by Lee Arthur
Then, though words to her men were unnecessary, she spat them out, her eyes dark with rage, her voice as deadly as an icicle; "Bind him again. Bind him fast to the tent pole."
While her orders were being carried out, she soothed, scratched, and calmed her cheetah... and noticed the gaping faces of the other three men. Idiots. Useless. Slow-witted dolts. He could have been hurt while you sat there, she charged them silendy. Typical men. In so doing, she dismissed all three from further consideration.
Al Abid began purring under the gentle but thorough cheek-scratching of her mistress's hand. Now it was safe to turn her pet loose again and retreat to her own couch. A casual gesture with her right hand and the cat slowly sank to the floor at her feet A wave of her left hand and slaves entered the room bearing platters heaped high with aromatic foods. Between each two men, a tray was placed, overflowing with fragrandy spiced meats, crisp exotic vegetables, fresh-baked breads. The men, not having eaten since breakfast, were ravenous and set to with a will.
Not Aisha. She picked at her food. Tossed tidbits to her cat. Every now and again she stole a glance across the room to where the jamad ja'da sat propped against the pole, his eyes closed, his face stern. Even tied tightly in what must be an uncomfortable position, he looked as elegantiy at ease as... as al Abid.
Suddenly, she realized she did not know his name, his real name. Always she had referred to him as the jamad ja'da as she had called the other the blond giant. In fact, of the three men, only one name—that a hated one—came readily to her hps: Eulj Ali. It was time to rectify all that. Waiting until the giant, seated between two trays, had satisfied his voracious hunger by helping himself, with two hands, first to one tray then the other, Aisha decided to introduce herself.
Deliberately she made herself speak softly and beguilingly, in direct contrast to the haughtiness of her words, for it suddenly became important to her that the jamad ja'da look upon her favorably: "Allow me, O victors, to introduce myself: Aisha Kahina Amira of Tunisia, twenty-third in line of direct descent from Dido, daughter of Behis of Tyre and founder of Carthage. Daughter, too, of Ramlah bint Zaid, daughter of Zaid, Sheikh of the Berbers, who is descended from Kahina, the great Berber princess-prophetess who first drove the Arabs from our lands. Now, I would know you and your patronomy as well."
She had spoken directly to the jamad Ja'da, but not by a quiver of his eyelids did he indicate he heard. Could he be sleeping? she wondered. Or, worse, hurt in the struggle. She clapped her hands sharply. When his eyes flew open, she said, "Djinn," and smiled skeptically at him. Her smile, a suggestion of mutual sophistication rather than superstition, was more man that. It was also an invitation to forgive, to forget, to ally. While the Arabs in their midst—the Taureg and Eulj Ali included—joined in the clapping to scare off the djinn, de Wynter slowly and deliberately closed his eyes, refusing her invitation. Never would he forgive nor forget Drummond and Cameron and Menzies... and Gilliver. Let Fionn eat her food and share her couch—in any manner he chose. Once this farce of a feast was finished, this particular Scot was going to find the gray stallion, if possible, and if not, walk back to Tunis to find a ship to England.
When the clapping died down, Eulj Ali with typical braggadoccio and ignoring the known fact that he was grandson of a washerwoman and a janissary-turned-potter boasted, "Eulj Ali, beloved son of the Beglerbey of Algiers, Uruj Barbarossa, whose very name strikes terror into the hearts of Allah's enemies and who now commands the fleet of the Sultan of Sultans, Suleiman the Magnificent."
The latter was news to her. That Eulj Ali's father found favor at the Sublime Porte might conceivably influence her plans for the son. That would need discussing with Ramlah and Ali.
In the meantime, the Taureg, finally over his concern with the djinn, spoke next "Ben Duailan, of the tarik el Taureg"—he smiled gently, the smile making a sharp countenance soft, a stem visage boyish—"whose ancestors welcomed Dido to our shores and sold her all the land she could encompass with one bull hide."
Aisha could not resist the sweetness of the smile and the gentleness of his message. Dido, as she well knew, had cheated the Tauregs put of their land by cutting the bull's bide into the thinnest of strips and laying these out end to end, encircling all of that promontory to the northwest of the city of Tunis. She smiled back. And captured at least one man's heart there and then.
"Ben Duailan, of the tarik el Taureg, welcome to my tent" She meant it. She also meant to cheat him of the reward for which he had risked so much, just as Dido had done to his ancestor centuries before. And both men she knew would always consider themselves fortunate to have been favored by such a beautiful woman.
Fionn, through all of this, chomped steadily away. Finally, Aisha addressed herself directly to him. "And you, tall man, do you go nameless?"
"Nay," he replied, grinning broadly at her. "I be Fionn, son of Seamus and Nelly. The first is the Seaforth's captain of the guard and me mother be the best cook in the land."
Cook? Captain of the guard? She had considered consorting with the son of these? Not a suggestion of her thoughts found its way to her face or her manner. Instead, she smiled even more sweedy upon him.
"And your friend over there, is he too the son of a cook, maybe even your brother?"
It was Fionn's turn to be shocked. "Him, brother to me?" He chuckled at the very thought and could imagine Nelly's reaction if he revealed that someone thought she had put horns on Seamus's head. "Nay, he be my master, Jamie Mackenzie, Earl of Seaforth and Lord de Wynter."
This sounded much more promising. "And what might an earl be?"
Fionn was at a loss. He knew what an earl was, just as he knew what the sun was, but not how to describe it. A glance at Jamie
revealed no help there. Other than a slight tenseness of his shoulders, de Wynter sat as if of stone.
"An earl?" he echoed, buying time. "Well, it's a lord of sorts. Not so high as a prince mind you, although Jamie is the grandson of a king—"
"Really? Tell me more," Aisha urged.
"Jamie isn't a prince; he's an earl because his mother was a bas—"
De Wynter suddenly came alive. "Fionn, that's enough," he said with a voice so imbued with authority that Fionn dared not say another word.
But in silencing Fionn, he had left an opening for Aisha. "It is not enough," she said. "If you prefer he not tell me, then you do it." It was a royal command, and de Wynter, out of mixed pity for Fionn and a lifetime of gallantry toward women, gave in.
"An earl is a tide of nobility so ancient that it goes back to antiquity. It yields precedence only to royals, dukes, and marquesses, and has a position above viscount and baron."
Hers was a hollow victory. He had used the English titles, not the Arabic equivalents. But she let that go. "You are grandson of a king?"
"Aye, many a woman spread her legs for James IV." He got perverse pleasure out of being coarse.
"And the de Wynter, what's that?"
"French. An honorific. Like your jamad ja'da."
"Mais oui," she replied, "for your hair."
It was his turn to be taken aback. A barbaric semi-savage princess speaking French in the middle of nowhere. Aisha continued her probing, in French, "I thought you were Anglais, not Francois."
De Wynter had had enough of idle curiosity. "Neither. I am Scots. Now, it is your turn. When do you let us go free as you promised?"
Aisha looked at the man coolly. "You are wrong. I did not promise to let you go free. I promised you would be free of me. There is a difference. Today, once the games were over, I gave over to Ali a document. It conveyed to him the ownership of some slaves, and that, de Wynter, is the only freedom you'll get here."
He was incredulous. They had been tricked. For this, all had risked their lives and four had given theirs. "Why, you—" For a moment he was at a loss for words; then they came gushing to his mouth in his native Scots.
Fionn, who did not understand French, wondered what inspired his friend's invective, but he gri
nned broadly at the familiar words. As de Wynter cursed daughter, damned mother, reviled father, shifting with ease from obscenity to profanity to blasphemy in order to encompass all aspects of this debauched country, Fionn's admiration at tins bravura performance led him to the conclusion that, in de Wynter, Seamus had had ah able pupil now grown to surpass his master's stature.
Ali, on the other hand, did not need to know the exact meaning of the words to catch their gist, and he moved swiftly to dam the flow, using a firm hand as a gag while a cloth was ripped from a robe. But de Wynter slipped his grip and fastened his teeth in the other's fleshy palm. Tearing loose with a cry of pain and a spurt of blood that splattered de Wynter's wedding finery, Ali too found surcease in words. And while these were not as inventive nor as masterful as the others, they too were heartfelt and at least these all could understand. Not a moment too soon the cloth was handed to Ali, and, ignoring the blood dripping from his hand, he ripped it again in two. One piece he fastened round de Wynter's mouth, tightening the gag cruelly and more than need be. The other half he wrapped round his own wound.
Eulj Ali who had watched this byplay with great interest, decided that de Wynter had destroyed all chance of being named consort. The giant he dismissed out of hand; he had bungled his chance by revealing that his family was low-bora. As for the Taureg, he and Aisha had smiled one upon the other... and Ben Duailan was a fellow Berber. Yet, somehow Eulj Ali could not see the Amira choosing this tall, stem-looking warrior who wore a veil, now pulled down beneath his chin when she could have someone as handsome as himself. Thus, arrogantly, Eulj Ali rose to his feet and strolled toward the Amira. Even as silent ones came forward to prevent any more acts of violence, and al Abid half rose to her feet, the redhead, ignoring the hot feral breath of the cheetah, knelt at her feet in a much-practiced, well-perfected imitation of humility. From his experience with his four wives, he was sure no woman could resist him when he smiled boyishly and literally threw himself at her feet.
"Oh, wondrous Aisha," he began, "Oh, magnificent Aisha. Waste not your perfection on these unworthy specimens." He gestured widely about him, making the cat still more nervous, but a firm female hand restrained her. Aisha was curious as to what this cockerel might have to say. 'These lacklusters know not that they are favored by Allah merely to breathe the same air that you do, much less actually come within your exquisite presence. While I"—he paused for dramatic emphasis—"who can offer you more than any wife ever received from a husband, would be content to simply kiss your feet." He smiled again, more boyishly than before.
Aisha smiled back. And extended her foot for him to kiss. The boyish smile faded as he stared disbelieving upon it. Although he had offered before, no woman had ever called his bluff. But taking a deep breath, he restored the smile to his face and gingerly lowered himself so that his lips might brush her instep.
Behind his back and over his head, Ali and Aisha were conversing silently: :
Shall I stop this charade?
No, I enjoy it.
When he finds out you play with him,
he will be dangerous.
He shall not find out until too late.
By then, I will have deranged him.
Send for the wine.
Eulj Ali, swallowing the gorge that rose to his throat as he kissed her foot, vowed to himself that one day she would use her own hps to please him in his own way. But first, he reminded himself, she must be won.
"Oh, Aisha, I would lay the riches of the world at your feet if you would have them, and take you upon the finest ship ever built by man to search out those riches. From one end of the world to the other we would go seeking gold to be shamed by your hair, yellow diamonds whose sparkle would fade next to your eyes, rubies to pale close to your lips."
Aisha was enjoying this. Never before had she heard such flowery language used by a man toward her. She had to fight her compulsion to laugh. "And my teeth?"
"Pearls," he declared, "never gleamed so brightly. Together, you and I would sail the seven seas, then return to a palace I shall build for you high on a hill overlooking the sea!"
"In Tunis or Algiers?" she wanted to know.
He thought fast, but first favored her with another boyish grin. "Half and half. For you and I shall join these two kingdoms together in one as Allah has destined them to be."
Behind her apparently pleased facade, a cynical princess was thinking, As Barbarossa his destined them to be.
At that moment, the slaves appeared bearing flagons of wine and amber goblets as well. Looking down on the redhead with well-feigned mock indecision, she said, "It does sound delightful."
"It's settled then." He didn't ask, he declared it.
"Well..." She was more than willing to dally with him as a spider does a fly, but he gave her no real chance.
Instead, with a hearty "Good!" he sprang to his feet, ruffling al Abid's composure again, then, spying the wine, commanded, "Let's chink to it. Pour wine, slave. We would drink a toast, your mistress and I, to our future." Grandiosely, he gestured to Ali and the Taureg and Fionn. "You too may join us."
Seizing the first two goblets, he waited impatienUy for them to be filled, then brought one to the Amira. Then, he watched as the others were poured and handed round. Aisha stared down at hers and feared to drink, for the wine was drugged. But she needn't have worried. Ali, pouring himself a cup from another flagon, came to her and secretly exchanged goblets as Eulj Ali turned toward de Wynter. Then, before anyone could stop him, he'd pulled free the gag. "And, you, too, shall drink to us, oh man who was my master, who bought me and my carvings with a pearl.
"Bring the jamad ja'da a cup," he said to a slave. "And what of my carving, do you still have it?"
De Wynter, spitting the lint from his mouth, couldn't speak and only shook his head.
"A shame. It was one of the best I did. Here, Ali, help the slave to drink," he ordered.
Ali was furious, but not Aisha. Eulj Ali, unwittingly, was playing their game for them. Let him think himself risen to great heights; it will make his fall even harder, she thought, nodding her approval for Ali to do as he was bidden.
As Ali held the goblet to de Wynter's mouth, Eulj Ali vaingloriously intoned his toast: "To the great games of the Princess Aisha, the greatest spectacle ever held in her land."
Aisha sipped politely as the other drank deep, all but de Wynter. Instead, with a head-butt that might well have chipped a tooth, he sent the goblet and its contents flying in all directions.
"Fill it up," the princess ordered. "I would that he drink to my games, too. Ali, see to it As for the rest of you, I promise each shall be rewarded with tajziya worthy of your courage and skill, especially you, son of Barbarossa." She smiled winningly on him. "Drink with me until we see the bottoms of our glasses." With that, she and the others drained their goblets. Even de Wynter joined in. He had no choice. Ali had used his good hand at the back of the man's jaws to force his mouth open, as a bit would a horse's teeth. When the teeth parted just a crack, he slipped a knife blade in between and twisted it. The struggling captive could do little to eject the blade as his head was held securely by the guards. As de Wynter's head was forced back against the pole, the glass of wine was poured unceremoniously down his throat as he sputtered and choked.
Not releasing his pressure on the knife blade, Ali asked, "Would you care for another? We have plenty."
Aisha's startled "no" was drowned out by Eulj Ali's "Good idea!" Before Aisha could countermand the suggestion, the goblet had been refilled, its contents poured down a reluctant throat. Only when de Wynter had gulped the last drop did Ali release the head to lean again against the tent pole.
In the meantime, the others had drunk as deeply of their second pourings of the sweet and heady fluid.
Too late Eulj Ali wondered why de Wynter no longer struggled and why his eyes looked so strange. His own head felt so heavy he could hardly hold it off his chest. Just then, the Taureg toppled over. Far away in the distance Eulj A
li could hear the Amira's mocking voice, but it faded and swelled alternately, and her words, no matter how he struggled to understand them, made no sense. The last thing he remembered was seeing Fionn stagger to his feet, waver unsteadily, then crash to the floor, knocking trays of food over and strewing their contents over divan and carpet.
As al Abid rose to help herself to some meats, Aisha looked about her with disfavor. The tent was a mess. Even as her slaves hurried forward to set things aright, Aisha turned with a frown to Ali. "What say you? Are preparations ready for my departure tomorrow?"
Damn her, she's determined, Ali thought. He had looked forward to a few days of rest before undertaking the journey. "Ready as they can be in such a short time."
His noncomittal answer was not at all to her liking. However, the thought came to her that here was a solution to one of her problems. "Then you have the rest of the night to get them ready."
"But—!" he protested, glancing at de Wynter. He had had other plans for this night.
Aisha cut him short. She knew what that glance meant, but sooner or later he would have to know that de Wynter was not for him. And business can be healing. "As for the spectators. Did any leave here, except for our Berbers and the storyteller, who may be relied upon to glorify the games wherever he goes?"
Ali, who had the road to Sousse blocked upon Aisha's orders and all travelers turned back, shook his head; he could guess what happened to those hapless people once they were back within the reach of the Moulay. The sky above al Djem could not be lit this long with only slaves as its tallow. Others must have lent their fat to the huge conflagration.
"I pray you are right. It will make what I do less dangerous. Word of the fate of Eulj Ali must not get to the Sublime Porte. Nor can he, for the sake of our country, go free to tell what he knows." She looked down at the sprawling redhead and spat at him. "Even the name leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Take him, as planned, to Tunis under heavy guard. I have had the prince's cage restored in the Dar al Bey. Keep him there, dressed and fed as I have ordered until such time as I can make best use of this pawn in the game his father and I play.
