The Mer- Lion

by Lee Arthur

  But her words were drowned out by the masculine roar of "Take her, take her, go get her, mount her."

  It was only a matter of time. When enough heads and necks were weighing her hind quarters down from either side, the gray stallion threw his forelegs over her rump and, with rear legs prancing to get him in position, rammed forward several times before seating himself fully in that sought-after tunnel. The mare screamed and kicked, but the gray sunk his teeth savagely into her neck, holding her fast The stud's nostrils flared, his mouth relaxed, his tail twitched with each pulse of his penis. Then, he was still resting peacefully on his precarious perch despite thundering kicks and bites from his fellow rapists. Finished, spent, he slid from her back and, wrinkling his muzzle, urinated copiously then trotted off.

  His replacement had just as much difficulty, suffering the blows that reigned on him as though he felt them not. A third, a fourth, and a fifth stallion had his way with her, she now standing with tegs set wide, her head lowered, and her tail swishing high over her back. As others jostled for position, the Gates of Death opened, and in rode half a dozen mounted camelmen. Riding directly into the melee, one roped the mare's head, while the others scattered the stallions as best they could. Dragging and beating the mare, they were out of the gate before the stallions realized they were losing their prize.

  The shouting, stomping crowd showed its appreciation with standing ovations that soared and ebbed, only to be renewed by the excited and titillated viewers who wanted more of the same. Aisha, white-faced and dry-eyed beneath her veil, had long since ceased screaming and resumed her seat.

  "I prefer to think you, of all people, did not arrange that exhibition," Ramlah said quietly.

  "Men. How I despise them," was Aisha's tight-lipped response.

  Ramlah, realizing she would get no coherent answer from Aisha, turned and summoned Ali to her side. "And what do you know of this?"

  The Commander of al Ikwan shook his head. "Not much, revered daughter of my father. I gather it was he, our father, Sheikh Zaid ben Sadr who decided it would please the crowd."

  "And the mare?" Aisha interrupted, still staring unseeingly into the arena. "What of her?"

  "The mare?" He was bewildered. "If she did not take, we shall have her serviced again in her next season."

  "Think you she will stand more docilely the next time?" Aisha asked bitterly.

  "Of course. What else? As you should know from your times with the tribes, once a mare is mounted she only puts up a token fight thereafter."

  Ramlah decided it was time to intervene. "Ali, the sheikh our father was indeed right. The crowd was pleased."

  "It looks as though their pleasure will result in some empty seats. At least for the next hour or so," Aisha said scornfully, pointing out to her mother the number of men hurrying from the arena.

  "Really, Aisha, you know not where they go," her mother scolded.

  "One need not be a sorcerer to guess."

  The contestants were now lined up across one end of the arena, and at the sound of the ram horns, they charged toward the still fighting, biting, and kicking group of stallions, their short ropes clutched tightly in their hands.

  Gilliver tried hard to stay a few paces behind de Wynter. The others went their separate ways, or so they hoped it would appear to tihe judges. Meanwhile, the stallions bolted in unison for the far end, no longer fighting among, themselves, thinking only of escaping from the fast advancing men, who turned and pursued their prey.

  The fleetest men caught up to the milling stallions just as they encountered the far wall. Momentarily they stood their ground; then a group broke, spreading to each side, running through and over the defenseless men on the perimeters. At this the rest of the stallions broke through the ranks and bolted the full length of the arena. Turning, the men started the long run back to the other end.

  "Enough of this," de Wynter shouted to Gilliver. "They can outrun us all day long. We'll have to do something different." A number of other contestants had come to the same conclusion, as, winded and gasping for breath, they stopped running and started walking.

  For the next minutes, the action slowed considerably. Even the horses were glad to get a breather, but they still bolted away as soon as a man got within a few meters. Now it became a stalking game. How close could one get before the quarry wheeled away or charged right through his path? And slowly but surely, the tired men were getting closer and closer, some even attempting reckless throws of their ropes. One stallion now wore a rope around his neck, but there was no man on the other end.

  Eventually, the stallions would decide to stand and fight, de Wynter knew full well. Only then did the men stand any real chance of success. But which horse would first decide to make that stand? That was the one he wanted. His horseman's eye picked out two likely ones.

  Ogilvy, by luck, although he called it skill, was first to score. Wrapping the rope quickly around his waist, he threw his weight downward, only to be dragged the entire length of the amphitheater to the delight of the crowd, who found his progress funny. He found himself breathing dust and sand as his body bumped and skidded painfully along. If he could only hang on long enough, he knew, the stallion would tire and try to shake the rope by rearing, pawing, and kicking at his antagonist. Ogilvy also knew that, in the end, exhaustion would break one or the other.

  Back the full length of the arena Ogilvy was dragged before he was able to regain his feet. Digging in his heels, he was alternately dragged and forced into long loping strides, clinging desperately to the short rope. Finally, the stallion decided it would rid its neck of its heavy burden only by fighting. It wheeled and, rearing up on its hind legs, lifted Ogilvy off the ground and jolted him back down hard as it tried to stomp him. But Ogilvy had fought his share of unruly horses. Unwrapping the rope from around his waist and wrapping it instead around a wrist, he kept the rope taut at all times. When me stallion reared, he moved in closer to gain the slack needed to keep from being lifted off his feet, back-pedaling quickly when those flying hooves started down and giving the rope a fierce tog often enough to let the animal know who was in command.

  Inside half an hour, Ogilvy had himself a conciliatory if not docile Stallion that was willing, most of the time, to stand and shake its head. Now the biggest problem was keeping his catch out of the continuing fracas going on all around the arena. Aside from a handful of other roped stallions, the remainder were still fighting back, occasionally breaking out and running for freedom. Ogilvy had a moment to look around. With relief he saw Angus, stallion in hand... and further on, Gilliver holding tentatively to a rope wrapped around his waist, and on the other end an Arabian that had somewhat less heart for fighting than some of its mates. One thing he was convinced of—someone had been able to make a switch, for Gilliver was no match for one of these brutes until its spirit was broken, or at least subdued. Slowly, Ogilvy worked his stallion closer to Gilliver, hoping that be could somehow help out if Gilliver's catch got its wind and decided to make a break for it.

  Then, he saw two bodies lying on the ground near the wall, where they had been dragged either by horses or silent ones. His horse shied and would not approach them. Ogilvy did not dare force him, lest the horse get away. Instead, he made a wide circle in order to see the face of the nearer corpse, one he feared he already knew.

  His forehead smashed so badly that he was almost unrecognizable except to a brother, Kenneth Menzies—God rest his soul—lay crumpled in the blood and dirt of al Djem, the second of the group to fall victim to the outrageous games of Aisha of Tunisia. One glance told Ogilvy that Gilliver knew, too. "Snap out of it, Henry," he shouted above the noise. "There's nothing we can do for him. Keep your weight on that rope all the time."

  Carlby, leaning against the wall of the arena, realized he was too old to outrun stallions or younger men. He had to find another way. Then something moved under his outstretched grasping hand. A piece of stone. One not wedged securely in the wall. Feverishly, he worked it loose. Ju
st then, a rope settied over a thrashing head and snapped taut around its neck. At the other end of the rope, the huge Nuba went to his knees, putting his sizable weight into the rope. Here was Carlby's chance. Deliberately closing his mind to what he was doing, he ran toward the man. Up his hand went, high in the air it hovered, then swooped down to end in a dull thud against kinky hair and black flesh. Blood spurted from the neck as Carlby grabbed the rope from dying hands.

  Four of the group desperately clung to their prizes and watched the spectacle avidly, fascinated in spite of themselves, especially since three of their number were in a race not only against horse and man but time. De Wynter, having already snared one horse for Gilliver, had found his attention attracted, as had many others, by the single gray white stud in the pack. Already the horse had taught some of his captors respect for his ways, for his small but sharp hooves were covered with blood, with more flecks of the same copiously covering his shoulders and withers. The horse was a beauty. Its head was fine, well set on the neck, its withers high and laid back, well developed, not too narrow or thin. The back was short, surprisingly so. Its loins were powerful, croup high, haunch very fine, tail high-set, and dock short. More than that, it was obviously intelligent: the horse feinted only with its rear legs, striking with its forefeet. Then as he watched, the horse slipped one rope, and another. In lieu of doing the same a third time, it deliberately lunged at his third tormentor and bit hard; one could hear the bone of the offending arm crunch. But the horse didn't let go. Instead, with a flip of its powerful neck, it tossed the man ten feet across the arena, then followed after and tried to trample him. Approached from behind by another man, it leaped into the air, kicking out with its hind feet and landing catlike almost within its footprints. De Wynter had seen war-horses do the same, but only after training, months of it. Here was a horse that, whether by instinct or reason, used a supposedly man-made maneuver to incapacitate his tormentors.

  Two men were down in almost as many minutes. How many before? De Wynter wondered. How many more? Already the circle of men about the pale horse was dissipating. Many of the men had lost their appetite for this struggle and moved on to more promising ground where the horses were predictable and the competitors could do the savaging. De Wynter did not take his eyes off the horse that now stood quietly, catching its breath, its sides heaving, its nostrils flaring. But he knew the horse was not exhausted. It held its head too high, its small, pricked ears moving rapidly back and forth,

  sorting out those sounds that should be ignored. Its black eyes were calm, showing little white. That worried de Wynter. But he had made up his mind. This was the horse he would have.

  Draping his rope about his neck, he moved sideways, circling the horse, hoping to come up on its rear and catch it unaware, but his steps in the loose sand betrayed him. Swinging its head about, the horse took its opponent's measure. Something about de Wynter disturbed the animal. Maybe it was his silver white hair... or the air of confidence the man exuded. Enraged, the horse quickly pivoted to face his opponent, then rumbled—a deep chesty neigh. The man did not flinch or stop, but continued forward. Suddenly uncertain, the horse took one step back. A good sign, de Wynter thought. Still the man moved forward, hands at his sides. Again the horse retreated. That was the plan. To back the horse at least partially against the wall. Again the horse retreated but not before kicking sideways at another man. De Wynter was glad; the horse was keeping his fellow competitors honest.

  The tension between the two white-haired ones grew more palpable by the moment. It was the horse, once so masterful, so sure of himself, so disdainful of men, that fidgeted and shook his skin nervously. De Wynter clapped his hands sharply. The horse jumped straight-legged. With that, a rope caught his leg and tripped him up. Within seconds the horse was down, hooves flying wildly. A man's weight on his head, a hand cruelly twisting his ear, another curling his sensitive nostril—the pain was too much for him. With a squeal of hatred, the horse conceded defeat and lay still. But de Wynter's problems weren't over. He had lost his rope in the struggle. Resourceful in his desperation, he unfastened his loincloth and used it as he had done with the ostrich as a blindfold about the white's eyes, then let the horse back up on its feet. Tugging painfully on its ear with his free hand, he led the horse over to where his rope lay abandoned in the sand. Then, though it took some doing", he managed to work his toes about the rope, and, standing one-legged, the horse actually supporting his weight, he brought the rope up to where he could grab it with one hand. After that it was an easy matter to make a noseband-halter out of the rope and lead his horse back—to applause and cheers from the Berbers, especially—to where his friends waited.

  John the Rob, totally unsuccessful in every attempt that he'd made, found himself near the zebra. Desperate and taking a lesson from de Wynter, he too undid his loincloth and threw it over the beast's head. But instead of calming the animal as had happened with the white, the beast went berserk. Jerking the loincloth out of John the Rob's hand, it turned and twirled and kicked in every direction at once it seemed. One of its hooves landed beneath another stallion's chin, and knocked that animal off its feet. There was a mad scramble among the nearby contestants for the fallen animal, most getting there before John the Rob. Unfazed, he simply looped his rope around the necks of his competitors. The next thing they knew, they were tied together and stumbling over one another while a small, monkey-faced man calmly walked away with a horse.

  Only Cameron now was without a horse, and there were not many horses left. One by one, all but four of the horses had been roped and brought under control, though often not by the man who had originally thrown his noose about the animal's neck. Fighting had been going on almost from the beginning, but now it was rampant Many a horse changed hands as his successive captors were overpowered, each replaced by another. Eulj Ali was no horseman, but he was a good dirty fighter. Maybe one of the best. Cameron was no match for him. A feint, some sand in the Scot's face, a kick in the groin, and when the long-legged one looked up from the sand where he lay doubled over with pain, a redhead was calmly walking off with his horse. De Wynter handed the rope of the white to the nearest man, saying, "Here, hold this." Whatever his intentions—to go to Cameron's aid or to take on Eulj Ali and get the horse back—it was too late. The ram's horn sounded. Silent ones dropped down into the arena from their stations on the first tier. Some rounded up and surrounded the walking losers. Others grasped the dead and the wounded by their heels and dragged them toward the Gate of Death. Still others leveled their lances at the group of slaves over by the wall, preventing de Wynter and the rest from coming to Cameron's rescue. The last they saw of their friend was an arm waving in the air. Whether deliberately, as signal to his friends, or by quirk of his rough treatment, no one knew. Gilliver, however, preferred to think George was waving them farewell. Fortunately for him, once all attention was on the losers, Angus and Ogilvy had each grabbed for the rope that a grieving, unthinking Gilliver dropped. The judges now, they were sure, could not complain about teamwork.

  De Wynter, looking about him, suddenly realized that they had lost more than one man this day. Menzies too was missing. "How?"

  "Kicked in the forehead by a horse. He went down without a sound. Never moved once." Gilliver's strained voice supplied the details. He forgot to mention, and Ogilvy chose not to say, that the horse that did it was gray white. For now they had other business at hand, and de Wynter needed that horse for the morrow.

  The six men swallowed their grief and numbed their minds with work. Expert hands turned lengths of rope into crude but effective halters. Then, it was a hand up and onto the stallion's back... and usually as quickly down on the ground again.

  Rubbing backside ruefully or gasping for the wind knocked out when landing flat on one's back, each man had no choice but to get back up onto his unruly mount. Actually, the horses were more exhausted than their riders and most capitulated after only a token battie, but not the pale gray. The struggle between it
and de Wynter went on for what seemed hours. To free itself of the rider, the white reared, bucked, sidewinded, fishtailed, fell to its knees, did the capriole again, deliberately fell on its side and attempted to roll over. But though de Wynter was dislodged more than once, he remounted immediately and, biding his time, waited for the horse to rear once more. Then, the white-haired man pulled the stallion back and over, jumping clear of the horse at the last minute. Falling, not by its own design, seemed to take the fight out of the stallion. For when it struggled back up to its feet, its ears were upright, its face relaxed and void of tension or expression.

  Gilliver, who had been watching while holding the reins of the Highlanders' mounts as Angus gentled one for Gilliver (Ogilvy doing the same for John the Rob), suddenly spoke up: "If white is the color of purity, then that horse is pure evil." He said it without emotion, without inflection, as if stating an obvious known fact.

  De Wynter, inclined to agree, felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck, but it was too late to do aught other than live with the situation. Mounting again, he pressed the horse into a gentle walk. The pale gray went forward like a lady's hackney, as if he'd been ridden all his life. A slight squeeze of the legs and the horse broke into a slow trot. Urged faster, he moved on into a canter and then controlled gallop. De Wynter couldn't remember bestriding a smoother-going animal. Suddenly, the animal swerved and tried to brush his rider against the wall. But the man was too alert: He threw himself over to the side, pulling his leg out of danger. When he regained his seat atop the horse, the gray was once again going smoothly along. Only one twitching ear revealed any sign of nervousness.

  De Wynter smiled grimly. It was going to be that kind of a battle, was it? Then the gray had better learn it had met its match. Kicking the horse savagely, he put it at a gallop and headed straight for a wall. Taking advantage of the animal's poor depth perception, he forced it on long after the beast would have swerved away. Only at the last minute did de Wynter pull the horse's head about, letting its own momentum carry its haunches bruisingly into the wall. There, he thought, letting the horse move at its own pace, discover that two can play at your game. That will give you something to think about.