The Mer- Lion

by Lee Arthur

  The others, unaware of this and having eaten heartily, started off toward the amphitheater in good humor. They ached less than previously. They had proven they were winners in a game so execrable and bereft of reason they could not conceive that even a totally deranged mind could come up with anything more harrowing. If it were not for the gruesome reminders of the fate of losers exhibited at the contestants' entrance to al Djem, many would have actually looked forward to today's game, daring the Moulay to do his worst, especially since the games ended on the morrow.

  The nine slaves did not share the others' attitude. They were

  spared, because they were incarcerated within the arena proper, the preview of a charnelhouse that greeted the others each morning when they arrived at the arena. But the slaves were motivated differently. They fought for freedom. Not for one, but for all. Their goal was simply to survive the next two days; however, the pragma-tists among them knew that the odds against this grew greater each passing day. They had lost but one man out of ten, while less than one out of five of the other competitors survived.

  On this morning when the contestants entered the arena, they found, to their surprise, that the galleries were already filling up, mostly with men in gray and red striped caftans and white head-cloths held in place by coils of black .braid. The Taureg standing behind de Wynter clapped his hands suddenly and explosively. Startled, de Wynter turned about to see the Taureg staring with a frown up into the throng.

  "Berbers," he whispered to the silver-haired one whom normally he avoided out of fear that such hair was magicked. "They ride with djinn. but loud noises frighten them away."

  "The Berbers?"

  "No," replied the Taureg with a disgusted, exasperated look at the ignorant one. "The djinn." -When de Wynter still looked bewildered, the Taureg, an Arab, explained. "The djinn must continually search for new human lovers. I do not wish them to choose me."

  "Why? What do they do?"

  "They kill their lovers with love'." The Taureg looked uncomfortable as if he wished he had never deigned to explain.

  But de Wynter, curiosity aroused, pursued the subject. "With love? How?"

  Now, the Taureg was truly embarrassed. "You know."

  "No, I don't." De Wynter said, managing with great effort to keep his face impassive and stifle his smile.

  Finally, the Taureg blurted out. "By forced, continuous, never-ending coupling." Having done the unthinkable, spoken of sexual congress with an infidel, the Taureg impatiently waited for de Wynter's reaction.

  De Wynter nodded knowingly. "Ah, yes. We have those kind of djinn, too. We call them mermaids."

  Just men, Carlby interrupted them, drawing de Wynter aside. But Fionn, who had overheard, took it upon himself to satisfy the Arab's curiosity by describing the history of the house of Seaforth and its initial meeting with the mermaid. He did not of course, omit the story of the Mer-Lion and the Mer-Lion ring nor the many sightings of those supernatural creatures at sea. "I saw them myself," Fionn concluded with more than a hint of pride in his voice. "The last time, just before we landed at Tunis. Let me tell you, if al Djem were anywhere near water, the Earl of Seaforth would only need cry for assistance and we'd all be rescued. Just like that," and Fionn snapped his fingers. The Taureg would have questioned him further, but the blaring of tubas silenced all conversation.

  Again, it was Ibn al-Hudaij who introduced the contestants to the schedule of events. But fust, taking note of the increased number of new spectators, he addressed his opening remarks to them. "Wei-come to the fifth day of the Great Games of the Moulay Hassan, may Allah shower favor upon him and increase his baraka. Today shall be a day of beauty, grace, and magnificence. Today is Horse Day, a day devoted to those descendants of the five mares of the Prophet—upon whom be Allah's blessing and peace—the true royalty of the desert: our glorious horses. Our judge today is Sheikh Beteyen ibn Kader, of Arred. The blessings of Allah be on him who competes."

  Carlby and de Wynter exchanged glances. Carlby had said he thought he'd heard the distant neighing of horses; but before the two could speak, a man stepped forward from among the group of judges. He wore a burnoose, a hooded full-length robe, of pure white, belted tightly and widely about the waist with a dagger's hilt protruding from it. His headcloth was also of white, but wound about with the green cord of the hajii.

  "I, too, welcome all to the games of His Highness the rafi as' sa'n. Today's game, like that of yesterday and the day before and yes, the day before the day before that, is designed to test the worth of man. Just as the horsebreeder weeds out the weak, the infirm, and those who do not breed true, so do these games eliminate all but the fit, mentally and physically. You who compete today have proven able to ride the ostrich and utilize the camel. Now, you shall prove your ability to select, to train, to ride, to tame, and to be one with the horse. Your instructions are simple. Be not deceived, they are not easily followed. Soon, you will be faced with a wild Arabian stallion. He has never known bridle or saddle or rider. You must correct that deficiency... by tomorrow, when the final contest will be held, on horseback! A word of caution: today, every man must capture his own horse. Any two or more contestants seen working together will be eliminated from further competition. And now, with the great and glorious permission of the Moulay—" He broke off, for the Moulay was not in the royal box although his wife and daughter were.

  The Moulay, having heard what was planned for today, had decided against attending. He did not share with his half-Berber daughter her enthusiasm for horseflesh. As a matter of fact, he had never ridden a horse in the whole of his life and had no intention of ever doing so. So, in lieu of joining his hated, dreaded Berber relatives now crowding the first tier of the amphitheater, he chose to amuse himself in his own way in al Djem's other arena: with ants, sun, wet leather strips, poles, tongs, and the remaining losers from yesterday.

  Sheikh ibn Kader was only momentarily at a loss for words, then continued smoothly on, "With the permission of the Moulay Hassan's beloved daughter, the Amira Aisha." At her nod, he gave his orders. "For each man, a length of rope; for every other man, a horse. A stallion from the stables of Aisha bint Hassan herself. The blessings of Allah be on him who competes. Throw in the ropes and open the—"

  He was interrupted by Ali with a message from an agitated Amira. Fionn, she had reminded Ali, was to be given his advantage. "What? Ah, yes. Of course. As the Amira commands. The blond giant shall choose first. Only when he has made his choice and seen it captured will the others compete. Throw in the ropes. Open the gates!"

  Even as a mass of ropes was tossed into the arena to be caught or fought over by the contestants, gates at the far end of the arena sprang open, and in thundered nearly a score of the most beautiful horses de Wynter had ever seen.

  Black, bay, brown, chestnut, dun, sorrel, and one gray so light he looked white. All solid-colored animals. Not a skewbald, piebald, or dapple, not even a roan, among them, they entered, heads held high, nostrils flaring, manes and tails flowing. Charging, driving, whirling... biting, rearing, kicking. They were all in beautiful, powerful constant motion. Straight into the center of the amphitheater these two- and three-year-olds streamed. Then, sensing the danger at the far end, as one, they wheeled left and right, heading back whence they had come. Only then was the striped one seen. Its neck and head were banded in brown and off-white, the stripes gradually fading out to a murky solid brown just behind the shoulders. Its legs and belly were white, its mane roached, its tail tufted.

  "That's no horse," Carlby exclaimed. "For God's sake, it's a zebra. Stay clear of it."

  Fionn, who picked first, laughed humorlessly. "No chance of my choosing it, it's too small. God, give me a big horse, a tall horse, not one of these small things."

  "Don't underestimate them," Carlby cautioned him. "They can carry heavier burdens than many war-horses and turn like a cat."

  "I hope you're right. Since you seem to know them so well, suppose you pick me one?" But it was de Wynte
r who spotted the brown, a mousey-colored horse among his more brilliant brothers. The horse had substance, a good barrel chest and legs in proportion to support it all. "That one, the quiet one to the right. He'll give you the steadiness you need without being fearful. Take him, Fionn."

  The Amira, smiling behind her veil, nodded approval of Fionn's choice. She too would have selected the brown for him. This was her own private test of him. If he had chosen badly, she would have had to seriously reconsider him as her own choice.

  While the silent ones tried to catch the brown, John the Rob, whose experience with horses had been confined to dodging their hooves in the unpaved lanes of London, quizzed Angus and Ogilvy. "What do I look for? What do I do?"

  The two Scots looked at each other, considering, then tried to compress a lifetime of horsemanship into a few moments of advice:

  Angus: With these thin-skinned ones, you can almost read the expressions on their faces.

  Ogilvy: Watch the ears. Pressed back, he's going to fight.

  Angus: And the neck. Arched, it's threatening; outstretched, about to attack.

  Ogilvy: Cocking a foot, that means a kick is coming. Angus: So does hunching the back.

  Ogilvy: The horse that retreats from you, even though pawing the air and snorting, he's submitting.

  Ogilvy: Don't be too afraid of the horse that kicks with his hind feet. He looks more ferocious than he is. Besides, such kicking puts his head down low, in a good position to be snared.

  Angus: Watch out for the one that fights with his forelegs. He's vicious. And the head will be too high to rope.

  Ogilvy: Beware of those teeth. They can break a man's bone as easy as snapping a stalk of hay in two.

  Angus: Let one of those stallions get his teeth on a small man like you, and he'll throw you across the arena.

  The two had said all they had to say, so they stopped talking.

  But John the Rob was more desperate than before. "Is that all you can say?"

  "What else would you know?" Angus asked, looking at Ogilvy with some surprise. He thought the two. had been very thorough.

  "For starters, how the hell do I get close enough to rope one of those beasts?"

  "They're not beasts, they're horses," Ogilvy protested.

  "Horses to you, man-eating monsters to me."

  Angus was more helpful. "Can you make a running noose?"

  "Of course."

  "And throw it?" asked Ogilvy. "Throw it? No, don't think I can."

  Angus tsked for a moment. "I suggest you learn. Unless you want to be thrown."

  Ogilvy considered a moment then delivered his opinion: "It's clear you cannot catch a horse on your own."

  "I know that," John the Rob said, his voice rising almost to a scream, "I know that. Tell me something I don't know."

  De Wynter's quiet voice forestalled the Highlanders' reply. "If you can't do it yourself, use someone else to do it for you."

  "What?"

  "Yes, what do you mean?" Gilliver echoed. "You, too, Henry. Listen carefully. The rest of us can't help either of you through outright teamwork. Whatever we do, we're suspect. We're too well known as a team. But you can take advantage of another's tactics. Say somebody throws a rope at a horse's head. The horse sees it corning and dodges or slips it. In that instant while the horse avoids one rope, he's vulnerable to another."

  "What would you have us do? Follow one of you about?"

  "Not one of us. The best and strongest horseman you can find. Let him make the first move; you catch the horse with the second. I wouldn't be surprised if you two have yourself mounts before the rest of us do."

  Angus and Ogilvy turned and gave their leader a stare that was a mixture of surprise, shock, and disbelief. Highlanders have a certain look that without words questions your ancestry, your sanity, and your veracity.

  De Wynter laughed. "Prove me wrong, I dare you."

  Carlby rubbed his chin and said quietly, "Don't worry about them or John the Rob. He's a survivor like the rest of us. Worry about Gilliver instead."

  "I do. Constantly."

  "Wouldn't he be better off staying close to one or two of us—not teaming up exactly, but staying nearby. In the melee, we should be able to slip him the rope of a captured horse. He need only hang on until the horse tires."

  "You might be right. Especially if I tire the horse out fust, before switching with Gilliver."

  "Henry's my responsibility. Always has been. If anyone is going to risk his life, I am the one."

  "I believe you'd get seven dissenting votes on that."

  "It's my decision. There will be no voting on it."

  Carlby said no more, but personally vowed if he were first to get a horse under control, he'd head for Henry himself, exchange ropes and keep going. After all, Gilliver was a religious like himself.

  Once the brown was separated out for Fionn and the two taken from the crowded arena to work in private, the remaining stallions banded together, obeying the herd instinct, to face their adversaries. Occasionally one would rear up on hind legs, front hooves knifing the air, and give voice to great neighs of defiance. Then up and down the line there would come answers in whinnies of high-pitched excitement. The zebra, shunned by his hot-blooded brothers, replied with a barking high-pitched cry, "Quag-ga! Quag-ga!" which set the horses to shying and snorting.

  Eventually, when the men kept their distance, the horses quieted down and began trying to establish dominance among themselves, neighing, posturing, and prancing, their ears pricked forward, their nostrils flaring. One dun finally defecated. That started the procession. When a stallion was forced to give way by a bigger or older or fiercer male, he would charge to the dung pile, blow loudly and exaggeratedly, then cover the previously made droppings with his own dung. One after another the stallions marked, until there was no question that the pale gray with the silver mane and tail was the dominant stud in this group. The dun, in the meantime, the first to cry quits, was left in peace and actually began sniffing the sand looking for forage.

  "That's the one," said Angus.

  "Aye," agreed Ogilvy. "John the Rob, if you're ever going to catch a horse, that's the one that will stick his head in the noose for you."

  John the Rob stared intently at the yellowish horse, trying desperately to memorize him, but all horses looked the same to this beggar chief, except the striped one, of course.

  The Berbers in the crowd could have watched the stallions for hours on end. Already they were engrossed in discussing their fine points. However, the rest of the crowd was growing restless. At a signal from the sheikh, slaves bearing clay vessels slopping over with yellow liquid came running from four directions at once and headed straight for the grouped stallions. The horses turned and pawed at the gates, trying to escape. Then turned to face their attackers. In their momentary confusion, the slaves were upon them, dousing the stallions with the liquid and thoroughly wetting down the dirt in a huge semicircle about them. Their amphoras empty, the slaves scattered, dropping their vessels, scurrying for their lives. Two did not make it, going down under the mighty kicks of stallions suddenly made frenzied.

  It took de Wynter but a moment to figure out what was going on. "Oh, no," he said to no one in particular. 'That's urine from mares in heat!"

  "My God, no," Ogilvy muttered. "Now there won't be any way to calm them down, even after we catch them."

  Even as he spoke, the stallions were bearing out his words. None-of their kind wants another stallion around when that smell is in the air. The pecking order forgotten, they turned on each other, kicking, biting, and head-butting in a frenzied show that few but the Berbers in the audience had ever seen before. The judges let it go on for a time, knowing the thrill-hungry crowd was enjoying the sight of stallion trying to mount stallion amid the kicks and squeals of the rest. The spectators soon were exchanging remarks about the size and length of the rampant staffs that flashed in the melee.

  Suddenly, the Gate of Death flew open and in came one mare, a
round of sharp cracks on the flanks driving her forward at full gallop. As suddenly, she locked her forelegs and skidded to an abrupt stop, facing the angry and excited group of stallions.

  "I'm afraid that poor thing is in for a bit of a rough go," Carlby said to de Wynter.

  "They'll kill her," de Wynter replied. Ogilvy and Angus grunted their agreement.

  The stallions spotted the mare and took off after her. She, in turn, with the screech-squeal of the virgin, headed back toward the gate, only to find it closed. On she went seeking to escape, fear making her fly like the very wind. The stallions gained with every stride. Catching up to her before she had circled the arena once, they fought, still in full-stride, to sniff her pungent genital area. As some of the excited stallions passed her and crowded her, she was slowly forced toward the wall. Finally she stood her ground, warning with, shrill screech and lashing tail, arched neck and hunched rump, "Stay back or I kick." Ignored, she launched kick after kick with her hind legs. Like the virgin that she was, she defended herself as nature had intended. In truth she did not know what her body was telling her it wanted, and she saw the stallions only as enemies out to harm her.

  If one of the frenzied stallions got in position to hold her down with his head, and thus avoid the flying hooves, several others would drive him away, trying to get in position themselves. Now and then a stallion would scream and limp away from the melee, only to return, the pain overcome by his mad desire. The action made its way

  around the arena in fits and bursts, the mare breaking out and running whenever she could. The crowd thus got a close-up view at one point or another, and showed its enjoyment of the wild scene by standing and shouting.

  In the royal box, Aisha found herself on her feet, screaming, "No, stop it. Don't let them do it! Please, for the love of Allah, help her! Somebody help her."