The Mer- Lion

by Lee Arthur

  "How can you say nay without trying first?" Aisha demanded. "Begin the preparations. If need be, I can delay my departure a day or two or three. But I am going. I have made up my mind."

  When she used that imperial tone of voice, Ali knew better than to argue. He could only hope that once she saw the unfeasibility of her desires, she would be more reasonable. However, he said none of this. "Your will be done, Princess. I shall start immediately."

  "Good. Go. And sleep well." He was dismissed. But not into the arms of his concubines. Instead, as he knew she knew, the lamps would bum late into the hours of the next day as he began putting her wishes into actions. She, too, was awake late, making mental inventory of the gowns she would take, the jewels she would wear, the horses she would ride, the slaves she would need.

  Only one thing would she not be able to decide for herself: which man would accompany her. As the zitar continued its sad song, she paced the floor. A man, a husband. Why must a woman marry? Was one of those wretches in the camp more fit to rule than she who had been educated to this role for all of her life? It was unfair. Not only would a husband usurp her right to rule but marriage would also rob her of the one threat she and Ramlah possessed to hold the Moulay in check—disclosure. Perhaps she might have to make her move to oust the Moulay sooner than she had planned—maybe as soon as the day after her wedding night. It would be her own grandfather who would come to collect the sheepskin. If he were to find it free of blood, and if he were to be told the truth... ? Aisha's eyes sparkled,

  and her pulse quickened as she imagined the Berbers, gathered en masse for her wedding, swooping down once again to oust a Moulay. But then the realist within her chided her "Silly child, even if you, your lkwan, and the Berbers were victorious, would the people rise up and support you, a mere woman? Or would they lie down and send for the Barbarossa?" She knew the answer as well as she knew her name.

  She threw off the gown that hampered her stride. The stinging of the beaded ends of her plaited hair whipping about her shoulders seemed like caresses compared to the torture of her thoughts. Deliberately, she forced her thoughts elsewhere, to the trip. The trip... what better way to unite the tribes behind her man to come to them as a young bride with a champion of champions riding at her side? Barbarossa's illusion of invincibility would fade beside the reality of a man they could see, touch, and—she sucked in her breath with excitement—even challenge to compete.

  It would work, she thought, snapping her fingers in delight and rousing the dozing zitar player to sudden discordant wakefulness. With surprising kindness, Aisha dismissed the girl and, with a twinge of regret, recognized that this trip would not be as devoid of political necessity as the other journey had been years ago. Unbidden, thoughts of a narrow, grass-covered gorge came back to mind, the memory of a kiss and a man's hand, warm and gentle on her breast. But that she forbade herself to ponder. She must think about gowns, jewels, horses, and slaves. Slaves. Again her treacherous mind led her astray. To thoughts of another kiss. Of blue, unbelievably Mue eyes looking laughingly down into her own. Of arms holding her tight and immobile. Of some small object beneath his rough tunic bruising her breast. She had forgotten about that. What was ft he wore about his neck? To wonder was to find out. Again a clap of the hands and a summoning.

  Not long thereafter, de Wynter and his group in their rough quarters were rudely awakened from the deep sleep of the physically exhausted. As they scrambled to their feet, eyes blinking in the bright torch light, Ali strode up to de Wynter and held out his hand. "Give it to me."

  "Give what? I have nothing."

  "What you wear about your neck. I would have it."

  Now fully awake, de Wynter opened his mouth to protest, then thought better, of it Ali was obviously agitated. Silently de Wynter reached into the neck of his tunic and pulled out the small carving of the Mer-Lion mat hung from a thong made of threads laboriously unraveled from his tunic and plaited together. Before de Wynter could remove it from around his neck, Ali seized it and jerked, breaking the cord. With the Mer-Lion in his possession, he turned on his heel, leaving behind a group of stunned slaves.

  "Now, what do you suppose that was all about?" Drurnmond asked of no one in particular. And received no answer back. Just when de Wynter had decided he'd begun to understand his captors, they did something so bewilderingly irrational. Why wake a man up in the middle of the night to get a charm he could have had the following morn? Ali asked the same question of his Amira as he handed her the small carving, but he too expected and received no answer. Instead, he was dismissed without a thank-you as Aisha studied the small carving she held in her hand. Never had she seen such a strange-looking animal. In a way it reminded her of its owner: proud, ferocious, different from others. When at last she fell asleep that night, the Mer-Lion was still clutched in her hand.

  CHAPTER 30

  The next morning, at daybreak, the muezzin's call to prayer was reinforced within the slaves' cell by the play of a silent one's spear upon the bars of the door. The noise did not cease until even the deepest sleepers of the group acknowledged and decried it. The men sat up reluctantly and painfully, nothing new in their lives; so they had awakened every morning for weeks. But today, Menzies and Cameron gleefully, deliberately leaned back upon their pallets, bidding their friends a sardonic farewell.

  Their triumph was short-lived. The silent ones seemed unaware that any had been excused from competition this day. A spear's point in the junction of the shoulder and neck persuaded both the agile and the quick to rise and join the rest for a trip to the slop room, then to eat a plain breakfast, as usual, except for portions that seemed unusually generous. Still gnawing at the hard-baked bread, they were on .their way to the arena.

  At the same time, within the tent-city of the other contenders, whip-bearers began a clean sweep through the camp, rousing those who, failing to heed the muezzin's call and nursing sore muscles, had stayed in bed. As the men stumbled, limped, and hobbled out from their tents, a few noticed that at least a handful of their fellows had struck tents and disappeared with servitors. "Into the desert," said one. "Afraid," agreed the other.

  As they gulped thick black coffee and a thick sweet mint tea with their meats, breads, and fruits, not a few envied those shrewd

  enough to run away. That was their opinion until they arrived at the arena. Atop each of six of the Corinthian mural columns, a head leered down, its tongue lolling uncontrollably. The flesh, not yet finished yielding up its fluids, had already begun to swell within the skin. Flies danced about the tongues and clung in thick clusters to the eyes. The contestants quickly averted their gaze and passed into the arena, the gate closing with frightening finality after the last one.

  Within the chamber of the gladiators, that barren cold room, the men who gathered were somber. Again they were told to disrobe. Again they entered the arena shivering, welcoming the sun's heat. Again the royal box was only partially occupied: by Aisha, her mother and Ali ben Zaid. At the Amira's feet, lay al Abid, the cheetah, the Amira's almost constant companion since the royal box had been invaded by a slave within the last month. Al Abid did not, as a matter of course, make her presence known to the contestants below.

  This time the Roman judge was in the forefront of the officials. "Today, of course, we honor the winners of yesterday... as tomorrow, those will honor today's winners and grieve for today's losers." With that, five pair-drawn chariots charged into the arena. "Let those who won enter the chariots and accept the salutes of those who tost."

  The contestants watched silently as the winners—Menzies and Cameron, the Spaniard and the Nuba—entered their chariots. The fifth chariot remained empty but for its driver until a silent one entered the arena, carrying a head upon a pole. It was obviously one of the six who had welcomed the contestants from its perch on a column above the gate. The silent one seated the pole in the spear holder of the chariot.

  Trumpets sounded, whips cracked, and gaily plumed horses leaned into their harnesse
s. These authentic recreations of Roman chariots were drawn by magnificent pairs of bays, grays, and chestnuts. Standing astride the single axles with reins wrapped about their waists were the five slave-charioteers, their long gold-embroidered capes flowing behind them while the long plumes of their pointed helmets whipped about in the breeze.

  Alongside each driver clung one of yesterday's winners—or at least the four living ones—who wrenched arms and dug with

  clenched fingers at the sides of the chariot in an endeavor to keep balanced and upright. Their task was made no easier by the deliberate inexperience of the charioteers whose instructions had been brief but to the point: Keep your horses at a gallop or the when you dismount.

  The horses, unnerved by the sounds and crowds of men, rolled their eyes and bumped one into another. Men stationed all along the perimeter of the arena on the first tier were there to jump down and cut free the horses if a chariot crashed against a wall or overturned. Ali ben Zaid and the Amira would be incensed if any horse should die.

  Twice around the arena the chariots careened to the applause of the spectators, the blaring of trumpets, the neighing of horses and screams of the four frightened passengers.

  "If so they treat winners," de Wynter observed to Carlby, "I fear their care of losers."

  Carlby said nothing. De Wynter could have been reading his own mind.

  The remaining contestants, standing in the center of the arena, silently pivoted with them, fascinated by the lurching of the chariots, hypnotized by that grisly reminder of the evanescence of triumph.

  Upon command of a stentorian voice, the chariots halted, and their passengers dismounted on shaking legs. Two of the winners, the non-slaves, were ushered up into a box opposite that of the royal one, there to watch the proceedings in comparative comfort. The two slaves were ordered to join their fellows. The fifth's head was returned to his watchtower to leak and ooze upon the marble column below.

  Once the chariots had departed and the winners had been taken to their places, the Roman judge continued: "Today's events would make Rome great again and return the glory of al Djem to her. Samnite will fight Samnite, Thracian Thracian, Myrmillone against Retiarius. One match of each will go on simultaneously, beginning one hour from now and continuing until a rest period midday, then resuming until the last match is concluded.

  "Two of yesterday's winners will be excused from all exertion today. Another two have been assigned to assist the Ali ben Zaid and the silent ones as commanded by our mistress, the Amira Aisha. The fifth chose not to join us for reasons of cowardice. He and another five who tried to flee look down upon us from above the gate of the Gladiators. Pity not those, but fear for yourselves, for you who fight not well today will have your heads added to the ranks of onlookers above the gate." His listeners, already at the alert, stiffened further.

  "I remind you of the scroll you signed, the scroll which has been sealed, the scroll which has been sent to the Holy City of Kairouan for .safekeeping. In it was your promise to fight to the death, if necessary, to earn the right to become the husband of the Amira Aisha. However, in the spirit of the vestal virgins of Rome of ancient times, the Moulay Hassan himself has agreed to accept within his hands the option of sparing a fallen opponent's life. I warn you, mujalid, fight bravely. And if you should fail, appeal not for yourself to the Moulay. He shall condemn you. Only your opponent may successfully sue for your life... and he only if the fight were worthy. For woe befall the two who fight halfheartedly; the Moulay warns that a dagger shall leave each halfhearted indeed.

  "I bid you retire to the chamber of the gladiators to prepare yourselves for today's contests. In the interest of fairness, the Amira Aisha has offered that insofar as possible each man shall be able to elect to fight as he will. Choose well, O gladiators. And let the blessings of Allah be on him who competes."

  The contestants, aches and pains forgotten, silently turned and retraced their steps into the bowels of the arena. The two women in the royal box, in the meantime, drank deep of sweet mint tea and decided for the sake of their complexions to have the velarium— wide sun-strips—hauled across the arena above the royal box to block out the rays of a sun more ferocious than mat of the day before. That such shade might endanger the combatants did not occur to them. Even if it had, it would not have overly concerned them, and Ali was not there to advise against their impulsiveness. He had gone with his mute escort to brief the occupants of the chamber of gladiators.

  "The judges have decided that there be four types of combat, duplicating as nearly as possible the four most important classes of Roman combat. You thus may choose, first, to be a Samnite. He wields a two-edged sword and a square scutum or shield, each the length of his arm. For protection, he wears a wide-brimmed helmet, a leather guard for fads sword arm, and metal thews on his left leg. He goes naked to the waist and wears a short skirt bound at the waist with a leather belt. His is the most protective armor, but such armor is burdensome, the sword heavy and massive. The bouts between Samaites require strength and endurance. Let the blessings of Allah be on him who competes as Samnite.

  "Or, you may choose to emulate the Thracian, who carries the sica, a short, curved sword, and the buckler, a round shield which is smaller and lighter than the scutum borne by the Samnite. The Thracian wears a less massive helmet, a cloth tunic with wide leather belt studded with metal, and a leather guard for his right arm. Skill with sword and shield are asked of the Thracian, woe to him who has neither. Let the blessings of Allah be on him who competes as Thracian.

  "The third class of Roman combatants is the Myrmillone or fishman, so named for the fish-shaped crest he wears on his casque, with its narrow pierced visor that protects the face but mterferes with vision. Light is his sword, small is his buckler, and no armor burdens his body. Agility and coordination are demanded of the fishman, who must be able to evade and avoid his opponent, the net-thrower man. Let the blessings of Allah be upon him who competes as fishman.

  "The fourth type of combatant is the net wielder, or Retiarius, of which I just spoke; he performs naked except for his broad metal-studded leather belt. He carries a net to cast and catch his opponent; a cord, attached, allows him to retrieve his net and cast it again and again. The net wielder is further armed with a trident, a long three-pronged fork with which to jab, slash and stab. Of all the combatants, he who wields the net fights from a distance, but his weapons, being foreign to most of you, will require mastering, unlike the swords of the other three. Let the blessings of Allah be upon him who competes as net wielder. Combatants, you have until the last grain drains from this glass to choose your weapons and armor. Hail Mujalid, I salute men soon to die!"

  "Maybe not." De Wynter's words were spoken quietiy, but no one within earshot, including Ali, doubted his resolve.

  The slaves retired into a corner, ostensibly to consult with their weaponaire, Carlby. In actuality, all had but one thought: Gilliver.

  None needed to be told that regardless of the type of combat, Gilliver would be about as ineffective in the arena as one of the flies now glutting itself on the head of yesterday's victor. One look at Gilliver's face, and all knew he was equally aware that to step out onto the arena meant certain death. Menzies forestalled any comments by turning to Gilliver, an arm about his shoulders, and saying, "Henry, I think Ali ben Zaid looks upon you with favor. Do you take advantage of this to beg of him that Cameron and I be allowed to stay with our friends during the combats. Speak softly and sweedy to him that he may agree to your request."

  Gilliver, flattered, vowed to do his best and left the group to search out Ali ben Zaid. Once Gilliver was out of earshot, de Wynter hugged Menzies to him. "You do my mother proud.'

  Cameron interrupted, "No, I demand the right. Let me be the one."

  Menzies, his mind made up, would not hear of it. "Use your head man. There is no way that Henry can grow long spindly legs like yours overnight."

  Carlby listened to this exchange in amazement. "What on earth... ?
"

  Drummond, amused, patiently explained. "Menzies and Cameron, not content with winning the competition in the arena, now must compete with each other."

  "What for?"

  "For the honor of saving Gilliver's life by taking his place."

  "But why? He seemed proficient enough in the practice bouts."

  Drummond laughed. "With blunted sword, he's a demon. Give him a real weapon and he'll lay it down and bare his breast for your blow. Henry, you see, takes his religion more seriously than most, maybe even you. God has commanded, "Thou shaft not kill,' so Henry won't, not even to save his life."

  "I had no idea."

  "Sir priest, you see before you in the person of Henry Gilliver the makings of saint or martyr. Menzies and Cameron and the rest of us have no objections to the saint part, but, damn me, he becomes martyr over our dead bodies."

  "Methinks he isn't the only one with a martyrlike bent," Carlby replied sourly. He had found in Drummond's remarks an implied comparison that was not flattering to the Hospitaler-priest.

  Drummond tolerandy agreed. "Between you and me, you might well be right. But habits of a lifetime are hard to break, and for so long as I can remember, the companions have fought Gilliver's fights for him. We are to each other the brothers most of us never had. Blood couldn't make us closer."

  "Even Angus and Ogilvy?"

  Drummond laughed loudly. "They more than others. Of course, for all we know, Highland lassies being so loose-kneed, they might well be bairns of the same laird."

  Angus and Ogilvy, who said little but heard much, favored Drummond with a glower. While Drummond and Carlby had talked, the matter of the masquerade had been settled.