The Mer- Lion

by Lee Arthur

  De Wynter, sitting on his pallet, head buried in his hands, was the cynosure of all eyes. Finally, he sighed and looked up, his face composed, his cheeks dry, his eyes unnaturally bright. "All right then. It's decided. We go on. For John's sake. Best prepare yoursell for another rugged day. I hate to think what atrocity we face, bu what they devise, we can circumvent. For John!"

  "For John!" Nine strong masculine voices pledged themselves a: one.

  Not until they joined the now much depleted group of competitors, did they realize how much carnage had been wrought the day before. Again it was Ibn al-Hudaij who addressed them. "Welcome again to the games. Today, I am privileged to announce that as reward for your courage of yesterday, the contest rules will be changed." There was a murmur within the crowd and contestants. Only the nine looked properly skeptical; they had seen too many "rewards" of the Amira. "Instead of this being a contest to the death for all but one man, the Amira has agreed that many may win free with their lives at the end of the game, and one of these shall receive the ultimate reward, the princess as bride."

  The decision was greeted with a great roar of approval from the contestants. Not so among the spectators; however, they had faced the silent ones' spears the day before and, as one, chose not to challenge their ruler's decision again. The fact that the Moulay had not yet arrived did encourage them to grumble a bit. They quieted as Ibn al-Hudaij continued. "Today's games will test your ability to use one of Ifriquiya's finest resources, our great ship of the desert, the camel. And now, let the rules of this competition be announced. The blessings of Allah be on him who competes."

  The white-turbaned speaker gave way for Hamad Attis, from Gafsa in southern Tunisia, wearing the traditional red felt tarboosh with its dark blue tassel hanging down in front of his ear. "The man who would win the Amira Aisha must prove his skill with the animal that has played such an important role in the history of this country. This revered animal gives its master sustenance, transports him, his family, his goods. It clothes us against the burning sun and the chilling night winds, and it shelters us in the midst of howling sandstorms.

  "Let him who would call Tunisia his home and have the hand of* the Amira prove he is master of the humped one. Therefore, today's events will test your skills in three important ways. By luck of the draw, you will be divided into three groups. The first group will milk she-camels—thus can man provide food for his family if he properly cares for his camel herd. Thirty of you will compete in this event. The thirty she-camels available to the contestants include some who have recently calved and have just begun to let down the milk. Others have been suckling their young for weeks or months and are heavy with milk. A few are weaning and almost upon their, dry cycle. Again by luck of the draw, each contestant in turn will make his choice from the herd of she-camels, and he will proceed to milk the animal into a goatskin container.

  "I caution you on three points only. First, any man who fails to obtain half a container of milk will lose. Second, the milking must be completed before the ram's horn sounds. Third, spilled milk does not count."

  The Tunisian judge smiled a bit wryly, then continued. "The second group will be tested in your ability to load merchandise on camels, strapping it on so that a long journey would not dislodge it, nor cause undue discomfort to the animal. Each contestant will be given exactly the same pack and fastenings. And again, each contestant in turn will select his camel and load it, working against the sandglass. I should warn you, most of these camels are green, only a few are used to bearing burdens. Once your beast is loaded, it will make one circuit of the arena at a fast pace. Woe betide him whose pack comes loose, or whose bindings cause injury or discomfort to the camel.

  "The third group will select camels to ride, and will compete in heats of three, racing the length of the arena. The ten winners will then race in a final event, the winner to be excused from tomorrow's competition."

  The Gate of Death opened, to admit a large group of slaves struggling to drag in three huge copper caldrons. Under the watchful eyes of the whip-bearers, the caldrons were pushed, shoved, anc rocked into place below the royal box, where the Moulay Hassai had finally deigned to arrive.

  When the caldrons had been placed to the judge's satisfaction Hamad Attia gave one final bit of advice to the assembled group "The camel, I warn you, is not a co-operative animal. It thinks fo itself. When properly handled and respected, it is an obedient an< faithful servant. When it detects either lack of respect or skill, it can be a vengeful beast. Beware, then, of flying hooves and strong toothed jaws. Let the blessings of Allah be on him who competes The games begin within the hour. But first, you draw for you contest from the caldron on the right. If it is a disc with one circle you load; two circles for milkers; three circles, and you race."

  As the other contestants milled about with dismayed expressions, Carlby blurted out, "Thank God for Ali and his cantankerous camel."

  The words struck the others as incongruous considering Carlby's shower of green cud. They couldn't help themselves, they laughed. Although he hadn't planned it, Carlby was secretly pleased. Laughter can purge one as much as tears, and with lifted spirits, confidence returned.

  As the whip-bearers jostled the crowd into a rough line, the slaves drew together. "Let's assume," de Wynter said, "that among us, we will be entered in all three events. What is to prevent us from trading discs and choosing the event best suited to each? The odds are that with ten—" He stopped short, his face remained impassive, but others in the group winced. First ten, now nine. How many tomorrow?

  The line moved comparatively quickly as man after man drew his lot and went off to join his group. De Wynter continued, his voice dry and emotionless. "With nine of us, odds are that at least two will be in any event. We must decide now while we have the chance which two shall be which."

  Carlby spoke up. "Pray that most of us race in the contest for which we have experience. As far as milking a camel is concerned, I don't even know how many teats the damn beast has."

  The others grinned and Fionn chimed in, "At least two."

  "Ah, there speaks a man with experience," Carlby said approvingly.

  "A little," Fionn admitted. "Mostly with goats."

  "I've milked me a woman or two," Cameron boasted, the others scoffing and jeering at him,

  Even de Wynter grinned. "Sorry, George, I don't mink it's the same. Fionn, we need your help. What do you remember about milking those goats? Can you give us some tips?"

  Fionn shrugged his shoulders. "Milking's easy when you know how."

  '.'That much we know. But we don't know how."

  "Well, the first thing is that you don't just step up and start yanking on those tits," Fionn explained. "Womanlike, the animal has to be stimulated by some gentle rubbing or squeezing. Watch a young kid starting to nurse. It instinctively gives its mother a few

  butts in the udder with its head. That's its way of signaling the mother to send down some milk. I would guess a camel is the same way. Use your hands to rub whatever udder is there for a bit, and then go to work on the teats. You should feel them fill up with milk.''

  "But how do you pick out one that will give enough milk?" Carlby asked.

  "Look for a big udder. But not one that is also hard and lumpy and hot. Not just warm, hot! That means she's diseased. If she feels like a goatskin filled with water, with more than a bit of give to it, that's a good sign. Also, the teats should be enlarged. If she's been nursing, they'll be smooth as a baby's butt, not wrinkled and dry feeling. Personally, I look for big teats. Of a size to get my four fingers around. I hate those you have to milk sissylike, between thumb and forefinger. With woman or goat, I like me a real handful."

  "Not me. I measure by me mouth, not me hand," protested' Cameron.

  "Whatever makes you happy," Fionn agreed as the others chuckled.

  "Can't we get on with the milking?" Gilliver asked. Talk about women always left him embarrassed. The others winked at each other. They knew Gilliver's r
eticence of old and had been known deliberately to be coarse in order to tease him.

  Fionn, however, took pity on the young man. "With a goat, I grab as much of that teat as I can, then simultaneously squeeze and pull downward. Two-handed, you simply alternate strokes, not unlike pulling a rope downward, hand over hand. As for how hard to squeeze and-how hard to pull... do it too easy and no milk will you get. Too hard and a hoof will let you know."

  "You make it sound too easy," de Wynter said. "I tried milking a goat when in Naples. Not a drop did I get. Nor did anyone else. We ended up butchering the beast. Take it from me, milking's not easy. Of course, I'll bet the packing isn't either."

  More than half of the line had passed before the caldron, reached in, and drawn a disc. Time for discussion was running out.

  "What about packing a camel?" asked de Wynter. "Anyone know aught of that?"

  No one responded, each looking at the other, hoping there would be a positive response.

  "I've supervised many a camel train in my time," Carlby said, "but never actually loaded one. If I remember right it always took two men to do it."

  "One of us is equal to two others any day," de Wynter said flatly. "Besides, everyone else is at the same disadvantage. Come on now, someone must have paid attention to the loading of the camels on our trip from Tunis to al Djem. Think, men! Dredge your memories and remember!"

  After a few moments of silence, Menzies spoke, his eyes tightly closed, his head bent forward, his hands clasped tightly together. "They don't pile things up on top. That I can see. They sling things on either side, well balanced. Then there is a kind of strap that goes around the things slung on either side and passes down under the belly—a little more to the front I think than the rear—right where the belly starts to slope downward toward the front legs. I can't tell how they fasten the strap. It may have some kind of buckle or it may just be tied. Sorry, that's all I can see." And he opened his eyes and stood blinking in the sunlight.

  De Wynter clapped him on the shoulder approvingly as the line moved forward several paces again. "That's our Kenneth! The man with an artist's memory!"

  Carlby and John the Rob exchanged empathetic glances. Frequently, the unabashed love and friendship the companions showed one another made the other two feel like outsiders. This Carlby resolutely ignored, instead picking up the thread of the conversation at this point. "So much for packing. As for racing, dare we assume Ali's specimen was indicative of what we may face at least in the way of tack?"

  De Wynter shrugged. "Might as well; we've had no experience with any other." The others' silence bespoke their agreement.

  Carlby continued. "We know Ali's was fast. Suppose we look for its like?"

  "Aye," said Angus. "A good lean one." Ogilvy added, "With a good long length of leg." "Small hooves," was Gilliver's contribution. "A refined head," de Wynter noted.

  "Big!" exclaimed Fionn.

  "For you, yes, you monster. But for us, not quite so," de Wynter replied.

  "Disposition would certainly be a factor so far as I am concerned," Carlby said, to be greeted with hoots, jeers, and de Wynter's, "I hear you can tell a fast one by how far he can spit." He gave up. "It was only a suggestion. A friendly beast could be an advantage."

  Three more men, and then it was their turn to draw. Sticking together, they managed to exchange discs, most ending up where they wanted to be: Angus and Ogilvy chose to milk, hoping their experience with sheep would be of help. John the Rob relied on his quick hands to fill his bucket also. Cameron and Menzies seemed the logical choices for the only two racing discs. The rest were left to pack the great ships of the desert.

  Prodded by whip butt and sting of the thong, the nine, the last in the line, separated and joined their respective groups. As they did, the seats in the lower tier were filling up with silent ones and spectators. Just then cymbals clashed, gongs reverberated, and trumpets brayed; a gate opened and a herd of camels charged wild-eyed into the arena as a stentorian voice announced, "Enter, the she-camels!" Just as quickly many of the beasts wheeled about and attempted to return.whence they came. Angus shouted over the sounds of squeals, "Ogilvy, look at the dugs! Damnation! The beasts have just been nursing."

  Normally, a female camel won't bite unless provoked. A mother separated from her calf is another story. And more than one man that day gave a sudden scream as eight large, sharp, jagged teeth crunched an arm or shoulder, shattering the bone. One unfortunate was bitten in the rear, the camel gouging a huge chunk out of his buttocks. Fortunately, Angus, Ogilvy, and John the Rob were survivors all... and spied a fellow contestant who seemed not at all fazed by the contest. They watched him closely as he approached his beast, speaking quietly and firmly the while. When she had calmed, down, he stroked her udder, still talking to her, his words blending together in a monotonous but apparently comforting tuneless song. As she let down her milk, he stood on one leg with his right foot resting on his left knee, the goatskin wedged within the triangle formed.

  Soon a rhythmic squishing signaled the success of his enterprise.

  Angus and Ogilvy were not about to try that balancing act, but were not above crooning a highland tune if that should make the one-humped lassie cooperative. And it did. John the Rob, mouthing a catch last heard in a London ale-house, would have been equally successful except that at the last moment, his goatskin tipped, spilling some of the precious milk into the sand. Ever resourceful, , he simply gathered in a fold of the skin, hiding the excess within his capable hand, thus decreasing the bag's capacity and raising the level of the milk. Since the measuring was done by the judge's eye instead of by weight or liquid measurement, the little beggar got away with his inspired deception.

  When the last teat had been squeezed, udder stroked, and dug pulled, the she-camels were driven out of the arena, leaving a full third of the group who were either unable to milk at all or could not eke enough out of their camels. When presented to the Moulay for his judgment, he said only, "Take them away," and waved toward the Gate of Death.

  The second group was now herded in through a second gate in the wall. Again, that stentorian voice left no doubt as to which animals these were. "Enter, the beasts of burden."

  This group was no better-natured than the first. Some thrashed themselves with their long, sinewy, tufted tail. Others ground and gnashed their eight jutting teeth. Still another group blew large pink air sacs from their mouths, sucking them back in with a slurping sound. One or two here and there even tried to mount his fellows only to be met by a cruel slash of an ugly head at the end of a snakelike neck. One did not have to be an expert on camels to recognize these were all bulls... and every one was in rut.

  Fionn was first to make his attempt, and his approach was crude but effective. With one hamlike fist, he sledgehammered his choice between the eyes. As the stunned beast wobbled, he hit it again, sending it to its knees. Other than getting the strap under its belly, it was a simple matter to load the beast; in fact, the judges found it far more difficult to get the animal back on its feet. Even then it merely staggered around the arena, never once going faster than a very slow stumble.

  Fionn accepted with a wide grin the shouts of "Well done!" from the audience, even the veiled woman in the royal box deigning to clap for his efforts. But then, though as a victor he might leave the arena, he refused to. His purpose became apparent later, after Carlby and de Wynter had quickly, efficiendy, almost expertly hobbled their beasts and loaded them. Gilliver was the last of their group to compete. As he walked forward to face his mount, Fionn stood not far behind. Before whip-bearer or silent one could intervene, Fionn charged forward and dealt Gilliver's beast a mighty blow just as he had his own. This time it took a second and third and a fourth blow to fell the beast, but finally it too sank to the ground. Then as Fionn sat on the camel's head, Gilliver piled bundles on top and to one side. Released, the camel lurched to the off-loaded side, yet the bundles did not fall off, although they did slide down below his belly. The crowd was
in an uproar. Half applauded the audacity of the blond giant; the rest demanded his punishment. Quickly the judges consulted, their decision being tempered by a word from Ali ben Zaid, "The Amira favors the blond one."

  After much shaking of heads and pulling of beards, the white-turbaned one spoke. "Nothing in the rules states a man must load his beast unassisted. The decision is favorable, the man successful."

  The decision was not popular with the crowd... at first. But as they watched the dazed camel lurch about the arena tripping and stumbling over his belly-load, a titter or two was heard, followed by deep masculine laughs and then-guffaws. Finally, even the silent ones could be heard uttering that piteous mew that passed for laughter among them.

  Their good humor restored, the crowd settled back for the races. These were, if anything, even more comical. Riders fell off, camels knocked one another over, some even fell over their own two-toed feet when trying to make a tight turn. In one heat, the winner was he who managed to stay mounted throughout the whole of the race... the only one to do so. That he was a redhead may have contributed to Aisha and Ramlah's departure from the arena early.

  The Moulay, who had plans for the thirty-two contestants who had clearly lost this day, grew impatient to see the day end and so told his wazier. Thus it was that all nine of the slaves, nursing their share of bruises and bites and scrapes, were ushered back to their cells earlier than on the preceding days, later to be let out and taken to the showers; and for the first time in a week or more, the silent ones did not hurry them through their ablutions. Instead, the water continued to pour as the men soaped, scrubbed, and rubbed the soreness from their bodies. Who it was that started the song, no one knew. But suddenly it seemed to leap full-grown from seven Scottish throats:

  Lo! What it is to love

  Learn ye that wish to prove.