The Mer- Lion (74 page)

"You make it sound too easy," de Wynter said. "I tried milking a goat when in Naples. Not a drop did I get. Nor did anyone else. We ended up butchering the beast. Take it from me, milking's not easy. Of course, I'll bet the packing isn't either."

More than half of the line had passed before the caldron, reached in, and drawn a disc. Time for discussion was running out.

"What about packing a camel?" asked de Wynter. "Anyone know aught of that?"

No one responded, each looking at the other, hoping there would be a positive response.

"I've supervised many a camel train in my time," Carlby said, "but never actually loaded one. If I remember right it always took two men to do it."

"One of us is equal to two others any day," de Wynter said flatly. "Besides, everyone else is at the same disadvantage. Come on now, someone must have paid attention to the loading of the camels on our trip from Tunis to al Djem. Think, men! Dredge your memories and remember!"

After a few moments of silence, Menzies spoke, his eyes tightly closed, his head bent forward, his hands clasped tightly together. "They don't pile things up on top. That I can see. They sling things on either side, well balanced. Then there is a kind of strap that goes around the things slung on either side and passes down under the belly—a little more to the front I think than the rear—right where the belly starts to slope downward toward the front legs. I can't tell how they fasten the strap. It may have some kind of buckle or it may just be tied. Sorry, that's all I can see." And he opened his eyes and stood blinking in the sunlight.

De Wynter clapped him on the shoulder approvingly as the line moved forward several paces again. "That's our Kenneth! The man with an artist's memory!"

Carlby and John the Rob exchanged empathetic glances. Frequently, the unabashed love and friendship the companions showed one another made the other two feel like outsiders. This Carlby resolutely ignored, instead picking up the thread of the conversation at this point. "So much for packing. As for racing, dare we assume Ali's specimen was indicative of what we may face at least in the way of tack?"

De Wynter shrugged. "Might as well; we've had no experience with any other." The others' silence bespoke their agreement.

Carlby continued. "We know Ali's was fast. Suppose we look for its like?"

"Aye," said Angus. "A good lean one." Ogilvy added, "With a good long length of leg." "Small hooves," was Gilliver's contribution. "A refined head," de Wynter noted.

"Big!" exclaimed Fionn.

"For you, yes, you monster. But for us, not quite so," de Wynter replied.

"Disposition would certainly be a factor so far as I am concerned," Carlby said, to be greeted with hoots, jeers, and de Wynter's, "I hear you can tell a fast one by how far he can spit." He gave up. "It was only a suggestion. A friendly beast could be an advantage."

Three more men, and then it was their turn to draw. Sticking together, they managed to exchange discs, most ending up where they wanted to be: Angus and Ogilvy chose to milk, hoping their experience with sheep would be of help. John the Rob relied on his quick hands to fill his bucket also. Cameron and Menzies seemed the logical choices for the only two racing discs. The rest were left to pack the great ships of the desert.

Prodded by whip butt and sting of the thong, the nine, the last in the line, separated and joined their respective groups. As they did, the seats in the lower tier were filling up with silent ones and spectators. Just then cymbals clashed, gongs reverberated, and trumpets brayed; a gate opened and a herd of camels charged wild-eyed into the arena as a stentorian voice announced, "Enter, the she-camels!" Just as quickly many of the beasts wheeled about and attempted to return.whence they came. Angus shouted over the sounds of squeals, "Ogilvy, look at the dugs! Damnation! The beasts have just been nursing."

Normally, a female camel won't bite unless provoked. A mother separated from her calf is another story. And more than one man that day gave a sudden scream as eight large, sharp, jagged teeth crunched an arm or shoulder, shattering the bone. One unfortunate was bitten in the rear, the camel gouging a huge chunk out of his buttocks. Fortunately, Angus, Ogilvy, and John the Rob were survivors all
...
and spied a fellow contestant who seemed not at all fazed by the contest. They watched him closely as he approached his beast, speaking quietly and firmly the while. When she had calmed, down, he stroked her udder, still talking to her, his words blending together in a monotonous but apparently comforting tuneless song. As she let down her milk, he stood on one leg with his right foot resting on his left knee, the goatskin wedged within the triangle formed.

Soon a rhythmic squishing signaled the success of his enterprise.

Angus and Ogilvy were not about to try that balancing act, but were not above crooning a highland tune if that should make the one-humped lassie cooperative. And it did. John the Rob, mouthing a catch last heard in a London ale-house, would have been equally successful except that at the last moment, his goatskin tipped, spilling some of the precious milk into the sand. Ever resourceful, , he simply gathered in a fold of the skin, hiding the excess within his capable hand, thus decreasing the bag's capacity and raising the level of the milk. Since the measuring was done by the judge's eye instead of by weight or liquid measurement, the little beggar got away with his inspired deception.

When the last teat had been squeezed, udder stroked, and dug pulled, the she-camels were driven out of the arena, leaving a full third of the group who were either unable to milk at all or could not eke enough out of their camels. When presented to the Moulay for his judgment, he said only, "Take them away," and waved toward the Gate of Death.

The second group was now herded in through a second gate in the wall. Again, that stentorian voice left no doubt as to which animals these were. "Enter, the beasts of burden."

This group was no better-natured than the first. Some thrashed themselves with their long, sinewy, tufted tail. Others ground and gnashed their eight jutting teeth. Still another group blew large pink air sacs from their mouths, sucking them back in with a slurping sound. One or two here and there even tried to mount his fellows only to be met by a cruel slash of an ugly head at the end of a snakelike neck. One did not have to be an expert on camels to recognize these were all bulls
...
and every one was in rut.

Fionn was first to make his attempt, and his approach was crude but effective. With one hamlike fist, he sledgehammered his choice between the eyes. As the stunned beast wobbled, he hit it again, sending it to its knees. Other than getting the strap under its belly, it was a simple matter to load the beast; in fact, the judges found it far more difficult to get the animal back on its feet. Even then it merely staggered around the arena, never once going faster than a very slow stumble.

Fionn accepted with a wide grin the shouts of "Well done!" from
the audience, even the veiled woman in the royal box deigning to clap for his efforts. But then, though as a victor he might leave the arena, he refused to. His purpose became apparent later, after Carlby and de Wynter had quickly, efficiendy, almost expertly hobbled their beasts and loaded them. Gilliver was the last of their group to compete. As he walked forward to face his mount, Fionn stood not far behind. Before whip-bearer or silent one could intervene, Fionn charged forward and dealt Gilliver's beast a mighty blow just as he had his own. This time it took a second and third and a fourth blow to fell the beast, but finally it too sank to the ground. Then as Fionn sat on the camel's head, Gilliver piled bundles on top and to one side. Released, the camel lurched to the off-loaded side, yet the bundles did not fall off, although they did slide down below his belly. The crowd was in an uproar. Half applauded the audacity of the blond giant; the rest demanded his punishment. Quickly the judges consulted, their decision being tempered by a word from Ali ben Zaid, "The Amira favors the blond one."

After much shaking of heads and pulling of beards, the white-turbaned one spoke. "Nothing in the rules states a man must load his beast unassisted. The decision is favorable, the man successful."

The decision was not popular with the crowd
...
at first. But as they watched the dazed camel lurch about the arena tripping and stumbling over his belly-load, a titter or two was heard, followed by deep masculine laughs and then-guffaws. Finally, even the silent ones could be heard uttering that piteous mew that passed for laughter among them.

Their good humor restored, the crowd settled back for the races. These were, if anything, even more comical. Riders fell off, camels knocked one another over, some even fell over their own two-toed feet when trying to make a tight turn. In one heat, the winner was he who managed to stay mounted throughout the whole of the race
...
the only one to do so. That he was a redhead may have contributed to Aisha and Ramlah's departure from the arena early.

The Moulay, who had plans for the thirty-two contestants who had clearly lost this day, grew impatient to see the day end and so told his wazier. Thus it was that all nine of the slaves, nursing their share of bruises and bites and scrapes, were ushered back to their cells earlier than on the preceding days, later to be let out and taken to the
showers; and for the first time in a week or more, the silent ones did not hurry them through their ablutions. Instead, the water continued to pour as the men soaped, scrubbed, and rubbed the soreness from their bodies. Who it was that started the song, no one knew. But suddenly it seemed to leap full-grown from seven Scottish throats:

Lo! What it is to love

Learn ye that wish to prove.

By me, I say, that no way may

The grind of grief remove

But still decay, both night and say:

Lo! what ft is to love.

Love is a fervent fire,

Kindled without desire

Short pleasure, long displeasure,

Repentance is the hire; payment

And pure treasure without measure

Love is a fervent fire.

To love and to be wise,

To rage with good advice,

Now thus, now that, so goes the game

Uncertain is the dice.

There is no man, I say, that can

Both love and, too, be wise.

Free always from the snare;

Learn from me to beware:

It is all pain and double share

Of endless woe and care;

For to refrain that danger plain

Flee always from the snare.

Lo! What it is to love!

Lo! What it is to love!

The snapping of towels against bare bottoms by the intrepid few who, waterlogged, had splashed and soaked their fill, brought the song to a close before it was fully launched on a second singing.

As the last of the slaves left the room, fresh shaved, hair cropped, clean domed, Ali ben Zaid did not accompany them. Instead, he paused at the side of a silent one who had been standing off to one side during the whole of the water-works.

"Satisfied?"

The head barely moved forward. "Still the blond one?"

For'a long moment, the head was motionless, then it nodded firmly. As Ali had known, when the Amira made up her mind, she did not easily change it.

CHAPTER
33

After leaving the slaves' crude bathing quarters, Aisha and Ali made their way out of the arena and toward the sybarite baths where Ramlah awaited her daughter for that night's ritual. Aisha, before leaving Ali at the entrance, gave her commands for the morrow. Then added, "About the slaves
..."

"Yes?"

"Shave their bodies."

"Their bodies?"

"Yes."

"All?"

"All."

"Tonight?"

"No. It can wait. They wear loincloths the rest of the games. But I do not wish to see all that body hair again. It is offensive to me." Without waiting for Ali's "As you command," she swept into the baths. As swiftly as the baths permitted, she moved through the hot baths and into the tepid one that closes the pores and finally into the restroom where Ramlah whiled away her time with the
nargileh
and where Zainab was ready with the sweet melon slices, the dish of sherbet, the cup of mint tea. Aisha's body fairly shone from its scrubbings and oiling as she rested in the chair carved out of white marble, traced with gold and green veins. Compareu co her glowing, alive skin, the marble looked pale and dull.

The room was silent except for the sounds of water cascading in
fountains and the occasional gurgle of the waterpipe as Ramlah puffed away. Then, the silence was broken by the voice of the
hafiz.
Aisha's lips tightened in annoyance, and she struck out pettishly at the nearest object. "Clumsy girl, you pull my hair," she said, slapping the young slave sharply. "Get out of my sight before I give you to the silent ones for their amusement. The rest of you. What do you gape at? Get back about your tasks. Zainab, you will finish my hair!",

Zairiab's own lips tightened. To work Aisha's hair into hundreds of braids took hours and exhausted hands, eyes, and back. But in the Amira's mood, Zainab knew better than to protest.