by Lee Arthur
The slaves, for one, welcomed the chance the delay gave them. While Fionn and Ogilvy wrapped themselves around the hobbled legs of one bird, de Wynter gave his loincloth to Carlby to blind the bird. The bird struggled once, then lay still while de Wynter experimented, knotting the rope various ways. Eventually, he devised a double loop: one for the top of the neck, a smaller one for around the beak. The two free ends would be grasped like reins, one in each hand.
"No good. It's not quite long enough," de Wynter said. "We're going to have to use two ropes for each bridle. Otherwise, when they stretch out their necks, they'll pull the reins free."
Redoing the two loops closer to one end of the two-meter rope^de Wynter had Gilliver untie one length from the tether, and tied it on the long end of the bridle. Now the reins formed a long loop of their own, one which the rider could tie behind his back and still have plenty of rope to rein with. Putting it on the bird was not easy, but as Carlby said, nothing had been these last four days.
"We still have a problem," Carlby pointed out. "Only six extra ropes and nine birds."
"The three of us with the longest arms will have to make do; we have no other choice," de Wynter said. "Let's get started."
Over the next hour, the group painstakingly, and painfully, put bridles on each of their plumed steeds, tying the reins to each other to keep the big birds tethered. When the last one was done, de Wynter rescued what was left of his loincloth: a shredded rag.
"Thank God, I'm not proud," de Wynter said, holding it up.
"Nor modest," Fionn added.
While the others laughed, John the Rob disappeared, only to return with a fresh loincloth.
"Now, how did you do that? Strip a man naked without his knowing it? I don't believe it."
"Believe it. It was Eulj Ali's I stole, and he doesn't look too happy about it."
"I'll lend him my rag; it might remind him of his good times rowing."
"If you two are finished chatting?" Carlby prodded them. Then the men were all business; it was time to learn to ride their winged, two-legged beasts. It took two men to control one in the beginning. While one clambered aboard, the other held the bridle and then led the bird.
They soon discovered riding an ostrich was not easy. To compound matters, they dared not exhaust the beasts, for the birds must race that afternoon. By the time the ram's horn sounded at the Moulay's return from his nap, the dust-covered men were exhausted, and none was absolutely sure he could stay aboard his rolling, jolting steed, let alone guide him or urge him on faster.
"With the Moulay's great and glorious permission," the crier shouted, "there will be five races. Plus a final one for the five winners, this winner to receive an advantage in tomorrow's contest. The slaves passing among you bear pots. Within them are discs to draw for position. Yellow races first. Then red, followed by blue, white after that, and black racing last. The blessings of Allah on him who competes."
De Wynter, first to draw, drew yellow. Cameron and Menzies, drawing one after the other, both came up with red discs. Angus and Ogilvy found themselves in the third and fourth heats respectively. Carlby's disc was blue, Fionn's white. John the Rob, whose dextrous hands managed to take one disc and palm a second, came up with two white ones, to his disgust; there were already three of them in the fourth heat. Gilliver drew last and prayed it wasn't a sign, for his disc was black.
De Wynter, seeing Gilliver's face, put an arm around his friend's shoulders and quietly reassured him, "Henry, don't worry. The main tiling today is not to get injured. If you have a chance to win without taking any risk, fine. If not, don't worry. They may have already done their winnowing for today. So just cling to your bird and stay on. Understand?"
Gilliver nodded and smiled tremulously. Whatever Jamie said, Gilliver believed implicitly, religiously.
De Wynter took his own advice and approached the first heat with a lighthearted feeling that was not appropriate for the occasion but totally in character. He loved competition, the element of danger only adding to the excitement. The ram's horn signaled the start, and de Wynter, who had been given a boost up by his fellows, kicked the feathery beast in the sides and took off in a cloud of sand along with seven other angry, rambunctious ostriches. Most of them went as much laterally as forward, fouling everybody's well-laid plans and bumping one rider unceremoniously from his perch to crash upon the sun-hardened sand.
The bridle that de Wynter had fashioned was superior to any of the crude halters the others in the heat had managed, and it gave him an advantage that served him well. By tugging with all his might on one rein or the other, he could actually steer the headstrong beast. His biggest problem turned out to be getting it to move fast enough.
But enough kicks in the side and enough shouts of encouragement brought him to the finish line before the others. In fact, only three of the-eight managed to get across the finish line within the time allowed.
"Nothing to it," said a sweat-soaked, hard-breathing de Wynter as he rejoined his friends at the starting line. His steed had been led away by slaves to be held until the final race of the day.
"I would suggest that you two," he said to Cameron and Menzies, "delay your start just a few seconds. Let the crazy birds get spread out a bit heading in the right direction, and then you can take off. It might save you a spill."
"Good idea," said Menzies.
"Makes sense," George said, not at all confidentiy. He was more than a little worried because he, like de Wynter and Fionn, was using the short reins.
At the blast of the ram's horn, five of the eight birds leaped from the starting line in a melee of bumping, jostling, and shouting. One refused to move, instead, to his rider's horror, squatting down as if nesting. Cameron and Menzies, who lagged behind, saw their openings; they kicked their birds into action and sped forth in a near-straight line, soon passing four erratic birds. But the fifth stubbornly held his lead, streaking down the length of the arena. It was a three-man, or ostrich, race, and Cameron and Menzies lost in a close finish.
Angus and Carlby fared no better in the third heat Carlby not only wound up eating dirt some three meters into the race, but his bird broke loose and he ended up chasing the flapping creature halfway to the finish line to no avail. To add to his discomfort, the winner of his heat was a naked redhead, a man watched intently by more than one observer from within the royal box.
Fionn redeemed Carlby's disgrace by winning the fourth race. Ogilvy finished in the middle of that pack and John the Rob brought up the rear, a position that Gilliver barely managed to equal in the fifth race.
To no one's surprise, all of those who met in the race of winners were not strangers to the crowd, each having made his presence known consistendy during the last three days of competition. Besides Fionn, de Wynter, and Eulj Ali, the muezzin identified the Taureg, and the Nuba wrestler. As the men angled their birds toward the starting line, de Wynter leaned over to. Fionn and said, "I'll bet you Dunstan's next colt I beat you."
"You're on," said the younger man. At that moment a ram's horn split the silence and the race was on. Within minutes, it had degenerated into a farce. Perhaps the beasts had decided enough was enough; more likely all were exhausted. Whatever, they were totally uncooperative. At the start, the Nuba and de Wynter were prompdy dumped. Halfway down the course, the birds of the Taureg and Eulj Ali took a dislike to each other and began fighting, their riders pulling futilely at them. Fionn's took ten paces, stopped short and wouldn't budge. Fionn kicked and shouted and hit his beast with the reins to no avail. Then, slowly, deliberately, the bird folded its legs and crouched down on the ground, laying its head down on the sand, leaving Fionn standing, straddling his mount. By all odds, he should have been out of the race but he wasn't. The other two birds, after much pecking, both called it quits simultaneously, turned, and ran—back toward the starting line. The crowd loved it. Even the other competitors, including the Nuba and de Wynter, joined in the laughter. Up in the royal box, the Moulay began urging Eulj Ali
on, shouting advice at the top of his lungs in a most unkingly way. At that Eulj Ali's bird forgot its wings were useless and attempted to fly out of the arena, taking enormous and futile hops up into the air, while beating its wings furiously. Aisha and her mother had a most difficult time concealing their delight at his difficulties. The Taureg's bird then stopped short, as if to see whether the hopper were onto something successful. And still Fionn's bird lay there motionless, its eyes closed, evidently hoping the whole thing would go away. Fionn, in desperation, leaned down, grabbed the surprised bird around the middle and staggered with it across the finish line. Not till he sat it down did it give any sign of life, then it took off kicking and flapping and squawking indignantly. A dismayed judge looked at the officials and the royals and, seeing no help from them and no other contestant anywhere near the finish line, halfheartedly declared Fionn the winner.
As his friends pommeled and thumped him congratulations of his victory, Fionn reminded de Wynter, "That'll earn me a horse, remember."
"As soon as we get back to Scotland, these others are my witness." Fionn would get his reward much sooner than either he or the others expected.
CHAPTER 35
The Moulay and the her/him, with Pietro the ex-gladiator dancing attendance, led the royals from the box, only to part with his womenfolk at the first ramp. Aisha and Ramlah proceeded on; the Moulay remained behind to examine at closer range the losers in today's contests and to decide then; fate as he had those of the night before. The Moulay felt energized by today's events, titillated and inspired by the behavior of the strange birds. Back in Tunis, he vowed, he would have Ibn al-Hudaij procure a flock of the most ferocious known to men, have them taken to the Bardo and pitted against one another. On second thought, he wondered if, enraged enough, the birds would kill a man. What better time, he decided, smiling unpleasantly, than now to find out.
Aisha and Ramlah, once they had left the amphitheater behind them, parted also; but only over Ramlah's objections, Aisha faithfully promising her mother to be prompt for the fifth nightly ritual, this to be held in the queen's tent.
Once Aisha had assured herself that all was in readiness for the morrow—for a contest to which she had looked forward all week— she, Zainab, the cheetah, and a small retinue of asiras and silent ones made their way to the luxurious tent Ramlah preferred to a villa. Within the second chamber, its walls were hung with lengths of heavy, richly embroidered, multicolored woolens, her mother lounged on an equally commodious and sumptuous divan, as slaves spread out thimble-sized glass-lined copper cups for the thick mint tea.
Approaching a cushion-strewn couch covered with fur, Aisha unloosed her long hair and stretched like a cat; sitting down, she looked directly into the blank eyes of a man. A short, brown, ageless man—but a man nonetheless—sitting cross-legged, hands on knees, upon a small varicolored rug. A man in her mother's innermost quarters! Aisha was too self-possessed to protest... and too startled to hide her surprise. Ramlah was amused. The girl was not so un-traditional as she pretended.
"Tonight, my daughter, in accordance with Berber custom we will hear, from the lips of this honored storyteller—" Aisha relaxed with a perceptible sigh. Berber storytellers were as safe as eunuchs in women's quarters. They were blind, frequently deliberately made so by their families.
"He was sent by your honored grandfather, upon whom may Allah smile, so you may hear how Allah—exalted be He—created Eve from one of the ribs of Adam, and how he caused them to be married. Even as he speaks truly the words of the Prophet—upon whom be Allah's blessing and peace—Zainab shall transform you into a proper Berber bride, applying harcoos to palms and fingertips, obliterating those ugly Arab symbols. The ukda on your feet shall remind you of the other royal bloodline joined in you and your eggs. Zainab, bring the tray... Sarifa, my casket."
Aisha was not loathe to lose the egg and arrow that she had attempted to scrub off on more than one occasion, but she feared the harcoos might be worse. However, she watched with interest as an asira set up an ebony stand for the tray Zainab brought. It was intricately beaten, punched, and worked copper with precious metal inlays. Upon it, Sarifa, Ramlah's handmaiden, placed an equally elaborately wrought copper box whose latch Ramlah took several minutes to undo. Then, reaching into the depths of this small casket, she brought out another smaller, golden pyx. From within it, she took a brush, a sponge, a tiny agate dish, an ancient simpulum, and two amphora, one smaller than the other. The latter she unstoppered to pour its black contents into the tiny dish, adding a dollop from the larger of the two jars and mixing the whole together with the ancient utensil. Aisha watched intentiy and with curiosity.
Then the blind man began to spin his tale, making of the creation a suspenseful story, pausing at significant points to hear the expected "what then" from his audience. When his story ended, the storyteller sat silendy, his beautiful voice stilled, his listeners spellbound by his description of the only marriage truly made in heaven. Even Aisha had been so caught up in the web that magnificent voice wove that she had watched with unseeing eyes what was happening to her hands. 1
Freed of his vocal magic, she really looked at them and gave a strangled gasp. The red egg and arrow were indeed gone—replaced by solid black palms and fingertips. Horrified, she leaped to her feet, sending the brass tray with the tea cups flying, and fled the tent, her cat bounding after. When Ramlah followed, she had to penetrate the circle of silent ones surrounding Aisha. There, in the midst of them knelt a hysterical child, weeping convulsively and desperately scouring her hands with sand. A word from the queen made the men draw back. Then she knelt protectively by her loved one. "Hush, Aisha, don't cry so. It is only a Berber bridal tradition."
When Ramlah reached out to take the girl in her arms to comfort her, Aisha pulled away, the tears streaming down her face totally ignored. "How could you, my own mother, do this, to me?"
"The dye will wear off, I promise you."
"I don't care." She gestured with those fearsomely dark-stained hands. "It's not this I'm talking about."
"Come, let's talk about it inside where there are fewer ears."
Aisha shook her head; she wasn't going back in there. Not now.
Ramlah was not about to argue. After all, the Ikwan had no tongues to repeat what they heard. "If it's not the dye, what then?"
"The whole thing. I don't want to be a bride. Not a Berber bride, not any bride. Mother, I beg you, get me out of this. Don't force me to go through with it. Help me escape this horrible marriage."
Aisha looked at her mother expectantly, trustingly, as if a little child again.
"Dear one, please dry your tears. Everything will work out all right."
"Then you will help me?"
Ramlah wished she could lie. "I can't, my dear. Women, especially women in your position, must marry. It's the right, the natural thing, to do."
"Without love?"
Ramlah looked at her daughter with wise eyes and spoke very quiedy. "I married without love."
Aisha, remorseful, quickly hugged her mother. "I know, I'm sorry."
Now it was Ramlah's turn to pull away. "As a Berber princess, I did it for my tribe. You must do it for all of your country."
"I didn't ask to be a princess," Aisha retorted defensively, as if Ramlah were accusing her.
"No," Ramlah conceded, "but you've enjoyed the benefits of it. Now, you pay the price."
"Why? If I were prince, not princess, I should not be forced into this travesty of a marriage."
"That is beside the point and you make of this marriage the travesty, not me, not your country—you! These games are your idea, not ours."
"What would you have had me do, marry Barbarossa?"
"No, child. Like my marriage, that one would have held absolutely no chance of success. This one does, at least your husband-to-be risks his life for you. And if nothing else, you, too, may be blessed with a loving child. Aisha, accept what you cannot change. In two days, you marry the winner of you
r own great games. You made the law, you must abide by it. Now, please, let us return inside. I could use one of Zainab's brews."
Arm in arm the two women walked back toward the tent. They had not gone far when Aisha spoke again in a subdued voice. "I have chosen a slave, you know."
"Have you? I thought you might. Which one?"
"The blond."
"Really? I thought you might have chosen the other."
"You, too? Ali also. You have listened to the readings. Probably closer than I. Tell me, if a man is a slave, does he have the same connubial rights as a freeborn man?"
Ramlah looked thoughtful, as Aisha waited expectantly, then shook her head. "No. I shouldn't think so. Only those you grant him."
"Good. I wasn't going to check his backside, anyway." Ramlah laughed. And secretly pitied the poor slave who married her daughter.
CHAPTER 36
"Allahu Akbar," God is most Great," the age-old cry of the muezzin awoke the remaining contestants within the tent-city. They had slept almost soundly, the night being comparatively quiet, interrupted only twice by mercifully brief outbursts of sharp thin cries, so painfully high-pitched that on hearing them, one's throat ached emphatically. Of the men still eligible to compete, only twenty-nine threw back their fur bedcoverings and answered the call. The other's wound'—a deep gash from neck to pelvis—had been infected by a disease that birds' feet harbor and had festered overnight. So he kept to his bed, sending word by a slave to the Amir l’al-assa of his condition and begging leave to be excused from the day's contest so as to be treated by a physician. The reply was brief and to the point: a silent one's stiletto mortally enlarged his wound and permanently excused him from the games.
