The Mer- Lion (76 page)

Trumpets, cymbals, and ram's horns called for silence. "Today," the Moulay's
wazier
announced, adjusting his white turban so that it perched on his head just so. "Today is ostrich day! With permission of our great and gracious Moulay Hassan, let the order of events be announced. The blessings of Allah be on him who competes."

Al wazier
Yahiba, of Marrakesh, stepped forward, leaning on a walking stick. A magnificent white and pistachio green burnoose covered him from his hooded head to the tips of his yellow babouche-shod feet. The folds of his hood concealed his features from most. Only those directly in front of him made out the sharp nose, cruel mouth, and small black eyes.

His voice was harsh, his accent guttural, his words startling: "First, there will be a fight between two of the giant beasts who have been pestered, starved, and not watered for three days. Following this, an exhibition of lassoing the big birds from horseback, and of hunting them by an expert archer. All of this to give you contestants a foretaste of your fate later in the morning.

"Your first event of the day will be to lasso or otherwise bring under control any one ostrich from the wild ones unloosed in the arena. You will then break your bird for riding. Later there will be ostrich races in heats, with the heat winners meeting in the final race of the day to determine the champion.

"The fate of those who cannot catch an ostrich nor take one away
from another contestant will be decided, as usual, by the
rafi as’ sa'n,
the Moulay Hassan. Let the blessings of Allah be on him who competes!"

The spectators sensed that this was going to be an exciting day. Most of them knew of the cantankerous nature of the great birds, of their fierce kick, which could knock a man over or break his bones. And there were stories, true or not, of their pecking the eyes out of a man's head. The audience chuckled and snickered—there would be many a bruised, scratched, and battered contestant before this day was over.

Two giant cages were wheeled into the center of the arena, each containing a stomping, darting, black-plumaged ostrich. Standing chest-high to a man, its naked neck and reddish head stretched half again as high. Carrying sticks with which to beat back any ostrich that might try to break through the ring, blackamoors formed a ring around the cages. A small crock of water was set midway between the two cages; the cage doors were flung open and out stormed the two gigantic birds, both bound for the same water. Thirst-maddened, the birds set upon each other, each attempting to keep the other from the water. In their battle, they upset the crock, the water sinking immediately into the parched earth and sand that was the arena floor.

Now, totally enraged, one sailed into the other, pecking its head and neck, clawing at it with his two-toed foot, driving it away in a flurry of legs. At the circle's edge, the slaves beat them both back with great shouts and clubbings, which only further infuriated the huge feathery combatants.

The spectators loved it. They cheered and made wagers on one bird or the other and laughed every time the ostriches, coming near the slaves, clawed savagely at them. Steel-tipped whips in turn forced the slaves to close ranks and tighten the circle. Feeling hemmed in, the ostriches forgot one another and attacked their encirclers, only to be beaten back again and again. Here and there a slave went down, slit from neck to gullet by the ostrich's single claw, but another unfortunate quickly was whipped into his place. Slowly but irresistibly, the slaves tightened their circle until it was hardly large enough to contain the two pecking, kicking, gouging birds. Now the slaves stood three and four deep at all points around
the perimeter. Sticks rained blows on the birds, who countered with mighty legs, thrusting taloned feet into the front ranks.

It was a grand and glorious opening event, the crowd agreed, as, by sheer numbers, the slaves beat the giant birds into a bloody pulp, at a cost of a few dead or nearly dead slaves plus dozens more with broken bones, cuts, and bruises. Triumphantly, the slaves dragged the huge carcasses from the arena, it being their only victory in weeks
...
perhaps years.

A blast of many ram horns cleared the arena. Through an entrance charged six more of the feathery beasts to gallop, stomp, and glide about the arena. A single archer entered on horseback; his huge bow, lying across his saddle, stretched a meter to either side of his horse. Fitting a shaft from the quiver strapped on his back, he took aim, and dropped his quarry with a shot into its huge chest

Now the archer trotted his horse to the other end of the arena, the birds spreading out and watching him warily. Then at full gallop, he headed straight for them, scattering them in full flight, drew his bow and drove an arrow through the neck of a moving target. To clapping and cheers and huzzahs he rode proudly out of the arena.

In came another mounted tribesman—an ebony-hued Negro from Ifriqiya's great desert country with a single coil of rope held in his right hand. Charging into the midst of the squawking, flapping birds, he twirled the rope in a neat loop above his head, then flung it with a snap of his wrist. The lasso snaked through the air and dropped over the head of a startled ostrich in mid-flight, drawing tight and pulling him off his feet as the horse quickly braked to a halt. Like magic, a dagger materialized within the rider's hand arid flew, in a blur of silver, to skewer the long sinuous neck; the strong, dangerous legs clawed once weakly at the sky then fell, still, to the ground.

Again the horseman set his horse at full gallop, recoiling his rope as be rode. Again he twirled it high and, charging into the scattering birds, flung it out along the dirt where it fairly danced across the surface before snaring a pounding leg. The archer reappeared as if by magic and drove a shaft into the exposed chest, stilling the raucous squawks and the flapping wings.

Once more the horseman recoiled his well-trained rope and herding the remaining two birds in front of him, chased them the full
length of the arena, all three at breakneck speed. The lasso leaped and circled both heads at once, tightened instantly, binding the birds together in its death grip. The birds in a frenzy turned to one another, clawing and pecking, further tightening the constricting rope and forcing it up the long necks until the bulging heads stopped it short.

For long minutes the death struggle went on. Again the spectators roared their approval and placed their wagers. And when one finally crumpled to the dirt, a talon having pierced its heart, the thumbs went up and the shouts of
"Mine!"
rang out for the victor. When the Moulay Hassan stood and raised his thumb as well, the loser's neck was cut in two, and the survivor was dragged and chased from the arena, its head still caught in the loop along with the flopping head and bleeding neck of its vanquished foe.

The Moulay Hassan was enjoying himself. He hadn't thought much of the Olympic events, nor yesterday's camel competition, although he had delighted in its aftermath, as he had the gladiator fights. Yawning, he hoped today's events continued to be exciting; if not, he was going back to bed. He had had an exhausting night last night and stayed up much too late. Which reminded him of Zainab's message.

Imperiously he gestured for Ali to step forward and said, "Today, I would know who competes. Have their names announced!" . "As you command,
rafi as'sa'n,"
said Ali, bowing and looking askance at Aisha. Her shrug and raised eyebrow conveyed without words her own bewilderment over the Moulay's orders. Even as Ali left to relay those orders to the officials, the crier called for the contestants to take their place at the starting line at the south end. Of the original 180 men, only 57 were left, survivors of three grueling days of competition. One look at them revealed no paunches, no flabby muscles. Only the strong remained. Some blistered and peeling from the sun, others bronzed and golden; only the blacks and Gilliver were apparently untouched by the sun's rays. The frail Scot's skin refused to tan, reddening, then peeling and returning to white. Nor was his body as smooth-muscled and sleek as the rest of the group that now lined up for the start of the fourth day's competition.

As the men approached the line marked in salt on the sand, horns sounded, gates swung open, and in stormed a thundering pack of
ostriches, herded by men on horseback and club-bearers on foot. As the last of the big birds entered, the men retreated and the gates swung shut, the arena left to the birds and men.

As the dust settled about the birds, it was Carlby who first noted the not readily obvious: "Dammit, the devils didn't give us enough birds to go round." De Wynter, peering at the darting, stomping, angry birds, hazarded a guess that there were no more than fifty and more probably forty in number.

"That must be their game," Carlby continued. "If you don't get a bird, you're out of it."

"We'll have to work as a team," de Wynter replied, thinking rapidly what strategy to employ. "For each two we get, one man will have to hold them while the others go after more until we have enough."

"Aye, but you can bet there will be trouble when it gets down to just a few," Menzies said.

Cameron agreed. "These fellows will do anything to survive at this point. If they see one of our men with two, they'll try to take one."

"True," said de Wynter. "We'll have to assign our strongest to do the holding. Fionn, of course. And Angus and Ogilvy. We have
no other choice but to chance it."         

Officials now passed up and down the line handing out pieces of rope, each carefully measured at only two meters in length, one rope per man. At the end of the line, one man was left with no rope which set off an uproar, each official blaming the others for not counting right. Finally another rope was found, and the contest could begin.

Carlby and de Wynter reminded their fellows to stay close; the strategy was to catch birds as a team, not individually. "Would an extra rope help?" John the Rob whispered to de Wynter.

"Not again?" said de Wynter with a grin. "Those hands are going to get you in trouble some day. Right now, I'm glad to have them. Where have you got it?" he added, looking searchingly at John the Rob who was as near naked as he. John the Rob pulled down the edge of his loincloth to reveal the missing rope, wrapped neatly around his waist. De Wynter shook his head in wonderment.

The caller cupped his hands and shouted the commands of the
Moor from Morocco: "You may start when the ram horns sound and continue until they sound again. There are no restrictions on what you may do to get yourself a bird. Those without a bird, when the horns blow the second time, lose. Winners continue on to the race events in the afternoon. Let the blessings of Allah be on you who compete."

Pray God, de Wynter thought, there are no experienced men at this strange game. If so, with good teamwork and a little bit of luck, we should come out all right. Provided somebody doesn't get kicked or maimed.

The trumpets sounded. Fifty-seven men leaped from the starting line. The great birds saw what was coming and ran helter-skelter. Quickly, the men were among them, trying to corner them against the wall, throwing looped ends of their short ropes at heads and feet, and picking themselves up off the dirt when flattened by a kick or tripped by a fellow contestant's leg.

The nine took off together, following the lead of Cameron, who was their fastest runner. Isolating a pair of the feathery beasts, they formed a semicircle and herded them toward the wall. Then Fionn leaped on the neck of the'first and held on while de Wynter roped me fiercely darting head.

"Hold that one while we get another," de Wynter yelled to Angus. Then Fionn was upon the second. Soon it, too, wore a halter. And off they went to repeat the strategy. Again it worked, but not without Carlby taking a fearful kick in the stomach and John the Rob having his arm gashed. As a group they chased and dragged their third bird to where Fionn held the first two.

"I don't think I can hold three!" Fionn shouted desperately. "It's all I can do to keep the two under control."

"Tie their bloody necks together," Carlby grunted, holding onto his aching stomach.

"Here, use this," John the Rob volunteered, handing over his extra rope.

De Wynter quickly made a large loop and by tugging on the two ropes already secured, managed to get the third rope over two heads and tighten the noose.

"Hang on to them," he yelled at Fionn as the pack sped off for more. It was more difficult now. Half the birds had been captured,

and the others were the biggest and strongest and wisest of the flock. And these remaining twenty were being pursued by three dozen eager huntsmen. Several bodies—both bird and human—-lay stretched out on the arena floor, some moving, some not.

Their fourth bird was handed over to Ogilvy to hold. And a fifth was finally roped, John the Rob quickly producing another rope to tie another pair together.

"Where did that come from?" de Wynter asked in amazement.

"Just happened to find it," John the Rob said, raising his hand to show three more looped in his grasp. "I'll tell you this, friend, there's some fellows out there hunting birds with no ropes."

De Wynter allowed himself an appreciative smile at John the Rob's feat. There was no time for anything more, since four birds were still needed, and only a dozen left loose with twice that number of men pursuing them around the arena—each working independently.