The Mer- Lion (69 page)

Still holding the garment in her left hand, the smaller combatant— now the crowd's favorite—seemed to make those two bouncing globes the target of her attack. First one and then the other felt the point or the sharp edge of her blade, spilling blood.

The duel ended suddenly, before many of the spectators were ready. Their favorite, in a move that was executed as quickly as it came to mind, flung her garment into the face of her taller opponent, blinding her momentarily. Just long enough to lunge for the unprotected and already wounded belly. Straight through and out the back came the red blade. The smaller woman closed in and held her mortally wounded opponent close against her own body, all the while thrusting and sawing with the buried blade. Only when her opponent stopped
jerking and writhing, did she release her grip on sword and body and allow the dead woman to slump to the sand. Looking down on what she'd wrought, she sank to her knees and threw her body across and her arms around her victim. A mournful cry penetrated the ears and hearts of all but the most jaded witnesses. The Greeks would have called it a three-act tragedy. A frieml-to-foe-to-friend trilogy that freed two of Allah's servants from slavery. One to make her own way down a new and strange path. The other, by dint of dying in battle with sword in hand, already breathing the sweet perfume of paradise.

If Gilliver and Cameron had been properly armed, the Lady Islean's teaching would have forced them to intervene, to stop the farce before it began. Helpless as they were, neither had had the stomach to watch, instead pretending not to hear, resolutely looking elsewhere—at, for example, slaves drawing circles of salt upon the sand. Both eventually turned their attention to the royal box where the Moulay was animatedly enjoying and mock-emulating every clumsy hack and high-pitched shriek. At one point, only the quick actions of the young tiermaphrodite kept him from leaning too far over the wall of the box and falling to the sands beneath.

In the end, slaves pulled the victor from the victim, while one of their number, a burly slave carrying a hammer, ritualistically assured and reassured the fact of death with a sharp blow to the dead woman's forehead, splitting the skull open, spilling more blood upon the sands. Other slaves ran forward to drag the body across the arena and out the Gate of Death. Cameron and Gilliver carefully averted their eyes and watched instead as other slaves, bearing baskets, strew fresh sand over the bloodstains.

Again trumpets sounded, and now the two gates slid open and the combatants advanced into the arena: the Samnites proceeded to the circle closest to the Gate of Death; the Thracians went to the other end, near the Gate of the Gladiators; the fishman and net-wielder paired off in the center ring before the royal box.

When the first pair showed reluctance to engage, the whip-bearers brandished scourges and persuaded them. Then, suddenly, the arena rang with the honest clash of sword on sword and the crunch of shield on shield. Silently, the net flew through the air again and again. The crowd surged to its feet with delight shouting
"Afflrin"
or
"Ma'dan,"
the sixteenth-century Arabic versions of the ancient Roman cry of
"Habet!"
When, within minutes, the first man went down, the mass of spectators gave voice to such a roar that the gladiators down below the arena surface heard it.

To the Moulay's delight, two of the first three matches did not result in instant death. With the fallen ones' helmets removed, as Aisha had commanded, he could watch the piteous faces turn pasty white and contort with anguish as each watched a downturned thumb signal his death.

Only when the last match of the three was complete and a leather-lunged crier announced the results did slaves drag the dead gladiators out through the Gate of Death: "The winners!—from Venice, the Samnite Corosco
...
from Egypt, the Thracian, ben Duailan. From Greece, the Fishman, Koropolus. May the peace of Allah descend on those who lost."

As slaves passed among the audience with refreshments, others scattered fresh sand within and salt around each circle. Thus was the pattern set for the day. First the fights, then the dead dragged out, then audience and arena refreshed.

Gilliver and Cameron had lost count of the matches when the next fighters entered the arena. Both immediately recognized the man in the high-crested helmet with the sharply angled brim who carried both scutum and long sword—John Drummond—they would have known him anywhere. A flick of his head as he entered the circle nearest the Gate of Death showed that he, too, was aware of their presence. Drummond was not a small man nor slight of stature, but the Sicilian he faced was so large he made him seem so.

Each was too good a swordsman to wade into battle without testing out his opponent's reflexes, moves, and defenses. Long the two circled and 'sparred, until suddenly the Sicilian pressed the attack. After a furious exchange, he fell back, and again they circled. Drummond, professional swordsman that he was, realized he had drawn too tough an opponent, a man who outreached him by a good six inches. His only chance was to husband his strength, hoping to find an unexpected opening or land a lucky blow. Again and again, the Sicilian sprang to the attack, only to be forced to fall back. Long after the matches in the other circles had come to a bloody end, Drummond still held his own. But Gilliver and Cameron, watching
critically, soon began to detect signs of tiredness. Drummond held his shield ever closer and closer to him, blocking rather than parrying thrusts; his sword moved in smaller and smaller arcs, making not so loud a clatter on his opponent's shield. Yet, though he bled copiously from both arms and a gash in his side, he still matched thrust for thrust, swing for swing, despite sword and shield growing heavier by the minute.

Ali, pleased by one of his proteges showing and personally fond of Drummond as all who knew him were, signed to Aisha silently begging for the slave's life if he fell. She had already come to such a decision. Such dogged determination struck sympathetic sparks among the warriors looking on, but not from the Moulay who found the match interminably boring and urged the Sicilian on to the attack. Drummond just barely beat back each new sortie: Clearly his opponent had made the long sword, or its like, his specialty, so deft and practiced was he in its use.

Gilliver and Cameron, watching, found themselves yelling at Drummond to go down, to concede defeat, to save his life. No way did he show he heard. Barely holding up his shield and his sword hanging limply at the end of his arm, Drummond still stayed on his feet and circled wearily, dragging his feet in retreat about the circle and keeping the Sicilian always before him.

Tears blinded Gilliver's eyes as the bloodthirsty giant moved in for the kill, dropping his own shield and two-handedly launching such a whirlwind of arcing blows that none but an expert or a man big as himself could have turned them back. One sweeping blow sent Drummond's battered shield flying, the next—on his helmet— sent him to his knees, the third partially separated Drummond's head from his neck, blood spewing over victor as well as victim. The young Scotsman slumped forward to the ground; his head connected to his body by but a thin strip of flesh, and rolled over to stare unseeingly at the brilliant blue sky. so hard and different from the soft blues of his native Scotland.

The victorious Sicilian, with a maniacal cry, placed his foot heavily on the chest, forcing a gush of blood to spout from the dead man's throat. His upraised sword acknowledged the plaudits of a crowd that fickle-mindedly forgot its admiration for the fallen foe and now paid the victor his due. Cameron refused to look upon his
fallen friend; Gilliver, retching, couldn't, as two slaves dragged Drummond feet-first through the Gate of Death, his head bouncing along behind.

Fionn, entering with the next group, didn't need to be told that Drummond had fallen. One look at Cameron still supporting a Gilliver racked with dry heaves, told him the whole story. Anger surged through the young giant, transforming him into a merciless avenger.

He never really saw the young Cypriot athlete who faced him within the circle. Forgetting caution, technique, everything but revenge, Fionn sprang with a cry of agony at the nearest object. Using his sword like an ax, he literally folded the scutum around his opponent's left arm, leaving the torso bared for the thrust that found a vital organ. As the breath gurgled hideously within the young Cypriot's throat, the anger cleared from Fionn's brain. With a cry he dropped shield and sword as if red-hot and fell to his knees to beg tearful forgiveness of the man he'd just killed, the first ever.

Gentle, lovable Fionn had intended if given the chance to knock the weapon from his man and ask the Moulay to deckle his fate. Too late, he remembered his plan. And there, beside his lifeless opponent's body, he buried his face in his hands and cried—for himself, for Drummond, for the young Cypriot whose name he didn't know.

In the center circle, John the Rob circled warily as he twitched his neady folded net and crouched behind the tri-points of a trident longer than he was tall. His partner in combat was a battle-scarred dark-skinned veteran of many a war, who had nothing but contempt for the funny-looking three-pronged spear and the flimsy net. John the Rob had cast the net but once, and that so awkwardly, that the Ashman easily warded it off on his buckler and made John the Rob scramble for his life, dragging the net behind him. Only the swift intervention of a silent one backed up by the whip-bearers kept a suddenly terrified John the Rob from leaving the salt-enclosed ring. Forced to turn back and face the fishman who stood arms akimbo roaring with laughter, he grew deadly calm. Laughter he, knew
...
all his life his monkey-face had inspired mirth at his expense. Laughter for him was like a cold shower, dampening emotion, restoring determination, leaving his mind keener and sharper.

Crouching slightly, John the Rob reeled in the net and shook it,
preparing for another cast. The whip of the net stopped the Moor's laughter; he fended it off not so quickly as before. More deftly did John the Rob gather up his net this time, shaking it out for another try. Not ten times had he thrown the net, but already his dextrous juggler's hands were learning to control it. Now, he knew confidence. No muscle-bound lout would defeat the man who had escaped King Hal's warders, not to mention the Mayor of London's guards, a. good hundred times over. He had been caught the only time he was off guard—while in bed with a wench. No wenches were here today to slow him down or keep his mind off his work. All he needed was an opening that would give him a bit of an edge.

The Moor was in no hurry, preferring to wait until the net was cast, then he planned to pounce on the monkey-faced one as he busily reeled it in; or better yet, yank and cut the net from his hand.

Another quick toss of the net. A hurried sidestep. The deadly net slithered off the Moor's shoulder to fall harmlessly to the ground and be pulled back instandy by the wiry little cut-purse.

John the Rob swiftly gathered in the net, shaking it open with one quick jerk. He was realist enough to know that in a fair fight he had no chance against his bigger and stronger opponent; his only chance was to trick the man. Circling, he teased and tested his opponent, flicking the net first left, then right, then right again. While the Secutor watched, almost hypnotized by the movements of the net, John the Rob studied the fishman's movements. Finally, when he thought he detected a pattern to the man's habits, he feinted with a juggler's speed to the left and instead flung the net where a heavy foot should land. And snared himself a fishman.

Yanking with all the muscles in his right arm, he threw the fishman off balance. The buckler swerved to one side and the three-pronged fork rammed home, skewering navel, groin, and right thigh. The impact knocked the man off his feet and onto his back, John the Rob following and planting one foot upon the man's sword, the other on the base of the prongs, ready to drive it deeper into the man's guts if he showed any sign of battle. But the Moor had no stomach for more this day. Throwing aside his shield and releasing the hilt of his sword, he sued for peace. "I concede you the better man, friend. Only spare me to fight another day."

John the Rob had the feeling this same life-saving favor had been
asked many times before; the man was too facile. Not trusting the Moor an inch and without moving his feet from atop sword and base of the still-buried trident, he looked over his shoulder toward the Moulay, who stood and surveyed the crowd. A sea of downturned thumbs confronted him, emphasized by cries of "Kill him" in
a
dozen different tongues.

The Moulay raised his thumb slowly into the air, only to reverse it and throw it downward as he screamed
"Iugula!"
the deathcry of the Roman Emperors. John the Rob, seeing it, did not wait for the slave with the hammer—"Sorry,
friend,
the man says no"—and jammed the trident home. As the man screamed and arched his back in agony, John the Rob reached down, picked up the man's own sword and said, "Next time,
friend,
don't be so quick to laugh." With that he deftly traced a bloody smile from ear to ear across the man's throat.

With fully half the matches complete, Aisha and Ramlah suggested
a
break for food, but the Moulay wouldn't hear of it. "Have food brought here. The games continue."

"We may run out of contestants at this rate," Ramlah cautioned.

"Then, get more. Use slaves or those half-men your daughter surrounds herself with. I don't care whom you use or where you get them, but the games will go on until I say stop!"