The Mer- Lion

by Lee Arthur

  was furious. Then, the single voice was drowned by a chorus of voices, their chanting filling the air: "God is most great. I bear witness that there is no god but God." .

  Now the Moulay was indeed maddened. The call was genuine; the slave had escaped his fate. But worse than that, the interruption had robbed the Moulay's unstable manhood of its ability to continue. As the slave stared in terror, the lust-filled features above him twisted into a mask of rage and the slave rightiy feared for his life.

  But then, the monarch remembered the night before. Not for many years had he been able to so sustain and prolong his lustings. It was the novelty of this boy-girl's body. Such novelty might serve him well again. As such, he decided he would be foolish to take the child's life. Even as he prepared to tell the slave as much, he was interrupted again. By a sound. More a clearing of the throat than a cough. The Moulay froze. His voice, high-pitched, was menacing: "Who loves life so little he dares disturb the Moulay?"

  The oily face of the roly-poly eunuch quivered with fear, but the voice, his most unctuous, gave no hint of it. This was not the first time he had interrupted his master in his devoirs, but each time he feared that it might be his last. "It is audience day, Magnificence."

  The Moulay sighed and rolled over onto his back. Released, the youthful slave bolted from the bed for the door. The eunuch instinctively grabbed for him, but the Moulay shook his head, allowing the child to go.

  Approaching the bed, the eunuch knelt. Quickly, with the speed ol one doing familiar tasks, the eunuch deftly put slippers upon his master's chubby feet. And then, with the eunuch's help, the Moulaj sat up.

  While the city's inhabitants, like all Moslems throughout the world, made their obeisances to the East, touching their foreheads to the floor in worship of Allah, Tunisia's ruler yawned and watched a: the eunuch knelt between his knees. Gendy, the eunuch lifted hi: master's flaccid member with his left hand and pointed it toward the bejeweled crystal night-soil jar he held in his right hand.

  As the stream of urine swished noisily in the urn, the Moula] looked about him. The heavy silk hangings, the thick rug with if famed blue Kairouan design, the cushions embroidered with goh thread, the copper braziers burning merrily to make the room warn as noon—everything that he saw pleased him. He loved this place from the depths of his being. He much preferred its light, airy, decidedly effeminate beauty to that of the Dar al Bey, his official residence in the center of the medina. Here amid splendid gardens nestled away from the heat and stink of Tunis, he had privacy to indulge his wildest perversions.

  Besides, the Dar al Bey meant too many unpleasant memories for the depraved monarch.

  As the heir apparent, the first forty years of his life had been spent at the Dar al Bey, mostly confined to the small but luxurious one-room "Prince's Cage," in a remote spot in the palace gardens. His companions had been aging concubines, confirmed sterile, the droppings of his father, the Moulay Harhid. Other than food, the prince found his only pleasure in sex, especially in the company of his male slaves and guards. His environment, if not his genes, turned him into a confirmed homosexual before his youth had progressed to manhood.

  The big break in his wretched, boring existence came as the result of a revolt by the savage Berbers in the south. Surging out of their mountain holdings with surprise as their ally, they quickly overcame all resistance in the oases and tent cities of the outlying tribes.

  Soon they moved on the capital city of Tunis itself, took it by storm, killed its ruler, Moulay Hamid, and took the victors' revenge on both inhabitants and property.

  But the Berbers were no city dwellers. Having plundered to their hearts' content, they were soon restless for the cool, clean air of their mountain homes. The problem was how to return and still retain their hold on Tunis. The answer lay in sacrificing one of their dutiful daughters for the good of the whole tribe.

  Released from the Prince's Cage, Prince Hassan was led into the throne room. There, frightened and bemused by the fierce looks of his captors, he was married to a Berber princess named Raralah. And then, in accordance with Berber custom, the two were taken to a bedroom for the consummation of the marriage before the eyes of the tribe's elders. It was then that the Moulay Hassan learned what a powerful aphrodisiac fear could be.

  The brief coupling over, the prince could barely control his nausea. But all thoughts of his stomach fled when he saw his wife's

  father, a wild mustachioed man, start toward the bed. Fear made him deaf to the man's words. It was the Berber princess who heard the request, and, in utter disgust for her new husband, surrendered to her father the bloodstained sheepskin from the marriage bed.

  Without another word, not even a glance backward at the newly-weds lying on the bed, the father spun around and left with his fellows to hang the bloody trophy on a pole before the palace gates. Thus was the grand and glorious Dar al Bey reduced to just another Berber marriage tent. The ancient custom was supposed to prove to the world the sanctity of the bride and the manliness of the husband. In this instance, it was only half right.

  Alone at last with his young bride, the Moulay could no longer contain himself and spewed out the contents of his stomach over the bed, himself, and the glistening beautiful body of his bride. To compound matters, the prince broke into tears.

  Perhaps if she had been older and wiser—or not a Berber— Ramlah might have swallowed her pride and taken him in her arms and comforted him, winning a husband by acting the mother. But the reeking vomit, the tears and the animal-like nature of her lailat al-jilwa were too much. She leaped from bed and fled the room. When she fled, she left behind all chance of ever reaching rapprochement with the Moulay.

  Weeks went by without the two seeing each other. Restless though they were, the Berbers still camped outside Tunis. They seemed indifferent to the fact that the Moulay and Ramlah maintained separate living quarters.

  Then, the news swept the city. The young princess was with child. With that, the Berbers packed up and left. The succession to the throne was assured.

  Once the Berbers were gone, the Moulay prepared to indulge himself as never before had been possible while confined to the Prince's Cage. And his indulgence included neither his wife nor a harem of women.

  His first step was to find other living quarters—far away from the accursed Dar al Bey. The Palace of the Harem, once emptied of its feminine inhabitants, he decided, would best satisfy all his needs. Far enough from the city, yet close enough for him to maintain control, it would be redecorated and replanted to suit his own tastes and staffed with a choice selection of unusual slaves and guards.

  His plans formulated, the Moulay sent for his bride. He received her in an anteroom just off the huge audience chamber. If she felt fear, she did not show it, refusing to prostrate herself before him. In the duel of stares, he was first to look away. Totally unnerved by her demeanor the Moulay found himself staring at her belly. Was it his imagination or was it distended with child? His child! His son was growing there. The thought gave him courage.

  "Now hear me, woman," he blustered. "This child you bear must be a male. I command it. Do you every procedure known to man to assure it. Make no mistake, I will have you watched night and day, and shall punish your first wrong move." His insane giggle gave his threat peculiar potency, yet the Berber princess did not deign to reply. Uncertain how to interpret her silence, the Moulay hastened on with his tirade. "You will live here at Dar al Bey, confined to the harem wing and its gardens, while I live elsewhere. The guard will kill you if you attempt to leave without my permission. Now get out of my sight."

  The queen eyed her husband as if he had just crawled from beneath a rock. Then, to the Moulay's relief, she nodded and walked unhurriedly from the room.

  For a woman used to the free life of the Berbers, the very thought of confinement in a seraglio was distasteful. But the reality was worse even than her imaginings. The harem quarters just beyond the court of the black eunuchs had been left to deteriorate as t
he former Moulay, growing senile, lost his lust for life. The rooms smelted dank, unused; the tapestries and wall hangings had grown moldy; dust and spider webs were everywhere; mice had made nests within the couches, their droppings covered the rugs. The grounds were even worse. The gardens were forests of weeds. The fountains had fallen over while the catchpools, green with scum, now hummed as fertile breeding places for mosquitoes.

  As she stood, dismayed at her surroundings, she heard screams in the background. Retracing her steps, she flung the harem doors open only to find her way barred by guards. The screams, torn from many male throats, rose and fell and stopped and started anew. Hastily closing the doors, she fled into the garden and there, burying her face in her robes, tried to keep out the sounds of her husband's handiwork.

  The Moulay had issued orders that no male relative of his was to live past noon that day. Throughout the length and breadth of the palace and the city, soldiers of the new monarch sought out and slew royal brothers, uncles, and cousins.

  One of the younger uncles had had the resourcefulness to make his way to the harem wing. Dashing past the startled guards, he ran through the rooms to the gardens. There, ignoring the startled woman, he flung himself at the stone wall. He had almost scaled it when he was hauled down by his pursuers and hacked to pieces before her eyes. As the coup de grace, one of the soldiers skewered on his scimitar the sighdess head, tongue lolling from its gaping mouth. They would have left the headless, twitching remains behind, but the queen blocked their path.

  "I could have you beheaded for entering my quarters," she reminded them. "But I see the blood-lust upon you, and you are not yourselves. I shall forget I have seen you, but first get that wretched thing out of here. Now! Go!"

  Suddenly aware of where they were and who she was, the soldiers quickly grabbed the royal relative by its heels and dragged it out, its neck spitting a trail of blood behind it.

  Thus were Tunis and its queen introduced to their new Moulay. When the slaughter was over, the heads were brought before him as he sat on his throne at the head of the marble stairs in the Court of the Stone Lions. There, one by one, each head was displayed and identified, its owner's name checked off on a scroll. Then, the head was added to the stack in the center of the courtyard.

  When the last head was placed on this pyramid of staring eyes, protruding tongues, and hideously distorted faces, the heap of human heads towered above the Moulay's own. The flies buzzed about the drying blood clinging to flesh and bone. The Moulay Hassan, his feet shuffling in the pool of blood that was spreading on the courtyard tiles, slowly circled the heap, talking first to one and then another of his dead relatives.

  His ghastly one-way conversation with the heads was interrupted by a slave, carrying a small casket. Kneeling before the Moulay, the slave opened it. Within was the still sweet-smelling head of his father, the Moulay Hamid.

  "Ah, there you are," cooed the Moulay. "The party would not have been complete without old father himself, now would it?" Reaching out, he stroked its cheek, recoiling as the flesh fell away from the skull. At the Moulay's direction, the slave carefully removed the skull and placed it at the very top of the pyramid of heads.

  The new Moulay giggled with delight and demanded an accounting of the slaughter. "One hundred forty, jalala al-malik" murmured the gray-bearded recorder of the scroll.

  "Speak up,-man," shrieked the Moulay. "How many?"

  "One hundred forty."

  "You needn't shout, man, my head can still hear... unlike those over there." The Moulay snickered. Then a new thought struck him. "Including the Moulay Hamid or not?"

  "No, jalala al-malik, not including him. I did not think to count him."

  "But you should have. He, too," the Moulay giggled, "was a relative. The closest relative I had. And he is dead along with all the others. But I live! And no one"—he looked about him—"no one will ever tell me what to do again."

  He returned to his skull pyramid, pulling a tongue here, pushing an eye out there. Then his voice dropped as he confided in his dead relatives, "I would have destroyed the Prince's Cage, you know, but I may have need for it. A thing grows in my queen's womb, and if it is a boy—" He had no need to finish. Everyone knew what he meant.

  And as is the way with courts and courtiers, the queen sequestered in her harem back in Tunis was informed of his every word, and especially what was implied as the fate of her child if a male.

  The queen's duty to tribe, country, and husband dictated she produce a boy. So she slept with a sword under her bed, ate only the flesh of male animals, drank no milk (which is the fruit of the female), and put aside her silky garments in favor of the heavy wool robes of a man. Even though she did all these things, she could not discipline her thoughts. And they dwelled on having a daughter.

  When the midwife, crouched low beside the birthing chair, caught the bloodied body of the babe and began to moan, the queen knew her prayers were answered. The babe was female. The child was named Aisha, after the favorite wife of Mohammed, Messenger of God, to whom the queen had prayed.

  "I name you also Kahina after your Berber ancestress, the princess-prophetess, who drove the Arabs out of Carthage centuries ago. May you, my daughter, do the same."

  The Moulay neither came to see the babe nor even acknowledged formally that there was a child. Abhored and ignored by her father, the little Aisha blossomed under her mother's doting care. At about three, she began to realize that she was special, a princess, a beautiful one at that, and she cajoled, charmed, and commanded her servants into allowing her a surprising degree of freedom within the palace.

  By the age of six, she had the run of the Dar al Bey. No hiding place or hidden nook had escaped her notice. The servants, accustomed to seeing her run gaily up and down the corridors with her token bodyguard—patient, unintelligent, unimaginative Ahmed—in tow, seldom took notice of her comings and goings. Poor hapless Ahmed, who had trouble enough just keeping up, could not manage to keep track of where she went. Even he was forbidden to enter her favorite place, a garden just beyond the harem itself, barely within the seraglio proper, and adjacent to the long-vacated Moulay's apartments. Here, she soon discovered, she was safe from friend, slave, and even mother. No mere mortal dared enter these grounds without serious second thought, and Rami ah avoided anything to do with the Moulay as if he were leprous.

  As Aisha's freedom elsewhere was curtailed and her education expanded, the garden became more and more her refuge. One day when forced to begin learning Turkish, the language of the enemy, she fled here from the harem. "Isn't it enough I know Berber and Arabic? To learn that—" She searched for an epithet and could find none apt, so spat vehemently. Absently, she began, as she often did, to tease the carp that still lived in the pool. Over the years she had with patience and instinct tempted their curiosity until the gold and red and red gold mottled fish came to explore her teasing fingertips. From there it had been a simple matter to teach them to feed from her hand. The placid things learned quickly to allow her to scratch

  their shimmering bellies with one hand while they fed greedily from her other hand. Today they had only begun to eat when an enormous shadow darkened the water and sent them scurrying. Turning about, the little girl saw a short, rotund man wearing the largest turban she'd ever seen. Atop it was an even larger crimson feather that trembled in the breeze and would have wafted away but for the jewel almost as red and almost as brilliant that held it fast. The man's face, although set in a smile, troubled her. Its lips were fat, its eyes small, its chin wreathed with fat and its skin oozing perspiration. Yet - there was something about the face that was familiar, reassuring. It was this quality that misled the child.

  "You charm the fish well," the man finally said.

  "Better even than Ahmed, and his people were fisherfolk," she boasted.

  "Ahmed?"

  "My bodyguard."

  "I see no one."

  "He's not here. He's out there"—she gestured vaguely, sweep-ingty—"somewher
e." She giggled. "Probably he's asleep."

  "You should be tired, too. It's hard work coaxing the fish."

  "Me, tired? Never. I could play games with the fish for hours."

  He paused, irresolutely for a moment, then, unaccustomed to denying himself anything, asked, "Have you ever played Naked Frog? It's my favorite game."

  "Is it fun? Would you teach me?"

  "Gladly. But to learn it we must go inside."

  Trustingly, the little girl placed her small hand within the pudgy grasp of her new friend and the two went inside.

  Hours passed and Ramlah grew first concerned with Aisha's absence, then fearful, then hysterical. Eventually, a search turned up a sleeping Ahmed outside the entrance to the gardens of the Moulay. The gates were barred from within. Only Ramlah's tongue and the lash of the captain of her bodyguard, a Berber left behind to protect her by her father, persuaded the petrified slaves to break in. The garden was empty.

  Not so the second chamber within. There on a low couch sprawled a small, still form, its clothes scattered about, its nether region splattered with gore. And glaring at the intruders from just beyond the child was an irate, near-naked Moulay, his fat forearms resting familiarly on the naked child's chest.

  Ramlah, overcome with a murderous rage that rendered her speechless, stood frozen as he screamed epithets at her, her bodyguard, and at the whole world for disturbing him at his pleasure.

  It was the word pleasure that restored Ramlah's voice. "Pleasure, you say? What monarch is so sick as to seek pleasure upon his daughter's body?"

  The Moulay blinked and shook his head. Then came the realization. In his quixotic impulse to taste a female after devoting himself exclusively to men for years, he'd ravished his own flesh, his own daughter, his only heir. He had enjoyed the child's resistance and enjoyed her screams, but he was not so depraved and without compunction that he could simply continue to lie there. He drew back, and Ramlah's Berber captain resolutely strode forward, picked up and carried the bloodied body of the still-unconscious child from the room. Suddenly Ramlah grew seven feet tall as she looked upon her husband with loathing. "Know you what you've done today. Incestuous monster, Mohammed—upon whom be praise—will bar you from heaven's gates. On Earth, no monarch will speak well of you; no slave give you shelter. You are mad. You have committed the unspeakable sin, you have lain with your daughter. And if you so much as speak to Aisha again, word shall reach my father. Then, once more, the Berbers shall be down upon your head, and this time they will cut off that thing you misuse so, cook it before your eyes, and stuff it down your throat! And I shall cheer them on, for you little, stupid, crazy man, you have deprived your country of a future and condemned your own line to extinction. Your daughter may rule but she is no longer a virgin and can never wed, thanks to you. Think long on that, oh Moulay Hassan, daughter-ravisher!"