by Lee Arthur
His shrewdness was apparent the moment the women were ushered out. None among the twenty was an outstanding beauty. The mu'min among them wore veiled, the fakir were not. But it made little difference. Most of these women were there for resale. The corsairs' raids on the mainlands to the north of the Mediterranean had ceased until spring; until then, there would be a dearth of fresh, virginal, white women to sell.
The striker did the best he could, but the wares went slow and the bidding was low. Only one woman was stripped and she looked better dressed and was struck down to the last man who'd bid before he saw her naked. He, in turn, tried on the spot to try to resell her, but his fellows only laughed at him and called for the male beauty to be put on Jhe block.
The black was a master at reading and playing the crowd. Bowing in apparent obedience to the mood of the crowd, he clapped his hands and shouted, "Bring forth a blond."
The official tallymaster, checking his sheets, called forth a number. From somewhere beyond de Wynter's pen, a group came forward with a blond slave, easily the size of Fionn. But this was a man well past his prime and going to fat with a look on his face that denoted unintelligent submission. Stumbling slightly, he was thrust onto the block, and the striker began his singsong chant.
When that slave was struck down to a new owner, another blond took his place, a much younger man. The black's plan became evident. He had whetted the crowd's appetite early on for a particular slave, now he was serving up similar ones, each progressively better in quality man the preceding one. The last of a dozen or more blonds had stepped up on the blocks and been struck down when the black came forward and gripped the slave by the arm. "Good, isn't he? Well, my friends, I have one that's still better.
"But first, I have some blacks brought all the way across the desert to be sold here. And, my friends, so green are they that I dare not sell them without warning you: take the word of a negrito, these aren't fit to enter your door. But, if you are looking for slop cleaners or dung shovelers or offal scrubbers, here are your men. What do I hear? One or all..."
Whenever the bidding slackened, the black's agents would move within the crowd drumming up excitement. Or the black himself would remind his prospective customers that the best was yet to be sold. The best he referred to were no longer engrossed in the auction. Less carefully watched than before—their guards' attention drawn elsewhere—the slaves found that so long as they made no sudden moves nor spoke too loudly, they were free to hunker down or lean on the fence and talk among themselves.
Thus it was that they never saw the single file of white-robed white-veiled figures insinuate themselves against a wall at the back of the crowd. But Eulj Ali and the captain did. Within seconds the captain had jumped down from his vantage point to pick his way slowly but steadily through the crowd. Getting to the base of the auction block took half as long as catching the black's attention. Once done, the captain spoke quietly but forcefully: "Put them on sale now!"
"It's too soon, they'll bring more later," the black protested.
"Do it now, or I'll do it myself." The captain was not joking.
"As soon as these last are sold," the black agreed reluctantly even as the striker closed the sale.
A slap of a black slave's hand stung the big drum to hum, and again, and again, quickly joined by others. The crowd hushed expectantly. All eyes focused on the black, who in turn saluted the crowd.
"My friends, you have been too generous today. My tallymaster assures me mat already today the sales of the house of Hassan ben Khairim, your servant, have set a new record for the off-season. And so I ask myself, how do I reward and thank these too generous patrons of mine? Ah, you have guessed my plan. You will remember I spoke of a blond giant? A funny-faced man? A scribe who I am informed is also a physician? A rawa? It is time to present diem to you."
He clapped his hands and the group in and around the first pen were galvanized into action. The guards up above used their whips to roust the slaves and herd them just inside the gate to the pen. At the last minute, using whip and crook, four were singled out and pushed and tugged and prodded to one side. Four lengths of cloth, each with a slit in the middle for a head, were passed over the fence for these four slaves to wear. In the meantime, the black was addressing the crowd.
"My friends, who among you is content with the running of his house? Not I, for one. And if I were not running this sale for the house of Hassan ben Khairim, your servant, I would be out there preparing to bid on this next group. For, my friends, within this group is every man needed to turn your house into such a paradise as the rest of us shall not know until we go to join the Apostle of Allah—upon whom be Allah's blessing and peace—within the Garden of Allah—exalted be he! Within moments, my friends, you shall see such men as would make the houris in the Garden of Allah—exalted be he!—shiver with delight. And these men, all young, all strong, all able, are hard, nay, willing workers.
"Now, I know, my friends, that for some of you it may be inconvenient to replace your whole staff at this time. And others among you have smaller establishments for whom all these"—he gave a quick signal, and the slaves began mounting the block single-file, "gardeners and sweepers and cooks and bakers and launderers and food servers and bath attendants—all these may be too many. Then, you, my friends, might wish to join with your neighbors in bidding on this group. For by order of the consignee, this group will be knocked down all or none!
"No, no bids yet!" the black said quickly pretending to be remonstrating with some eager buyer within the crowd, "for you
have not seen all. There are four more to come, but first, look these over. Number 227, come forward."
Angus sullenly walked forward, to be flexed and prodded and turned about. Number 228 was Ogilvy, and he must do the same. One by one, each was called forward to have his virtues extolled except for 241, Gilliver.
Apparently puzzled, the black walked about him, staring at him from, first, one direction, then another. "Now, don't be fooled by this one, my friends. He looks scrawny. In fact he is scrawny, but within that feeble body is the perfect—what? My friends, rarely am I at a loss, but this time, I confess I am. Help me out."
The suggestions thrown out were as obscene and inventive as the Arab mind could conceive, and the crowd laughed a bit harder at each. The black was pleased. A relaxed, jovial crowd was more apt to spend big. His plan was running smoothly. It was time to produce the last foursome of the day.
"Yes indeed, my friends, an excellent fly-whisker he'd make, especially for the blond giant I told you about. But now, my friends, tell me true, are these not the best thirty-two slaves you've seen in a long time?" The black's agents within the group led the clapping, much of which was genuine.
The slaves did make a good appearance, obviously cleaner and healthier and better-fed than most of the wretched souls bid off that day. And being mostly fair-skinned, young, well-exercised males, they gave an impression of strength and ability. "And now, my friends, what you have been waiting for. The funny-faced man!"
John the Rob stepped up on the block and tripped on his robe, going sprawling across the platform and into the group of slaves, who stopped his momentum and pushed him back on his feet. Whether accidental or; deliberate, no one could tell, but the crowd laughed uproariously at him, and the frown on the black's face disappeared. "As I said, my friends, the funny man. Can you not see him entertaining you and your harem on those hot sultry nights when the sirocco blows? Next, the blond." On cue, Fionn stepped up and his robe was at least as much too short as John the Rob's had been too long. In its skimpy depths, Fionn looked twice his size. With one grab, the black ripped it off to reveal the muscular body below. The crowd began murmuring, black eyes glinted under the headrobes, and consortiums were formed to bid on this group. "And the learned one."
Carlby stepped up on the block. "What language would you hear him speak?" The crowd called them out, one after one upon another, Carlby replying in kind. Then, he too was pushed back in line
alongside John the Rob and Fionn.
Now, at last, it was de Wynter's turn. But he was no sheep to be meekly led off to slaughter. Disregarding Carlby's orders, he turned and attempted to escape. But the guards were well trained; they had dealt with obstreperous slaves before. They also knew bruises made now would not show until the following day, thus they did not attempt to handle him gently. From the black's vantage point up on the block, he could see the short-lived struggle, but his unctuous voice gave no hint of it.
"And now, within moments, you shall see him whom his owners call Jamad Ja'da... and you shall know why."
Finally, escorted by two burly guards, de Wynter was half carried, half led up onto the block. At the sight of that pale halo of hair, clinging in soft curls to his head, the onlookers gave out that weird half moan, half mew with which Tunisians express approval. The crowd surged forward, even the wealthy buyers getting to their feet, their coffee cups abandoned to be trampled on by the onpressing crowd. Only Eulj Ali and his captain didn't move, nor did the silent ones leaning against the wall. Eulj Ali, who had been studying them, spoke into the captain's ear: "The White Ones over there. Have you taken a good look at them?"
"What for? When you've seen one Ikwan, you've seen them all," the captain answered.
"But they say the Amira herself is sometimes among them."
The captain took a second look at the silent ones, a long, speculative look. "That may be, but unless close enough to see then-eyes, there's no way—except maybe size—to tell the Amira Aisha from the others."
"Sssh, not so loud. Someone might hear you."
"They're all interested in the icy-haired one; besides, why so much interest in the Amira?"
"I'll tell-you later. The bidding's about to begin."
The black chose to conduct this auction himself. "Now, my friends, who will give me 3600 shekels for the lot?"
There was silence in reply. "Come now, my friends, has Shaitan got your tongues? Who will start the bidding on this remarkable group? The only one of its kind in the whole of Ifriqiya. Why, those four in the front are worm that much themselves. What do you say?"
A voice from out of the crowd called, "Half that!"
"Half? My friend, this is a travesty. A mere 50 shekels apiece for such prime flesh? Who will give me more?... I have 60, do I hear 70?" With a nod from still another buyer, the bidding was on. At 100 shekels apiece, the bidding slowed, and no matter how much the black cajoled, no more bids were forthcoming.
"My friends, what must I do to make you realize what a prize this group is?" he asked, walking around the perimeter and staring out at the crowd. On cue, one of his agents shouted, "Disrobe him."
, The crowd liked the idea. Amid cries of "Yes," and "Strip him," and "Shuck the slave!" and "Off with his robe!" the black bowed his obedience to the crowd's wishes and waved de Wynter's guards forward. "Bring him out here by himself and let us see every inch of that magnificent body."
The first tug removed the robe. "Look at him. You can tell this is a hot-blooded animal. See how clean the lines, how smooth the muscles, how firm the skin. And look—little hair. This is no hairy beast in need of daily body-shaving to keep him well groomed. And need I remind you, no stubble to prick and scratch and ruin his master's fun."
The second tug removed the loincloth. "Look, my friends, a young bull with the blood of royalty coursing through his veins, its seed stored in his sack. Think you of the fine young slaves he might sire if you should so wish. Now, I ask you, who will bid four thousand shekels for this group?"
Two, four, a dozen shouted at once—to be silenced by a piercing whistle. The crowd fell silent. They had heard mat whisde before. Slowly, like waters parting, the crowd split in two, leaving a path through which walked the silent ones. Without a word, the leader advanced to the foot of the block and held up a small tablet to the black. Perusing it swiftly, he grinned broadly, showing square, white teeth back to the molars. Reverently he kissed it and announced,
"My friends, al-rabb, the house of Hassan ben Khairim, your servant, is honored to declare the bidding closed, the slaves sold to Ali ben Zaid, amir Valassa of the men of the Arnira Aisha, may the blessings of Allah be upon her."
"How much, Hassan?" a mutajasur called out from the anonymity of the crowd.
The black hugged the tablet to himself and smiled beatifically. "The last bid plus 25." "Only 25?"
"Twenty-five hundred! Sixty-five hundred shekels in all!" So great was his excitement, he did a little dance as the slaves were led down from the block, de Wynter still struggling vainly.
"Be careful of them," the black cautioned. "They are the most expensive meat I've ever sold!"
Eulj Ali and the captain hugged one another at the news. Never in the latter's wildest dreams had he thought the slaves would go for that much. Even as he was hugging and pounding his redheaded fellow, he was doing some fast mental accounting. At 6500 shekels less the black's 20 percent—which he would split fifty-fifty with the Moulay—with 50 percent set aside for Barbarossa, that left nearly ' 2000 to split, share and share alike, between himself and his crew! And already the captain knew what he was going to buy. A certain wench the black had shown him, who was being fattened up before going on the block.
"You collect the money and meet me at dusk at the coffeehouse in the souk of perfumes," Eulj Ali ordered, turning on his heel and melting into the crowd.
As the crowd dispersed, gossiping about the record price paid for the jdmad ja'da, he and his fellows were being herded back into their pen under the surveillance of the fully veiled silent ones. De Wynter, last to leave, was last, to reenter, being shoved inside like the enraged animal he resembled as he turned on his guards. Too late. The gate slammed closed in his face. As the prisoners milled around inside, Carlby and the others trying to calm de Wynter, John the Rob lending his robe as makeshift loincloth. Guards remounted the corner posts, and these were not half-naked blacks but heavily robed men of undetermined race, armed not with whips, but formidable spears.
Cooler heads among the group, notably Carlby's and Drommond's, physically prevented de Wynter from doing anything rash. They sat on him to keep him from attacking one of the guards or attempting to scale the fence to escape. While Fionn and the others held him down, Drammond and Carlby conferred, then Carlby approached one of the four guards. "Salaam, janab. May your slave ask of his master some water, perhaps some bread, and some shelter from the sun?"
The guard did not answer. Switching from Arabic to Sabir, Carlby repeated his request, no response. Spanish, French, Italian. It made no difference. The guard did not answer. Nor staring up into his veiled face could Carlby decide whether the black-eyed man had even understood. While he was debating what language to try next, the gate swung open and four nervous blacks entered. One carried a wa-terskin, two between them an enormous copper tray of what looked like dough balls, and the fourth headcloths plus a loincloth which he tossed in the general direction of de Wynter before fleeing the pen.
Later, as the men licked fingers and lips, having stuffed themselves to satiety on the meat-filled hlalims, John the Rob sidled up to Carlby.
"Sir priest—"
"Don't call me that. Forget that I am other than a slave like you."
"As you wish. Do you note that the guards do not speak, yet all act as one? And we got all you requested?"
Carlby shrugged. "Maybe someone outside the pen heard."
The smaller man leaned back and stared up at the guards, who returned his stare just as intently. "Maybe, but I have my suspicions ..." With that, he got to his feet and wandered over to the gate, where he could peer through the planks and watch the goings-on within the walkway. It was he who first saw ben Khairim escorting a white-veiled one up the walkway.
Without undue haste, he strolled over and hunkered down next to Carlby. "The new master comes. Best watch our friend lest he do someming rash."
Carlby nodded. Casually, so as not to draw unnecessary attention to himself, he got to his f
eet. Kicking Drummond's foot suneptitiously, he beckoned the man to join with him. The two moved, as if haphazardly, toward where de Wynter sat alone, arms hugging his legs, forehead on knees.
He didn't move a muscle when the two stood over him, but he knew they were there. Without looking up, he spoke: "It is time, is it? Well, it had to happen eventually. Thank you, but don't worry. I will do nothing rash. Not now. Not when your lives could be endangered." He turned his head to one side so that he might look Carlby in the eye. "But if I find a time when I cannot stomach it, pledge you not to stop whatever action I take."
Carlby squatted down before him. "De Wynter, others have found such a life bearable."
"I am not others." De Wynter's frosty eyes echoed his words.
"Jamie, mayhap it will not be as you think,'' Drummond suggested.
De Wynter laughed silently. "No? Why did Ali ben whatever pay better than double the best price paid before? Do you dunk he wants perfect rowers?"
Before he could say more, the gate again swung open. This time it stayed open. Blacks with crooks in their hands advanced and deftly snared one slave after another and drew him out into the walkway. There, irons were clamped on wrists, and the slaves were linked up; only Carlby, de Wynter, and Drummond remaining behind. Ali ben Zaid entered the pen then, and with the spears of the four guards lending emphasis to his gestures, summoned them forth. Reluctantly, the three rose to their feet and walked forward. They too were linked to the human chain; and then, prodded by spear point, the three dozen moved to leave the slave market.
But they were stopped by the slave dealer. "With your permission, al-rabb, the former owner of these slaves would like to share his newfound wealth with its source and give one of them a small memento."
At Ali's inquiring look, the black hastened on. "A mere trifle. A carving. A good luck charm, no more. Look, your man can see for himself it is harmless." And he handed it over to the nearest silent one, who examined it incuriously and quickly, and turned it back to the black. With Ali's concurrence, the black handed it over to its rightful owner, uniting de Wynter and the Mer-Lion again. With his, charm held fast in his hand, de Wynter followed helplessly as the three dozen slaves were marched out the gates of the auction house, through the medina, to the Kasbah and whatever fate awaited them.
