by Lee Arthur
"It should work," de Wynter said, "the helmets will disguise Menzies's hair and hide his face. That, plus the clothing he wears, should make detection impossible. Besides, who would suspect one of yesterday's winners as being stupid enough to risk his life for another?" De Wynter's loving smile belied his words as he gazed upon Menzies with affection.
Carlby, still annoyed by the unfortunate comparison between his and Gilliver's faith, couldn't resist commenting. "If Gilliver is as you say he is, how do you intend to persuade him to give up his place and risk another's life?"
Drummond hooted. "Sir priest, have you learned nothing of us during the time we've been together? Henry Gilliver worships not one but two gods. The first, the heavenly father above; the other, our brother de Wynter."
De Wynter was not amused, his raised eyebrow warning Drummond of as much; however, he acknowledged the justice of the remarks. "Leave Henry to me, I'll see he agrees."
Carlby abandoned that line of questioning. "All right, so Menzies can double for Gilliver, thanks to the helmet. How do you propose to have Gilliver pass as Menzies?"
At the sobering faces about him, Carlby felt remorse for what he'd done, although he consoled himself with the thought that imperfect as his motives had been for asking such a question, the reality of the problem must be addressed.
Fortuitously, a crestfallen Gilliver, bearing a pair of plume-bedecked helmets, returned to solve their problem. "Ali ben Zaid
refused. He has other plans for Menzies and Cameron. When we get our weapons, you're also to draw swords from the weaponmaster. These are your helmets. You are to stand guard at the gate of death opposite the gladiators' gate. If any should try to follow as a corpse is carried out, the two of you are to prevent it."
No one could have been more surprised than Gilliver at the jubilation with which his message was received. While de Wynter took Gilliver aside to explain the plan, the rest took their places at the end of the line of contestants, many of whom had already been armed and attired and had departed for the arena. Discovering this, Carlby, unpriestlike, cursed under his breath the love for Gilliver that had endangered the rest of them. As far as he was concerned, Gilliver might be spiritually strong, but to refuse to kill proved him weak in the head. After all, how many Crusaders, Hospitalers, and Templars had answered the call of Pope, taken up the sword, killed and been killed in the name of Christ? Were they admired by this group? No. But for a weakling—with what Carlby suspected were heretic leanings—the rest were willing to sacrifice their lives and Carlby's too, for that matter. The gray eyes, that watched as Gilliver's attitude changed from shock to anger to reluctant assent, were neither warm nor friendly. Drummond, noting the set of Carlby's face, could have sworn he read hostility on it, then decided he must be mistaken. Gentle, naive Drummond was unable to believe a priest capable of such feelings.
As the last in line, they had to take what weaponry was left three Samnites, two Thracians, two net-wielders, one fishman. So intoxicated were the slaves by their spirit of sacrifice that each waited for another to make first choice. But Carlby, smarting from his imagined slight, was in no such self-sacrificial mood. He felt left out, but somehow responsible for these young men. Seeing a vacuum of leadership, he filled it.
"Who are our strongest?" the priest asked. "Fionn? Drummond? You, de Wynter? Then, you be the Samnites. Angus and Ogilvy, you're almost as strong—the Thracian's role should give you no trouble. John the Rob, you and I make up what we lack in strength in cleverness and trickery; let us wield net and trident Which leaves the fishman for you, Menzies. Any objections?"
"None so long as I need not face one of you two in the arena."
"No one can vouchsafe mat."
Menzies shrugged. "So when should Gilliver and I make the exchange?"
The end of the line had almost reached the weaponmaster, their options were decreasing by every step they took closer to the weapon racks and the entrance to the arena.
De Wynter spoke up. "A diversion, that's what we need. John, what say you that we let the rest proceed us, we bringing up the rear. Then we can try out our swords while still here in the changing room. While all eyes are on us, Gilliver and Menzies can exchange helmets: Once helmeted, no one can tell them apart"
He was right. The few mute guards bringing up the rear, as well as those within the entrance to the corridor, were quick to swivel at the sounds of steel clashing upon steel... almost as quick to intervene and separate the two swordsmen, then herd all the slaves down the corridor and into the arena to join the rest of the contestants. Carlby, watching Menzies stumble and feel his way down the corridor, his vision blocked by the fishman's helmet, suddenly realized what he had done. How dare he call himself priest! By all rights, he—not Menzies—should be sacrificing himself. As they entered from the darkness into the brilliance of the arena and stood blinking trying to adjust their eyes, Carlby offered to exchange places with Menzies.
"Nay, Carlby. I appreciate what you would do, but you are priest, not companion. Never would Gilliver allow a priest to take his place. Besides, if we couldn't figure out a way to make Gilliver grow eight inches overnight so Cameron might substitute for him, how would you propose we age him near a score of years to fit your battle-scarred body? Nay, thank you, but I am the man for the role. What you could do, if you would, is help me adjust this faceguard. I dare not remove the helmet to do it myself, yet I cannot dare to fight the clumsiest of netmen without being able to see."
Carlby gratefully seized upon the chance to be helpful and, foreswearing raacticmg with net and trident, helped bend the faceguard to fit Menzies's face.. "Menzies, what you do is noble. Aren't you just the slightest afraid?"
"Noble, hell. Afraid, yes!"
Ali ben Zaid, who had been watching for the slaves' appearance, frowned when he noted that both Fionn and de Wynter were armed as Samnites. Although he saw the two slaves attempting to adjust the helmet without removing it, other matters prevented him from recognizing the incongruity of their actions and questioning them.
The slaves, like all the other contestants, had walked half to the left of the statue of Marcus Aurelius and half to the right. Thus, de Wynter, Drummond, Carlby, and Menzies had joined the single file of gladiators stretching from the left of the entrance all the way round the arena to the base of the royal box, where sat the whole of the royal family plus the Moulay's familiar, Fionn and the others had done the same on the right side.
Under the circumstances there was a possibility that Fionn and de Wynter might face each other in combat. Ali, not relying totally on the will of Allah, took steps to prevent that. At his silent command, four unwary contestants on the right were moved to the left of the entranceway, and the four slaves there moved to the right to join their fellows. Ali could do no more to influence the games; the sounding of tubas, Roman war trumpets, prevented any further manipulation.
Again the Roman judge addressed them. "Oh ye mujalid who are about to fight to the death, we salute you. Do you salute him who has power to save you?" The response of the gladiators, although ragged and uttered in more than a dozen languages, made up in volume and enthusiasm for the lack of rehearsal, many of the gladiators reinforcing their yells by banging with the broadsides of their swords upon their shields. No one needed to coach them on the need to please the man who held the power of life and death over them.
The Moulay was flattered and stood to renewed cheers to receive their plaudits and return their salute, his thin, high-pitched voice lost in the far reaches of the vast arena, "Mujalid, I salute you. Now, let the games begin!"
As trumpets sounded again, the Moulay sat down and commented in a voice deliberately loud enough for Aisha and Ramlah to overhear, "Well, this certainly begins better than yesterday's debacle. I just wish we could make but the competitors' faces better." Swinging around to stare at Aisha, he demanded, "Why do they fight with helmets on? How can we see their expressions when they die?"
Aisha forced herself to answer quietiy, "
They fight with strange weapons, the helmets give them—"
Ramlah, seeing from the Moulay's expression that his daughter's answer was not pleasing to him, hastened to interrupt. "But the ones who fall, the ones you consign to death, they'll have their helmets removed first, so you can see their faces. Isn't that right, daughter?"
Aisha behind her veil clenched her teeth in anger, but the Moulay, mollified by Ramlah's remarks, didn't wait for his daughter's answer. "Well, that's better than nothing. But if I get too bored, the helmets come off! Maybe the shields, too!"
Aisha said nothing, but signed her command to Ali ben Zaid who passed it on to the rest of his troop that the fallen gladiators have their helmets removed before perishing.
Even as this byplay was going on, two of the gates that had slammed shut, once all the contestants were inside, slid open and the gladiators, without the persuasion of the whip-bearers' scourges, hastened to exit, one half through one gate, the other half through the other. Those in the audience, seeing this, began whistling and stomping feet and shouting for the games to begin. The Moulay waved his gold-embroidered handkerchief in gay concert with the crowd. Since the Moulay was as agitated as the rest, he did not notice that the crowd grew ugly when the gladiators did not reverse their course, but continued out. Aisha and Ramlah exchanged looks. Ramlah recognized in the sounds the same horrifying blood-lust she had heard nearly twenty years ago on the day the Moulay had murdered all his male relatives. And,Aisha, for the first time, understood why centuries before, the Roman emperors had built al Djem to propitiate the crowds and satiate their mad hunger with more and more bloodshed.
Ramlah whispered to Aisha, "Don't wait, do something." More than her words, the hint of hysteria in her voice convinced Aisha to signal Ali ben Zaid to move the schedule up. With that the tubas sounded and the silent ones gestured for yesterday's winners to leave their posts at the Gate of Death and advance to the center of the arena. There Gilliver and Cameron had their swords taken from them and replaced with wooden ones that could injure but not kill. The Roman judge announced, "O Moulay, in the tradition of your revered imperial ancestors, Julius Caesar and Hadrian and Marcus Aurelius, we offer you a foretaste of today's games. Upon your command, O mighty Caesar, beloved ruler of Ifriqiya!"
At the Moulay's squeaked, "Fight! Go ahead, fight. I, Caesar, command you, fight!" Cameron and Gilliver fell to.
They were good. Gilliver, in particular, as Diummond had mentioned, pursuing his fellow with vigor. The mock battle was a swordsman's delight. But it wasn't bloody, and soon the crowd, seconded by the Moulay, grew impatient.
"Let the blood flow," the Moulay demanded of his daughter and wife and all within earshot. And again, the schedule was abandoned, the next event moved up. Even as Gilliver and Cameron were resuming their posts, still armed with their wooden swords, another gate opened and with the sharp points of the silent ones' spears urging them forward, two women entered. Young, healthy, presumably strong and remarkably pretty, they were two of the women supposedly transported from al Djem to Sfax. When the pair arrived beneath the royal box, they fell to their knees crying and begging for mercy, but the Moulay, corifirmed woman-hater that he was, had none. Nor had Aisha and Ramlah for whores.
The Moulay's eyes sparkled, the corners of his lips bubbled with spittle. "What now? What fun have you planned?"
Before they could answer, the Roman judge did so. "O mighty Caesar, in al Djem centuries ago, your forebears amused themselves gladiatorially not just with weapons, but with wood, as you have just seen... and with women such as these which appear before you!"
He had to shout to be heard above the sobs of the women. "With your permission, O mighty Caesar, the women of your house would set free..." The sobs ceased as the women, hearing the word free, looked up and gave the judge all their attention. "... the women of your house would set free the woman who wins this match; you, O mighty Caesar to be the judge. Does this win favor with you?"
The Moulay clapped his hands with pleasure, and at this, two silent ones cast Gilliver's and Cameron's short sharp swords upon the sand. The women were on their feet instantly and seized the
weapons. As the two warily circled each other in the sand below the royal box, Ramlah leaned forward to speak into the totally absorbed Moulay's ear. "You see, rafi as'sa'n, your word is our command. No helmets. No shields. Now you will see blood, I promise you."
On the sand below, the women exercised their primary weapon, the tongue. From first one, then the other, and then from both simultaneously poured taunts and vile threats aimed at mtimidating the other. The thought of instant freedom had turned friend to foe. And neither doubted she would at last escape slavery, though whether dead or alive to enjoy that freedom neither could be sure.
But swords, not words, would have to be the great decider. And soon realizing this, the pair had at it, each trying to emulate the swordplay they had witnessed often enough, but never before attempted. The crowd chuckled at the inept display, content for the moment to watch the gyrations which stretched their billowing harem pants tightly across undulating buttocks and set their scantily haltered bosoms to bobbing and weaving.
At the first drawing of blood, the spectators turned savage. Now the roar was for the kill. But it would be long minutes before the trickle turned gush. Fighting at long range, as was the way with beginning swordsmen, the arms bore the brunt of the early blows. And soon both houris had wounds of their sword arms, serving only to make them the more wary. The feet slowed, the thrusts became less frantic and more deliberate.
An overhead slash got through to the left shoulder of the smaller of the two, severing both halter strap and tendon. It was the first serious wound of the combat. And the perpetrator pressed her advantage with renewed courage, while the wounded one retreated and parried with her still good sword arm.
All the while, the shrewish shouts never ceased, to the delight of those within earshot. Blood ran freely down the back, and soaked the flimsy material still covering most of the wounded one's left breast. More than one spectator hoped to see the rest of the halter give way, the sight of blood dripping from her breast exciting them to new frenzy.
The next advantage went, however, to the desperate wounded combatant. She lunged, her sword point stabbing into the midsection of her larger opponent, though not penetrating enough to inflict a mortal wound. Blood flowed again, soaking her groin area and bom pants legs.
A delighted Moulay clapped his hands in glee and shouted a bit too loudly, "Look, 'tis her time. She bleeds like it is her first day."
A disgusted Aisha pretended not to have heard.
Both combatants, realizing their strength was ebbing, tried for a telling stroke or blow. No more retreating. No more footwork, now h was toe-to-toe. Each was too tired to do else than stand and meet her fate, be it victory or death. Swords clashed, swords drew more blood. Tongues now uttered only occasional oaths, gasping breaths alternated with grunts and sharp outcries of pain as blade pierced skin again and again.
The once bright and billowing pants hung in shreds, blood-soaked and grimy with dust. More man once, when sword hilt met sword hilt, the bloody bodies closed in on one another, loose hands grabbing for hair or eyes, and feet trying to trip up the other.
The appreciative spectators gasped audibly as, in one of these grappling encounters, the upper covering of the larger woman was ripped away entirely, exposing her generous breasts for all to see. In a world where such sights, except in the privacy of one's bedchamber with one's own wives, were forbidden by Allah, this was indeed a most glorious moment. The most devout averted their eyes; the less devout quickly decided it was the will of the Most High that they be shown this pleasurable sight and leaned forward in their seats or stood, the better to see more.
Still holding the garment in her left hand, the smaller combatant— now the crowd's favorite—seemed to make those two bouncing globes the target of her attack. First one and then the other felt the point or the sharp edge of her blade,
spilling blood.
The duel ended suddenly, before many of the spectators were ready. Their favorite, in a move that was executed as quickly as it came to mind, flung her garment into the face of her taller opponent, blinding her momentarily. Just long enough to lunge for the unprotected and already wounded belly. Straight through and out the back came the red blade. The smaller woman closed in and held her mortally wounded opponent close against her own body, all the while thrusting and sawing with the buried blade. Only when her opponent stopped jerking and writhing, did she release her grip on sword and body and allow the dead woman to slump to the sand. Looking down on what she'd wrought, she sank to her knees and threw her body across and her arms around her victim. A mournful cry penetrated the ears and hearts of all but the most jaded witnesses. The Greeks would have called it a three-act tragedy. A frieml-to-foe-to-friend trilogy that freed two of Allah's servants from slavery. One to make her own way down a new and strange path. The other, by dint of dying in battle with sword in hand, already breathing the sweet perfume of paradise.
If Gilliver and Cameron had been properly armed, the Lady Islean's teaching would have forced them to intervene, to stop the farce before it began. Helpless as they were, neither had had the stomach to watch, instead pretending not to hear, resolutely looking elsewhere—at, for example, slaves drawing circles of salt upon the sand. Both eventually turned their attention to the royal box where the Moulay was animatedly enjoying and mock-emulating every clumsy hack and high-pitched shriek. At one point, only the quick actions of the young tiermaphrodite kept him from leaning too far over the wall of the box and falling to the sands beneath.
In the end, slaves pulled the victor from the victim, while one of their number, a burly slave carrying a hammer, ritualistically assured and reassured the fact of death with a sharp blow to the dead woman's forehead, splitting the skull open, spilling more blood upon the sands. Other slaves ran forward to drag the body across the arena and out the Gate of Death. Cameron and Gilliver carefully averted their eyes and watched instead as other slaves, bearing baskets, strew fresh sand over the bloodstains.
