by Lee Arthur
There was a rustling of vellum as the hafiz turned over the pages he'd just read and looked for the proper verse. Then, his dry inflectionless voice began anew:
"Men are in charge of women, because Allah hath made the one of them to excel the other, and because they spend of their property for the support of women." "Is this the verse of which you spoke, daughter?"
Ramlah and Zainab held their breaths, waiting for the explosion from Aisha. But it didn't come. Instead Aisha laughed. Exuberantly, genuinely, almost girlishly. From what she had seen in the camp of the contestants, she had no fears in this respect; those men had no property to use to support a woman much less the only daughter of a king. Just let one of those penniless adventurers attempt to be in charge of the Amira Aisha; he'd live only long enough to regret it.
Ramlah knew not what amused her daughter but prayed the good humor lasted through the rest of the readings which she was sure would not be to her daughter's liking:
"So good women are obedient, guarding in secret that which Allah hath guarded. As for those from whom ye fear rebellion, admonish them and banish them to beds apart, and scourge them. Then, if they obey you, seek not a way against them. Lo! Allah is ever High, Exalted, Great."
Ramlah waited with bated breath for the explosion, but though Aisha no longer looked merry, her expression was more thoughtful than angered.
Ramlah was right; Aisha didn't like what she heard. It was time to face facts: to elevate a man to rank of consort was dangerous; the Koran gave a husband too much power. Under the laws of Islam, her consort could indeed banish her from her own bed. As for lawfully scourging her? Never! She it was who would wield any whip. The hafiz continued his readings and she made up her mind.
"And if ye fear a breach between the man and wife, appoint an arbiter from his folk and an arbiter from her folk. If they desire amendment, Allah will make of them one mind. Lo! Allah is ever knowing, Aware!"
Aisha smiled; then Allah must know her plan. Ali was right. A slave was the answer. A slave had no power, no rights, no family from which to find an arbiter. With a slave as a husband, she'd be free. With the decision made, she was surprised to experience a great feeling of relief, tinged even by a degree of anticipation. Looking upon the eventual victor as a husband had been wrong, she .decided. Think of him, instead, as a jewel to grace her tent: to complement her own good looks, to inspire envy among others, to add to her prestige. And to impress her people. That he was a slave would be no detriment in a world where slaves had been elevated to stand next to Suleiman's throne and exercise power second only to the Sultan's. As to which one, there was only one practical, realistic, unemotional, logical choice.
Aisha, once she had made up her mind, was quick to put her decisions into action. Even as the ama finished painting the arrow on her hand and moved to the foot of the couch to rework the ukda on her feet, Aisha summoned Zainab to her side. "Send for Ali ben Zaid. Tell him I was wrong and would speak to him tonight. Tell him, further, I have made up my mind."
Zainab would have questioned her mistress, but Aisha hushed her; the hafiz was still reciting. Zainab bit her lip and left. Whatever Aisha had to say to Ali could be worth handfuls of gold to the Moulay. And as Zainab knew far too well, it had been some time since she had been able to please her master with substantial information about his daughter's actions. He, in turn, had refused to send her fresh men for playmates. Zainab decided one way or another the conversation between Amira and Amir l’al-assa must be overheard.
While Zaniab delivered the message, first to Ali then the Moulay, Ramlah smoked and the hafiz singsang from the Koran. Aisha was again lost in thought. Again she relived the day's events. Most of the encounters blurred together into one long scene of bloodshed. But one thing, besides the death of that last one, stood out: many of the men she had thought would win had fallen to defeat. Maybe the games had been a mistake. How could this chaotic, complex charade possibly result in the elimination of all but one single suitable marriage partner? Even withf Ali's help, how could she be sure that that particular prospect would get through another four days of competition? She could only hope that having drastically and dramatically winnowed down the field by way of the sword, she could exert influence on the outcome. There was, of course, always that unpredictable factor to consider the Moulay. And though tomorrow's competition would be less personally and individually risky, there would be losers. Fully a third of them and their fates would be decided by the Moulay and limited only by his imagination. Aisha had no doubts that that imagination would be equal to the effort.
Her musings carried Aisha well into the half hour it took for the hafiz to read "An-Nisa" in its entirety, not just that portion dealing largely with women's rights as revealed at al-Madinah in the fourth year of the Hejira. None of it seemed particularly relevant to a marriage such as the princess envisioned. And certainly no vase or passage roused Aisha's ire as had the reference to men's superiority over women. Sometime, when there was time, she would have to take her mother to task for having chosen that reading for this night. Aisha smiled as she thought of the spirited argument that that would prompt. Poor, sweet Ramlah... so obviously superior to her own husband yet forced by society and religion to espouse a tradition which her very life contradicted. Lovingly, Aisha would have blown her mother a kiss, but the sight of the dark red symbols on her palms stopped her action in mid-thought. Aisha loved beauty. The very thought of having such ugliness upon her person made her clench her fingers until her painted nails dug deeply into the discolored palms. The pain refreshed her and drove thoughts she considered unforgivingly feminine from her mind. Let Ramlah think what she would, but Aisha was not prepared to shed her blood willingly in any bed, especially childbed. And no one could make her change her mind.
Zainab's hesitant cough broke into her thoughts. "Ali ben Zaid awaits your pleasure outside, Amira.''
"Good. Stay you here and keep Ramlah company. I shall return." Aisha sat up and took Zainab's cloak from her arm.
The handmaiden surrendered it reluctandy. "Would you not have me join you? To be alone with a man during a night of ritual, it is sacrilege."
Aisha only laughed. "Ali ben Zaid is no man. He is my uncle." Throwing the cloak about her shoulders, Aisha strode from the room leaving an unhappy but determined woman behind her. As Aisha left the inner tent, Zainab followed right behind to listen through the hangings, but to no avail, for Aisha took her uncle by the arm. "Come, Uncle, let us walk and talk." Of only one thing could
Zainab be sure: their talk couldn't be important, it would be too short, for the clear starlit beauty of a desert night is equaled by its bone-chilling cold and discourages long walks.
Ali was content to be led anywhere by Aisha. When he was with her, he saw nothing else. Though their kinship might negate his gender for her, it had no such effect upon Ali. To him, there was but one woman in the world. And tonight she looked more beautiful than she had in months. A smile softened her haughty lips and warmed her tawny eyes.
"Why?" he wondered aloud.
"Why what, Uncle?" she asked almost mischievously, holding his arm even closer.
He could feel, he thought, the swelling of her breast through his robe. He knew he should draw away, but he didn't. Instead, when she repeated her question, he could think of no response. "Why what, indeed? I don't remember if once I knew. Unless, yes, of course: Why summon me?"
"Uncle, you were right!"
"Really? Right about what?"
"About choosing a slave as consort."
He was bewildered. "I thought that was settled some time ago.
"Ah, but not which one."
The fragrance of her bath perfume surrounded her like the moonlight and filled his nostrils with a scent all her own, one none of his concubines had ever been able to duplicate although he'd had them try. Somehow, tonight, in the moonlight with her holding him close, the last thing he wanted to discuss was who should share her bed, especially when he wanted so badly to be that man
himself. He tried to change the subject. "And what brought this on?"
"The death of the redhead!" she answered triumphantly.
Totally confused, he stopped in mid-stride. "How so?"
"I am free of that barbarian's get. Now, I have naught to fear from—"
"Princess, wait. You rejoice prematurely. The man you condemned today—" "Eulj Ali, you mean."
"No, I don't mean Eulj Ali. Eulj Ali is alive and far too well to suit my taste."
Aisha pulled her arm away. "You're wrong. Eulj Ali was a redhead, the only redhead among the contestants. The man who died had thick red chest hair, I saw that for myself. That's why I put my thumb down."
"My dear, Aisha," Ali said, shaking his head sadly, "many a dark-haired man has red body hair. I grant you the two looked much alike, but the man who died was Latin... not barbarian."
Aisha's hps tightened. Her eyes grew dark with anger. Her face settled back into its carefully controlled mask. Ali ben Zaid knew his princess too well to imagine she was feeling remorse for the death of the wrong man. He was right. Already, all thoughts were on plotting the death of this one.
Thus, when Ali gently prompted her—"You've chosen one of the slaves?"—her reply was short, almost disinterested: "Yes, the big one."
Ali was surprised. Fionn was a handsome man, but to the Berber's way of thinking not in the same class as de Wynter. Then again, the two were much alike: brave, honest, proud with a certain similarity in bearing. They were even built much alike, although one was on a far larger scale. Ali decided, in a close fight, he would not mind having either defend his back.
However, Aisha had still another man on her mind. "Eulj Ali. He must not win. Ah, you must promise me. I care not who else wins or loses, but this man must die. How you do it is not my concern, but do it. Pledge me Eulj Ali's life."
To Aisha's surprise Ali did not immediately agree. "Are you sure you want him dead, or just removed from contention for your hand?"
"Dead!" But she didn't sound positive.
"Wouldn't it be better for your country to have Barbarossa's son as a hostage, rather than a corpse? No, don't answer hastily. Think a moment. Now, I grant you the man is not the Beglerbey's heir, but he is Marimah's favorite."
"What difference does that make? Marimah is but one of the four wives."
"But she is the Beglerbey'a favorite. That makes a difference. Let me put it to you this way: If you were in Eulj Ali's position and Ramlah in Marimah's, don't you agree that your mother would make her husband's life hell on earth until you were back?"
"Yes, I see your point. But how do we save him and still save me from him?"
Ali did not answer immediately; instead, feeling the chill and noting how far they'd gone into the desert, he suggested they retrace their steps.
"Well, you haven't answered me. Or"—and her voice reeked with sarcasm—"are you one of those who can pose problems but not solve them?"
Stung more by her tone of voice than her words, he responded curtiy. "I have the answer, but I want something in return."
"You would bargain with me?" She was too shocked to hide her surprise. Always before she had need but express a desire to Ali, and it was hers.
"I would. Is it not worth something to you to be free of Eulj Ali... and to have the giant's life assured?"
She studied her uncle intently for a moment, considering his words. "And what would you have as reward?"
"The jamad ja'da to do with as I please."
'To what end is that?" She didn't really need to ask. Ali had made no secret of his attraction to the slave. Without thinking, a mental picture of the two men, one fair, the other dark, flashed through her mind. The two laughing and riding and hawking and—unbidden, other thoughts came to mind: the two sharing one of Ali's concubines, or, worse yet, entwined in each other's arms. A pang of jealousy went through her.
Ali had hesitated but a moment. "That is no concern of yours. Is it a bargain?"
She was undecided. That strange feeling of jealousy, was it for Ali or the other? She couldn't tell. Besides, she detected a degree of uneasiness in Ali, which might be used to her advantage. "What you would do with him would matter not a whit to me. But suppose the giant does suffer a mishap?"
"Then the bargain is off, of course." He was uncomfortable. She could see it in the way he shifted his weight back and forth and chewed his lower lip.
"Suppose I change my mind about the giant and want the other?"
It was his turn to consider her. Rarely did Aisha change her mind, he knew. It was a matter of pride with her. It was a safe wager that she wouldn't in this case: "Agreed. But you won't."
He was so sure of himself, she almost—out of sheer perversity— challenged him there and then. Instead, she merely smiled. "A bargain it is then, Uncle. So what is your answer?"
"Why content yourself with one winner? Instead, have several. A handful even. Then, you are not at the mercy of the fates and may do with each as you please, except the jamad Ja'da."
"It has appeal. But I wonder what the Moulay's reaction will be when he finds out that more man one will escape his clutches."
"Don't tell him. Not until the end. Then give him the whole of the tent-city to play with. Even the spectators, if you wish. Just withhold this small group. He'll never miss them."
She nodded her head. It might work. "If necessary, I could offer the Moulay something he has wanted for years. Then again, I might threaten just the opposite. Who knows? In any event, leave the Moulay to me."
When she smiled, Ali could see that she was her father's get.
Zainab, just within the entrance to Ramlah's tent, overheard the last remark and wondered what the Moulay might make of it. And what he might pay for it.
When Aisha, having bid the Amir l’al-assa good-night, swept into the tent, Zainab was nowhere about. Ramlah was. She had indulged too frequently and deeply of the solace of her waterpipe. Her daughter's fond kiss on her forehead did not wake her, nor did the black eunuchs' carrying her to bed, nor even the white eunuchs' disrobing of her.
When Aisha left the tent, Zainab appeared and would have followed after her, but Aisha directed her and the asira, with then-towels and bowls and pillows, to go on without her to her tent.
"But the henna? Don't you want me to scrub it?" Zainab protested.
"I think it just ingrains it deeper. No, you and the maids seek out your own beds, I will walk awhile."
The two groups, Zainab and the asiras on one hand, the Arnira and her silent escort on the other, went their separate ways. Aisha headed toward a secluded tent in an inconspicuous site where scribes toiled, mapmakers charted, and spies waited with their reports on the strange doings of the tribes of Tunisia. Reading one, on the supernatural beliefs of the Dyaks, who settled disputes by the diving ordeal, it occurred to Aisha that not only did she not know if the blond giant could swim, she didn't even know his name; nor that of the jamad ja'da either. He, she decided, would know how to swim; he had the sleek body of one used to water.
CHAPTER 32
The third day of the great competition was blessed by Allah with more of the burning sun that had marked the previous day. Outside the huge amphitheater, the tent-city sprang to life with the sun's first blood-red rays. There were animals to be fed, baths to be poured, aches to be massaged, pummeled, rubbed, and subdued, so that the contestants might continue. The less than 90 of the original 180 contestants who remained roused themselves with difficulty, wondering what the day held for them. After yesterday's combat, almost anything else would be tame, an anticlimax, most thought. But little did they know what the clever mind of the Amira Aisha had arranged for the survivors.
Within the walls of al Djem, last-minute preparations were under way as whips urged slaves to work more diligently at spreading and raking fresh sand over the bloody debris of yesterday.
Within the bowels of the arena, a dejected group of nine went mechanically about their early morning routine. They were still stunned by the death
of Drummond. Only reminding themselves of their success in substituting Cameron for Gilliver served to keep them from being totally despondent—that plus a desire for freedom that verged on monomania.
This was not the first time Carlby had seen men defeated by their own emotions. It had happened at Rhodes when, despite their prayers, the Knights Hospitaler appeared destined to defeat by the heathen led by Suleiman the Magnificent. They began questioning their God and fought not with the strength of ten but that of less than one. They made their defeat inevitable. Carlby wasn't willing to see that happen again, here. He would have to fill the void of leadership de Wynter's grief had created. No one would resent it, no one would question it; his rank insured that. He prayed God to inspire him with the right words to motivate these men.
"I think I know how all of you feel," he said, addressing the men, sitting, lying, standing passively about the cell. "To know John Drummond was to love him. But he would not forgive you if you were to allow sorrow to get in the way of the survival of the rest of the group. If he were here, you know he would say, 'Forget me. I am dead. Your grief cannot help me. Help yourself. Think of yourself. Do not make my death meaningless!' " Carlby paused to check the reactions of his listeners. Some seemed encouraged, others guilty, still others resolute. Only de Wynter remained impassive, lost in his own thoughts. "Yes," Carlby continued, "it is right to mourn him. But not now. Later. When all of this is over. Then we will mourn him... hold a requiem for him, a proper one, I promise you. But for now, you honor him and his memory most by living. And you dishonor his memory if you value your own lives so cheaply that you will not fight to keep them. He didn't. He fought to the end. John Drummond was proud of you. Proud to be a companion. Mourn him as he would want it—by living. And may one of you return to tell his family that he died bravely. Amen."
What Carlby didn't say, but John the Rob also realized, was that unless Carlby could incite his listeners to continue to fight tc survive, that delayed funeral service would be for more than one. ^ Gilliver, the one the companions looked to for religious guidance, said, "John would have wanted it that way. Anything John wants now, God will surely grant him. For his is a martyrdom."
