The Mer- Lion (80 page)

"That's the one," said Angus.

"Aye," agreed Ogilvy. "John the Rob, if you're ever going to catch a horse, that's the one that will stick his head in the noose for you."

John the Rob stared intently at the yellowish horse, trying desperately to memorize him, but all horses looked the same to this beggar chief, except the striped one, of course.

The Berbers in the crowd could have watched the stallions for hours on end. Already they were engrossed in discussing their fine points. However, the rest of the crowd was growing restless. At a signal from the sheikh, slaves bearing clay vessels slopping over with yellow liquid came running from four directions at once and headed straight for the grouped stallions. The horses turned and pawed at the gates, trying to escape. Then turned to face their attackers. In their momentary confusion, the slaves were upon them, dousing the stallions with the liquid and thoroughly wetting down the dirt in a huge semicircle about them. Their amphoras empty, the slaves scattered, dropping their vessels, scurrying for their lives. Two did not make it, going down under the mighty kicks of stallions suddenly made frenzied.

It took de Wynter but a moment to figure out what was going on. "Oh, no," he said to no one in particular. 'That's urine from mares in heat!"

"My God, no," Ogilvy muttered. "Now there won't be any way to calm them down, even after we catch them."

Even as he spoke, the stallions were bearing out his words. None-of their kind wants another stallion around when that smell is in the air. The pecking order forgotten, they turned on each other, kicking, biting, and head-butting in a frenzied show that few but the Berbers in the audience had ever seen before. The judges let it go on for a time, knowing the thrill-hungry crowd was enjoying the sight of stallion trying to mount stallion amid the kicks and squeals of the rest. The spectators soon were exchanging remarks about the size and length of the rampant staffs that flashed in the melee.

Suddenly, the Gate of Death flew open and in came one mare, a round of sharp cracks on the flanks driving her forward at full gallop. As suddenly, she locked her forelegs and skidded to an abrupt stop, facing the angry and excited group of stallions.

"I'm afraid that poor thing is in for a bit of a rough go," Carlby said to de Wynter.

"They'll kill her," de Wynter replied. Ogilvy and Angus grunted their agreement.

The stallions spotted the mare and took off after her. She, in turn, with the screech-squeal of the virgin, headed back toward the gate, only to find it closed. On she went seeking to escape, fear making her fly like the very wind. The stallions gained with every stride. Catching up to her before she had circled the arena once, they fought, still in full-stride, to sniff her pungent genital area. As some of the excited stallions passed her and crowded her, she was slowly forced toward the wall. Finally she stood her ground, warning with, shrill screech and lashing tail, arched neck and hunched rump, "Stay back or I kick." Ignored, she launched kick after kick with her hind legs. Like the virgin that she was, she defended herself as nature had intended. In truth she did not know what her body was telling her it wanted, and she saw the stallions only as enemies out to harm her.

If one of the frenzied stallions got in position to hold her down with his head, and thus avoid the flying hooves, several others would drive him away, trying to get in position themselves. Now and then a stallion would scream and limp away from the melee, only to return, the pain overcome by his mad desire. The action made its way

around the arena in fits and bursts, the mare breaking out and running whenever she could. The crowd thus got a close-up view at one point or another, and showed its enjoyment of the wild scene by standing and shouting.

In the royal box, Aisha found herself on her feet, screaming, "No, stop it. Don't let them do it! Please, for the love of Allah, help her! Somebody help her."

But her words were drowned out by the masculine roar of "Take her, take her, go get her, mount her."

It was only a matter of time. When enough heads and necks were weighing her hind quarters down from either side, the gray stallion threw his forelegs over her rump and, with rear legs prancing to get him in position, rammed forward several times before seating himself fully in that sought-after tunnel. The mare screamed and kicked, but the gray sunk his teeth savagely into her neck, holding her fast The stud's nostrils flared, his mouth relaxed, his tail twitched with each pulse of his penis. Then, he was still resting peacefully on his precarious perch despite thundering kicks and bites from his fellow rapists. Finished, spent, he slid from her back and, wrinkling his muzzle, urinated copiously then trotted off.

His replacement had just as much difficulty, suffering the blows that reigned on him as though he felt them not. A third, a fourth, and a fifth stallion had his way with her, she now standing with tegs set wide, her head lowered, and her tail swishing high over her back. As others jostled for position, the Gates of Death opened, and in rode half a dozen mounted camelmen. Riding directly into the melee, one roped the mare's head, while the others scattered the stallions as best they could. Dragging and beating the mare, they were out of the gate before the stallions realized they were losing their prize.

The shouting, stomping crowd showed its appreciation with standing ovations that soared and ebbed, only to be renewed by the excited and titillated viewers who wanted more of the same. Aisha, white-faced and dry-eyed beneath her veil, had long since ceased screaming and resumed her seat.

"I prefer to think you, of all people, did not arrange that exhibition," Ramlah said quietly.

"Men. How I despise them," was Aisha's tight-lipped response.

Ramlah, realizing she would get no coherent answer from Aisha, turned and summoned Ali to her side. "And what do you know of this?"

The Commander of
al Ikwan
shook his head. "Not much, revered daughter of my father. I gather it was he, our father, Sheikh Zaid ben Sadr who decided it would please the crowd."

"And the mare?" Aisha interrupted, still staring unseeingly into the arena. "What of her?"

"The mare?" He was bewildered. "If she did not take, we shall have her serviced again in her next season."

"Think you she will stand more docilely the next time?" Aisha asked bitterly.

"Of course. What else? As you should know from your times with the tribes, once a mare is mounted she only puts up a token fight thereafter." 

Ramlah decided it was time to intervene. "Ali, the sheikh our father was indeed right. The crowd was pleased."

"It looks as though their pleasure will result in some empty seats. At least for the next hour or so," Aisha said scornfully, pointing out to her mother the number of men hurrying from the arena.

"Really, Aisha, you know not where they go," her mother scolded.

"One need not be a sorcerer to guess."

The contestants were now lined up across one end of the arena, and at the sound of the ram horns, they charged toward the still fighting, biting, and kicking group of stallions, their short ropes clutched tightly in their hands.

Gilliver tried hard to stay a few paces behind de Wynter. The others went their separate ways, or so they hoped it would appear to tihe judges. Meanwhile, the stallions bolted in unison for the far end, no longer fighting among, themselves, thinking only of escaping from the fast advancing men, who turned and pursued their prey.

The fleetest men caught up to the milling stallions just as they encountered the far wall. Momentarily they stood their ground; then a group broke, spreading to each side, running through and over the defenseless men on the perimeters. At this the rest of the stallions broke through the ranks and bolted the full length of the arena. Turning, the men started the long run back to the other end.

"Enough of this," de Wynter shouted to Gilliver. "They can outrun us all day long. We'll have to do something different." A number of other contestants had come to the same conclusion, as, winded and gasping for breath, they stopped running and started walking.

For the next minutes, the action slowed considerably. Even the horses were glad to get a breather, but they still bolted away as soon as a man got within a few meters. Now it became a stalking game. How close could one get before the quarry wheeled away or charged right through his path? And slowly but surely, the tired men were getting closer and closer, some even attempting reckless throws of their ropes. One stallion now wore a rope around his neck, but there was no man on the other end.

Eventually, the stallions would decide to stand and fight, de Wynter knew full well. Only then did the men stand any real chance of success. But which horse would first decide to make that stand? That was the one he wanted. His horseman's eye picked out two likely ones.

Ogilvy, by luck, although he called it skill, was first to score. Wrapping the rope quickly around his waist, he threw his weight downward, only to be dragged the entire length of the amphitheater to the delight of the crowd, who found his progress funny. He found himself breathing dust and sand as his body bumped and skidded painfully along. If he could only hang on long enough, he knew, the stallion would tire and try to shake the rope by rearing, pawing, and kicking at his antagonist. Ogilvy also knew that, in the end, exhaustion would break one or the other.

Back the full length of the arena Ogilvy was dragged before he was able to regain his feet. Digging in his heels, he was alternately dragged and forced into long loping strides, clinging desperately to the short rope. Finally, the stallion decided it would rid its neck of its heavy burden only by fighting. It wheeled and, rearing up on its hind legs, lifted Ogilvy off the ground and jolted him back down hard as it tried to stomp him. But Ogilvy had fought his share of unruly horses. Unwrapping the rope from around his waist and wrapping it instead around a wrist, he kept the rope taut at all times. When me stallion reared, he moved in closer to gain the slack needed to keep from being lifted off his feet, back-pedaling quickly
when those flying hooves started down and giving the rope a fierce tog often enough to let the animal know who was in command.

Inside half an hour, Ogilvy had himself a conciliatory if not docile Stallion that was willing, most of the time, to stand and shake its head. Now the biggest problem was keeping his catch out of the continuing fracas going on all around the arena. Aside from a handful of other roped stallions, the remainder were still fighting back, occasionally breaking out and running for freedom. Ogilvy had a moment to look around. With relief he saw Angus, stallion in hand
...
and further on, Gilliver holding tentatively to a rope wrapped around his waist, and on the other end an Arabian that had somewhat less heart for fighting than some of its mates. One thing he was convinced of—someone had been able to make a switch, for Gilliver was no match for one of these brutes until its spirit was broken, or at least subdued. Slowly, Ogilvy worked his stallion closer to Gilliver, hoping that be could somehow help out if Gilliver's catch got its wind and decided to make a break for it.

Then, he saw two bodies lying on the ground near the wall, where they had been dragged either by horses or silent ones. His horse shied and would not approach them. Ogilvy did not dare force him, lest the horse get away. Instead, he made a wide circle in order to see the face of the nearer corpse, one he feared he already knew.

His forehead smashed so badly that he was almost unrecognizable except to a brother, Kenneth Menzies—God rest his soul—lay crumpled in the blood and dirt of al Djem, the second of the group to fall victim to the outrageous games of Aisha of Tunisia. One glance told Ogilvy that Gilliver knew, too. "Snap out of it, Henry," he shouted above the noise. "There's nothing we can do for him. Keep your weight on that rope all the time."

Carlby, leaning against the wall of the arena, realized he was too old to outrun stallions or younger men. He had to find another way. Then something moved under his outstretched grasping hand. A piece of stone. One not wedged securely in the wall. Feverishly, he worked it loose. Just then, a rope settied over a thrashing head and snapped taut around its neck. At the other end of the rope, the huge Nuba went to his knees, putting his sizable weight into the rope. Here was Carlby's chance. Deliberately closing his mind to what he was doing, he ran toward the man. Up his hand went, high in the air
it hovered, then swooped down to end in a dull thud against kinky hair and black flesh. Blood spurted from the neck as Carlby grabbed the rope from dying hands.

Four of the group desperately clung to their prizes and watched the spectacle avidly, fascinated in spite of themselves, especially since three of their number were in a race not only against horse and man but time. De Wynter, having already snared one horse for Gilliver, had found his attention attracted, as had many others, by the single gray white stud in the pack. Already the horse had taught some of his captors respect for his ways, for his small but sharp hooves were covered with blood, with more flecks of the same copiously covering his shoulders and withers. The horse was a beauty. Its head was fine, well set on the neck, its withers high and laid back, well developed, not too narrow or thin. The back was short, surprisingly so. Its loins were powerful, croup high, haunch very fine, tail high-set, and dock short. More than that, it was obviously intelligent: the horse feinted only with its rear legs, striking with its forefeet. Then as he watched, the horse slipped one rope, and another. In lieu of doing the same a third time, it deliberately lunged at his third tormentor and bit hard; one could hear the bone of the offending arm crunch. But the horse didn't let go. Instead, with a flip of its powerful neck, it tossed the man ten feet across the arena, then followed after and tried to trample him. Approached from behind by another man, it leaped into the air, kicking out with its hind feet and landing catlike almost within its footprints. De Wynter had seen war-horses do the same, but only after training, months of it. Here was a horse that, whether by instinct or reason, used a supposedly man-made maneuver to incapacitate his tormentors.