The Mer- Lion (63 page)

Another great cheer went up. The spectators settled into their seats. The contestants crowded around the balbis. The measuring umpires took up their positions. And the first thrower stepped up on the raised mound, palming the light discus first in his left, then his right hand, and back again, trying to get the feel of ft; for no contestant had been allowed to handle the carefully sized and weighted discus beforehand. Several sets of three were neatly piled under the watchful eye of the starter.

Planting one foot firmly on the top of the mound, the other halfway down its front slope, the first thrower leaned back until much of his body was horizontal, curled himself like a spring with the discus at his back, and with a mighty spring and twirl heaved the object toward the center of the arena. A cheer rose from the crowd, this being the first toss, and the measurers quickly descended on the landing area and marked the precise spot with a peg, while noting
the exact distance on their official scorecards. De Wynter had no way of knowing whether or not this was a worthy throw, but it made him wonder if he could match it.

The athlete fouled on his second toss, his foot coming to rest just over the front line. His third toss was nowhere near as long, being made with the heaviest of the three discs. Now he could only wait and see how ninety-three others fared. The strategy of winning was quite apparent to de Wynter now. A bad throw or foul on the first throw could perhaps be rectified by a superhuman toss of the medium-weight disc. But it was most unlikely that anyone would win with the heaviest. To make matters worse, the critical first throw had to be done without benefit of practice.

The crowd's interest waned as athlete after athlete took his three turns, and it became clear to even the most unobservant that there would not be a winner until after the midday break. But interest was revived an hour into the discus event when the first call for the jumping contest was announced from the opposite end of the arena.

Gilliver, with his frail body, stood out in a sea of athletic and heavily muscled bodies, as he made his way, along with John the Rob, Carlby, Cameron, and Menzies, to the jumping area. Menzies was concerned because he was also entered in the discus event, and he might have a time conflict. But de Wynter had told him not to worry about it until he saw what number he drew in the jump, and as luck would have it, his was a low one.

"The second event is the Great Jump," the crier intoned for the benefit of those few spectators interested enough to leave their goblets of wine and their animated conversations. "One hundred and two contestants. The winner, he who clears the greatest distance in a running jump followed immediately by a standing jump. No foot may protrude over the starting line. No jump will count unless finished in a standing position. And no steps may be taken between the two jumps. Each contestant to have one try. May Allah bless him who competes."

The first jumper was called to the starting area, and staring intently at the long dirt pit ahead, ran swiftly down a marked path leading to the takeoff line, marked by a timber buried in the ground. In his hands he carried two metal weights with handles for gripping. As he toed the starting board and flew into the air, he heaved the weights forward in his arms, tucked his feet up under his chin, and sailed through the air. Approaching his landing spot, he threw his arms and the weights backward, affording him a better-balanced landing. From his crouched landing, he straightened, took a deep breath, crouched again and from a standing start, repeated the maneuver with the weights. The measuring crew moved in quickly, figured the distance from the nearest premarked spot, and recorded the jump as being seven meters, five decimeters, and three centimeters—about nineteen feet.

"What do you think? Do the weights help or hurt?" asked Menzies of Carlby.

"I think it depends," Carlby replied, "on how big you are through the chest. If you're slight, I don't think so, but the weights may help heavy-chested ones. Let's watch a few more before we decide."

They watched the longest distance rise to over eight meters by the time Menzies had his go at it. He had decided to forego the weights, feeling that his unfamiliarity with them might cause him to lose his balance. (Carlby, on the other hand, needing every advantage he could get, privately decided to try the weights.) Down the approach track the handsome Scot sped, hitting the takeoff board just right, and windmilling his arms as he flew through the air. Clearly it was a good jump, Carlby saw, and he gritted his teeth and muttered low encouragement as Menzies straightened for the standing jump, then crouched and leaped forward. He almost outjumped his balance point, teetered precariously for a second, then got it under control and straightened up. The judge ruled a good landing, since the imprints were clean and no other part of his body had touched the dirt. Down on the scorecard went a new record of nine, seven, and two—a full twenty-six feet. With a clap on the back from Carlby, Menzies was off to find de Wynter.

The earl was very much involved when Menzies arrived at the balbis. De Wynter had his foot planted on the mound, was twisting into a tight coil, and letting fly with the first disc. It was a creditable throw, but at thirty meters, four decimeters, a meter short of the best thus. far. Now came the real test to outdo his first throw with a disc a kilogram heavier.

He did it! But only by four decimeters. Not enough. With the heaviest disc of the three, he fell far short of his first throws.

"Don't worry, you've got two more events to go," Menzies consoled de Wynter.

"And you?"

"Leading the jump, but it may not hold, it's still early." "Drummond?"

"Not good enough," de Wynter replied. "Ogilvy's next, then you. How do you feel?"

"Not bad, though not nearly as comfortable about this as the jump," Menzies answered.

"Well, it may be," de Wynter said, "that we'll all have to compete tomorrow. A day of rest would be nice, but, frankly, compared to rebuilding that tier, competing seems easier."

Ogilvy stepped onto the mound, looked down at the unfamiliar disc, fidgeted his feet, and finally, with adrenalin pumping, threw a fluke. The round object flew farther than any before him. His second and third throws resulted in fouls, but his fellow slaves didn't care as they pummeled his bare back with enthusiasm.

Menzies executed his three throws with typical precision but none were beyond de Wynter's, let alone Ogilvy's. Angus did creditably, but his longest throw landed outside the markers and could not be counted.

Fionn worriedly whispered to de Wynter, "What would you have me do if Ogilvy's throw still leads when it is my turn?"

"Do your best," de Wynter answered. "Someone else might still do better than Ogilvy. If you don't and they do, we'll lose out altogether. Beat him if you can."

At the jumping pit, John the Rob and Gilliver gave it a good try, but fell far short of Menzies's mark. Carlby came not close at all; he was clearly past his prime for such pure athletic contests. Cameron jumped among the last, having drawn the seventy-eighth spot. Good athlete that he was, he just barely missed taking the lead.

Leaving Gilliver behind to see if Menzies's mark would hold up, the other four made their way around the perimeter to see how the discus event was going.

"How do we in this one?" Carlby asked of de Wynter

"Ogilvy still leads with Fionn yet to throw. I've advised Fionn
to
try and beat the mark. What do you think?" "How many more to go?"

"Five after Fionn; one's big and might easily beat Ogilvy, or even Fionn."

"Yes, I see your point," he said, nodding his head as though to make his agreement more emphatic.

They watched anxiously as the final throwers set out to beat Ogilvy's mark of thirty-one meters, one, and five. Four throwers tried and failed. Then Fionn calmly stepped onto the balbis, palmed the disc a few times, took his stance and executed an excellent throw, just short of Ogilvy's mark. Another good throw. Same result. Drawing on that extra strength they all knew he had, Fionn managed to throw the heaviest disc nearly as far as his first throw. But still Ogilvy held the lead—by design or accident? The next two had no more success. With still two to go, the next bested Ogilvy's throw by more than a meter, dashing the slaves' hopes of their first win. They were still very much alive in the jumping area, where Menzies still led and only four yet to jump. Through narrowed eyes, they watched one come within half a footprint. When the final measurement was made, Menzies's distance had held and eighteen arms all managed to participate in lifting Menzies to the broad shoulders of Fionn and Ogilvy, for a victory dance.

The official crier's voice rose above the din to announce the winners of the first two events: "In the discus, the winner, with a throw of thirty-two meters, two decimeters, nine centimeters: Zeno, of the Isle of Crete. In the jump, the winner, with a distance of nine meters, seven'decimeters, and two centimeters: Menzies, of Scotland. To allow you time to eat and rest, the next event, the javelin throw, commences in two hours. May Allah be with you where you go."

The crowd did not wait for the royal family to depart, but filed quickly out of the amphitheater and off to villas and tents, to dine and dally and rest. Many had found the Olympian games too slow and tame for their nature, and the seats too hard and uncomfortable for their posteriors.

Ramlah, for one, had enjoyed the morning. Not many an Arab woman, nor less-protected Berber, had seen so many naked men. Did not Mohammed tell believers to hide their pudenda from knees
to waist from the view of women? Fortunately, for the sake of the games, few contestants were orthodox or even Moslem. However, Aisha had paid special attention to only a few of the contestants: the silver-haired one; the giant Fionn, whom Ali had so strongly recommended; a handsome Taureg from the desert country to the west; a magnificently muscled black; and since they were there, those other tanned bodies that always surrounded the silver-haired one. One other one she watched—with loathing—Eulj Ali, the son of Barbarossa.

If he won, he would be excused from tomorrow's games, and that would not do. Tomorrow, gladiators fought. Nothing would please her more than seeing a sword through the redhead's heart. She wished she could arrange a special opponent for Eulj Ali, someone against whom he would have small chance of surviving. But the judges had demanded all draws from the gold dish be honest. Not yet was she ready to overrule these respected men. Not yet. As for Eulj Ali, she would hope for the best: the worst for him. In all honesty, however, she had to admit that he did have a masterful physique, with his father's red hair seeming to flow, uninterrupted, from his head to his beard to his full chest and in a narrow line down to surround his studlike genitals. She reminded herself Arabs hate body hair.

The Moulay Hassan too had enjoyed the morning more than anticipated. He could get used to watching naked athletes run and jump and contort their bodies. He too had been attracted to the beautiful pale-haired one, finding it curious that his head was hoary but his body hair dark, only barely tinged with multi-grays. He found this one quite stimulating. To enjoy himself until he got back in his villa, he sent for two boys from the group brought to al Djem for his own purposes.

The "Terrible Ten" spent the rest period sequestered in their own quarters, eating sparingly from the fruit, meats, and breads provided for the athletes, and resting on their pallets.

These hardened righting men marveled at what they considered the tameness of the first day's events, calling them, "Womanly!" "Unmanly!" "Perfect for children and cowards." And more. De Wynter and Carlby said nothing. But each knew what the other was thinking, Perfect for Gilliver. Only because nine men had deliberate-

ly done more than their share had the frail young man survived the trip to and the days at al Djem. If tomorrow's games were Roman as suspected from the lineup of the judges, it followed that they would be gladiatorial. If gladiatorial, they might be competing to the death, Gilliver's death.

"But if Gilliver should win today—" de Wynter didn't have to say it. Gilliver would be excused on the morrow.

"How? The events are based on individual effort."

"Except running." de Wynter reminded Carlby. "Suppose we were to crowd out some of his faster competition? Anyway, it's worth a try."

That it might cost Cameron his own chance to escape, neither thought worth mentioning. Carlby was too much the priest; de Wynter too long the leader of the companions, who thought first of others. Which was why de Wynter had agonized so about his choosing to escape the cage by involving the others. Of more immediate concern was the wrestling contest. "Suppose two of us are paired?" Carlby wondered.

"Enjoy it. At least we'll fight clean; more than I can say for the others. Did you see—" His comment was cut short by the rattling of the cell door, an announcement by the silent one that the men were to come out. The games were about to resume at the javelin range.
Muezzins
announced the starring order, Cameron, Angus, Drummond, and Fionn in the early throwing, and de Wynter, Gilliver, and Ogilvy toward the end.

Aisha and Rami ah were back in their seats, but the Moulay was absent as were many of the morning's spectators when came the official call for the javelin throw: "One hundred and ten competitors. The winner will be he with the longest throw—without foul from the starting board—that is nearest to the center line drawn from the great post in the middle of the arena. One throw by each contestant. May Allah bless him who competes."