The Mer- Lion (73 page)

When she smiled, Ali could see that she was her father's get.

Zainab, just within the entrance to Ramlah's tent, overheard the last remark and wondered what the Moulay might make of it. And what he might pay for it.

When Aisha, having bid the Amir
l’al-assa
good-night, swept into the tent, Zainab was nowhere about. Ramlah was. She had indulged too frequently and deeply of the solace of her waterpipe. Her daughter's fond kiss on her forehead did not wake her, nor did the black eunuchs' carrying her to bed, nor even the white eunuchs' disrobing of her.

When Aisha left the tent, Zainab appeared and would have followed after her, but Aisha directed her and the
asira,
with then-towels and bowls and pillows, to go on without her to her tent.

"But the henna? Don't you want me to scrub it?" Zainab protested.

"I think it just ingrains it deeper. No, you and the maids seek out your own beds, I will walk awhile."

The two groups, Zainab and the
asiras
on one hand, the Arnira and her silent escort on the other, went their separate ways. Aisha headed toward a secluded tent in an inconspicuous site where scribes toiled, mapmakers charted, and spies waited with their reports on the strange doings of the tribes of Tunisia. Reading one, on the supernatural beliefs of the Dyaks, who settled disputes by the diving ordeal, it occurred to Aisha that not only did she not know if the blond giant could swim, she didn't even know his name; nor that of the
jamad ja'da
either. He, she decided, would know how to swim; he had the sleek body of one used to water.

CHAPTER
32

The third day of the great competition was blessed by Allah with more of the burning sun that had marked the previous day. Outside the huge amphitheater, the tent-city sprang to life with the sun's first blood-red rays. There were animals to be fed, baths to be poured, aches to be massaged, pummeled, rubbed, and subdued, so that the contestants might continue. The less than 90 of the original 180 contestants who remained roused themselves with difficulty, wondering what the day held for them. After yesterday's combat, almost anything else would be tame, an anticlimax, most thought. But little did they know what the clever mind of the Amira Aisha had arranged for the survivors.

Within the walls of al Djem, last-minute preparations were under way as whips urged slaves to work more diligently at spreading and raking fresh sand over the bloody debris of yesterday.

Within the bowels of the arena, a dejected group of nine went mechanically about their early morning routine. They were still stunned by the death of Drummond. Only reminding themselves of their success in substituting Cameron for Gilliver served to keep them from being totally despondent—that plus a desire for freedom that verged on monomania.

This was not the first time Carlby had seen men defeated by their own emotions. It had happened at Rhodes when, despite their prayers, the Knights Hospitaler appeared destined to defeat by the heathen led by Suleiman the Magnificent. They began questioning
their God and fought not with the strength of ten but that of less than one. They made their defeat inevitable. Carlby wasn't willing to see that happen again, here. He would have to fill the void of leadership de Wynter's grief had created. No one would resent it, no one would question it; his rank insured that. He prayed God to inspire him with the right words to motivate these men.

"I think I know how all of you feel," he said, addressing the men, sitting, lying, standing passively about the cell. "To know John Drummond was to love him. But he would not forgive you if you were to allow sorrow to get in the way of the survival of the rest of the group. If he were here, you know he would say, 'Forget me. I am dead. Your grief cannot help me. Help yourself. Think of yourself. Do not make my death meaningless!' " Carlby paused to check the reactions of his listeners. Some seemed encouraged, others guilty, still others resolute. Only de Wynter remained impassive, lost in his own thoughts. "Yes," Carlby continued, "it is right to mourn him. But not now. Later. When all of this is over. Then we will mourn him
...
hold a requiem for him, a proper one, I promise you. But for now, you honor him and his memory most by living. And you dishonor his memory if you value your own lives so cheaply that you will not fight to keep them. He didn't. He fought to the end. John Drummond was proud of you. Proud to be a companion. Mourn him as he would want it—by living. And may one of you return to tell his family that he died bravely. Amen."

What Carlby didn't say, but John the Rob also realized, was that unless Carlby could incite his listeners to continue to fight tc survive, that delayed funeral service would be for more than one. ^ Gilliver, the one the companions looked to for religious guidance, said, "John would have wanted it that way. Anything John wants now, God will surely grant him. For his is a martyrdom."

De Wynter, sitting on his pallet, head buried in his hands, was the cynosure of all eyes. Finally, he sighed and looked up, his face composed, his cheeks dry, his eyes unnaturally bright. "All right then. It's decided. We go on. For John's sake. Best prepare yoursell for another rugged day. I hate to think what atrocity we face, bu what they devise, we can circumvent. For John!"

"For John!" Nine strong masculine voices pledged themselves a: one.

Not until they joined the now much depleted group of competitors, did they realize how much carnage had been wrought the day before. Again it was Ibn al-Hudaij who addressed them. "Welcome again to the games. Today, I am privileged to announce that as reward for your courage of yesterday, the contest rules will be changed." There was a murmur within the crowd and contestants. Only the nine looked properly skeptical; they had seen too many "rewards" of the Amira. "Instead of this being a contest to the death for all but one man, the Amira has agreed that many may win free with their lives at the end of the game, and one of these shall receive the ultimate reward, the princess as bride."

The decision was greeted with a great roar of approval from the contestants. Not so among the spectators; however, they had faced the silent ones' spears the day before and, as one, chose not to challenge their ruler's decision again. The fact that the Moulay had not yet arrived did encourage them to grumble a bit. They quieted as Ibn al-Hudaij continued. "Today's games will test your ability to use one of Ifriquiya's finest resources, our great ship of the desert, the camel. And now, let the rules of this competition be announced. The blessings of Allah be on him who competes."

The white-turbaned speaker gave way for Hamad Attis, from Gafsa in southern Tunisia, wearing the traditional red felt tarboosh with its dark blue tassel hanging down in front of his ear. "The man who would win the Amira Aisha must prove his skill with the animal that has played such an important role in the history of this country. This revered animal gives its master sustenance, transports him, his family, his goods. It clothes us against the burning sun and the chilling night winds, and it shelters us in the midst of howling sandstorms.

"Let him who would call Tunisia his home and have the hand of* the Amira prove he is master of the humped one. Therefore, today's events will test your skills in three important ways. By luck of the draw, you will be divided into three groups. The first group will milk she-camels—thus can man provide food for his family if he properly cares for his camel herd. Thirty of you will compete in this event. The thirty she-camels available to the contestants include some who have recently calved and have just begun to let down the milk. Others have been suckling their young for weeks or months and are
heavy with milk. A few are weaning and almost upon their, dry cycle. Again by luck of the draw, each contestant in turn will make his choice from the herd of she-camels, and he will proceed to milk the animal into a goatskin container.

"I caution you on three points only. First, any man who fails to obtain half a container of milk will lose. Second, the milking must be completed before the ram's horn sounds. Third, spilled milk does not count."

The Tunisian judge smiled a bit wryly, then continued. "The second group will be tested in your ability to load merchandise on camels, strapping it on so that a long journey would not dislodge it, nor cause undue discomfort to the animal. Each contestant will be given exactly the same pack and fastenings. And again, each contestant in turn will select his camel and load it, working against the sandglass. I should warn you, most of these camels are green, only a few are used to bearing burdens. Once your beast is loaded, it will make one circuit of the arena at a fast pace. Woe betide him whose pack comes loose, or whose bindings cause injury or discomfort to the camel.

"The third group will select camels to ride, and will compete in heats of three, racing the length of the arena. The ten winners will then race in a final event, the winner to be excused from tomorrow's competition."

The Gate of Death opened, to admit a large group of slaves struggling to drag in three huge copper caldrons. Under the watchful eyes of the whip-bearers, the caldrons were pushed, shoved, anc rocked into place below the royal box, where the Moulay Hassai had finally deigned to arrive.

When the caldrons had been placed to the judge's satisfaction Hamad Attia gave one final bit of advice to the assembled group "The camel, I warn you, is not a co-operative animal. It thinks fo itself. When properly handled and respected, it is an obedient an< faithful servant. When it detects either lack of respect or skill, it can be a vengeful beast. Beware, then, of flying hooves and strong toothed jaws. Let the blessings of Allah be on him who competes The games begin within the hour. But first, you draw for you contest from the caldron on the right. If it is a disc with one circle you load; two circles for milkers; three circles, and you race."

As the other contestants milled about with dismayed expressions, Carlby blurted out, "Thank God for Ali and his cantankerous camel."

The words struck the others as incongruous considering Carlby's shower of green cud. They couldn't help themselves, they laughed. Although he hadn't planned it, Carlby was secretly pleased. Laughter can purge one as much as tears, and with lifted spirits, confidence returned.

As the whip-bearers jostled the crowd into a rough line, the slaves drew together. "Let's assume," de Wynter said, "that among us, we will be entered in all three events. What is to prevent us from trading discs and choosing the event best suited to each? The odds are that with ten—" He stopped short, his face remained impassive, but others in the group winced. First ten, now nine. How many tomorrow?

The line moved comparatively quickly as man after man drew his lot and went off to join his group. De Wynter continued, his voice dry and emotionless. "With nine of us, odds are that at least two will be in any event. We must decide now while we have the chance which two shall be which."

Carlby spoke up. "Pray that most of us race in the contest for which we have experience. As far as milking a camel is concerned, I don't even know how many teats the damn beast has."

The others grinned and Fionn chimed in, "At least two."

"Ah, there speaks a man with experience," Carlby said approvingly.

"A little," Fionn admitted. "Mostly with goats."

"I've milked me a woman or two," Cameron boasted, the others scoffing and jeering at him,

Even de Wynter grinned. "Sorry, George, I don't mink it's the same. Fionn, we need your help. What do you remember about milking those goats? Can you give us some tips?"

Fionn shrugged his shoulders. "Milking's easy when you know how."

'.'That much we know. But we don't know
how."

"Well, the first thing is that you don't just step up and start yanking on those tits," Fionn explained. "Womanlike, the animal has to be stimulated by some gentle rubbing or squeezing. Watch a young kid starting to nurse. It instinctively gives its mother a few

butts in the udder with its head. That's its way of signaling the mother to send down some milk. I would guess a camel is the same way. Use your hands to rub whatever udder is there for a bit, and then go to work on the teats. You should feel them fill up with milk.''

"But how do you pick out one that will give enough milk?" Carlby asked.

"Look for a big udder. But not one that is also hard and lumpy and hot. Not just warm, hot! That means she's diseased. If she feels like a goatskin filled with water, with more than a bit of give to it, that's a good sign. Also, the teats should be enlarged. If she's been nursing, they'll be smooth as a baby's butt, not wrinkled and dry feeling. Personally, I look for big teats. Of a size to get my four fingers around. I hate those you have to milk sissylike, between thumb and forefinger. With woman or goat, I like me a real handful."

"Not me. I measure by me mouth, not me hand," protested' Cameron.

"Whatever makes you happy," Fionn agreed as the others chuckled.

"Can't we get on with the milking?" Gilliver asked. Talk about women always left him embarrassed. The others winked at each other. They knew Gilliver's reticence of old and had been known deliberately to be coarse in order to tease him.

Fionn, however, took pity on the young man. "With a goat, I grab as much of that teat as I can, then simultaneously squeeze and pull downward. Two-handed, you simply alternate strokes, not unlike pulling a rope downward, hand over hand. As for how hard to squeeze and-how hard to pull
...
do it too easy and no milk will you get. Too hard and a hoof will let you know."