The Mer- Lion (66 page)

They question thee, O Mohammed, concerning menstruation and marriage. Say: it is an illness, so let women be during their times and go not in unto them 'til the flow ceases and they are cleansed. But when they have purified themselves, then go in unto them as Allah hath bidden you. Truly Allah loveth those best who have a care for cleanness. Remember, your women are tilth given unto you for you to cultivate so go to your tilth often and plow well and good and send good deeds before you for your soul."

Aisha shuddered at the comparison; the slave women apologized effusively, thinking they had mistouched a nerve somewhere. The Iman continued blithely, serenely on:

"Those who forswear their wives must wait four months before going in unto them; then if they change their minds, lo! Allah is Forgiving, Merciful, a Knower of men and their minds. Too, if they decide upon divorce, lo! Allah is Forgiving, Clement. Women who are divorced shall keep to themselves apart three monthly courses. Nor is it lawful for them that they should conceal that which Allah hath created in their wombs. For if they bear fruit, their husbands would do better to take them back in that case if they desire reconciliation. For women have rights similar to those of men over them in kindness, but men are
a
degree above them. So good women are obedient Allah is Mighty, Wise. But women, too, have rights. If divorce be pronounced twice, then a woman must be retained in honor or released in kindness. It is, not lawful to make them await your pleasure. Nor is it lawful for you that ye take from women aught of that which ye have given and endowed them. If ye have divorced her the third time, then she is not lawful to you until after she hath wedded another husband. Then if the other husband divorce her, it is no sin for her to rejoin her other man. Allah is Hearer, Knower. He giveth you to divorce for He knoweth men, yet three times must ye speak the words. This, too, He commands that hasty words do not unmake a marriage. For think ye that Allah giveth you first marriage, then divorce. Fear Allah, for He knoweth men better than they know Him.

Anyone knowing Aisha could predict her reaction to such words. Never had she acknowledged any man her superior. An equal, perhaps, as in the case, almost, of Ali. As the Iman had intoned the command for obedience, her head had risen as neck muscles went rigid. Angry words came to her lips to be suppressed only with great effort. Nor, as the Iman continued merrily on to divorce, did she grow much more relaxed. Only
a
man may divorce, never the woman—
a
patent unfairness as far as Aisha was concerned. Wisely, Ramlah signaled the Iman to desist To have him continue on, as was normally done, detailing the suckling rights of children, would do this reluctant bride no benefit Grateful for her release from listening more, Aisha allowed a robe to be thrown loosely about her magnificent shoulders, and she strolled into the dressing room where her grooming continued.

Her hands and feet were attacked simultaneously by
asiras
who specialized in this endeavor, pushing back cuticles, deftly running pointed wooden utensils along the undersides of her nails, rubbing the ends with pumice and polishing the surfaces with pieces of sheepskin sewn over pieces of wood. Now others applied colored gloss while helpful mouths gently blew it dry. Aisha did not watch, lest her good mood be soured by a glimpse of the hennaed symbols on her palms.

Her long, lustrous hair was rubbed, strand by strand, between towels that were replaced every few seconds by dry ones. Spiced oil spilled lavishly into palms was then rubbed into each strand until her head reflected the torchlights. And practiced fingers twisted her mane into dozens of tiny ropes fastened at the ends—Berber fashion— with multicolored beads. In Aisha's case, tourmalines of rare red and blue and green and brown and not a single ordinary black.

Rouge was applied to cheeks and nipples, kohl to her eyebrows and upper lids, powder over her body, a drop of perfume here and there. With the benefit of frequent practice, Zairiab and the slave girls had refined to ultimate perfection the promise of healthy beauty.

Their ministrations completed, the handmaidens held the silken drawers for the Amira to step into
...
fastened about her proud-breasted form a loose-fitting sheer tunic
...
draped over that, a multicolored robe even more sheer, so that it accentuated more than concealed. Finally, over all, a gold-encrusted robe with tight-fitting midriff and flaring skirt.

Admiring the results, Ramlah nodded her approval. "No princess, Berber or Arab, was more beautiful." The kiss she gave her daughter was as much token of love as benediction. "Fear not, my daughter, no man can resist such loveliness."

"That, Mother, is hardly the problem. You have it backwards." With that, Aisha swept from the room to seek her litter for the return to her villa. There, to the mournful strumming of a zitar, she paced the floor. To spend her days watching nude men play games, her nights listening to old men singsong the
Koran
—these did not appeal in their passivity to her active mind and body. Nor did thinking about two slaves who, in all probability, would never survive the next few days. She needed something to do, to occupy her mind, her emotions.

A clap of her hands summoned a slave to bring Ali.

Love, admiration, lust—all warred within him and betrayed their presence in his eyes as he gazed upon this woman who could never be his. Tactfully, she ignored his response, pretending, as she had for years, that their relationship was as passionless on his side as it was on hers. Quickly, she got to the point. "Remember our trip together through the oases to meet the tribes? I vowed men to do it again. I have decided now is the time." "Now? In the midst of the games?"

She was impatient; Ali had a tendency to always take her so literally. "Of course not, but immediately afterward. What better way to introduce a consort to his peoples? To help us plan it, I would have maps of the region, lists of the tribes and their elders, suggestions for gifts. There is so much to do and so little time to do it in. Especially since I would not have the Moulay know of this." For the first time in weeks, genuine enthusiasm sounded in her voice. For that he was glad. But to plan a trip through Tunis, one of such scope as she described, could not be done in the short time they had left. Ali said as much.

"How can you say nay without trying first?" Aisha demanded. "Begin the preparations. If need be, I can delay my departure a day or two or three. But I am going. I have made up my mind."

When she used that imperial tone of voice, Ali knew better than to argue. He could only hope that once she saw the unfeasibility of her desires, she would be more reasonable. However, he said none of this. "Your will be done, Princess. I shall start immediately."

"Good. Go. And sleep well." He was dismissed. But not into the arms of his concubines. Instead, as he knew she knew, the lamps would bum late into the hours of the next day as he began putting her wishes into actions. She, too, was awake late, making mental inventory of the gowns she would take, the jewels she would wear, the horses she would ride, the slaves she would need.

Only one thing would she not be able to decide for herself: which man would accompany her. As the zitar continued its sad song, she paced the floor. A man, a husband. Why must a woman marry? Was one of those wretches in the camp more fit to rule than she who had been educated to this role for all of her life? It was unfair. Not only would a husband usurp her right to rule but marriage would also rob her of the one threat she and Ramlah possessed to hold the Moulay in check—disclosure. Perhaps she might have to make her move to oust the Moulay sooner than she had planned—maybe as soon as the day after her wedding night. It would be her own grandfather who would come to collect the sheepskin. If he were to find it free of blood, and if he were to be told the truth
...
? Aisha's eyes sparkled,

and her pulse quickened as she imagined the Berbers, gathered en masse for her wedding, swooping down once again to oust a Moulay. But then the realist within her chided her "Silly child, even if you, your
lkwan,
and the Berbers were victorious, would the people rise up and support you, a mere woman? Or would they lie down and send for the Barbarossa?" She knew the answer as well as she knew her name.

She threw off the gown that hampered her stride. The stinging of the beaded ends of her plaited hair whipping about her shoulders seemed like caresses compared to the torture of her thoughts. Deliberately, she forced her thoughts elsewhere, to the trip. The trip
...
what better way to unite the tribes behind her man to come to them as a young bride with a champion of champions riding at her side? Barbarossa's illusion of invincibility would fade beside the reality of a man they could see, touch, and—she sucked in her breath with excitement—even challenge to compete.

It would work, she thought, snapping her fingers in delight and rousing the dozing zitar player to sudden discordant wakefulness. With surprising kindness, Aisha dismissed the girl and, with a twinge of regret, recognized that this trip would not be as devoid of political necessity as the other journey had been years ago. Unbidden, thoughts of a narrow, grass-covered gorge came back to mind, the memory of a kiss and a man's hand, warm and gentle on her breast. But that she forbade herself to ponder. She must think about gowns, jewels, horses, and slaves. Slaves. Again her treacherous mind led her astray. To thoughts of another kiss. Of blue, unbelievably Mue eyes looking laughingly down into her own. Of arms holding her tight and immobile. Of some small object beneath his rough tunic bruising her breast. She had forgotten about that. What was ft he wore about his neck? To wonder was to find out. Again a clap of the hands and a summoning.

Not long thereafter, de Wynter and his group in their rough quarters were rudely awakened from the deep sleep of the physically exhausted. As they scrambled to their feet, eyes blinking in the bright torch light, Ali strode up to de Wynter and held out his hand. "Give it to me."

"Give what? I have nothing."

"What you wear about your neck. I would have it."

Now fully awake, de Wynter opened his mouth to protest, then thought better, of it Ali was obviously agitated. Silently de Wynter reached into the neck of his tunic and pulled out the small carving of the Mer-Lion mat hung from a thong made of threads laboriously unraveled from his tunic and plaited together. Before de Wynter could remove it from around his neck, Ali seized it and jerked, breaking the cord. With the Mer-Lion in his possession, he turned on his heel, leaving behind a group of stunned slaves.

"Now, what do you suppose that was all about?" Drurnmond asked of no one in particular. And received no answer back. Just when de Wynter had decided he'd begun to understand his captors, they did something so bewilderingly irrational. Why wake a man up in the middle of the night to get a charm he could have had the following morn? Ali asked the same question of his Amira as he handed her the small carving, but he too expected and received no answer. Instead, he was dismissed without a thank-you as Aisha studied the small carving she held in her hand. Never had she seen such a strange-looking animal. In a way it reminded her of its owner: proud, ferocious, different from others. When at last she fell asleep that night, the Mer-Lion was still clutched in her hand.

CHAPTER
30

The next morning, at daybreak, the
muezzin's
call to prayer was reinforced within the slaves' cell by the play of a silent one's spear upon the bars of the door. The noise did not cease until even the deepest sleepers of the group acknowledged and decried it. The men sat up reluctantly and painfully, nothing new in their lives; so they had awakened every morning for weeks. But today, Menzies and Cameron gleefully, deliberately leaned back upon their pallets, bidding their friends a sardonic farewell.

Their triumph was short-lived. The silent ones seemed unaware that any had been excused from competition this day. A spear's point in the junction of the shoulder and neck persuaded both the agile and the quick to rise and join the rest for a trip to the slop room, then to eat a plain breakfast, as usual, except for portions that seemed unusually generous. Still gnawing at the hard-baked bread, they were on .their way to the arena.

At the same time, within the tent-city of the other contenders, whip-bearers began a clean sweep through the camp, rousing those who, failing to heed the
muezzin's
call and nursing sore muscles, had stayed in bed. As the men stumbled, limped, and hobbled out from their tents, a few noticed that at least a handful of their fellows had struck tents and disappeared with servitors. "Into the desert," said one. "Afraid," agreed the other.

As they gulped thick black coffee and a thick sweet mint tea with their meats, breads, and fruits, not a few envied those shrewd

enough to run away. That was their opinion until they arrived at the arena. Atop each of six of the Corinthian mural columns, a head leered down, its tongue lolling uncontrollably. The flesh, not yet finished yielding up its fluids, had already begun to swell within the skin. Flies danced about the tongues and clung in thick clusters to the eyes. The contestants quickly averted their gaze and passed into the arena, the gate closing with frightening finality after the last one.

Within the chamber of the gladiators, that barren cold room, the men who gathered were somber. Again they were told to disrobe. Again they entered the arena shivering, welcoming the sun's heat. Again the royal box was only partially occupied: by Aisha, her mother and Ali ben Zaid. At the Amira's feet, lay al Abid, the cheetah, the Amira's almost constant companion since the royal box had been invaded by a slave within the last month. Al Abid did not, as a matter of course, make her presence known to the contestants below.