The Mer- Lion

by Lee Arthur

  She turned on her heel and left the room. Back in her own quarters, she gazed down into the unconscious face of her daughter, its pale cheeks streaked with tears and its eyes blue-shadowed. Fearfully, she patted the cheeks hoping to rouse her gently. Aisha awoke screaming. Before her eyes, Ramlah saw something flicker and die in her daughter. Aisha awoke, prematurely a woman at age six. Never again did the halls of the Dar al Bey echo to a child's carefree laughter or thoughtless giggle. With one brutal thrust, her father had made Aisha a woman.' And though neither mother nor daughter spoke of what had happened behind the doors of the Moulay's apartment, every night for months, even when sleeping in her mother's arms, Aisha awoke screaming.

  From that day on, she put away her dolls, her toy dishes, every reminder of eventual motherhood. Instead, she dressed like a boy and demanded she be treated as such. Particularly, she insisted that she be sent to school as if she were a prince.

  At the Prince's School, maintained at the Dar al Bey as at every major Arab palace for the purpose of educating the sons of royalty and the nobility, Aisha was the only pupil. Quickly and eagerly she learned, at the feet of the wisest and most scholarly men in the land, to read, write, and speak classical languages in addition to her mother's native Berber and her father's Arabic tongues. Mathematics. Astrology. Geography. History. Aisha mastered them all, plus the languages of Tunisia's erstwhile allies, the hated Turks and despised French, taught her by slaves from those countries purchased for the purpose and later resold at the vast slave market in Tunis.

  In the harem she learned to sing, to dance, to play the three-stringed guitar, to do needlework and painting, and to use cosmetics: henna to make her long, thick mane gleam like molten gold, and kohl to make her large almond-shaped eyes seem even darker and more unfathomable.

  Her first visit to her mother's tribe was at age seven. There as a Berber princess, she was to be taught to think for herself, to hunt and shoot, to wield knife and scimitar, to ride both camel and speedy desert horses. But first, she had to live down her Arabic heritage and prove herself to her peers, a group of children as fair-haired as she.

  Unfortunately, nothing at the Prince's School had prepared her for the rough-and-tumble in-fighting that Berber children seem to absorb with their mothers' milk. She was no match for even the youngest of them that first summer. Her beatings were frequent and severe, but, as one of the elders privately noted, fair, and so the tribal elders allowed them to continue.

  Dry-eyed and tight-lipped, she took her blows and got up, dusted herself off, and came back for more. Slowly, grudgingly, she won the respect of her tormentors, if not for her fighting ability, at least for her courage. By the end of her first season in her grandfather's camp, her Berber cousins had begun to lose interest in such onesided fights. By the end of the next season, an unspoken peace was made, which was just as well for the Berbers. Aisha, or Kahina as she was called here, had used her time in Tunis to good purpose, learning wrestling holds from slaves, purchased for that purpose and men killed for touching the body of the royal lady. With these lessons behind her, Kahina did more than hold her own; she won victories.

  With the fighting out of the way, Kahina's quick wits and book-learning gave her a decided advantage among the Berbers, and soon she had earned her rightful position as leader of the children. Among those who had looked on and followed her progress was one who became a fast friend: an uncle ten years her elder, Ali ben Zaid, born to her grandfather in his seventieth year by a young slave woman.

  Over the course of the years, as the two grew closer and closer, the Berber elders, by their noninterference, expressed tacit approval of the relationship. Nothing would have pleased them more than to have the succession to the throne reinforced with still more Berber blood. Of course, technically, the two were within the proscribed degrees of consanguinity as enumerated by the Prophet, which the elders agreed, was a matter for the mullahs to settle; first, the girl must agree to the marriage. With that in mind, the elders voiced no objections to Ali's request, in Aisha's fourteenth year, that he accompany the princess back to Tunis. Indeed, the gray-hairs smiled secretly within their beards and exchanged knowing looks. And one even suggested that they take a more roundabout route back, visiting others of her people along the way. "Let her," confided one to another, "see how well Ali ben Zaid is accorded respect by others of her people and she will see him in a new light."

  This was Aisha's first visit among her nomads and she savored every moment of it—from her arrival in camp with a flurry of sand thrown up by her fierce horsemen of the desert to the last sip of the sweet mint tea drunk in her honor at the feast on the eve of her departure. So smoothly did everything go that only gradually did Aisha become aware how much all this depended on Ali's ability to lead and organize. Moreover, his skill as a horseman and warrior greatly impressed her people, as did his obvious deference to her.

  She could practically read the message in the eyes of her beholders; "If this ferocious warrior and proud horseman accords this girl-child such respect, she must indeed be worthy of ours." Thus did their curiosity change to esteem; aloof distrust become admiration. Having accomplished this, the darkly handsome Ali and his slender, boyish-looking companion took their leave and rode off toward still another oasis. Aisha knew that given enough time, she could bind all the Bedouin tribes to her banner. Tune was the problem. Two days here, three days there, and fewer than a hundred tribesmen had she met. At this rate, she would have to travel all of the year to meet even half of her people. She vowed that eventually she would do just that.

  Leaving Gafsa, the most northerly of the oases in the Great South of Tunisia, Aisha turned her horse's head eastward, straight toward the capital. Instead, Ali suggested they go by way of Redeyef some seventy kilometers away, a more circuitous route but not too far out of their way. The morning sun was only two hours in the sky. They had plenty of time, even with a halt at midday, to get there before dark and then take the road to Tunis. Aisha was in no hurry to return to the constricting life of the seraglio, not after tasting freedom among the Berbers and Bedouin. Quickly, she reined her mount away from Tunis and followed Ali's lead. At first, they rode through lush green grass strewn with fragile-looking flowers which spread like rich carpets upon the desertlike steppe, drawing sustenance from underground springs. But soon the path grew rugged. Redeyef was situated in rough, mountainous terrain among the foothills of the Lower Steppes. To its south lay Moulares, with its phosphate mines, and the Djebel Alima caves where the Caspian people worked and lived.

  Along the way, Ali suggested another detour which would take them through the impressive gorges of the Oued Seldja not far from the Algerian border. Two summers before, Ali had visited this natural wonder with friends, and his young mind remembered with awe the sheer rock walls and cascading streams.

  Leaving their escort behind, they tethered their horses at the foot of a reddish cliff, and the eager pair entered a narrow cleft, making their way upward on foot It was a relief just getting down off the horses and stretching their legs, though climbing was difficult. Following the stream through rocky walls, Aisha and Ali soon reached the natural amphitheater that Ali remembered so vividly.

  As they stepped into the lush green meadow, Aisha gave a startled cry. At the tar end of the small amphitheater where the cliffs rose 200 meters above the stream, hung the misty ribbon of a waterfall of such beauty that it took her breath away.

  "I've never seen anything so beautiful,'' the young princess whispered.

  "Nor I," replied Ali. "I wanted you to -see it, so that we might share its memory."

  "Ob, thank you," Aisha said as she turned and placed her full lips on his in a quick, but grateful kiss. Ali's arms went about her tiny waist. Hers instinctively went over his broad shoulders and circled around his neck.

  With infinite patience, savoring the touch, the young couple explored each other's lips. Gradually, the kiss grew more intense as each was awakened to the other's need. Then Ali broke the k
iss and the silence almost simultaneously. "Forgive me, princess," he blurted out as realization of what he had done came to him. "I had no right to do that. I forgot you are the Princess Aisha—"

  Her fingertips on his lips silenced him. "Hush. No more of that. I am your friend Kahina, remember? Besides, it was I who started it. I couldn't help it, it is so beautiful here."

  It was her turn to become silent as be covered her hand with his and kissed those quieting fingertips one by one. Almost shyly, she asked the question that was foremost in her mind. "You did like it, didn't you?"

  "Of course, I did," he replied, abandoning her fingertips and seeking once again the stightiy parted lips of the girl he now knew he loved and had always loved.. Aisha did not resist the gentle pressure that seemed to float her down into the deep, lush grass. Ali's surprisingly soft and gentle lips moved now to her closed eyes, then to the slightly upturned nose, the gleaming lobes of her ears, the softness of her neck, always returning to drink again of the woman he desired.

  Even as he did, one hand moved gently but firmly down her shoulder to come to rest on Aisha's budding breast. At the touch, even through her bumoose, Aisha shivered. Ali interpreted it as a signal to continue giving pleasure. His hands now gently, lovingly cupped the firm, young mound and moved in rhythmic circles. For Ali, it was a moment of unbelievable beauty. A moment which hung in the eerie stillness of nature's amphitheater for a frozen eon... and then was shattered. By a whisper.

  "Ali," Aisha whispered in his ear. "Ali, don't. I beg you. No more." Although the memory of her paiidul first penetration had faded over the years until it was but a shadow in the back of her mind, the rest of her brutal ravishment remained indelibly etched on her psyche. Now, Ali's lips on hers, his hand on her breast, recalled thick, merciless lips forcing her mourn open, a tongue filling it, making her gag, hard bands cruelly tweaking her little girl's nipples, and then—she couldn't bear to remember, she couldn't bear Ali's caresses.

  He misinterpreted the tears welling up in her eyes. "I've hurt you, my love."

  "You? Hurt me?" She laughed bitterly, and now the tears flowed unchecked. "No, not you. Never you. I'm the one who must hurt you." Again her fingers stilled the tips about to protest. "Believe me, Ali, I do care for you. And I would that I were other than what I am. If I were someone else, anyone else—a slave girl or raqisa, I could come shamelessly but gladly into your arms—" Her voice broke, and a moment passed before she could get it under control. "But I am not. I am my father's daughter. And because of what he has made me, I can never know a love like yours."

  Her eyes flashed, her face grew bleak, and her mouth hardened. He was not sure of what she meant, but he did know that before his very eyes she had changed from innocent maiden to cruelly astute royal. This change in her countenance must have been mirrored in his, for suddenly her expression softened. Once again she was the young girl he had known for these many years.

  "Ali," she whispered, "believe me, I do love you. But in the only way possible for me to love you—as my brother."

  Ali, choked with emotions that fought his ability to reason, gave a little sob, and moved away, lying back and staring unseeingly at the limitless sky. Time went by before Aisha leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder. "Ali, I'm sorry, I truly am. But if you'd like, you can kiss me again."

  He groaned. As much as he wished to do just that, he knew he couldn't trust, himself to stop just there. It was her turn to misinterpret his reaction. "Ali, are you sick? Should I get help, tell me—"

  He forced a smile to his lips. "No, little princess, my sickness is incurable."

  She couldn't meet his eyes.

  "If you are ready, Aisha, we had best go back."

  Slowly, they rose to their feet and, without a word, began the walk back down the canyon. Her hand reached out and joined wiuV his as, without speaking, the two slowly wound their way back to the horses to ride on toward Redeyef and the safety of company. Aisha had learned one valuable thing: here was a man she could trust.

  Although Ali would never forget their tryst in the gorge, Aisha seemed to have banished it from her mind. At least, she never once spoke of it, talking only of her meetings with the Bedouin. This was Aisha's first breath of the heady fumes of royal power, and she found the prospect of more intoxicating. It made the restrictions on her freedom of movement in Tunis even more onerous. "I shall not even be able to see you as often as I wish, Ali."

  He was taken aback. "Why not? I'm your uncle!"

  Aisha laughed. "Oh, suddenly, you've remembered that," she teased him.

  "Only when it's convenient to remember it," he shot back. "Now, tell me, why can we not see each other whenever and wherever we wish?"

  "Because in Tunis, I can see you only when you come to see me at the seraglio."

  "You mean you don't come and go as you choose?"

  "Hardly. It would not be safe for me, a woman, to go out in the streets. I live the life of a princess in prison. A comfortable prison, but a prison all the same."

  She touched heels to her horse's flanks and put him to a canter as if already fleeing the confines of the harem. Ali and her escort bad no choice but to follow after, but already Ali was looking for a solution to Aisha's problem.

  Less than a week after their return to Tunis, Ali presented himself

  at the Dar al Bey with his plan for creating the al Ikwan, a bodyguard for the princess, selected from among the slave muezzins muted by the Moulay's command and even by his own hand. Ali judged, rightly as it turned out, that these refugees from the game-of-call-to-morning-prayer would feel no love for the father and would learn loyalty to the daughter. Besides, it took a strong, tough man to live through such an ordeal. The tongue tied to a horse's tail and pulled out by the roots in a gruesome tug of war. Or else cut off with a red-hot sword, causing and cauterizing the wound simultaneously. Or ice was brought down from the Atlas Mountains, to remove the tongue, layer by layer by layer, in a long agonizing ordeal. There was no limit to the Moulay's insane creativity when it came to torture.

  Ramlah was quick to point out the obvious. "The slaves' very silence is an obstacle to your plan. How do you speak with men who once spoke many tongues and now can only ululate like babies?"

  Aisha agreed. "I shall never speak in ughs and arghs or cackles and croaks."

  "You needn't," Ali replied. "Their minds are whole, they will understand you."

  "Think you, uncle, my people will fear and respect men who talk with growls like beasts? How would that make me safe within the city? No, I'll not have it. Find another way."

  Ramlah agreed. "Even if you do, she will still be a woman surrounded by men. That gives my daughter freedom?"

  "It does. Remember, Aisha, our visit to the tents of the Taureg? You could not tell one from the other. I propose everyone, including you, go veiled as the Taureg" men do, leaving only your eyes uncovered. Veiled in such a way, not even the Moulay will know if his daughter is present or absent from any particular group."

  Both Ramlah and Aisha accepted veiling as a way to forestall any possible objections from the Moulay. Still, language presented a barrier to the adoption of the plan. But not for long. Within days, Ali had solved the problem of the myriad of many languages among the slaves by adopting Sabir, that polyglot language of the Crusades, as the official tongue of command. With its roots in Spanish, Arabic, French, and Italian, all but the English already understood much of it. Once all could understand Ali, he would teach them to speak without words, in the lingua franca of the mutes of the bazaar. From then on, they would be forbidden sounds and must sign with their hands.

  To this, Ramlah and Aisha quickly agreed, and her personal guard, the al Ikwan, was established. Within months, it numbered more than three dozen, all speaking with their hands. The more intelligent of the group learned to signal with their eyes as well, and these, numbering less than twelve, formed an elite corps of bodyguards and officers.

  Thus, without words, the group might stop and star
t and turn and move as one. The effect was frightening to those who watched it It was witchcraft to many of Aisha's people. Their fear became the force's most potent weapon. In this way were mute slaves transformed into silent masters.

  Once he became a member of the group, no man left it except through death. So that the group remained small, the standards for admission grew ever more strict over the course of years. Aisha and Ah' and the elite ones attended every public detongueing, watching carefully and critically how each muezzin withstood the hot or cold torture, the tug of war, the long-handled cutter that more tore than cut a facile member from a gagging throat. Then, afterward, the two, uncle and niece, would compare the degree of barbarity of the detongueing with the courage shown. Only after both had agreed the slave to be worthy and the elite corps had concurred, would a slave-muezzin be chosen to join the group. As far as Aisha was concerned, Edwin Godwin could not have chosen a worse morning to wake the city with his false call to prayer. Today was audience day. Adding a detongueing to her schedule meant she would have to forego the slave auction. That might be just as well. The Moulay liked to choose for himself the replacements for his game-of-morn-ing-call. She dared not bid against him, not until the problem of her marriage had been solved. If angered, the Moulay was capricious enough to change his deranged mind and ship her off to Algiers to the Barbarossa. Aisha remembered, from one of those rare meetings when she had been forced to join her mother as she endeavored to persuade the Moulay not to accede to the corsair's request, how astutely and cruelly he had pointed out, "What difference could bursting a piece of skin make to that son-of-a-nobody? He would still be marrying a princess and taking his place alongside kings."