The Mer- Lion

by Lee Arthur

  Under other circumstances, the Thracians in the ring to the left of center would have drawn all eyes to it, for here was being created a sadistic cat-and-mouse game as Eulj Ali with a lucky thrust had early on disarmed his opponent and kicked his weapon outside the circle to lie tantalizingly just beyond the swordsman's reach. Now, Eulj Ali amused himself and prolonged the fight by incising bloody patterns on the man's hide, the small round shield offering little protection from the lightning swift cuts and slashes of the redhead's curved sword, a sword not unlike the scimitar with which he had fought all of his life.

  The two in the center ring by some mistake both turned out to be net-wielders and their combat turned into a wrestling match as each became entangled in the other's net.

  The Samnites in the ring to the right were both big, hulking, slow men who traded hammering each other's shield with loud but ineffective blows of their swords. Bang. Bang. Bang. The noise and the blows echoed slowly, monotonously through the arena. "I dare say," Ramlah remarked, "if we left now and came back tomorrow, they'd still be banging away and not have moved an inch from the spot or come one blow closer to ending the match."

  Aisha perfunctorily agreed, ignoring all else but the two men below her. One she knew was the silver-haired one. The other, smaller than the slave and more wiry, also looked suspiciously familiar, especially his thick mat of red chest hair.

  He was a stranger to de Wynter, who sized him up as perhaps five years older, slightly heavier, possibly not quite as quick or agile, but probably a more experienced combatant in this type of match.

  At the signal, they circled and tested each other with ringing blows that bounced harmlessly off each other's scutums. De Wynter tried a roundhouse swing to see how his opponent would counter. Easily. Then a short, low thrust. Blocked. A series of feints and thrusts delivered one right after the other and parried systematically. A worthy opponent, de Wynter decided, one who knew his defense, the lack of which was often the undoing of many a good swordsman.

  Very well, let's see what he's got in the way of offense, de Wynter thought, beginning a slow backpedaling designed to bring his opponent aggressively to him. Not bad, he said to himself, as he countered a thrust with his shield and tried unsuccessfully to knock the invading weapon high with an upward swing of his own sword. Then in rapid succession he was forced to ward off a series of good moves that might have broken through the guard of a less experienced swordsman. This was going to be a long battle, he decided. A typical battle. The first mistake would decide the winner.

  Five minutes into the fight, the crowd and the occupants of the royal box—ell but the snoring Moulay—knew a classic duel was underway below them. The footwork, the good use of the scutum as well as the sword, the attacking on both dexter and sinister—all these testified to many years of expert teaching and practice in the art.

  With a furious rush, the red-haired one tried driving de Wynter out of the corridor and into a circle. But at the last moment, de Wynter nimbly sidestepped and almost drove his opponent out with his own countercharge. Urged back to their own strip of sand by the scourges, they feinted and thrust and parried, filling the arena with the ringing of sword on shield.

  Aisha had followed every move of the two with the knowing eyes of a warrior queen and leaned ever more forward to see even better until she found herself on the edge of her seat, her bejeweled hands clenched in her lap, her dark eyes flashing above her veil. Ramlah watched her daughter and wondered how she could be so fascinated by the play of sword on sword. And why? The fighters below did nothing, so far as she could see, different from the scores who had fought before them. Could it be, she wondered, the swordsmen themselves who made the difference?

  Though Ramlah admired her daughter's inventiveness and daring in setting up the games, secretly she found them repulsive—an unfit way to pick a husband. But if that were what Aisha wanted, Ramlah could only hope the man could awaken the passions she felt sure must be there inside that beautiful body.

  The Samnites down below woe not aware of their royal audience, nor of the "mouse" that "cat" Eulj Ali had already killed, nor the fall of one of the Thracians, nor of the two silent, net-covered forms entwined in each other's arms and nets and bleeding to death from hammer blows in the center ring.

  Not a quarter was given by either man. De Wynter paused occasionally to catch his breath; his opponent a little more often it seemed, though perhaps that was but a trick. Feeling strong, de Wynter pressed the battle. For the first time he thanked the oarmasters and slave-drivers who had pushed his body beyond its natural limits of conditioning. They just might be his saviors. A ringing blow on his helmet reminded de Wynter to concentrate on the battle. Soon, he drew first blood with a nick on the other's sword arm. Not enough to cause-him any trouble, de Wynter decided, but a bleeding arm might eventually weaken him, or the blood befoul his grip. The immediate effect was to spur his opponent on to an even more furious effort to penetrate the Scot's defense.

  Good, de Wynter thought; let him tire himself out a little more. A daring plan was formulating in his mind, but the time wasn't yet right. The older and more experienced man had to be a bit more tired than he was now, or it would never work. As the classic yet creative battle went on and on, the spectators cheered wildly, the object of these matrimonial games watched with rapt attention the longest match of the day.

  For another half hour the battle raged, the two men trying to maneuver each other into facing the sun. Back and forth in furious charges, and sometimes standing toe to toe, pummeling each other with great blows that made the fine Spanish steel ring and crash and clang.

  The crowd was becoming restless, growing impatient for the kill, and screaming for the blood they felt they deserved. Still the officials showed no sign of calling a halt to the confrontation.

  The Scottish earl made his decision. Sun and shadow must make the difference. He knew he was tiring, which was dangerous. He knew, too, that his adversary was even more tired, not moving his feet as much, preferring to stand and do battle where his extra' weight could stand him in good stead. He watched for the right moment, and seeing it, flung his scutum from his left arm, grasped the broad sword in both hands, and in great criss-crossing swings battered the red-haired one's sword and shield so fiercely on the left mat he must turn more and more, in spite of himself, to the right.

  De Wynter did not dare let up his fusillade until he had his opponent positioned just right. If he let the other bring his own sword into pfay, the Scot was lost without his shield. How long he could maintain this attack he didn't know, but two more steps to the right, then one back, and it was all over for one of them.

  The sword was what he had to get. He watched its every move as he continued to pummel the man's shield, driving him back out of the shadow cast by the great awning and into the bright westerly sun. Momentarily blinded, his opponent raised his sword hand to shield his eyes. In that instant, de Wynter swung his sword with all his might, hoping to catch the other's near the hilt and knock it from his - grasp. But the redhead's grip was too secure; instead, the blade snapped in two. De Wynter's gamble had paid off.

  With terror in his eyes, the unarmed man flung aside the useless handle and grasped with both hands the shield now dented and battered from the heavy, two-handed blows of de Wynter which drove him in whatever direction the Scot chose.

  "Throw down your shield. I won't kill you!" de Wynter yelled.

  But the redhead understood neither the words nor the intent. The crowd screamed for the kill they felt was imminent. But still de Wynter stalled. Watching for an opening, he thrust his sword between the backtracking legs and tripped the redhead onto his - backside. In a flash the Scotsman was on top of him, kicking aside the scutum and placing the point of his sword at the base of his throat.

  "Ma'dan!" "Affirm!" "Al rabb mujalid!"

  Slowly, the cheers of the crowd penetrated the pounding in de Wynter's ears as he gasped for breath. Without moving his sword, he turned to face a cro
wd on its feet, stomping and clapping rhythmic applause. Even the two women and the her/him in the royal box joined in. De Wynter found himself staring into the bright sparkling eyes of Aisha. In spite of himself, he wondered if the lips beneath that veil ever softened and parted with passion. Then, he caught himself up short. He was not interested in this woman, he reminded himself. Tearing his gaze from her, he looked instead at the Moulay, aroused unwillingly from his stupor by the noise about him. Shaking his head in confusion, he called for more wine and without looking at the scene below in the arena, he gestured imperiously with down turned thumb, then covered his ears with both hands to stop the noise.

  His actions were not popular. The crowd renewed their cheers, thrusting their thumbs violently into the air and yelling, "Mitte! Mitte!" Still holding his ears, the Moulay looked wildly about and screamed for silence, but the crowd could not hear him over then-own noise. Anything to stop the noise, he thought,, and wrapping his left arm about his head in a vain attempt to cover bom ears, he quickly put his right hand out to save the man's life. Before he could give the signal, he felt a hand on his upheld arm. It was his daughter, desperate that the redheaded son of Barbarossa die.

  "Are you ruler or subject?" she demanded deliberately. "Is your will the law or do you let that rabble bend you to theirs?"

  He only stared at her, mouth drooping in surprise.

  "You made your decision. Let it stand. Lest those within the stands think you weak. Unkingly. And decide to replace you with one stronger."

  He dropped his hand, the noise forgotten. "Replace me? I'll have all their heads first!" Drawing himself to his full pouter-pigeon dignity, he repeated his thumbs-down gesture.

  At Aisha's command, Ali's shrill whistle sounded over the din.. once twice, and again. Immediately, the silent ones tamed, spears at the ready, to face their commander, in so doing of course, facing the crowd. The crowd got the message. And though scattered throughout the crowd came cries of disapproval, most kept their mutterings to themselves.

  De Wynter couldn't believe what he had seen. Even after the Amira intervened, still the Moulay persisted. What kind of monster was he to condemn this man who had fought so valiantly? Withdrawing his sword, de Wynter strode halfway to the royal box. There, raising his arms in appeal, he silently asked for the life of his fallen opponent.

  The crowd roared its approval, but both Moulay and Asmira rejected his appeal. The former with both thumbs vigorously stabbing the air. The latter with what de Wynter took as a dejected shake of her head.

  Turning on his heel, de Wynter defiantly walked back to the fallen warrior, scooping up'that man's shield as he went by. "Here, let me give you a hand up," he said to the older man, who, although he didn't understand the words, rightly interpreted the outstretched hand.

  Handing the man his shield, de Wynter gestured for the man to get behind him. "If they wish to kill you, they'll have to kill me first!" Back to back the two men stood, challenging the silent ones and whip-bearers to do something.

  Gilliver and Cameron started forward to join them, but the lances of four silent ones stopped them in their tracks.

  The Moulay jumped up and down, screaming with anger. First, the crowd defied him, now a lowly gladiator. "I'll have their heads, all of their heads! Before I'm through those two will beg for death!"

  Aisha ignored him as did Ramlah. The two women exchanged looks, Ramlah marveling at the slave's bravery in refusing the Moulay's orders, Aisha marveling at his foolhardiness. Only Ali acted decisively to break the impasse. Shortly thereafter, silent ones entered the arena bearing armfuls of the nets of the retiarii and surrounded the pair. Although the nets were inexpertly thrown, one sword could not cut in every direction, nor could two men who spoke not the same language coordinate their movements to stay together while dodging nets. Within minutes, the silent ones had trapped themselves two gladiators.

  The Moulay would have seen them both killed, but Aisha intervened. "A king can and should be merciless. Cruel. Dispassionate. But a king if he would have his subjects' respect as well as fear goes not back on his word. You promised the winners would live. Keep your pledge." Her voice crackled with authority and the Moulay couldn't meet her scornful glance.

  Mustering what little dignity he had left, he turned, gesturing for the her/him to accompany him, and stormed out of the royal box. Ali, down below, patiently waited the royal pleasure. Aisha hesitated a moment, then raised her hand, index finger pointing up, thumb down: one man must die. De Wynter, within his envelope of confining cording, could not see the byplay in the royal box nor who it was who condemned his fellow to death. But he heard the results: a long, shrill scream of sheer agony cut short in mid-crescendo, only to be replaced by the fearsome deep-throated gurgle of a dying man drowning in his own blood.

  De Wynter froze momentarily, then renewed his mighty but futile struggle with the net. But he was caught fast and left that way to shout himself hoarse threatening, taunting, pleading, cursing. Finally, he fell silent and after what seemed hours, he was hoisted high on the shoulders of two silent ones and carried back to his cell, there to be dumped none too gently on the floor at the feet of his companions.

  Immediately, many eager hands set to the job of disentangling the giant knot of webbing that held the captive as if in a cocoon. While they picked at, tugged, bit, twisted, disentwined and unraveled the cording, he badgered them with questions. Questions about themselves and their fights. Questions that no one rushed to answer. Growing suspicious, he twisted his head about and searched among the anxious faces surrounding him for that of the one he could count on to tell him true. Where was he? The others knew for whom he searched, and none could sustain his gaze. Finally de Wynter locked glances with the sympathetic gray eyes of Carlby. It was the younger man's eyes that gave way, his fears confirmed. Then, the nets came free and warm hands helped de Wynter to his feet. Still no words were said. Not then, not during the night when muffled cries disturbed the stillness, not ever.

  CHAPTER 31

  Involuntarily, her fingers curled as the asira lightly stroked the henna brush across her palm. Tonight, thanks to that hand, Aisha was content with the world. For the first time since Ali had alerted her to Eulj Ali's presence in the games, she could think of the outcome of the competition with anticipation, not trepidation. Squirming deeper into the soft cushions upon her couch, she permitted herself a small smile of satisfaction as she admired her free hand with its deceptively slender fingers that could control the unruliest of stallions... the buffed nails filed short to give her freedom with bow and lance and throwing dagger... the thumb that with one gesture proved itself greater than the rest, by ending a man's life and a princess's fears.

  Stretching elegantly, Aisha smiled fondly at Ramlah, who lounged on a couch opposite, busily soothing herself by puffing from her waterpipe, the one decadent custom of her Arab in-laws that she had adopted wholeheartedly. Looking upon this woman who had selflessly sacrificed so much for her country, her people, her daughter, Aisha vowed to do as much for her. If that meant sitting through what seemed to Aisha to be a semisavage pre-wedding-night ritual, then so be it.

  The bath ritual last night had been enjoyable. But then, it was merely an elaborate version of her own usual bathing habits. But this senseless dyeing of hands and feet, barbaric! But not by word or glance or gesture did Aisha reveal her personal opinions to her mother.

  Ramlah, who had been awaiting a repetition of the outburst of two nights before, noted her daughter's smile with relief. Finally, Aisha had reconciled herself to her marriage. At least, Ramlah hoped that was so. Deep down inside there was the nagging fear that her daughter's content might have been caused by the selfsame thing that always calmed the Moulay: the sight of gore. Resolutely, Ramlah put that thought from her mind as the euphoria of the .smoke from Zainab's special blend of tobacco spread throughout her system. As it did so, her smile grew wider, her eyelids dropped, her eyes glazed. For almost twenty years, the waterpipe had never failed
to give her solace. She came awake with a jerk. She must not forget the hafiz sitting behind the latticework screen. A word to the white eunuch serving the coffee, who passed it on to the black eunuch guarding the screen, who respectfully requested the hafiz to begin the night's readings from the Koran.

  Ramlah, once she'd assured herself that he was reading the right passages, leaned back and gave herself over totally to the smoke of the nargileh. Aisha, engrossed in her own thoughts, watched disinterestedly as the ama finished repainting the egg and gathered up dye-pots and brushes preparatory to moving to the other side of the couch to begin on the other hand. But first Zainab must inspect her work and then summon a young cherubic castrato to dry the dye on the Amira's hand with an ostrich-plume fan.

  All seemed apparent domestic docile bliss until Aisha suddenly sat up, tearing her hand from the asira's grasp. "Holy man," she called to the figure hidden from sight. "The blessings of Allah be upon you."

  "And on you, my daughter. Why stop you me in my reading?"

  "Holy man, I thought I misheard. Read me those last words again so I may be properly instructed."

  "From where should I begin, my daughter... at the beginning?"

  "Nay, holy man, from where you said, 'Men are in charge of women.'"