The Mer- Lion (70 page)

Mother and daughter exchanged glances. If anything, the Roman games were proving too successful. Steps must be taken to ensure that fresh combatants not be thrown into the arena, especially not Aisha's bodyguard, for its ranks could be cut in half by the Moulay's apparent refusal to spare a single victim's life.

Both women swung into action. Ramlah sent for food, giving instructions that every dish be heavily seasoned with
hrisa,
that hot red pepper-cumin sauce that made the eyes tear and the mouth cry out for water. But Ramlah would have the Moulay's thirst quenched not with water, not even wine, but with
boukha,
that potent native brandy distilled by Jews from figs. Let the Moulay empty
a
few goblets of this and he would never know when the games ended.

As for Aisha, her agile lingers sent silent instructions to-Ali ben Zaid to stall for time and why. It was Ali ben Zaid's idea to hold back the one gladiator-slave whose life he wished to save. Thus, one

after another of the companions bade farewell to de Wynter and stepped forth to face his fate in the arena:

The first was Carlby, who made John the Rob look clumsy with the net. Carlby's opponent was overweight and overmatched. Within minutes Carlby realized that he could kill his man at any moment. But he chose to play with him instead and make of the fishman a buffoon whose trident-inspired antics might amuse enough to save his life.

Thus, when Carlby cast his net and yelled, "Jump!" the frightened fishman leaped as if galvanized. When Carlby yelled, "Duck!" he dove and sprawled on the ground. When Carlby said "Back up," the man retreated so fast he tripped over his own sword and went sprawling. When Carlby said, "Move," the man crawled on his heels. When Carlby said, "Get up," the man buck-jumped to his feet. When Carlby said, "Down," the man tumbled to the ground.

And with every ludicrous move the lumpish fishman made, the crowd roared with laughter. They were genuinely sorry when the Englishman, running out of comic commands, drove his trident through the netting that encompassed the fishman's head, shoulders, arms, and waist, catching the man's head between two of the forks of the weapon and driving him to the ground. Carlby had but to continue pushing the prongs into the ground to strangle the man
...
or pull it free and drive it through his heart.

As the two men froze in a tableau of death, the Moulay looked about him and saw only upraised thumbs; the crowd had laughed itself into a benevolent mood. Still the Moulay would have rejected mercy, but the her/him put a soft hand upon the Moulay's arm and said, "O master, save him for me that he may amuse us further, I beg this—" His voice of its own accord suddenly descended an octave and the her/him dared not speak more lest it play him games again. But the Moulay, already partially besotted with brandy, did not notice. For this lovely creature beside him, he was prepared to do most anything.

As Carlby and Pietro di Zecca watched anxiously, the Moulay played with his lower lip a bit in contemplation, then finally, slowly, the right hand, made into a tight fist, was outstretched. All eyes stared raptly at that fist. And then it opened, the thumb thrusting up. The man was saved. The first that day.

To the crowd's delight, once freed of the trident but still draped in the net, the fat man crawled after Carlby and attempted to kiss his feet. And men the chase was on, as the fat man pursued his savior, the savior tripping overthe fishman's forgotten shield and landing on his behind. No one but Garlby heard Pietro's promisef "If ever there is aught I can do for you, you have but to ask. I, Pietro di Zecca swear it, or may my mother sleep uneasy in her grave."

Ogilvy was the next of the slaves to enter the arena, saluting his fellows at the Gate of Death at the other end of the arena from the ring of the Thracians. His was a typical thrust, parry, engage, disengage, slash, smite, hack, close. It was rhythmic, it was deadly, it was nothing extraordinary, simply a repetition of workmanlike swordsmanship. The same swordsmanship that had been seen over and over throughout the day.

Eventually, Ogilvy's hard conditioning wore down his opponent, and the match ended, as others had before, with Ogilvy finding an opening and taking advantage of it to skewer his opponent below his wide leather belt. A half-turn of the curved sword and his opponent was disemboweled. While Ogilvy watched, no expression crossing 'his dark saturnine face, the hammer-bearing slave removed the mortally wounded man's helmet and gave the blow of death.

The next occupant of the Thracian circle was Angus. Those within the crowd who had gulped deeply of the
lagmi
poured so freely by slaves began to wonder if perhaps they had had enough, so much did Angus look in build and swordsmanship like the Thracian who had just competed.

Indeed, this match ran much the same course as the previous one, with Angus also wearing out his opponent and finding an opening in his guard. A swift slash of his curved sword and, with a piercing shriek, the man's left arm went flying. As he dropped his now-* useless shield and grasped at the stub of his shoulder in' a vain attempt to stop the bleeding, the crowd turned thumbs down in imitation of their Moulay, whose eyes were really seeing double. But Angus did not wait for the hammer-bearer, instead matter-of-factly stopping the man's shrieks by driving his sword to the hilt through the man's gaping mouth. He would have continued on over to see his friends at the other end of the arena, but the scourges of the whip-bearers dissuaded him from that course. He had no choice but to turn and leave by the Victor's Gate as had the others before him.

Two groups later, it was Menzies-Gilliver' s turn to enter the arena. His double recognized him immediately and only Cameron's restraining hand kept Gilliver from leaving his station at the Gate of Death and confessing the deception. But before he could, Menzies had moved quickly into the fighting area to face an opponent a head shorter than he. And despite the fellow's persistence, Menzies's quickness stood him in good stead as he effectively kept out of the net wielder's range. A disquieting thought crossed his mind. Any injury or visible wound on himself could make the transition back from Gilliver to Menzies all the more difficult.

The next time the net hit his sword arm, he deliberately entangled it by swirling his arm, men gave a mighty pull and relieved the man of one of his two weapons. Throwing the net out of the ring, he concentrated on blocking the trident with his buckler and countering with sword thrusts.

The net-man, bleeding from half a dozen superficial cuts by now, desperately jabbed and lunged at Menzies with the trident. But still the net-man refused to take the one gamble that Menzies feared—the trident used as javelin when his shield might be out of position.

Another furious rush. Menzies sidestepped and ran his buckler up the shaft of the trident as he charged forward, thrusting his short sword into his opponent's naked chest and holding him up by the uptilted blade until he was sure he was done for, then letting him slide down it onto the dirt to writhe in agony until stilled by a hammerblow.

It was past midafternoon when the last of the combatants entered the arena and saluted the Moulay, who sprawled in his chair, eyes closed, breathing raucously through slackened, drunken mouth. With but three circles for four pairs, one of the two pairs of Samnites had to fight in a narrow corridor, directly below the royal box, which was bounded by the solid wall of the arena on one side and an invisible wall created by the combatants' circles on the other. Shadows infringed upon it, those created by the high arches on the upper tiers of the colosseum
...
and one enormous one caused by the protective awning stretched across the royal box. The longer the contest went on, the greater the advantage the man had who stood with his back to a descending sun. By the luck of the draw, de
Wynter and his opponent were given the corridor in which to fight Slaves with metal-tipped bars stationed themselves between them and the other gladiators to prevent their straying into one" of the circles and interfering with the combatants there.

Under other circumstances, the Thracians in the ring to the left of center would have drawn all eyes to it, for here was being created
a
sadistic cat-and-mouse game as Eulj Ali with a lucky thrust had early on disarmed his opponent and kicked his weapon outside the circle to lie tantalizingly just beyond the swordsman's reach. Now, Eulj Ali amused himself and prolonged the fight by incising bloody patterns on the man's hide, the small round shield offering little protection from the lightning swift cuts and slashes of the redhead's curved sword, a sword not unlike the scimitar with which he had fought all of his life.

The two in the center ring by some mistake both turned out to be net-wielders and their combat turned into a wrestling match as each became entangled in the other's net.

The Samnites in the ring to the right were both big, hulking, slow men who traded hammering each other's shield with loud but ineffective blows of their swords. Bang. Bang. Bang. The noise and the blows echoed slowly, monotonously through the arena.
"I
dare say," Ramlah remarked, "if we left now and came back tomorrow, they'd still be banging away and not have moved an inch from the spot or come one blow closer to ending the match."

Aisha perfunctorily agreed, ignoring all else but the two men below her. One she knew was the silver-haired one. The other, smaller than the slave and more wiry, also looked suspiciously familiar, especially his thick mat of red chest hair.

He was a stranger to de Wynter, who sized him up as perhaps five years older, slightly heavier, possibly not quite as quick or agile, but probably
a
more experienced combatant in this type of match.

At the signal, they circled and tested each other with ringing blows that bounced harmlessly off each other's scutums. De Wynter tried a roundhouse swing to see how his opponent would counter. Easily. Then
a
short, low thrust. Blocked. A series of feints and thrusts delivered one right after the other and parried systematically. A worthy opponent, de Wynter decided, one who knew his defense, the lack of which was often the undoing of many a good swordsman.

Very well, let's see what he's got in the way of offense, de Wynter thought, beginning a slow backpedaling designed to bring his opponent aggressively to him. Not bad, he said to himself, as he countered a thrust with his shield and tried unsuccessfully to knock the invading weapon high with an upward swing of his own sword. Then in rapid succession he was forced to ward off a series of good moves that might have broken through the guard of a less experienced swordsman. This was going to be a long battle, he decided.
A
typical battle. The first mistake would decide the winner.

Five minutes into the fight, the crowd and the occupants of the royal box—ell but the snoring Moulay—knew a classic duel was underway below them. The footwork, the good use of the scutum as well as the sword, the attacking on both dexter and sinister—all these testified to many years of expert teaching and practice in the art.

With a furious rush, the red-haired one tried driving de Wynter out of the corridor and into a circle. But at the last moment, de Wynter nimbly sidestepped and almost drove his opponent out with his own countercharge. Urged back to their own strip of sand by the scourges, they feinted and thrust and parried, filling the arena with the ringing of sword on shield.

Aisha had followed every move of the two with the knowing eyes of a warrior queen and leaned ever more forward to see even better until she found herself on the edge of her seat, her bejeweled hands clenched in her lap, her dark eyes flashing above her veil. Ramlah watched her daughter and wondered how she could be so fascinated by the play of sword on sword. And why? The fighters below did nothing, so far as she could see, different from the scores who had fought before them. Could it be, she wondered, the swordsmen themselves who made the difference?

Though Ramlah admired her daughter's inventiveness and daring in setting up the games, secretly she found them repulsive—an unfit way to pick a husband. But if that were what Aisha wanted, Ramlah could only hope the man could awaken the passions she felt sure must be there inside that beautiful body.

The Samnites down below woe not aware of their royal audience, nor of the "mouse" that "cat" Eulj Ali had already killed, nor the fall of one of the Thracians, nor of the two silent, net-covered forms
entwined in each other's arms and nets and bleeding to death from hammer blows in the center ring.

Not a quarter was given by either man. De Wynter paused occasionally to catch his breath; his opponent a little more often it seemed, though perhaps that was but a trick. Feeling strong, de Wynter pressed the battle. For the first time he thanked the oarmasters and slave-drivers who had pushed his body beyond its natural limits of conditioning. They just might be his saviors. A ringing blow on his helmet reminded de Wynter to concentrate on the battle. Soon, he drew first blood with a nick on the other's sword arm. Not enough to cause-him any trouble, de Wynter decided, but a bleeding arm might eventually weaken him, or the blood befoul his grip. The immediate effect was to spur his opponent on to an even more furious effort to penetrate the Scot's defense.

Good, de Wynter thought; let him tire himself out a little more. A daring plan was formulating in his mind, but the time wasn't yet right. The older and more experienced man had to be a bit more tired than he was now, or it would never work. As the classic yet creative battle went on and on, the spectators cheered wildly, the object of these matrimonial games watched with rapt attention the longest match of the day.