely climbed up the roof a three-stories building from where he could have a good view over the marketplace where Abdul-Muhaimin was wandering, making fun of his workers and chastising them for the low incomes. Then, he stringed his bow. A few meters away from him, a drape bearing the emblem of a wealthy family flapped in the wind; Sajid was keeping an eye on its movements in order to be aware of the strength and direction of the gusts of wind.

At the time, the breeze was blowing from the East, freezing cold and wafting the scents of the marketplace to his nose. The sun's reflection on the bright plaster of the buildings forced him to half-close his eyes and squint at the people walking in the streets below him.

The temperature was oddly low for a mid-september day, and even the sun did nothing to mitigate the biting cold of that morning. Trying not to think about the cold, he started to observe the multiple stands and people that crowded the marketplace: there was a pretty girl in the middle of buying some milk; the merchant poured it in a jar that she then set on her head, heading off along the street.

Sajid cracked a smile while looking at the girl's delicate frame, her well-balanced figure... Maybe he could climb down and ask for her name...

As he watched her go, he was suddenly reminded of the night of a couple of months prior: his last encounter with a woman carrying a jar on her head hadn't exactly been peaceful. He chuckled, looking up to the sky and sniffing at the wind. That would be an easy task, since the merchant didn't have actual enemies and was apparently just a guy with a penchant for boasting about himself.

Ever since the early morning there hadn't been the slightest sign of suspicious activities. That would be a boring day if he didn't manage to have at least a word with the pretty lady. Sajid wasn't even thinking about the merchant and his location anymore. There was no trace of the Assassins, therefore there was no need to check whether he was in their line of action either.

His nostrils were hit by a smell that wasn't quite pleasant, but not completely distasteful either. And yet, a scent didn't need to be liked if it was sacred; somewhere, somebody was burning a mixture of incense, myrrh and oil of camphor.

Sajid felt a shiver running down his spine. He glanced at the banner to check the wind direction.

It had changed. The wind had changed and it was now blowing from behind him.

Struck by panic, he inhaled sharply.

The hand that covered his mouth was equally cold and strong and it barely left him the time to breathe, preventing him from shouting without choking him to death. Almost an act of consideration towards him.

So big had been his surprise, that he couldn't even string his thoughts together. It had also happened too quickly.

The cold shiver he had sensed/felt not too long before hadn't been caused by the wind, but by a thin blade, rendered icy cold by the long exposure to the chilly air of the morning, that had severed his aorta with a single stroke.

Sajid's knees buckled as the blade was extracted from his back, and he collapsed into the Assassin's arms.

As he slowly fell to the ground, he tasted the strong scent of Masyaf. He had seen it happen other times, he knew it would not harm him any further. There was no fear now, he only felt tired. Really tired.

The moment his attacker entered his field of vision, Sajid couldn't hold back a smile.
Well, fancy meeting you here. This is a small world, isn't it?

So the Angel of Death was back in town. His skin was a few shades darker after the summer, and the scar that cut his lip vertically now stood out even more. Sajid hadn't recognised him, but as he noticed his expression, he understood.

He tried to move his lips to say something to the other man, to remind him who he was, but he had no more strength left into his body and his vision was already too blurred. The Assassin offered him a faint smile, kind and reassuring, and he closed his eyes with a gentle graze of his hand. That was a gesture he offered to every single one of his victims, Sajid knew it. It was his ministry/calling; a ritual he would always respect/follow with deference and care at/with every person killed.

Sajid felt honoured for being spared so much consideration. Him, a mere archer among many others.

Perhaps that night he had actually been sent an angel carrying a message for him – an absurd and unlikely way of warning him, but still.
Maybe he should have listened to his words. Or perhaps he simply had been granted the privilege of knowing his fate – written by divine hands - beforehand.

He had forgotten about being cautious and the Assassin had kept his word: he had killed Sajid without giving it a second thought. But Sajid didn't resent him for his action.

After all, the Angel of Death had done nothing but abiding by the rules.

After all, that was the thrilling part of the whole game, wasn't it?

EPILOGUE

Altair huddled up in front of the fire, trying to warm up his limbs.

The whole morning had been spent with him crouched on top of a half-crumpled tower, waiting for the perfect moment to hit his target. He had killed the merchant and made his getaway at breakneck speed to outrun his pursuers, but despite all of that he was still shivering because of the cold weather.

The sound of steps reached his ears. He had just identified them as Malik's when he noticed the Rafiq was already sitting not too far from him.

"What can you tell me about Abdul-Muhaimin?" He asked skipping the greetings. There was a tinge of bitterness in his voice.

"Wa alaykum as-salām, Daï" was Altair's taunting answer. "I can tell you that if I catch pneumonia for spending the whole damn morning hunting a minor target instead of investigating about Majd Addin like I should do, it will be your fault."

Malik huffed. "Cut the whining, it's not that cold."

"You spend all day in front of a brazier, of course that's not too cold for you!" Altair hissed back.

The other casted a glance around to make sure the other Assassins were not looking that way and then proceeded to dump a kick on his fellow brother.

Over the course of Altair's last visit to Jerusalem, a dispute between the two men had turned into a violent fight, involving not only half the Asassins in town but also reaching Al Mualim's ears.
The Mentor had been quick at admonishing them that he wouldn't tolerate such a behaviour a second time. Once more and he had promised they'd come to regret the day they were born in that life and in all the previous ones.
They were careful to keep their quarrel behind closed doors after that.

Altair was about to jump up when a novice walked into the hall. "I'm back from the marketplace" He announced "There are good news. The Assassins Charmer has been killed!"

Malik frowned. "You could use a bit more respect toward a dead one. Don't you think, Riad?" He promptly retorted. "By the way, we already knew that."

"Who's the dead?"

"They called him the Assassin Charmer. He was a nuisance that knew all too well our habits and took delight in pestering us. I even tried to report him to our contacts among the guards but they just kept covering up for him and insisting they didn't know what to do."

Altair snickered. "Such traitors, uh?"

"Quit the laughing, stupid", Malik snapped, "He's the reason we had so many losses and so many failed missions, you know"

"Then why did he get to live that long?"

"I told you! He was pretty damn good at avoiding head-on fights and vanished into thin air when things got dangerous. That coward!
That rascal had a damn good luck too. I don't think he ever really understood what was happening, that poor guy. He wasn't connected in any way to the Templars or any other covens... Essentially, he was nothing more than a nobody. It wouldn't have been right if we had planned a mission just to get rid of him.
His only fault was his bad habit of bothering the wrong people and having a good time in doing so. I suppose he never truly understood how stupid his little game was."

Altair could clearly see the Rafiq's disgruntlement and he smiled again. "That sure is a nice way of showing respect towards the dead, Malik"He aimed the same jab back to him. "The damn good luck you were talking about didn't help him today, though. Who killed him?"

"You, actually."

"Seriously?!"

"You imbecile...You didn't even notice! You're luckier than he was!"

Altair couldn't hold back a tiny laugh when Malik stood up brusquely and stalked off in all his grumbling glory. "Crippled magpie", he cursed under his breath as soon as he was out of hearing range.

Speaking of which, he wondered whatever became of that guard. The one on the roof that night... Perhaps he had followed his advice and he had gone back home, he hoped.
That was a good way to ensure himself a long and peaceful life. Not that it was his business anyway.
After all, he had more important matters to take care of.