The Mer- Lion (55 page)

Cooler heads among the group, notably Carlby's and Drommond's, physically prevented de Wynter from doing anything rash. They sat on him to keep him from attacking one of the guards or attempting to scale the fence to escape. While Fionn and the others held him down, Drammond and Carlby conferred, then Carlby approached one of the four guards.
"Salaam, janab.
May your slave ask of his master some water, perhaps some bread, and some shelter from the sun?"

The guard did not answer. Switching from Arabic to Sabir, Carlby repeated his request, no response. Spanish, French, Italian. It made no difference. The guard did not answer. Nor staring up into his veiled face could Carlby decide whether the black-eyed man had even understood. While he was debating what language to try next, the gate swung open and four nervous blacks entered. One carried a wa-terskin, two between them an enormous copper tray of what looked like dough balls, and the fourth headcloths plus a loincloth which he tossed in the general direction of de Wynter before fleeing the pen.

Later, as the men licked fingers and lips, having stuffed themselves to satiety on the meat-filled
hlalims,
John the Rob sidled up to Carlby.

"Sir priest—"

"Don't call me that. Forget that I am other than a slave like you."

"As you wish. Do you note that the guards do not speak, yet all act as one? And we got all you requested?"

Carlby shrugged. "Maybe someone outside the pen heard."

The smaller man leaned back and stared up at the guards, who returned his stare just as intently. "Maybe, but I have my suspicions
..."
With that, he got to his feet and wandered over to the gate, where he could peer through the planks and watch the goings-on within the walkway. It was he who first saw ben Khairim escorting a white-veiled one up the walkway.

Without undue haste, he strolled over and hunkered down next to Carlby. "The new master comes. Best watch our friend lest he do someming rash."

Carlby nodded. Casually, so as not to draw unnecessary attention to himself, he got to his feet. Kicking Drummond's foot suneptitiously, he beckoned the man to join with him. The two moved, as if haphazardly, toward where de Wynter sat alone, arms hugging his legs, forehead on knees.

He didn't move a muscle when the two stood over him, but he knew they were there. Without looking up, he spoke: "It is time, is it? Well, it had to happen eventually. Thank you, but don't worry. I will do nothing rash. Not now. Not when your lives could be endangered." He turned his head to one side so that he might look Carlby in the eye. "But if I find a time when I cannot stomach it, pledge you not to stop whatever action I take."

Carlby squatted down before him. "De Wynter, others have found such a life bearable."

"I am not others." De Wynter's frosty eyes echoed his words.

"Jamie, mayhap it will not be as you think,'' Drummond suggested.

De Wynter laughed silently. "No? Why did Ali ben whatever pay better than double the best price paid before? Do you dunk he wants perfect rowers?"

Before he could say more, the gate again swung open. This time it stayed open. Blacks with crooks in their hands advanced and deftly snared one slave after another and drew him out into the walkway. There, irons were clamped on wrists, and the slaves were linked up; only Carlby, de Wynter, and Drummond remaining behind. Ali ben Zaid entered the pen then, and with the spears of the four guards lending emphasis to his gestures, summoned them forth. Reluctantly, the three rose to their feet and walked forward. They too were linked to the human chain; and then, prodded by spear point, the three dozen moved to leave the slave market.

But they were stopped by the slave dealer. "With your permission,
al-rabb,
the former owner of these slaves would like to share his newfound wealth with its source and give one of them a small memento."

At Ali's inquiring look, the black hastened on. "A mere trifle. A carving. A good luck charm, no more. Look, your man can see for himself it is harmless." And he handed it over to the nearest silent one, who examined it incuriously and quickly, and turned it back to the black. With Ali's concurrence, the black handed it over to its rightful owner, uniting de Wynter and the Mer-Lion again. With his, charm held fast in his hand, de Wynter followed helplessly as the three dozen slaves were marched out the gates of the auction house, through the medina, to the Kasbah and whatever fate awaited them.

CHAPTER
83

That night was spent at the Kasbah, that sprawling combination of soldiers' barracks, slaves' quarters, and government offices where the day-to-day business of managing the country went on without the Moulay's immediate attention. To the slaves, the quarters seemed luxurious since each man was able at last to stretch out full length on straw spread over a cold stone floor.

The slaves woke sernirested at the call to prayer at daybreak. Slop buckets were removed, water was passed out for hasty washing as well as drinking, and slaves brought food. One skimpy threadbare robe, two loincloths and a pair of rope sandals were issued each. From a square of patched cloth and a length of old rope, each man fashioned a head covering. Finally, the men were- chained, neck to neck, a scant three feet between. Escorted by silent ones on horseback and followed by supply camels, the human chain departed by a side gate out onto the square facing the Dar al Bey, where Aisha and Ramlah were enjoying the three-hour bathing ritual preparatory to attending the Great Mosque.

The narrow streets, usually thronged with people, were practically deserted for it was Friday, the Moslem Sabbath, and the shops were shuttered. The only ones they passed were slaves and now and then a Jewess wearing her
kufia
or sugarioaf hat, loose jacket, and tight-fitting trousers. The point of a silent one's spear kept the slaves from ogling the women openly.

Whenever the crooked lane opened into a square, the slaves could see the graceful white minarets of the city's hundreds of mosques silhouetted against the cloudless cerulean sky. While passing near the Roman reservoir, they came close enough to the Mosque al Ksar, the oldest in Tunis, to hear the sonorous chanting of the owners of the shoes lined up outside the doorway.

Passing through the poorer quarters of the city, the slaves saw many a bloated belly supported by spindly legs. There were worse things in Tunis than being a well-cared-for slave. As they left the city gate, they turned not toward the east where the brilliant blue of the sea rivaled that of the sky, but southward toward the interior.

Soon, the slaves tramped past the last few signs of civilization and into a broad plain dotted with groves of olive and palm trees. Their welcome shade was sorely missed a few miles farther to the south when the group reached near-desert. The parched, sunburnt plain was coursed by numerous
oueds,
about which they must detour or laboriously traverse, not easy when walking so close to the man in front.

Mostly they walked single-file, picking their way over rocks deposited by rampaging waters running off the Bysacene and Zenghane mountains and flooding the plain during the rainy season. The salt crusts left by the evaporating water were cruel to the feet, and while trudging through them, the slaves were grateful for their rope sandals.

Off on the horizon, the slaves could see a long line of ragged and fantastic peaks, at least fifty kilometers high. Their eyes were playing tricks on diem, for the Djebel Zaghouan Massif rose only two kilometers into the air, although it seemed much higher because .of the flat plain that stretched to the base of the slope.

A piercing whistie called the first halt. While the guards faced Mecca and prayed silently, the drovers noisily forced their camels to kneel, the first human voices the slaves had heard since they left the city behind. The slaves, too, would kneel. But as they had learned the hard way while crossing the
oued,
no one moves independendy of his fellows when chained neck to neck. Carlby, who had commanded many a slave chain in his time, realized the silent ones were not about to give directions, so he took command. "On the count of
three, all squat. Hold onto the shoulders of the man before you, that will give you purchase. One
...
two
...
three!"

The camel drovers passed goatskins of tepid water that must be tilted, squeezed, and squirted in the general direction of one's mouth. De Wynter finally captured some and to him it tasted better than King Hal's best Madeira. Wiping his splattered face on his forearm, he watched to see how Drummond, to his left, would fare with this damnable Arab contraption. John the Rob, to his right, having drunk already, was searching the ground for large pebbles.

"Pass me that one there," he said, pointing to a rock about the size of a fig, near de Wynter's left foot. "And that."

Others seeing his interest, passed the round stones within their reach down the line to the beggar. One of the silent ones, noting the activity of the slaves, came over to see what was afoot.

"If you're going to brain one, here's your chance," de Wynter observed.

The beggar only grinned. "Watch this." Within seconds one, two, three, four, six of the rocks had flown up into the air and begun circling effortlessly under the spell of the beggar's hands. The silent one watched a few moments, then walked away, only to return with three of his fellows.

"You have made a conquest," de Wynter said, looking up at the quartet of guards staring, almost hypnotized, above tiieir veils at the whirling stones.

John the Rob said nothing, simply changing the juggling configurations. Evidendy, so long as he was willing to juggle, the guards were willing to watch. When one rock slipped from his hands and fell noisily to one side out of his reach, one of the guards helpfully retrieved it and handed it back to the beggar.

Just then, the whisde sounded. Not one of the white-robed ones objected when John the Rob gathered up his rocks and, making a pouch of his spare loincloth, tucked the ends through the cloth encircling his thin waist.

Again on Carlby's count, the men, leaning one on the other, dragged themselves to their feet. Before they started off, Drummond via de Wynter asked John the Rob, "What was mat all about?"

"Later. And watch what you say. Our guards may be silent, but there's nothing wrong with their hearing."

The caravan was soon under way again. The silent ones' destination was Kairouan by nightfall of the second day out. Though it was the fabled holy city of northern Ifriquiya, the guards knew where there were women to be wooed silentiy and wine to be sipped noisily within the cool shade of one of the city's many mosques.

That first day, the weary caravan plodded through the sand and salt for fourteen hours, with but brief stops for water or prayer, and once for a quick meal of biscuits and dried dates, washed down with water from a local well worked by a donkey. A transverse beam with stone weights at either end was rigged over the well. The small desert donkey pulled a rope attached through a pulley to one of the weights. As the donkey moved away from the well, a makeshift leather bucket was raised to the surface, where a man tipped it with a rope, allowing the water to spill into a container, or in this case direcdy into a trough. When the animal walked back toward the well, the goatskin bucket dropped back into the well and was refilled. 

The poor dumb thing, de Wynter thought, watching the donkey move back and forth, He has made the trip so many thousands of times, he no longer needs supervision. With a grimace, de Wynter saw the sinularity to his own situation.

As darkness approached, the caravan came to a halt, the slaves again being allowed to kneel. This time on Carlby's count, the results were less ragged and uncomfortable. A tent was pitched for the owner of the whistle, and fires were built; soon the aroma of coffee drifted the slaves' way.

One of the camel drovers brought out a skin of flour—to which a little water and salt were added—and pounded it to mix the dougti within. Big handfuls were then shaped into cakes. He raked some embers out of the fire and in their place dropped the cakes of dough. When heat-seared on one side, they were turned over. Finally, s hollow was scooped out in the sand under the embers, and the dougfc buried there with a covering of hot sand and embers.

After what seemed like hours to the watching hungry slaves, the cakes were dug up and the sand and ashes brushed off. When cool enough to handle, they were distributed among the slaves, alonj

with a handful of dates and goatskins of water. With practice, more of the water went into de Wynter's mouth and less on his face. His cake of dough was soggy, Dnimmond's brick-hard. Bom agreed the consistency was like sawdust, yet they tasted like manna.

Exhaustion precluded any other talk. But, tired as they were, they slept fitfully, being forced to lie spoonlike on their right sides because of the neck manacles. The heat of their close-pressed bodies kept off some of the cold night desert air.

At dawn they were almost glad to be roused from their sandy beds. Gladder yet when .they stopped an hour later for water and another handful of dates.

Their midday meal varied not one whit from that of the morning, but their puffy, reddened eyes could make out shapes shimmering on the horizon. The heat haze made Kairouan's crenellated ramparts and white minarets look more mirage than real. The city itself seemed to rise out of the air rather than resting on higher ground like most cities. Perhaps that was what led to her name, Kairouan, "Caravan of the Desert" in the tongue of the Moslems who built her.