by Lee Arthur
The Moulay giggled and drank, the her/him refilling his goblet as the Moulay prattled on. 'Tomorrow had better be better and bloodier or I'll call off the games and go home. That'll fix her and her mother!"
Within the camp of the contestants, more than one battered warrior wished the Moulay would do just that—end the games. Throbbing muscles begged for it. But the Amira had no pity for them. Only herself. Tonight, she underwent the second of the six rituals. Tonight was the Night of the Bath.
In the Berber tents of centuries ago when these marriage rituals were formalized, water was such a luxury that one would not dream of wasting a drop to clean one's skin except to proclaim to the world a father's great wealth. When the Berbers adapted Islam, with its emphasis on cleansing, the ritual became a religious rite. No normal prospective Berber bride would face the night of the first bath with anything but delight. Certainly not with repugnance as Aisha did.
It was not the bathing that bothered her; it was its connection with marriage. As hers grew closer, Aisha grew more convinced: she did not want to marry. The bloodthirstiness planned for the rest of the games was to please and placate the Moulay, of course; but it might serve her as well—by emulating Cadmus, who sowed the dragon's teeth and reaped armed men who killed one another until but five were left. Tonight, if Aisha had her way, those five would have continued to strive until all were dead. With the games Aisha could indeed have her way. Without a prospective bridgroom there need be no bride. It was that simple.
The very thought of a man touching her made her flesh crawl. Once, Ali had kissed her. Only love of sister for brother had saved his life. Just as surprise had saved the slave. She could still remember the feel of his lips on hers! It made her feel unclean.
"You're wiping your lips again," Ramlah observed. "And with the right hand. That's a good sign. It means love will come before children."
Aisha dropped her hand from her hps as if her lips were red-hot coals, and rubbed the palms of her hands on her robe, to no avail, of course.
"Come and bathe. That will take your mind off him." "Him? Him who?" Aisha demanded, her eyes growing dark with anger.
"The slave, of course."
"Which one? There are thousands of slaves in Tunisia."
"You know the one." Ramlah hesitated at the look on her daughter's face. "Forget I said anything. Come, the baths await us."
Head held high, Aisha stalked from the room, followed by her cheetah, refused her litter, and charged like an avenging warrior, straight toward the baths, her silent ones hurrying to keep up.
Ramlah smiled as she seated herself in her litter for the short ride to the nearby baths. Better to feel any emotion, even anger, than to be frozen inside. Ramlah, too, remembered the kiss, and thought what a couple they would make, he with the hair the color of ice, she with the ice hidden inside. Ramlah sighed. She did not envy that slave if he were chosen. Please Allah, that would be his problem and Aisha's. Pray the blond who seemed more tractable were chosen; it would solve many problems. Including hers: getting her daughter wedded and bedded within the week. But first the Night of the Bath.
For this one evening plus the one after next, Ramlah had ordered the restoration of the great Roman Bath near the amphitheater. In its day, it had been alive with water—frothing in fountains, cascading down stairs, sweeping under arched walkways. Warm water. Cold water. Hot water. Water and its stone counterpart, marble. Marble so satiny to the touch, pleasing to the eye, soothing to the soul.
Today, centuries later, there was still water, but not so much of it. Many a slab of marble was cracked, many a column lacked its capital. Still the bath proclaimed its opulent ancestry in the grace of its arches, the chasteness of its facade.
Aisha's bodyguards had been turning away visitors from the huge structure since late afternoon. The only ones admitted were the asiras —handmaidens of the Amira and her mother—who brought armloads of towels and baskets of soaps, oils, dyes, sponges, pumice, and gold combs and brushes of all sizes. There, too, came undergarments of the finest silk, caskets of jewels, sandals of gleaming pearls and kid leather, and as many flowing robes in as many colors as are ever seen in a Tunisian sunset. Other asiras carried pillows for the princess to lie against, rugs for her to walk upon, and bowls of fruit and jugs of wine to assuage her hunger and thirst during the lengthy bathing ritual. Finally, all was in readiness for Aisha. While the handmaidens waited, many played a four-handed clapping game, as their mothers had before them: "I am an asira. I serve the Amira. Asira, amira ... amira, asira, in the dark which is which."
Young as they were, if they stopped to think of it, in their way Aisha's asiras knew they were lucky to be in her service. The work was easy compared to what many of the other slaves had to do. The Amira and her mother were not unkind mistresses, all things considered. Other than for Zainab, her favorite, Aisha showed no partiality among them, nor special feelings toward any of them. They were a taken-for-granted necessary part of her life. So long as she was not kept waiting overlong, nor made bored by their idle gossip, her voice was rarely raised, her all-encompassing power seldom exercised.
In truth, more than one of them harbored strong feelings of a different kind toward the princess. Their unnatural manless lives created unanswered stirrings in.developing bodies, and Aisha became their focus. Their daily rninistrations to her beautiful body fed the flickering flames of their desires. Half worship, half love, some felt; but others harbored deeper longings that at times became torture. Though they worked hard to be the best at massaging the curvaceous firm body of the young princess, or even the softer, more mature body of her mother, the very act and the restraint they had to muster as their inner passions welled merely piled frustration on frustration until their only relief was a surreptitious finger in the dark of night That, or a hurried and unsatisfying mock-union with another of the asira in a hidden nook or on a straw pallet when eyes were closed in sleep on every side.
Zainab knew. She, who was the trusted favorite of the Amira, knew the longings of asiras. She, too, could have been a body-worshiper of Aisha, complete with the frustrations of loving an untouchable. But years before she had made her decision; and the princess had chosen, for her own reasons, to look the other way. Zainab could and would have her man. Or men, as she sometimes chose. After seeing that her charge was safely and comfortably in bed for the night, her time was her own, and the body that rejected women made good use of that free time. Often she gave thanks to Allah not only for giving her an insatiable appetite for sexual union, but also for somehow miraculously freeing her from the bother of bearing children. No matter how much and how varied the semen she milked into her contracting vagina, she remained barren. Motherhood, which would certainly have jeopardized and probably destroyed her position with the Arnira, remained a thing for others who little enjoyed the preliminaries, and who deserved the fulfillment even less.
Jealousy tainted Zainab's relationships with the other asiras. However, so far, no other asira had gained the confidence of the
exalted one. Zainab took pains to see that her challengers were few, and that those who dared were discredited.
Thus, as always, it was Zainab who walked just behind the Amira on the short journey to the baths this night, then waited with the princess for the arrival of the queen's litter. Trailing Ramlah were a dozen asiras, some of whom carried the last-minute reparations for the ritual. This one being so different from other baths, who could guess in advance every last item the queen might demand?
Through the arched entrance the party moved in unison, each step precisely in tune with the other, like some long-rehearsed procession; down a long hallway with arched openings on either side; and into a special suite of rooms deep in the heart of the ancient structure. Silent, almost unseen, the bodyguards stood rigid at attention, spaced at regular intervals down the hallway. Only one moved—to take the leash of the cat when it was handed to him.
Turning right into a gleaming tiled reception room, half of the
group veered off, depositing their burdens on long marble benches while the rest proceeded to the next room. Here, Aisha stood quietiy as her handmaidens stripped her of her clothes, hanging them neatly on golden hooks mounted in the wall. She moved sinuously on into the third room, heavy with steam billowing from heated rocks which were being doused with water from the pitchers of the asiras.
Quickly her lithe body took on beads of the moisture-laden air, combining with her own body heat and perspiration to cleanse her pores of the day's dust and her internal impurities. Torches, pressed into brackets on every wall, added to the heat, providing flickering rays of light that danced and bounced off her small, jutting breasts and hard, gentiy rounded buttocks. Zainab marveled, for the thousandth time, at her mistress's perfectly formed body, understanding anew how some of the other asira could fall so completely under the spell of this desert enchantress.
Ramlah waited in the reception room for the Iman with tonight's readings and wished that she were undergoing the seven-night ritual herself.
A few minutes in the steam-filled room was all Aisha wanted. Then she walked quickly into the first of three bathing rooms, stepped down, through the clouds of steam, into the sunken marble bath. Not once did she worry about the water being too hot. More than one elbow would have tested it and pronounced it just right for her royal body.
Sponges laved her shoulders and arms, while many hands soaped, rubbed, scrubbed her upper body. When her skin fairly smarted from the gende abrasion, hands helped her to her feet, and as she stood knee-deep in the now-sudsy water, those same hands worked their magic on her hard belly, her well-muscled buttocks and thighs, and on down her legs until she felt the familiar sensation of gende fingers separating her toes and brushing her nails and cuticles with small brushes.
At this, Aisha widened her stance so that the hands could gently separate her nether lips and cleanse her secret orifice, a gende shiver running through her as the soft cloth brushed momentarily against her most sensitive part. And almost as pleasantly, two hands separated her cheeks while slim fingers worked the bar of soap high up in the crevice, as Islam demanded, lingering briefly where the muscles gathered in a tiny, sensitive circle.
Next, a tepid soaking bath laced with goat's milk. Hands gendy but forcefully helped her down until only her face remained above the white liquid. And all the while, the hands rubbed her skin.. .from back to front and top to bottom. Nor was her face ignored. Fine sponges soaked up the liquid and squeezed it over her forehead and eyelids and cheeks and neck. Again and again. Until Aisha could fairly feel the diluted milk soaking into her pores and enriching them.
Without so much as toweling off, she moved into the third and final bath, shivering as the cool water shocked her overheated skin. As always, she thrilled to the tingle which the sharp change in temperature produced. The hands now patted and slapped rather than rubbed.. Her whole being vibrated and responded. Then many hands lifted her to her feet, to stand and drip on a sleek leopard skin, before thick towels briskly rubbed and patted her dry;
Still damp, but eager to continue, she herself led the way to the massage table. There, surrendering all towels willingly, she laid herself facedown on the cool marble and gave herself up to the skilled, oiled, warm hands of the two masseuses. One attacked her neck, the other her feet, to erase every sign of tension. They had to double their efforts when a dry voice from without the room began again: "From Sura II, 'The Cow,' revealed at al-Madinah in the first two years of the Hejira and preceding the battle of Badr. I recite these to remind you of rights and duties of a married woman."
Resting her forehead upon the back of her crossed hands, Aisha sought to shut out the sounds of the Iman's aged voice as he recited from memory those verses chosen by himself and her mother for her edification as woman and bride-to-be. Even though she could not totally blot him out, other images fought for supremacy in her thoughts. An egg and an arrow: meshing, separating, joining. A blond giant and a slender strange-haired one, the two so alike in manner, though so different in appearance. Then again to the egg and arrow. Both important, yet so different; the one solid, the other tenuous. Without thinking, she flexed and reflexed the henna-painted hands hidden from her eyes. Discovering herself at this, she determined to concentrate on the Iman's voice:
They question thee, O Mohammed, concerning menstruation and marriage. Say: it is an illness, so let women be during their times and go not in unto them 'til the flow ceases and they are cleansed. But when they have purified themselves, then go in unto them as Allah hath bidden you. Truly Allah loveth those best who have a care for cleanness. Remember, your women are tilth given unto you for you to cultivate so go to your tilth often and plow well and good and send good deeds before you for your soul."
Aisha shuddered at the comparison; the slave women apologized effusively, thinking they had mistouched a nerve somewhere. The Iman continued blithely, serenely on:
"Those who forswear their wives must wait four months before going in unto them; then if they change their minds, lo! Allah is Forgiving, Merciful, a Knower of men and their minds. Too, if they decide upon divorce, lo! Allah is Forgiving, Clement. Women who are divorced shall keep to themselves apart three monthly courses. Nor is it lawful for them that they should conceal that which Allah hath created in their wombs. For if they bear fruit, their husbands would do better to take them back in that case if they desire reconciliation. For women have rights similar to those of men over them in kindness, but men are a degree above them. So good women are obedient Allah is Mighty, Wise. But women, too, have rights. If divorce be pronounced twice, then a woman must be retained in honor or released in kindness. It is, not lawful to make them await your pleasure. Nor is it lawful for you that ye take from women aught of that which ye have given and endowed them. If ye have divorced her the third time, then she is not lawful to you until after she hath wedded another husband. Then if the other husband divorce her, it is no sin for her to rejoin her other man. Allah is Hearer, Knower. He giveth you to divorce for He knoweth men, yet three times must ye speak the words. This, too, He commands that hasty words do not unmake a marriage. For think ye that Allah giveth you first marriage, then divorce. Fear Allah, for He knoweth men better than they know Him.
Anyone knowing Aisha could predict her reaction to such words. Never had she acknowledged any man her superior. An equal, perhaps, as in the case, almost, of Ali. As the Iman had intoned the command for obedience, her head had risen as neck muscles went rigid. Angry words came to her lips to be suppressed only with great effort. Nor, as the Iman continued merrily on to divorce, did she grow much more relaxed. Only a man may divorce, never the woman—a patent unfairness as far as Aisha was concerned. Wisely, Ramlah signaled the Iman to desist To have him continue on, as was normally done, detailing the suckling rights of children, would do this reluctant bride no benefit Grateful for her release from listening more, Aisha allowed a robe to be thrown loosely about her magnificent shoulders, and she strolled into the dressing room where her grooming continued.
Her hands and feet were attacked simultaneously by asiras who specialized in this endeavor, pushing back cuticles, deftly running pointed wooden utensils along the undersides of her nails, rubbing the ends with pumice and polishing the surfaces with pieces of sheepskin sewn over pieces of wood. Now others applied colored gloss while helpful mouths gently blew it dry. Aisha did not watch, lest her good mood be soured by a glimpse of the hennaed symbols on her palms.
Her long, lustrous hair was rubbed, strand by strand, between towels that were replaced every few seconds by dry ones. Spiced oil spilled lavishly into palms was then rubbed into each strand until her head reflected the torchlights. And practiced fingers twisted her mane into dozens of tiny ropes fastened at the ends—Berber fashion— with multicolored beads. In Aisha's case, tourmalines of rare red and blue and green and brown and not a single ordinary black.
Rouge was applied to cheeks and nipples, kohl to her eyebrows and upper lids, powder over her body, a
drop of perfume here and there. With the benefit of frequent practice, Zairiab and the slave girls had refined to ultimate perfection the promise of healthy beauty.
Their ministrations completed, the handmaidens held the silken drawers for the Amira to step into... fastened about her proud-breasted form a loose-fitting sheer tunic... draped over that, a multicolored robe even more sheer, so that it accentuated more than concealed. Finally, over all, a gold-encrusted robe with tight-fitting midriff and flaring skirt.
Admiring the results, Ramlah nodded her approval. "No princess, Berber or Arab, was more beautiful." The kiss she gave her daughter was as much token of love as benediction. "Fear not, my daughter, no man can resist such loveliness."
"That, Mother, is hardly the problem. You have it backwards." With that, Aisha swept from the room to seek her litter for the return to her villa. There, to the mournful strumming of a zitar, she paced the floor. To spend her days watching nude men play games, her nights listening to old men singsong the Koran—these did not appeal in their passivity to her active mind and body. Nor did thinking about two slaves who, in all probability, would never survive the next few days. She needed something to do, to occupy her mind, her emotions.
A clap of her hands summoned a slave to bring Ali.
Love, admiration, lust—all warred within him and betrayed their presence in his eyes as he gazed upon this woman who could never be his. Tactfully, she ignored his response, pretending, as she had for years, that their relationship was as passionless on his side as it was on hers. Quickly, she got to the point. "Remember our trip together through the oases to meet the tribes? I vowed men to do it again. I have decided now is the time." "Now? In the midst of the games?"
She was impatient; Ali had a tendency to always take her so literally. "Of course not, but immediately afterward. What better way to introduce a consort to his peoples? To help us plan it, I would have maps of the region, lists of the tribes and their elders, suggestions for gifts. There is so much to do and so little time to do it in. Especially since I would not have the Moulay know of this." For the first time in weeks, genuine enthusiasm sounded in her voice. For that he was glad. But to plan a trip through Tunis, one of such scope as she described, could not be done in the short time they had left. Ali said as much.
