The Mer- Lion (53 page)

Aisha could not believe her good fortune. Without coaxing or coaching, he was announcing the competition just as Ramlah had predicted. She prayed someday she could so well predict and control
the man who became her husband. She had to bend her head to hide the triumph on her face, barely suppressing it in her voice, "Your wish, O Moulay, is my command. But a public contest?"

He forgot that the idea was not his, that the preparations had already begun, that this was a potentially dangerous thing to do politically. Instead, he heard the quaver in her voice and gloried in the sight of her head bent low before him. Indeed, she would marry and with a man in no position to complain if he received slightiy used goods. Then the Moulay would be free to deal with that mother of hers. Too many years had that woman held him in thrall. Her punishment would be the slowest, most excruciating he could devise. He'd show her—and her daughter—that he was more than just a man. He was
malik!

"A public contest," he proclaimed pompously, grandiosely, "and one open to all. To Berber and Arab. To noble, to slave."

The court, already agog, grew still more excited. If this were true, the Amira Aisha could become the bride of any one of them. The Sheikh Hatim listened, more eager than most. Gladly would he trade a four-legged stud to become stud to the Moulay's daughter. But the 'Moulay's next words gave him a chill. "Remember, you go to the winner. The losers come to me."

While the courtiers had sat contentedly, sipping their tiny cups of scalding hot black coffee and second-guessing the Moulay's judgment, within the Souk al Berka de Wynter and the others squatted stoically and endured another day. First, the emptying of the slop bucket, then the replenishing of the water gourd, then the doling out of unleavened bread baked in coals until black and brick-hard. After that, nothing, until late afternoon and the second meal of the day, couscous, followed by a night of sleeping in turns.

John the Rob, who had claimed unopposed the unwanted place before the door and next to the slop bucket, was first to hear the commotion down the hall. "Milords, gentlemen, and other folk," he announced cheerfully,"inethinks breakfast is being served."

He was wrong. Instead, under close guard, the prisoners were let out of the cell and shoved into a double file, then led two by two down the passageway to the latrine, where their soiled loincloths were taken away. In the washroom each was doused with a pail of water. Sleeking their wet hair back as well as they could, they were
l
ed, still wet and still naked, into a shed. There, a group of black slavers awaited them. To one side lounged Eulj Ali, the captain of the ship, and a short, squat black man whose ornate robes and bejeweled curved dagger attested that he was no mere underling. Under his wary eye, each slave was led forward for the blacks to examine quickly and curiously. "Open your mouth, show me your teeth, move on
...
look up, look down, move on."

Over the monotones of the examiners, de Wynter, waiting his turn, could hear the thick voice of the black:
"Al-rabb,
I warn you, I run a quality auction here, and my customers know it. They expect my merchandise to be clean and healthy and able to do a good day's work. So even though I sell yours on consignment, if any one is diseased or infirm, my men will reject him."

"Fear not,
jallab,
these are healthy," Eulj Ali replied, working an ivory toothpick about within his mouth. "And look, there is the one I told you about. Is he not a beauty? Even wet, you can tell his hair is strange-colored."

The auctioneer looked where Eulj Ali pointed, then gestured for a man to move de Wynter out of line. Instinctively, de Wynter shrugged aside me guard's rough hand and stayed put. The black smiled, showing big square white teeth.

"A man of some spirit, as well." Two pairs of ironlike hands on wrist and bicep persuaded de Wynter that he wished to move out where the black could look him over.

Slowly, the black studied the naked man held angrily immobile for his inspection. Like the professional merchant of flesh he was, he looked first for that sign of class, that elegance so few bodies have. This one had it, he decided. Then, he looked for how the parts of the physique blended together. The well-shaped head was held disdamfully high upon its strong, corded neck, flowing into broad shoulders above a wide, deep-spring chest that tapered swiftly into narrow waist and slim hips. The legs were long and lean and limber, with little hair and that so light it barely showed. That pleased him. His customers disliked body hair.

Moving around behind the slave, he noted the strong back, still bearing a mark here and there of the oarmaster's whip. They would fade, he decided, tracing them with one finger, as de Wynter

flinched at his touch. Approvingly, he ran his hands over the small, fiat buttocks mat clenched involuntarily as he separated them.

Walking around to face the slave who stared expressionlessly over his head, the black reached up and gripped the chin, forcing that well-chiseled aristocratic face from side terside. Still watching the slave's face he let his free hand move down the breastbone to the flat belly and then still lower. At first, only by the hooding of those frosty blue eyes did de Wynter acknowledge what the man's hand was doing so slowly, so thoroughly.

At last, the black stepped back, smiling. Still watching de Wynter, he addressed the two lounging onlookers and delivered his professional appraisal. "As you said, a beauty, a
rawa
indeed, even without the spice of the silvery hair. Only two faults do I find. The first, his height. Many of my more prosperous customers prefer such slaves to be small and especially weaker than themselves. The Moulay, for one, might look at this man, but he would not buy him. You, Eulj Ali, would be more his size."

"And the other fault?"

"A trifle and easily remedied with a slit of a knife. Like that you double his selling price. Of course, you would have to postpone the sale for awhile."

Eulj Ali and the captain exchanged avaricious glances. "How long?"

"He's young and healthy. He'd heal in two, three weeks or so."

Eulj Ali, sucked on his toothpick considering, then regretfully shook his head. "No, we can't wait. Sell him as is."

"But you will let me hold him out and sell him with the wenches. Selling this gem with that dross will weaken his price."

Before Eulj Ali could speak, the captain answered. "All or none. Those were my orders, those are your orders. If someone wants the
jamad ja'da
bad enough, he'll pay for the rest and get himself a bargain the while. These are all good stock—young, strong, able. Not a real shirker in the bunch except maybe the monkey-faced one. For being new to the oar, they made excellent time. Yes, indeed. They'll sell, all right If your striker talks them" up properly."

The black salaamed. "As you wish,
al-rabb."
Taking one last appraising glance at de Wynter, he signaled his guards to let the

slave rejoin his fellows and become part of the herd. With his fellows, he was classified as indoor or outdoor material, had a number written in ink on his back, was given a fresh loincloth and moved out of this building and into a walkway open to the sky and lined with pens. Made of rough-hewn planks and heavy posts, there were at least a dozen of them, one after another, and not all of those de Wynter passed were full of men. De Wynter and the others were all herded into one pen, at the far end of the row. From between the planks they could look out onto a square of the city itself.

Carlby answered the unspoken question: "The slave auction, my friends. I've seen one much the same, but larger, in Venice. A few words of advice: follow orders, no matter how silly or unpleasant. And for God's sake, don't fight them, not with a gesture, a look, anything—"

"You, in there," hailed the captain from outside the pen. "No talking." To add force to his words, four of the guards climbed to the tops of the four corner posts and perched there, flicking the whips they carried.

Again from without the pen, the captain spoke. "No sitting. No fighting. No shitting. The first one who dirties himself gets a flogging. The same with any who try to climb out. When your turn comes, move smartly up on the block and heed the striker's instructions."

With that, the captain stalked off to find himself a good vantage point for the auction. The slaves in the pen had an excellent one. Without, the square was filling up with colorfully-robed men. The absence of women was noticeable, especially in the rumble of masculine voices. Even as the slaves were staring at the prospective buyers, the latter showed no eagerness to examine the slaver's wares.

Soon, the gate swung open wide and the guard deftly hooked the nearest slave, Fionn, round the neck with a wooden crook. One tug and Fionn followed, leaving the pen. As de Wynter and the others crowded close and stared through the space between the planks, one man, with the permission of the guard, demonstrated for his son how to prod a man's calf to test for muscles
...
to pinch his belly to check for fat
...
to determine his age by opening the mouth and
checking the teeth
...
to prove him man by pulling aside the loincloth and rolling the balls within one's hand.

As the man did, so did the boy; Fionn, remembering Carlby's words, stood impassively while he was fingered. Finally, the father and the boy conferred, the latter evidently pestering the former to take some action. When questioned, the guard explained the conditions of sale. This provoked a heated discussion that ended with Fionn being returned to the pen, the prospective buyers turning away.

Within the square, drums began to growl, and slaves spread thick carpets at the base of the block, where the view was best, for the more affluent buyers. As other slaves, serving coffee, passed among the crowd, the drums picked up their beat, finally sounding a tattoo. On cue, the sumptuously dressed black stepped out onto the block.

"Sbah al star.
May the peace of Allah be with you. Welcome on behalf of the house of Hassan ben Khairim, your servant. This market I declare officially open and under the protection of the
Jalala al-Malik,
the Moulay Hassan—the blessings of Allah be upon him.

"Ah, my friends, I have such wares to show you today, I know not where to start. The men are young and brawny and superbly muscled. The women—ahh, such women—small and curvy and suitably muscled where it counts, down here. Within the group we sell today we have learned men, warriors, laborers, scribes and savants, gardeners—the full selection you expect when you attend a market of men conducted by the house of Hassan ben Khairim, your servant.

"But within this group, if you look close—and if you do not, I shall be sure to point them out—are such gems as I rarely have the honor to present to you. A giant of a man, blond, and muscled like none you've seen before. Two men's hands could not encompass the muscle in his arm. With a guard like that, any woman would be safe
...
except maybe from him. A flick of the knife solves that.

"Then, there is another, a man with a face on him that would make any child laugh. His hands, how fast. They juggle, they gesture, they make things disappear. I know; I had two bejeweled daggers before I met him
...
and look at me now, lucky to have one, luckier still to be alive.

"And then, there's the learned one who reads and writes Arabic like an
imam,
a man with a thousand tongues. The man who could be many things to his master: tallyman, majordomo, scribe, agent, whatever a man could wish. And this one is young enough and attractive enough that he could serve his master
night
and day.

"Ah, but speaking of which, there is another. My friends,
I
tell you this and I speak true. If I had my way, I would hold him back and sell him with the wenches, but his owner refused. This slave's beauty is such it would make the women look bad and the owner—ah, if I could just name him—the owner has twenty times as many women here to sell as he has men. He fears financial disaster if he allows you to compare men and women. It is for this reason that I announce a departure from our usual practice. Today, the House of Hassan ben Khairim, your servant, does what no flesh market dares. It sells the women first.
Muraqib,
bring out the women."

His shrewdness was apparent the moment the women were ushered out. None among the twenty was an outstanding beauty. The
mu'min
among them wore veiled,
the
fakir
were not. But it made little difference. Most of these women were there for resale. The corsairs' raids on the mainlands to the north of the Mediterranean had ceased until spring; until then, there would be a dearth of fresh, virginal, white women to sell.

The striker did the best he could, but the wares went slow and the bidding was low. Only one woman was stripped and she looked better dressed and was struck down to the last man who'd bid before he saw her naked. He, in turn, tried on the spot to try to resell her, but his fellows only laughed at him and called for the male beauty to be put on Jhe block.

The black was a master at reading and playing the crowd. Bowing in apparent obedience to the mood of the crowd, he clapped his hands and shouted, "Bring forth a blond."