by Lee Arthur
"It sounds like fun." Now it was Aisha's turn to hug her mother. "And I agree, I think you'd make a truly proper Arab mother-in-law."
"Do you think so?"
"I know so!" Aisha assured her mother. "Tell Ali ben Zaid that in case he ever decides to marry properly, I'll act as his mother." "I'm sure he'd be delighted."
"I'm not. But enough of that. What I am is a Berber mother. Mother of the most beautiful daughter in the world. Tonight, our Berber relatives expect us. Let's not keep them waiting any longer, shall we?" Aisha shook her head. Then the two women left the bathhouse and entered their litters to be borne to the tent of Aisha's grandfather.
The man who came out to meet their litters was the selfsame desert chieftain who had spoken to de Wynter earlier that day: Sheikh Zaid ben Sadr. Lovingly, this fierce-looking man greeted the two women: "My tent is your tent."
"And mine yours," Ramlah said.
He then led them into the tent, across thick carpets to low divans, piled high with cushions, brass trays arranged before them upon carved stands. Once the guests were seated, introductions were made ceremonially, although Ramlah and Aisha had known these men all of their lives. Then, the first servers rushed in carrying hooded wicker baskets to keep the soup hot. Following the soup, which was drunk from handleless cups, came a pastry of eggs and chicken. Each pastry arrived on its own large dish and was predivided into five or six portions—the sugar mounded in the center was to be sprinkled at the diner's discretion upon his portion. Pigeons stuffed with pistachios and rice came next from more covered baskets... and chickens stuffed with two kinds of nuts... and, as they were Berbers, a whole roasted lamb. Crisp on the outside, juicy within. No feast would be complete without couscous, but Ramlah, as hostess, served it near last so that the guests might feast on the delicacies first. After that came the sweets! Among them a confection of ground almonds, dates, and pistachio nuts, dribbled with oil, shaped into balls and dusted with pounded sugar. Within one of them was hidden one whole almond. He who got that, by tradition, would give the next wedding feast for relatives.
Finally came the hot and cold: ices to refresh the palate... thick, black coffee and sweetened syrupy tea to refresh the mind. Now Ramlah basked in the compliments of her male relatives on the quality of the house she ran, the foods she presented. Although such compliments were traditional, she knew from the way her guests ate and ate, licking fingers to get the last drop, that her cooks had done her proud. As well they might, for they had been cooking for over a week.
While they waited for the entertainment to begin, Ramlah, her daughter, and the sheikh talked. Actually, the sheikh talked and Ramlah responded.
"My daughter, let me compliment you on your daughter, she will be a lovely bride."
"My father, she wishes only to bring honor on her house."
"My daughter, let me compliment your daughter on the horses of her breeding."
"My father, she wishes only to continue the bloodlines established by her house."
"My daughter, what of her house's own bloodlines? Have the games produced candidates worthy of adding to our house?"
Ramlah suspected Ali had been talking to his father. "My father, she is aware of her obligations to her own line. As to candidates, the games are not over yet."
The sheikh continued his relentless questioning. Aisha, for once, did not regret that she must keep silent unless spoken to direcUy and let Ramlah answer her grandfather.
At last, the sheikh spoke his mind. "Today I saw one that , impressed me much... as he has my son. The one known as the jamad ja'da. I should be pleased to welcome sons of his loins into my tent."
Ramlah and Aisha exchanged glances. They had not expected the old man to state a preference so early. Particularly a preference for a man the women had not chosen. Ramlah cleared her throat. "My father?"
The sheikh held his cup out for more boiling hot coffee. "Yes, my daughter?"
"My father, there is another. One you did not see today. A giant of a man worthy of your attention."
The sheikh only harumphed, then slurped from his cup noisily, cooling the coffee as he did. Finally, he turned to his daughter and inclined his head graciously. "My daughter, I shall look for him on the morrow. I promise you that. But the silver-haired one, I am sure, is ajmal! If she chooses the other, so be it; I have another granddaughter. Your sister Khadija's child."
There was no more conversation. The fire-eater had arrived with his band of musicians. To the banging of metal rods on metal strips, the man stuffed candles and coals and burning twigs in his mouth. Lastly, he produced an enormous candle—a long, thick, black one that burned, when lit, with a sputtering, flaring flame. This one, too, after suitable build-up, he swallowed, but when he removed the candle, the flame had transferred to his mouth. Blowing flames, he relit the candle, then swallowed it again. Again the flame left the candle for his mouth. This time he lit handkerchiefs, dung chips, and wood splinters; the whole while the guests, especially the women lining the walls of the tent, sitting or squatting behind their menfolk, oohed and ahhed.
The fire-eater was followed by a troop of acrobats, who walked on their hands... on one foot and one hand... upside down on all fours... like a human wheel, spinning across the floor. Their act was cut short, however, when they built a human pyramid that fell. However, the guests clapped heartily for them, even after the fall.
After the acrobats, a young lad entered leading the old man who had told stories to Aisha the other night. The blind one leaned heavily on his staff but more so on the shoulder of the dark-haired beauty. Aisha cynically guessed from the looks he received that this lad supported his grandfather in more ways than one.
Carefully, the lad seated the old man upon a thick cushion placed upon the edge of the rug; the staff he placed across the blind man's lap. Then, he squatted behind his grandfather.
Aisha looked at her mother quizzically. Story-tellers could drag out their entertainment for hours, eating and drinking their fill at their hosts' expense. Naturally, the longer the tale, the greater the tajziya they received. However, Aisha consoled herself that the man had not taken overlong with his tale of the marriage of Adam and
Eve. With the very first words out of his mouth, she wished he'd embarked, on the longest and most boring tale he knew:
"Come, Aisha, fill the goblet up.
Reach round the rosy wine,
Think not that we will take the cup
From any hand but thine.''
To Aisha's dismay, her guests expected that she do just that. Servers were handing out goblets, others stood by with ewers, waiting for her to hand round the rosy wine. Gracefully she did what was necessary to do.
"A draught like this 'twere vain to seek,
No grape can such supply:
It steals its tint from Aisha's cheek,
Its brightness from her eye."
And this was only the beginning. All of the man's poems were addressed to Aisha. It was an age-old tradition that not only Ramlah had known, but every other woman in the room as well: to temper the poetry and make the selections to honor or tease the bride. Of course, the groom, too, at the traditional wedding would have come in for his share of fun. Tonight, he, whoever he was, received his in absentia.
Aisha, with too successful art,
Has spread for me love's wicked snare;
And now, having caught my heart,
She laughs... and leaves me in despair.
Thus the poor sparrow pants for breath,
Held captive by a playful she
And while her heedless hand deals death
The thoughtless child looks on with glee!"
Aisha had no choice but to smile, to look pleased, to playact in response to the old man's poems, which went on and on, as did her guests' teasings. After a while, her face mindlessly reflected the proper mood of joy or pride or whatever. The only thing it refused to do, while Aisha's thoughts were elsewhere, was blush.
She was dunking on her grandfa
ther's remark, "I have another granddaughter..." Aisha knew the girl. Fat, fatuous, flabby Fatima, aptly named. Not an intelligent thought in her head, not a brave bone in her body. Aisha was determined that that girl would never have the jamad ja'da. Not if she had to marry him herself first. Aisha's eyes widened as she realized what she'd just said to herself. Then she blushed. And just in time, for the old man had launched into still another poem.
Aisha had heard enough. She needed to get to her tent and think through her strange thoughts about the jamad ja'da. She knew he was not the wise choice; the tractable, good-natured giant was. That one she could wind about her finger, throw him a crumb or two, and have a slave for life. The white-haired one, on the other hand, would be a challenge she was not sure she wanted to accept... nor one she would win! Why, then, she asked herself, did she even consider it. Was she mad and would this feast never end?
Fortunately for her, the grandfather, too, wished the evening over; the poetry had awakened fires within him that had not been stoked in weeks. Hot-blooded Ramlah was not averse to leaving early, before her passions awoke too far and couldn't be controlled the usual way. Thus the feast of the relatives ended quite early, as such feasts go.
CHAPTER 38
24 January A. D. 1533/ 16 Jamad II A.H. 939. The sixth day
Day dawned magnificently. Rays of light misted the African night. The desert clothed itself with a rose red hue. The tents in the city loomed larger and yet softer than ever. Then, suddenly, the sun seemed to surge forth into the sky. But the competitors in the city had no eyes for the sky. Nor did they taste the food they ate, nor notice the macabre remains they passed by. Today all was right with Ithe world. Today was the sixth day. The last day. And for those twenty men the adrenaline flowed, for today the prize was in reach.
Fear may be a powerful incentive, reward even stronger, but the two pale when~compared with freedom. So it was that the sadness of the seven slaves was replaced by determination. To survive this final day. To win their freedom. They never dreamed such a freedom was as illusory as the mirages that people the desert. Only the thought of freedom had brought them this far. They needed it as a reluctant horse needs spurs—to keep them going.
The nineteen contestants who had survived yesterday's wild stallion event, plus Fionn, gathered for one last time in the room of the gladiators. Twenty out of 180. The rest? Known or presumed dead, courtesy of the Moulay Hassan.
Looking about them, the seven slaves had to admit the cream had risen to the top; the best had made it to the end. All except Eulj Ali, of course, who was either the luckiest man there or had friends in high places. Everyone avoided looking at the poor man who'd roped the zebra. If yesterday afternoon had been frustrating for those working with the stallions, for him it had been futile. He knew, as the others did, that in capturing the zebra, he had merely postponed the inevitable. However, the others on entering the arena suddenly had qualms as to their accomplishments the previous day. After a night of rest, would the stallions be wild again? Another thing: the stallions had been removed en masse. If they returned the same way, how would they match up horse and owner? Or would they? Perhaps all of the hard work in each breaking his own animal might benefit someone else. The corollary, of course, was that each might get a horse that someone else had only half-broken, or worse. Questions tumbled through the minds of all. Only time, or the judges, could answer them. Thus, when the judges entered the arena, the contestants crowded as close as possible in their eagerness to find out what was happening.
Ibn al-Hudaij, the head judge, spoke first. "My congratulations to all of you who have qualified for the events of the final day. The blessings of Allah have indeed been with you. May His face continue to shine upon you, for by the end of today, one of you shall be named consort to the Amira Aisha, daughter of the rafi as'sa'n, the Moulay Hassan—may Allah look upon him with favor.
"As for today's competition. You will be participating in an adult to-the-death version of an ancient game that children play known as 'Follow the first.' We call ours, for lack of a better name, simply 'Horse.' The rules are fairly simple, but listen closely. You horsemen are the attackers, you will be given targets. Men on foot. From these targets, each man will select one. The first man to ride forth names a feat which he will then perform on his target. In turn, every other rider must follow the first and do the same with his living target. Those who fail to do so to the satisfaction of the judges, within the very brief time of this sandglass, will forfeit one of these three rings that will be given to each of you before the game officially begins. Lose all three rings and you lose your horse, becoming no more than a living target such as these." The judge pointed. As one, the men turned to see nineteen men enter the arena from the Gate of Death through which all had exited the arena before.
The six slaves would have looked for Cameron but the judge was continuing. "A target may become a horseman by simply avoiding attackers three times, thus winning three rings. For the first five rounds, the feat selected by the leader to perform on his target may be anything at all short of death. Any rider who kills a target during these first five rounds forfeits his horse and takes the dead man's place. After the fifth round, there will be no restrictions on the feat that you as leader or first rider may select.
"The first leader will be selected by the Amira. He will remain the leader until he fails to properly execute the feat he has named. He then loses his horse, and becomes a target but one with two rings.
"The other riders will perform in order according to a drawing of names by the judges, moving up one place in the order each time a leader is replaced.
"The leaders must select feats that do bodily harm to the targets. All riders will be given a short sword and a dagger. Any use of these weapons other than against the human targets will result in the forfeiting of the horses of those riders involved, and the riders will become targets,
"As your turn comes up, each rider must call out the number of his intended target. Each man on foot wears, as you may have noticed, a disc around his neck, bearing a number. When a target's number is called, he must, on penalty of immediate death, move into the huge circle drawn in salt in the middle of the arena. The target must remain somewhere, anywhere, within that circle during the draining of the sandglass.
"The games will begin upon the arrival of his excellency, the Moulay. The last man on horse wins. Use this thinking time wisely, and the blessings of Allah be on him who competes."
Then, they settled back to wait. Aisha was furious with the Moulay. How could he, on this day of all days, make all wait. "He's
being spiteful toward your grandfather, my dear. Ignore him," her mother advised.
"I can't. We can't start the games without him."
"Then, Ali ben Zaid, I suggest you take a message to him. Come close while I tell you exactly what to say," Ramlah said, then whispered something in Ali's ear. Meanwhile the six slaves gathered together away from the rest of the contestants. "Did you see him? Is he there? Did anyone see him?" Gilliver asked.
Fionn nodded. "He's there all right."
"Well, that's a relief," de Wynter admitted. "Now, let's see what strategy we can come up with to save Cameron's life as well as our own. First,' we need ways as horsemen to do bodily harm without killing anyone for the first five rounds. Any suggestions?"
None had ever participated in a more grisly or distasteful discussion, but necessity forced a list of cruelties from their rebelling minds. Among the feats agreed upon were such as marking an X on an arm with a sword, cutting off an ear, slashing a cheek with a dagger,, cutting off a finger, marking the target's back with a sword, etc. All agreed that the loss of an ear was worse than losing part or all of a finger. And, if they had the choice, they would avoid any act of amputation, trying to confine the first five rounds to marking each arm, each cheek, the target's chest or back or thigh.
Carlby, in the meantime, thinking on the game from Cameron's— that is, the target's—point of view announced he ha
d found a loophole in the rules—nothing had been said about the target's unseating the rider from his mount and thus evening up the match a bit. How, as a target, to stay away from the sword or dagger for three minutes? They agreed that staying on the left side of a right-handed swordsman would help, as would using the horse's head as a kind of moving shield. No rule had been made against grabbing the horse's bridle and hanging on or using that advantage to unseat the rider.
During all of this talk, it was apparent to the others that Gilliver had little stomach for the day's events and would have difficulty keeping his mount. And all knew that after the fifth round, the targets would not live too long. It was imperative to keep the seven on their horses, and, if possible, to get a mount for Cameron, by dint of three wins within the first five rounds. Not an easy task, they agreed.
Then the Moulay arrived, his escort the commander of the Amira's bodyguard. Wave after wave of trumpeting filled the arena and filtered upward into the already searing sky. Clamorous cheers, too, except among the Berbers. As the wazier to the Moulay fulsomely welcomed his master and briefly reiterated the conditions of the contest, silent ones escorted the twenty riders-to-be through the gates at the far end of the arena. There they were instructed to pick a horse from those held in a huge fenced-off area. As they had suspected, there was little chance of getting the same horse one had caught and broken the day before, and with only three minutes to accomplish each designated feat, it was crucial to have a horse that handled well.
Rearing and kicking and biting, the mounts seemed as intractable as they had been the day before. But today they had real bridles, meager saddles strapped on their backs, and stirrups flapping against their bellies; and they fought - as much to rid themselves of the frightening, offending restraints as to escape the men.
Into the melee plunged de Wynter and the other six, each, except John the Rob, heading straight for his mount. Now the purpose of the wild card, the zebra, became clear. The man who had caught it would seek another steed; if he succeeded, then that horse's rider would search out another and so form until the last man must try to ride a striped, unmanageable mount. Grasping for reins draped over necks or dragging on the ground, while avoiding flying hooves and flashing teeth, was one thing; getting aboard was quite another. Time after time, would-be riders were thrown off, sometimes directly into the kicking, stomping legs or into the heavy timbers that ringed the enclosure. John the Rob was lucky. When he was thrown, be landed on the back of another horse. Scrambling into the proper position before the surprised stallion could figure out what to do, John the Rob got his feet solidly into the stirrups and hung on to neck and reins, outlasted several bucking and rearing attempts, before his gift mount settled down. Fionn's brown—tamer than most—was easily caught by someone else. Fionn simply tore the rider from the saddle and mounted himself. De Wynter, of them all, had the least competition for his horse. No one else wanted his life dependent on a potential killer.
