The sailor furrowed his brows. “Then you’re serious?”
“At least as far as getting a good look at the fellow, yes. Why not? What have I to lose? Just tell me where this fight will take place.”
The old man heaved a sigh as he rose from his seat. “It’s not very far from here,” he said. “There’s an old warehouse beyond the North Pier. Deserted for many years, now used by Feisal for his matches. Do you know it?”
“I don’t think so. As I said, I’m a stranger here in Jaffa … ”
The sailor pursed his cracked lips and smiled as he shrugged. “Very well, then. I’ll take you there if you like. But mind you — you put your life in your hands by challenging the Bruiser.”
Sinbad laughed and winked at his companion. “Your warning is well taken,” he replied. Then they crossed the dusty floor of the tavern and came out into the quiet street. The aging sailor led Sinbad past the old quarter, marked by twisting alleys and silent bazaars long since shut for the night. A brilliant crescent moon hung low in the sky and reflected its light off’ the waters of the harbor. Silhouettes of hulking ships lay still along the wharves, sails furled and banners aflutter. The very sight of the sea exhilarated Sinbad and he felt his heartbeat quicken with excitement.
Sinbad paused at the roadside and peered out at the majesty of the ocean before him. “There she lies,” he said proudly to the frog. “The Mediterranean, jewel of seas.” Don Giovanni stared dumbstruck; he had never seen so much open water in his life. Greater than the greatest river, sweeping away to the horizon. It was a humbling sight to the frog.
“Then you are a sailor, too?” the old man asked Sinbad.
With the smell of salt water swelling his lungs, Sinbad nodded. “The sea is my wife and my mother; I’ve known no other.”
A faraway blast from the horn of an approaching ship broke the quiet, and the old man sighed, wistfully searching for the nearing vessel. “I also love the sea,” he said, a sad expression crossing his features. “But alas, no ship has room for me now … ” He hung his head and stepped into a shadow so that Sinbad could not see the tears in his eyes.
“But surely you’re still an able seaman,” protested Sinbad.
The old man shook his head. “My body can no longer do the work of a young man. Why should any venturesome captain hire me when he can have a man half my age for the same pay?”
“An experienced sailor is hard to find,” Sinbad said.
“Aye. But few seem to care these days. Believe me, I’ve tried. To sail again I would serve in any capacity. Cabin boy, cook, anything … ”
Sinbad and Don Giovanni were touched by his plight. They exchanged quick glances and the frog nodded. Sinbad smiled. “I am in search of a crew,” the mariner said to the old man.
The crusty sailor turned from his darkened place and stared at him. “You? Are you a captain?”
“I am. And I seek good men to join me on an adventure across the Pillars of Hercules. Experienced men, who are willing to risk all. Although” — and here he frowned — “I can’t promise much in wages … ”
The old man’s eyes brightened; his lip quivered. “You,” he stammered, “you would sign me on board your ship?”
“I have need of a ship’s cook, if you’re interested … ”
Sinbad’s companion narrowed his eyes and looked at him questioningly. “Who are you?” he asked.
The bow was deep and gracious. “Captain Sinbad of Baghdad at your service.”
The startled sailor acted as though the air had been knocked from his lungs. He had never dared to dream of meeting the fabled mariner, let alone of sailing with him.
“Well?” said Sinbad, feigning impatience. “Do you accept my offer?” And he stuck out his hand.
The two men shook firmly to seal the bargain, and Sinbad was pleasantly surprised to feel the strength in the old man’s grasp.
“I am called Milo,” the sailor told him. “Milo of Tyre. And I’ve sailed the seas for forty years. You won’t regret taking me on, I promise you.”
Sinbad clasped his shoulder and laughed. “I’m sure I won’t. But as I’ve said, I am sorely in need of raising some more money. Without a bit of Feisal’s gold I won’t have a ship — and neither of us can cross the Mediterranean without wood beneath our feet.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so before!” said Milo, and he laughed in unison with his captain. “Come. The hour is close to midnight and everyone will have already gathered … ”
“You think I might have a chance against this Bruiser?” asked Sinbad as they briskly made their way down to the docks.
Milo frowned, but there was an unmistakable glint in his eyes. “The Bruiser can be taken — but you’ll need some clever tricks to do it.”
“There’s more to prizefighting than mere brawn,” Sinbad observed. “If my guess is right, this fellow wrestles on strength alone. Perhaps he has the advantage in that category, but skill and wits, I trust, shall belong to me.”
The doors of the rickety warehouse had been flung open. Small lanterns hung from posts to guide the bettors along their way down the darkened wharf. A fair-sized crowd had already assembled both inside and out, with bookmakers frantically trying to outbid each other as they shouted the latest odds.
There were all manner of men to be seen, Sinbad noted as he and Milo reached the broad wharf. Pickpockets and derelicts mingled among sailors from every land. Sinbad recognized the colorful tunics of the seamen of Sidon; the dark, heavy garments of the shipmates from Tarsus in the Byzantine Empire; there were those from Gaza and those from Crete as well. Libyans from the land of the Zeirids, swarthy adventurers of the Maghreb. A microcosm of all nations gathered here upon this pier to wager on the outcome of tonight’s fights.
“This way,” said Milo, taking Sinbad by the arm and leading him past the murmuring groups.
Inside the warehouse Sinbad blinked from the light of a dozen huge torches set at random along the splitting wooden walls. The floor was smothered in sawdust that rose with every step. Slab benches, hard and uncomfortable, had been set around the raised platform that served as a ring. Sweaty and odorous men, unshirted, were already wrestling, grunting and groaning, in the preliminary matches.
Sinbad and Milo took good seats near the front. Hoots and boos rose all around as impatient onlookers demanded the appearance of the Bruiser — the man they had come to see.
“A rowdy lot,” mumbled Sinbad, frowning at the terrible stench which permeated the air.
“Aye,” agreed Milo somberly. “And it will get worse as the evening wears on. They’re here to see blood, maybe even death … ”
Sinbad shuddered involuntarily. “Not mine, I hope,” was all he mumbled in response.
The two wrestlers on the stage wheezed as they grappled. Then one, with a sudden jerk, wrenched the arm of the other and sent him flying. The second wrestler banged his head against the wooden floor and lay in a semi-daze while his adversary kicked him savagely in the face.
More hoots from the crowd. “Take those clowns off!” they shouted. “Bring on some men!” and “We’re not here to watch eunuchs!”
The dazed wrestler coughed blood and went into a stupor. His seconds lifted him up and carried him out while the winner of the match held up his hands in victory. A smattering of copper coins were tossed onto the platform and he eagerly gathered them up before leaving.
“Bring us the Bruiser!” someone bellowed. And again and again the cry was repeated. “The Bruiser! The Bruiser!” Foot-stomping and whistles drowned out the shouts of the bookmakers. The din became so furious that the promoters of the matches were unable to restore even a semblance of order.
But then, from some hazy room in the back, came Feisal. At the sight of the wily man the crowd grew silent. His reptilian grin split his face from ear to ear. He climbed onto the platform, avoided a small pool of blood near the center, and faced the audience. By now the warehouse was jammed. Sailors and varied followers stood lined up outside the do
ors, straining to get a glimpse over the standing-room-only crowd.
Feisal the promoter signaled for the doors to be shut. The last of the sailors forced their way inside, and when the arena became quiet he said: “Tonight Mongo the Bruiser, champion of all Islam, has agreed to face all comers, not just the customary three … ”
Great cheers arose from the benches.
“And having given you all my word,” Feisal went on, “I shall take all bets against Mongo at two and a half to one — for any man who can spend only three rounds in the ring!”
Again came the cheers, even louder than before. Milo turned to Sinbad. “These matches have always been four rounds,” he confided. “But, as no man has ever lasted, Feisal’s lowered the time limit.”
Sinbad chewed tensely at his lip. “And how long is each of these rounds?”
“Four minutes. Few have ever made it past the first. Only one that I know of made it into the third.”
“And what happened to him?”
“The bruiser cracked his skull. He was fortunate the match ended before Mongo killed him.”
Sinbad groaned. The idea of getting into the ring with such an animal was becoming less and less appealing with every passing moment.
“Shhh,” said Milo, a finger to his lips, as Sinbad was about to ask another question.
From the stage Feisal was calling for order again. The audience quieted. “The first contestant,” he said, “shall be Ororex of the Fatimite Caliphate. The champion of Cairo. Now, who will place their bets?”
Milo raised his brows dramatically. “I have heard of this Ororex,” he whispered to Sinbad. “An ape of a man, they say. If anyone has a chance of beating the Bruiser, it’s him.”
The bookmakers were kept more than busy with the first challenge. Tens of dozens of Egyptian sailors, more than eager to wager their hard-earned gold on their compatriot, clamored to get in as many bets as possible. They knew their man, knew just how awesome Ororex truly was. What they didn’t know, or seem to care about, was how awesome Mongo the Bruiser was. And tales of the champion of all Islam did not seem to faze them.
Sinbad waited anxiously for the betting to be done and the fight to get under way. Slowly the bettors returned to their stoats, and a new silence prevailed.
Then came the cheers. From the back rooms came a man the like of which Sinbad had never seen. A brute — an enormous fellow with biceps twice the size of his own, shoulders as wide as a broadsword, callused hands capable of lifting a horse. His face was scarred and mean, and his scowl sent shivers crawling up Sinbad’s spine. Wearing only the briefest covering at his loins, the fighter climbed onto the platform, sneering as he flexed his muscles, veins popping from his neck and arms. The crowd went wild.
“Merciful Allah!” cried Sinbad. “No wonder he’s a champion!”
“Aye,” agreed Milo. “Ororex is a hefty fellow.”
“Ororex?” Sinbad peered at his new friend with astonishment. “That’s Ororex? I thought it was Mongo!”
Milo chuckled. “Not quite. Here comes the Bruiser now.”
And this time the roars were deafening. Sinbad turned and strained his eyes to get a glimpse of the fighter making his way to the platform from the other direction.
Easily seven feet tall, taking strides twice as long as his accompanying trainers, the champion of Islam seemed like a giant. White teeth glinted with his smile; his rugged features were virtually unmarked despite his many fights in the ring. His dark complexion was set off by a chest covered with black hair. The muscles of his stomach were taut and supple; you could hit him with a hammer and still he wouldn’t feel it.
As the audience shouted his name at the top of their lungs, Mongo the Bruiser grinned, acknowledging their cries by clasping his hands above his head and bowing before them. Small round gold rings glittered in his earlobes, and his eyes smoldered at the sight of his waiting opponent. The nostrils of his hooked nose flared as he climbed onto the stage, and by comparison the mighty Ororex seemed a dwarf. Sinbad’s eyes widened when he balled his hands into fists — fists the size of vases.
Mongo set his jaw in grim determination. Ororex sneered. Feisal scrambled off the platform, a bell rang, and the fight began.
The Bruiser moved gracefully for a man his size, Sinbad observed. Forever on his toes, Mongo half danced his way across the ring, chest bulging and glistening with sweat, bare fists up in a defiant stance. Ororex bravely came on and jabbed. The giant stepped to the side, laughing as the blows barely glanced off his arms. Then he let loose a blow of his own — a hard left fist that crashed into Ororex’s belly. The smaller man grimaced with the sting but adroitly maneuvered away in time to avoid the next oncoming blow.
They danced again. Ororex kicked high, a solid kick in the groin that would have staggered another man and sent him sprawling. But Mongo didn’t even budge from his place. He glared at his adversary and grinned. Then smash, smash went his fists, a left and a right connecting with Ororex’s jaw. The champion of Cairo reeled back, ducking instinctively and shielding himself against further jabs. But he had been hurt, no question of it. Blue welts were rising on the side of his face.
The Egyptian sailors began to jeer. Their man was being trounced and the first round was hardly half over. But from the galleries in the back, where the local seamen had gathered, came the ecstatic cries of: “Mongo! Mongo! Kill him, Mongo!”
Spurred on, the giant gave up all pretense of classical Greek boxing. Now it became a free-for-all, no holds barred, anything goes. Mongo jumped on the injured Ororex, knocking him over like a bowling pin, wrenching his arm and nearly shoving him off the platform. The smaller man wheezed in pain and somehow gained enough strength to push the Bruiser away. Ororex’s fists did a terrific one-two combination, landing solidly on the giant’s face. Again the Bruiser was not perturbed. He drew back his own fist and pounded the fellow with a blow so fierce that when Ororex’s nose broke you could hear the crunch of cartilage across the arena. Dizzily Ororex tumbled, his face spouting blood like a fountain. Mongo prepared to leap on top of him, hoping to crack his ribs with the crush of his weight. Just then, though, the bell rang. The first round was over.
Ororex’s trainers half dragged the dazed fighter to the far corner, gasping at the sight of the bloody pulp that had been his face. While Mongo flexed his muscles and stood proudly in his own corner, the trainers did all they could to revive Ororex.
The bell for the second round rang. Ororex leaped to his feet, displaying more energy and courage than any had given him credit for. But to go on was really useless. Mongo, incensed at the fact that his opponent had even dared come out for the second round, decided to end it quickly. He grabbed Ororex by his hair, yanked him to the mat, and stomped on his throat with his callused foot. Ororex gasped for air. His hands flayed about helplessly. He began to gurgle and groan, his eyes now glassy and unseeing.
Mongo jabbed him in the ribs with his big toe. Ororex rolled over, flat out, his face twisted in torment. And then he collapsed in a heap, thankful for the oblivion that soon came.
The crowd screamed for more, but Mongo shook his head. Ororex had fought cleanly and well. Mongo would not punish him further.
It did not take long for the unconscious champion of Cairo to be pulled off the platform and carried to the dressing room. In the next moments, a beaming Feisal came back onto the stage and announced the next contender. Mongo took a sip from a water bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. His next opponent was from the Sudan of Africa. A black man, once a slave, also renowned in his own land as the best.
“Well?” said Milo with a small smile of satisfaction. “What do you think of the Bruiser now? Are you still so eager to make a match?”
Sinbad drew a long breath and let it out slowly. “Mongo’s the most powerful man I’ve ever seen,” he admitted. “But he lacks finesse. He has no class, just strength.”
Milo looked at Sinbad sharply. “Strength is all he needs.”
A minute or
two later the African appeared. Because of the din, Sinbad could not catch his name. Not that it mattered, though. The African was a fine specimen of manhood — but no match against Mongo. He began well enough in the opening seconds, what with his agility and ability to slip out of reach of the Bruiser’s terrible blows, but by the time the round was over the poor fellow was lying prostrate upon the stage, not as bloodied as Ororex had been, but with a broken collarbone, swollen lumps for eyes, and a mangled leg, crushed when Mongo had pounced on him.
In short order it was time for the next bout. A tall, fearful Moor came onto the stage, but this third match became only a parody of the others. The Moor knew full well he had no chance; he only hoped to dance around and keep out of Mongo’s way long enough to finish the three rounds and collect the prize. Mongo, though, was having none of these games. He caught hold of the Moor, broke his arm, heaved him up into the air, and sent him flying onto the first row of spectators.
The losing bettors became quiet and sullen. Feisal, grinning from ear to ear at this especially profitable night, came back to announce the fourth fight. There was little enthusiasm, particularly when the audience heard that the fighter had had almost no experience at all. With a minimum of bets, in spite of Feisal having raised the odds to four-to-one, they all saw the youth from Tarsus literally run off the stage before any real damage was done.
“Is there anyone else?” called Feisal, trying to keep his audience as long as possible. “Who among you will climb into the ring with the Bruiser?” There were no takers and Feisal frowned. He looked at Mongo, who was standing patiently in his corner, oblivious of the crowd. “Surely there must be someone,” cried Feisal, “someone not afraid to meet the greatest fighter in the world … ”
Still no takers. Sinbad stirred and looked at Milo. The old sailor shrugged.
“Four to one,” went on Feisal. “Four to one, and only two rounds in the ring to win the prize. What say you all? Is there none among you with a sporting heart?”
The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar Page 59
