The Mer- Lion (57 page)

Unknown to the slaves working within the amphitheater, beyond the confines of the arena, a camp was growing. Day by day, men arrived, together with their slaves, horses, trappings, tents, armor,
and women. The females, they were immediately told, must go, or else the lord himself and his retinue must leave. No women would be allowed within the camp of the contestants by order of the Amira Aisha.

"However," Ali ben Zaid or one of the eunuchs would be quick to add, "we should be delighted to escort your women to Sfax. There, at the princess's expense, they may await the results of this competition."

Most of the contestants, many of whom had bankrupted themselves to get here, had no choice but to agree. One lord, however, actually did depart in a huff.

The women, depending on their status, were seated in litters or mounted on donkeys' or camels for the trip to Sfax. There, they were temporarily housed in a makeshift seraglio. Once the games began, at Aisha's order, they were to be loaded into erode carts and trundled back to Tunis to be sold at the Souk al Berka under the white-toothed grin of that green-turbaned merchant of flesh, Hassan ben Khairim.

Most of the slaves lost count as each day melted into another, but not Carlby. Two days after the Moslems celebrated their Sabbath, he held Mass. That same day, he made a scratch on the wall to keep track of the weeks. One Sunday, consulting his wall, he announced, "Give or take a week, by my calculations we are two weeks past the feast of St. Andrew and have but two more weeks till the feast of the Nativity."

The announcement was greeted with silence. Nothing brought home to them more vividly the forloroness of their situation. Gilliver, in particular, took it hard. Since Islam considered Jesus Christ merely a prophet, the slaves could expect no celebration on his birthdate. Thus, Christmas Eve found work going on as usual. Twenty-three of them, as they had for the past few weeks, left the arena proper to work in the palace complexes soon to be occupied by the Moulay and his daughter.

De Wynter and Fionn were left behind to help in the clearing of the upper tiers of stones. It was obviously make-work since so few men could make little dent in the destruction caused over a thousand years. Why Fionn was singled out, no one knew. But de Wynter's special treatment they had come to accept. Soon after they arrived at
al Djem, they realized that though de Wynter was clothed, fed, washed, slept, worked as hard or harder than the rest, he was more closely watched than the others. Thus no one was surprised that he was not let out of the tight security of the amphitheater.

Today, at the palace, some of the slaves were set to laying carpets from Kairouan or hanging fine tapestries from Djerba. Others unpacked pottery from Sousse, marble pieces from Chemtou, furs from Tabarka, linens from the Nabeul. They had not quite finished when whistle and gesture rounded them up. As they left the palace, a troop of white-robed horsemen escorted two litters through the first gate and into the court of the White Eunuchs.

The next morning, no guard kicked them up at daybreak, nor were they taken from their cells to eat in the arena. Instead, at midmorn-ing food was brought to them: fresh fruit, goat's milk and the meat-filled
hlalims
they had not tasted since Tunis. Taking advantage of this unaccustomed leisure, Carlby and Gilliver took turns quoting psalms to each other; John the Rob practiced his juggling; others mended sandals; most, especially de Wynter and Fionn who still did daily the back-breaking stone-carrying labor the others had long since finished, slept.

And these were the two that the silent ones insisted rake the sand covering the arena floor. Putting their headcloths and robes aside, the two worked rapidly and companionably under the warm sun. Over and over again they did the job, their
muraqib
never being satisfied. The smallest ridge must disappear, lumps must be broken or buried, the rake marks must be erased until the sand began to resemble that left by the tides on the beaches of Tunisia.

Their labors were noticed but ignored by the three who entered the royal box up above. Each was dressed as was his wont when away from Tunis: Ramlah in Berber skirt and jacket and veilless headdress, Aisha and Ali ben Zaid in the enveloping white of the silent ones. No one spoke for a long moment as the two women admired the miracles Ali had wrought since last they visited the ruins.

"Son of my father,’ Ramlah declared, "if the Prophet had had you at Medina during the Hejira, his mosque would have been built in half the time.'' Aisha was not so effusive, but the sparkle in her eye was all the thanks Ali sought.

A Berber, he was modest, so he changed the subject. "What do you think of this?" He pointed to an amethystine amphora with black figures circling it. "We found it when we excavated one of the shrines below."

"It's beautiful, as is all that you have done."

Ali ben Zaig leaned on the wall surrounding the box and looked without seeing at the figures below. "I would that those I was doing this for were worth the effort." Dropping his veil, he faced the women. Young in years, he had that ageless look the desert bestows on its favorite sons. His lean, sharp face, all angles
and
planes, was dominated by a hawk nose that belied the sensitivity of his mobile mouth. His look was bleak, "I warn you, they are not!"

Aisha said nothing, but Ramlah protested, "These are the cream of the—"

He cut her short to hawk and spit down below. "Cream? Clots of soured cream perhaps. With the exception of one or two—one of whom I swear I have seen before—there is no man in that camp worthy of being in the Amira's presence, much less her bed." He spat again, The
muraqib,
who always kept one eye turned in his commander's direction, motioned the two slaves to go forward and smooth the sand below the royal box.

Ramlah, agitated, argued with him. Still Aisha said nothing, thoughtfully studying the man who was uncle and bodyguard, friend of her youth and her totally devoted slave. When he said nothing more, she was forced to. "And what would you have me do? Cancel the games?"

"No, open them wider."

"How?"

"The Moulay spoke of a public contest open to slaves—" Ramlah interrupted. "He never actually meant—" "Pretend he did!"

"You can't actually suggest that my daughter—" "I do. Unless she wishes to marry so far beneath her, she will look up to a whore."

"The contestants are that bad?" Aisha asked. "Worse!"

"You do not suggest this without a plan." In answer he directed her attention to the arena where the two raked, the muscles in their arms and backs rippling smoothly and
rhythmically under the golden brown skin. Ramlah was confused. Not Aisha. She considered them carefully. "And what of their faces?"

"The blond would satisfy most women; the other would satisfy anyone. He is a beauty. I myself had to fight my attraction to him. And outbid the whole of the slave market for him."

Money was no concern of Aisha's. "Would he compete?"

"Does he have a choice? No, I understand what you mean. Yes, I think so, provided the incentive is right."

' 'Incentive—what incentive?" Rami ah interrupted. "Is not the hand of my daughter enough?"

"Obviously not, Mother. So what do you suggest, Uncle?"

"That if he wins, he'll no longer be your slave."

"And what then? Do I free him, just like that, to walk away from here if he chooses, without marrying me?" The scorn in her voice would have shriveled other men. Not Ali, he knew his Amira too well.

"Not at all. You will have promised only that he will no longer be
your
slave. Sell him to me. Besides, Islamic law states you may not marry your own slave or bondsman."

She stared at him for a moment and then her eyes changed; he knew she smiled behind her veil. "You are, Uncle, more than a miracle worker, you are a genius."

"Aisha, you're not taking his plan seriously?" Ramlah said.

"I
am, I am." She took another look at the two at work down below, backing away erasing their footprints in the sand.

"Aisha, you cannot. The Moulay will forbid it."

"Why? He announced the competition open to all in audience. Besides, he is the son of a woman bought in the markets, as was his father before him, and their fathers before them. There is more slave than royal blood in me, at least on his side. No, Ramlah, a slave husband might be the answer to all of our problems. I think. Uncle, that your plan is well made."

Ramlah bit her lip and was silent. Then, her face brightened. "What chance has a slave against free men?"

"Daughter of my father, take a good look at those slaves. Not an ounce of fat between them. I walked them here by way of Kairouan, chained neck to neck. They work seven days a week at hard, muscle-building labor, and sleep on a stone floor with no more mattress than a single thin robe. They are fed just enough to survive, no more. No wine has passed their lips, nor coffee; only fresh water or goat's milk. They are in excellent physical condition." "And what of their spirits?"

"Unbroken. I left the taming of them to you. I promise you—nay,
I
wager you—if you accept these slaves into your competition, one will win."

Her curiosity was piqued. "Which one?"

"I shall write his name on a tablet and seal it to be opened on your wedding night. Five thousand shekels to your ten says I shall be right."

"Done." The Amira looked down again at the men below, then gave the ancient urn a push, toppling it into the arena to smash into a thousand pieces in the path of the two rakers. Startled, they looked up at what was to them just another silent one. But Aisha liked what little she could see. "I would see them clean shaven. Can it be done?"

Ali laughed. "If I can rebuild a ruin, I can shave a beard. It will be done." "When?"

"Tonight. They are due for bathing and delousing anyway. I’ll just add barbering to that."

"I would be there; let me know when." She continued staring at the two slaves painstakingly raking up the pieces of purple and black pottery. The only sound was the slow, methodical swish, swish of sand being smoothed once again by the two young men in the arena.

"The urn was chipped. Replace it." She turned on her heel and left the box, Rami ah and Ali following.

Back in their cell, Carlby awaited their return to celebrate in hushed tones a solemn Christmas Mass, handing out crumbs of bread he had saved from his meager ration. De Wynter felt no Christmas joy, only hatred toward his captors. As John the Rob's dextrous hands massaged some of the soreness out of his back, de Wynter pitied the Order of St. John of Jerusalem if he were typical of their novice priests. On second thought, he decided he did not care a whit for them either.

The massage was interrupted by the arrival of a group of silent ones. Opening the cell door, they waved the prisoners out Footsteps quickened when they saw that they were headed for the washrooms. Although there were luxurious baths within the colosseum, designed for the ancient gladiators, the slaves made do with something far less fine and didn't care. Under the silent ones' watchful eyes, especially two large almond-shaped ones, the slaves stripped.

Plunging their hands into bowls of strong-smelling soap, they lathered themselves from head to toe. Fionn and de Wynter claimed the privilege of being first to be rinsed. "We were, after all, the only ones this day to do an honest day's work."

The others' outrage was more for show than honest protest, and the two were pushed to the front of the line. As de Wynter stood under a hole in the ceiling, slaves up above loosed a torrent of sun-warmed water over his head. None of the baths he'd ever had in his life felt as good as this one. So long as the water poured over him, he was content to stand and relish it. But the other slaves would hurry him up. If the soap dried before one rinsed, the suds had to wear themselves off over the next few days.

When he finally emerged from under that beautiful water, he was handed—wonder of wonders—a rough cloth with which to dry himself. As he was toweling himself off, he had the sensation of being stared at. Yet looking about, he saw no one but his fellow slaves and the usual guards. Shrugging his shoulders, he dismissed the feeling.

He had not yet finished drying off when a silent one beckoned him into the next room. More wonders. There waited a team of barbers. Their methods were rough but thorough. Within minutes he had been stripped of his beard and his head lightened by several inches of excess curl. A clean loincloth, robe, and new sandals made him feel like a new man again. He moved almost jauntily at the head of the group as it was being escorted back up the stone-walled corridor. The feeling that he was being watched prevented his noticing they had taken a new turn, were going a different way. Every cell here was empty. When the guards stopped and unlocked one of the doors, he swallowed his protest. What the hell, what difference what cell they were in, a cell was a cell.

"Not so!" stormed John the Rob, who had left his juggling stones
in the other cell. And Carlby regretted the toss of his makeshift calendar. That was not all they'd left behind. Where once they had been twenty-five, they were now ten: the seven companions, plus Fionn, Carlby, and John the Rob.

The following day, those ten prisoners were marched out into the arena, whose carefully swept sands now bore (he impress of playful night winds. They came to a hah before the royal box, which held the same three figures as the day before. Ali ben Zaid stood, came forward, and unveiled. To the slaves' amazement, he was young, handsome even, in a dark, somber way. To their further amazement—for they had thought him a mute like the rest—he spoke to them, his voice rich and resonant