The Mer- Lion

by Lee Arthur

  "You're right. That lack of a 'piece of skin' might be of real benefit to him," Ramlah agreed, cleverly turning the Moulay's observation against him and capitalizing on his fear of Barbarossa. "Once married to Aisha, the corsair could use it as a legitimate excuse to bring about your death. The crime? Incest... rape... child-ravishment ... whatever he wills."

  The Moulay hadn't thought of that. Turning white, he asked, "What else can I do?"

  "Challenge him to come and win her.. .in competition with others."

  "Competition?" The idea had appeal for him.

  Even now, Aisha could hear her mother's purring voice expounding" their idea. "Think of it, mighty Moulay, hundreds of men fighting naked with strange weapons that tear and rip before killing, all for the honor of being allowed to wed your daughter."

  "Suppose not many come. They might not like to die just for her hand."

  Ramlah's inventiveness was up to the challenge. Silencing her daughter with a glance, she went on smoothly. "Then we'll fill out their ranks with slaves. In the nude, no one can tell a free man from a slave."

  "Do they all have to die fighting?"

  "Not all, some will die as you choose."

  "I choose? How?"

  "You shall do as the Roman emperors did. When one falls in defeat, you will give the signal for life or death," she promised. Sharing this city with her husband, she had been forced to learn how to appeal to the worst in his character—those attributes that had come to the surface on his release from the Prince's Cage and smothered what few good qualities he had once possessed. "Yes, mighty one, you shall decide how those defeated die."

  She had captured his imagination. When he licked his full, lower Up nervously, the two women knew the day was theirs. Let him think on this for a while, and soon no power on earth could dissuade him. Ramlah's soft, soothing, subtle voice continued, describing in broad strokes—let his imagination fuT in the detail—their plan to restore the partially ruined Roman amphitheater of al Djem in the South, and to hold the games there. Games in the Greek, Roman, Arabic, Berber, and other even more bloodthirsty traditions.

  Aisha found her own nostrils flaring, her pulse racing and her throat growing dry as she listened to Ramlah's words. She was, after all, her father's daughter, although one looking at the two would have found it hard to believe. He was short, thick, gross, and swarthy; she was tall and almost boyishly thin, although beneath her Taureg robes were more curves than one might have supposed. Hidden too was her hair, that thick, silken mane of molten gold that was her glory. Her green brown eyes, wide-spaced, dark-fringed and almond-shaped, looked out from under proud, high-arched brows. Only the mouth with its full lower lip bespoke the passionate nature and near barbaric emotions that father and daughter shared—he giving vent to them, she holding diem in close rein. As Aisha recalled the skill of her mother's manipulation of the Moulay, the second and true call to prayer interrupted her thoughts. So similar were the two voices that uttered the calls, they might have come from the same throat. She hoped so. Then there would be no detongueing today. However, if that were the case, then this muezzin would be one to be aware of and to watch for when he, as all did, finally faced her father's pincers.

  CHAPTER 22

  Six days a week, Aisha joined her mother in the three-hour ritual of the three baths in the harem's ornate ones. The seventh day, Audience Day, a Thursday, she had less leisure, so she used instead the austere bath within her own quarters. This, like the larger one, was heated by the Pompeiian system with boilers of copper beneath the floor. Stepping out of her only apparel, a pair of high-heeled panttobles of velvet, she walked down the steps of her marble bath and into the hot, steamy, water.

  When immersed, she held out one hand. Wordlessly, a eunuch knelt and handed Aisha the scroll listing the cases to be heard this day. Quickly, she surveyed them. On the surface, none seemed too complicated. If she brooked no delay nor interruption nor tirade, the audience should be over long before the slave auction began. That is, if she heard the cases herself. If the Moulay should appear, the audience could last all day or less than an hour. That man in his majanna might do anything.

  Clearing her mind of all thoughts, she left the bath and surrendered her body to her slaves' ministrations. Her nails were buffed, her feet purnked, her hair washed and vcombed dry, then her forelocks braided and strands of diamonds entwined, her brows plucked, her lashes brushed with kohl, and her hps stained with a flower petal.

  Only after completing her toilet did she don drawers of white see-through silk, a shirt of the same, the sleeves reaching to the wrist, the bodice open to the waist. Over that a sleeveless waistcoat,

  slit op the front, fell to the floor. Round and round the eunuch circled her, holding the wide embroidery-encrusted waist-wrap spread between his hands, to form her two-hand-high kamarband. Bracing herself by leaning on two eunuchs' shoulders, she stepped into her boots.

  Critically, she surveyed herself within the polished silver of her mirror. Plain. Simple. Perfect. She would not change a detail. Lastiy, her eunuchs draped her in a white, woolen burd that hid all but her face, her hands, and her white kid boots. She was ready to appear in public. As she left her quarters, she was joined by Ali and six of the al Ikwan. The Amira Aisha did not appear in public without bodyguard.

  Thursday audiences started an hour after sunrise, and, with only a brief break for lunch, lasted as long as there were cases to be heard. Those heard last often received short shrift from a gadi eager to see the long day end. Since any Tunisian could demand his case be heard, the naive started lining up outside the courtroom long before dawn, hoping to be first. The experienced paid their bribe to the right official and had their case scheduled early in the day—the list Aisha perused.

  On this Thursday, as usual, the bribes were in, the docket was set, everything appeared routine—until the Moulay and his entourage arrived at the Dar al Bey with much clattering of horses' hooves. The Moulay himself never went on horseback, but rode in a huge sedan chair complete with protective fringed top and balanced on three poles. Six runners at a time alternated, changing on the move, to keep up the steady pace... somewhere between fast walk and trot. They edged the sedan chair up to the stool's level so that the Moulay, without undue effort, might simply step out. Making a litter from their crossed hands, two blackamoors seated and carried him up the stairs and into the palace, through the first court and the next.

  Finally, without his feet once touching the floor, he entered the courtroom. Had people known that their deranged monarch would be the judge, far fewer of them would have chosen this day to present their cases. The Moulay's entrance created pandemonium as everyone at once attempted to go from sitting cross-legged on cushions to totally prostrate, face-flattened against the tile-covered floor.

  As always, the Moulay found his subjects' discomfiture amusing. Let his subjects be properly humble when in the presence of their ruler. Viciously pinching his blackamoor mounts he started them toward the dais just as Aisha and her escort entered from the side door. Without a moment's hesitation, Ali and the al Ikwan prostrated themselves. Aisha too settled gracefully to her knees and bowed her head. Pleased by his daughter's proper attitude, he allowed his bearers to seat him upon the cushioned couch on the dais, then beckoned his daughter to her seat upon a cushion at his feet. Only then might his subjects resume their places around the perimeter of the room.

  The people buzzed excitedly but in muted tones, then ceased as the wazier stepped forward:

  "By the grace, of Allah, the court of jalala al-malik, the Moulay Hassan, is open to all. Come ye and seek ye the justice of the Moulay."

  The court crier called the first case to order. The accusing party stepped forward, bowed and prostrated himself, then rose and gave brief testimony. When he strayed from a strict recitation of the facts, he was prodded with a pointed stick by a court official stationed behind him. At his second lapse, his case was dismissed. Next case.

  Accusatory testimony given
, the defendant stepped forward to tell his side. He was also allowed to rebut the testimony just given. No questions were asked of either party and no witness testified.

  "Guilty. Call the next case." Such was the Moulay's manner of judging. The Amira fumed and seethed but said nothing.

  About two hours into the session a strikingly beautiful woman awoke the Moulay from his doze when she begged the court, to force her husband to take another wife. Even the Moulay Hassan was taken aback; seldom did a man with one wife resist taking more wives.

  "If the court please," she testified, "I am my husband's only wife. My days are spent performing household chores, my nights on giving him pleasure. I am with child for the fourth time in as many years. When I am not with child, I must submit to his needs even during those times when most wives are excused. I love my children and my husband, but I would share my responsibilities with another.

  "I ask that the court order my husband to take another wife so that

  we may divide household and conjugal duties between us especially when one of us is carrying his child. And," she concluded, "if he refuses to select a second wife himself, I request the right to select one for him."

  There was a mild murmuring around the room as the woman returned to her little circle of friends and sat awkwardly down on her cushion. She was perhaps five months with child, proving her point and winning sympathy from the courtiers, if not the court.

  A young man, the reluctant husband, stepped forward. "Jalala al-malik, I love her too much to share that love with another. I will buy extra servants for her. I will grant her nights off during her cleansing cycles. But do not," he pleaded, "force me to take a wife who could get no love from me whatsoever. It would not be fair to the woman, nor to me."

  He was motioned back to his seat. The Moulay had made his decision, and out of his perversion came a judgment worthy of Solomon.

  "Bachir Ali, you make a mockery out of marriage," the Moulay said in a stern voice. "You should have listened, as any good husband would, to your wife."

  The audience tittered guardedly, for it was well known that Moulay Hassan ostensibly paid no attention whatsoever to his own wife.

  "Since you did not ease her plight," the Moulay continued, "she is no longer yours. She will be married into a harem of many wives where, as she requests, her duties will be lessened. Her children will be cared for. Her lovemaking will be only occasional. As for you—your slate will be wiped clean. Before the sun sets tomorrow, find or buy two wives and do not make the mistake again of letting love blind you to your duty."

  As the courtiers gasped at such a fantastic verdict, the stunned couple flew into each other's arms and wept openly. She wailed, "Why did I complain?" while he could only repeat, "No. No. Never." The two were separated by officials and led from the room.

  The buzzing in the courtroom did not die down quickly. Not by a blink of the eye, however, did Aisha show sympathy for the couple; she had none. Both woman and man in her opinion, were weak; the judgment was fitting. It also speeded the cause of justice. Many a

  case yet to be heard was quickly settled between litigants who wished to avoid the possibility of a verdict such as this. When the holder of the docket called out the next cases to be heard, only the bitterest and most vitriolic came forth; the rest quickly announced that their differences had been resolved without benefit of the court

  At last, as the sun reached its zenith, the Moulay sent a eunuch scuttling off to the kitchen,' Tell the Vizier of the Third Kitchen that I would eat as soon as this next case is heard." Yawning, the Moulay indicated the court should continue. Consulting his list, the crier nasally intoned, "The man Ibrahim versus the Sheikh Hatim."

  From the back of the room came two black-turbaned Berber tribesmen, one clutching a scroll containing his charge, the other grasping the scroll of his defense. Surrendering his scroll to an official, the accuser salaamed—kneeling and bumping his head twice on the tile floor, then prostrating himself fully in front of the Moulay. He wore a tattered robe, tied at the waist with a bit of rope, and shabby simple desert sandals, while the accused stood by in a snowy white robe with a bejeweled and tasseled belt about his middle.

  The accuser rose to his feet and began, "Know ye, O great and gracious Moulay, that I, Ibrahim, son of Mahamma, of the tribe of Zeyd, did while at a horse fair in Kaifouan, approach the Sheikh Hatim tcask that he allow his stallion to service my chestnut mare, Sherifa, the love of my life and the pride of my tribe. Know you, Moulay, that this mare has shared my tent since the day she was foaled. No mare has a broader forehead, a finer muzzle, a more intelligent eye. To see the beautiful ears that spring from her well-mailed foretop, to watch them respond instandy to everything she spies, that, O Moulay, is to know true beauty."

  A sharp jab from the pointed stick hastened his speech. "But know ye, O Moulay, that even though he swelled with pride at my request, the Sheikh Hatim did hold back the services of his stallion in the hopes of my offering to pay for that which should have been mine by right with no ransom. Naturally, I refused. And later that day, I sent my wife to him with a plea that he reconsider."

  Like a Greek chorus, the courtiers nodded in unison. Such was the right and proper course to take in such a situation.

  "The Sheikh Hatim took my wife into his tent and used her."

  The courtiers again nodded. The sheikh was within his rights.

  "But then he sent her back with his refusal, claiming my mare was unworthy of his stallion."

  The courtiers shook their heads. If the wife were worthy of the sheikh, then the mare was worthy of the stallion.

  "I refused to take no for an answer, and when the sheikh and his tribe left the fair, I followed them on my mare. At their first campsite, I again approached the Sheikh Hatim, reminding him that in the desert no man can refuse the services of his male to one who has need of him. Reluctantiy, the sheikh agreed, but demanded a stud fee."

  Even Aisha gasped. This was gross discourtesy. To ask pay for such service at a fair was one thing, but on the desert it must be given freely. The Moulay merely yawned again. Not only did animals bore him, but so did tribal law. The only laws he recognized were his own.

  "This stud fee I refused to pay, O Moulay," said Ibrahim, "though, in truth, if I had the amount he demanded, I could have bought a foal or even purchased another mare rather than breeding my beloved Sherifa. And so I left his camp. But the stallion, unbeknownst to me, smelted the heat of my mare, broke his tether and followed us into the desert. While I slept in the arras of my wife in my tent, the stallion, more knowledgeable of the courtesies of the desert than his master, did mount my spirited mare."

  Aisha nodded approval. The stallion did well.

  "The ensuing squealing and snorting awoke me from a deep sleep," Ibrahim continued, "and at this point the men of Sheikh Hatim tracked the stallion to my camp. I protested my innocence; they did not believe me. Instead, they took the amount of the stud fee from my meager possessions: my wife and my trusty cross-wound bow, and also the mare.

  "Know ye, O Moulay, that in this I claim the Sheikh Hatim's men were wrong. First, by desert custom he should have given freely of the services of his stallion. Second, he should not have had his pleasure with my wife unless he intended his stud to do the same to my mare. And lastly, his men should not have taken in fee the love of my life. I beseech you, O Moulay, direct Sheikh Hatim to return my mare to me."

  So ended the tale of Ibrahim; now Sheikh Hatim rose in his own defense.

  "Know ye, O Moulay, the magnificent and the just, that I, Sheikh Hatim, have in my possession a bay stallion with black points, a Kohlanee, descended from one of the five mares of the prophet Mohammed.

  "I ask you, O Moulay, should I, the owner of such a horse, allow him to waste his seed on an Atterbi mare, a drudge among horses, but little better than a donkey? She was a small thing, and scrawny, for the man does not have enough wealth to feed his mare well, let alone his family.

  "Yet even so, as a Be
rber, I might have lent the services of my stallion except for one thing. The mare's feet. Three woe dark and one was white. Remember ye, O Moulay, the teachings of our forefathers on the markings of a horse—four white feet are good; a star is very good; two white hind feet and a star are nearly as good. And to have the two near feet white is excellent because one then mounts over the white. Good, too, is the near hind foot when it is white. But beware of the off hind foot alone being white. This is the mark of a bad horse. It can cost you your life. Your enemy will overtake you and slay you. Your son will be an orphan. Know ye, O Moulay, as I stand before you and Allah, the mare's off hind foot was white."

  As one, the courtiers rolled their eyes in horror. Well they knew the teachings of the elders on the markings of a bad horse.

  Having made a telling point, in his opinion, Sheikh Hatim continued his defense. "Not content with my refusal, the man Ibrahim sent his wife to me. She begged me that I agree, saying that the man had no sons and his mare had no foals. Out of pity, I took the woman into my tent that her husband might indeed have a son, even if not of his own seed. But still I refused to breed the mare. My stallion leaves his mark on his get; everyone seeing the star descending down between the flaring nostrils would know."

  Knowing looks confirmed that such was indeed the way of Arab horses.

  "After we left the horse fair, we made camp at an oasis many miles to the west. Right on our heels came the man on his mare, with his poor wife on a mule. Again he begged me to service his wretched mare, demanding, as was his right, that I agree to such an ill-fated mating.