The Mer- Lion (88 page)

A dozen guards accompanied the "guest of honor" and the Amir out of the baths and down a completely deserted street of a city, two thirds empty tents and one third abandoned ancient ruins. They needed no torches to light their way, for eerie red light still emanated from the amphitheater itself. Ali, seeing the sparks soaring above it, found himself wishing that the fires would burn out of control and trap their instigator in his inhuman campfire. Waiting to let the silent ones go past with their burden was a large contingent of roped-together slaves who had belonged to the losers, fresh fuel for the huge funeral pyre.

The black in front, who had gray scattered liberally through his tightly kinked hair, stood still and looked at the man hanging from
the pole, taking him for one of them. "Take heart, my toother. Allah's blessings upon you."

"And you," de Wynter answered, bewildered anew by a country that could produce such dignity and bravery in the midst of utter depravity.

Slaves were not the only ones destined for immolation; scattered among them were groups of better-dressed men who had been spectators at the games and now were to become part of the spectacle themselves. These men, judging from their torn raiment and disheveled appearance, went not so stoically to their deaths. Ali, whose idea it had been to so sacrifice them, watched these, too, herded toward al Djem without a twinge of regret. He would have slaughtered hundreds and thousands to save the life of the one man he now escorted to the Amira's white wedding tent. And whose messenger came to hurry their steps.

It was his genuine regard for de Wynter that forced Ali to make an offer essentially inimicable to his own cause: "I shall, if you like, cut you free. Then you can walk in like a man, the victor of the games that you are."

"Never. Never will
I
willingly have aught to do with that woman."

With anyone else, under any other circumstances, Ali would not have been gainsaid, but for once, one single time,-he chose to be self-serving and temporized, "You may be wise. In the meantime, give me your word—"

"No. The only way you'll get me in there is trussed like game and hanging from this pole. And even then, Ali, you'll not keep me there. Not unless you de me and hold me down."

"So be it," Ali said, waving Aisha's messenger aside and gesturing to the pole-bearers to proceed.

While de Wynter had slept and been groomed, Aisha had not been idle. With her mother's assistance, she, too, had spent hours being bathed, buffed, perfumed, and groomed for her wedding—and torturing herself over her choice for consort. Logically, sensibly, intelligently, practically, by any measurement she could devise, the giant remained the proper choice. Yet something within her rebelled at her own practicality, and perhaps the same aspect of her personality made her long for love where love could not possibly exist: not in
a
mari
age de convenance.
Nevertheless, she knew it was true. Besides, the sheikh had made his preference for the
jamad ja'da
undeniably known. While the giant's feats had won plaudits, the daring and imagination of the final coup of the
jamad ja'da
was the fabric of which legends were made and stories woven. Still, she could not ignore her own certainty that the white-haired one would never be as malleable as the other.

At one point, in desperation, she was prepared to reject both in favor of another. Which other? The Taureg? She laughed cynically. Might as well choose the monkey-faced one; neither inspired more than mere admiration for their ability to survive. As for Eulj Ali—never! Besides, she had other plans for that braggart.

The garments she wore this night were almost identical in cut and color to the ones she'd worn the night before, except that upon these were lavished more embroidery, more diamonds, and more gold. Looking at herself in the mirror, she wondered how he could resist smiling upon her with favor. He? With favor?

With a cry, she threw the mirror from her. The song birds in their cages, startled, scolded her loudly. How dare I, she thought, think of him again? And why always that one? Why not the other one, too?

The mirror was retrieved and returned undamaged by a frightened
asira
and Aisha patted the girl on her head as if she were a pet, then touched her own fingertips to her lips, to show the server that the thanks were not just of the body but of the soul, too.

None too soon was she ready. Her mother headed the procession to the white wedding tent where Aisha would await, as a proper Berber wife should, the coming of her husband. There would be no elaborate wedding ceremony such as the Christians and Jews knew; marriage among the Moslems is a civil matter. And that had been accomplished by the signing of the scroll some seven days ago by 180 men. Whichever candidate she chose tonight was, by law, already married to her and had been for a full week.

Beyond the diaphanous curtains, beside the soft, fresh-made bed with its perfumed silken coverings and telltale white sheepskin, she waited alone save for her cheetah, al Abid.

Finally, voices and vague shapes seen through the curtains announced her time was upon her. Even as the men settled down onto the low divans placed for them, she swept back the curtains and
strode into the room, her long skirts swirling, her eyes taking in the whole scene at once. Eulj Ali was there in rich robes of red and rubies, in sharp contrast to the twice-married Taureg in his black robe and black sandals, with a black scarf covering his lower face, its ends tied behind his ears, then hanging down his back. The giant, who took up most of one divan, wore robes of blue. Lapis lazuli around the border picked up the color of a man's eyes, the eyes of a man who wasn't there, the
jamad ja'da.

Then, too, neither was her Amir
l
'al-assa.
Had the two lingered too long at the baths? Or was Ali prematurely enjoying the other's favors? Her eyes grew stony as with a snap of her fingers she brought a slave running. A word or two and he was off to find the miscreants.

The slave was back almost immediately. Ali came first, and behind him a richly dressed human trophy dangled from a pole. A word from the Amir and the carriers gladly lowered their burden to the floor, there to lie on his side. Seeing Aisha's obvious displeasure, Ali tried to explain. "He would not come of his own doing. We had to tie him.''

"Untie him," she ordered, frowning down upon the man who lay there, his very bindings his final insult and affront to her person.

"But he—"

"I said," she said, enunciating every word distinctively, "untie him."

Ali shrugged. Stepping forward, he pulled his own knife and, rolling de Wynter over with his foot, bent down and sawed through the silk ties that bound first ankles, then wrists. With one catlike movement, de Wynter rolled over and sprang to his feet and leapt straight for Aisha. He was stopped in his tracks by the pounce of Aisha's cheetah. The snarling al Abid would have given any man pause.

Although Ali had instinctively lunged after the prisoner, it was Aisha who, taking advantage of the
jamad ja'da's
hesitation, sprang forward and, baring her own small blade, pressed it hard against his jugular.

"If you move," she informed him, trying hard to keep her breathing even, "you drown your lungs in your own blood. Heed me and heed me well. You are an invited guest at my table. Now act the
part. Or else you shall never sup again without the food and drink flowing freely through a slit in your neck."

She had never killed a man. She wasn't sure that she ever would. But she was sure he did not know that, and, rather than have him test her resolve, she stepped back and removed the knife from his throat as Ali moved in between them.

Just as quickly, a frustrated de Wynter went for Ali, knocking him to the ground and narrowly missing taking the princess with him. On top of the two struggling men sprang the snarling cat. More in fear of what al Abid might do to the
jamad ja'da
than of what me two men might do to each other, Aisha waded into the fray, catching her pet by the collar while signaling her guards, with her free hand, to move in and restrain the white-haired one.

Then, though words to her men were unnecessary, she spat them out, her eyes dark with rage, her voice as deadly as an icicle; "Bind him again. Bind him fast to the tent pole."

While her orders were being carried out, she soothed, scratched, and calmed her cheetah
...
and noticed the gaping faces of the other three men. Idiots. Useless. Slow-witted dolts. He could have been hurt while you sat there, she charged them silendy. Typical men. In so doing, she dismissed all three from further consideration.

Al Abid began purring under the gentle but thorough cheek-scratching of her mistress's hand. Now it was safe to turn her pet loose again and retreat to her own couch. A casual gesture with her right hand and the cat slowly sank to the floor at her feet A wave of her left hand and slaves entered the room bearing platters heaped high with aromatic foods. Between each two men, a tray was placed, overflowing with fragrandy spiced meats, crisp exotic vegetables, fresh-baked breads. The men, not having eaten since breakfast, were ravenous and set to with a will.

Not Aisha. She picked at her food. Tossed tidbits to her cat. Every now and again she stole a glance across the room to where the
jamad ja'da
sat propped against the pole, his eyes closed, his face stern. Even tied tightly in what must be an uncomfortable position, he looked as elegantiy at ease as
...
as al Abid.

Suddenly, she realized she did not know his name, his real name. Always she had referred to him as the
jamad ja'da
as she had called the other the blond giant. In fact, of the three men, only one
name—that a hated one—came readily to her hps: Eulj Ali. It was time to rectify all that. Waiting until the giant, seated between two trays, had satisfied his voracious hunger by helping himself, with two hands, first to one tray then the other, Aisha decided to introduce herself.

Deliberately she made herself speak softly and beguilingly, in direct contrast to the haughtiness of her words, for it suddenly became important to her that the
jamad ja'da
look upon her favorably: "Allow me, O victors, to introduce myself: Aisha Kahina Amira of Tunisia, twenty-third in line of direct descent from Dido, daughter of Behis of Tyre and founder of Carthage. Daughter, too, of Ramlah bint Zaid, daughter of Zaid, Sheikh of the Berbers, who is descended from Kahina, the great Berber princess-prophetess who first drove the Arabs from our lands. Now, I would know you and your patronomy as well."

She had spoken directly to the
jamad Ja'da,
but not by a quiver of his eyelids did he indicate he heard. Could he be sleeping? she wondered. Or, worse, hurt in the struggle. She clapped her hands sharply. When his eyes flew open, she said,
"Djinn,"
and smiled skeptically at him. Her smile, a suggestion of mutual sophistication rather than superstition, was more man that. It was also an invitation to forgive, to forget, to ally. While the Arabs in their midst—the Taureg and Eulj Ali included—joined in the clapping to scare off the
djinn,
de Wynter slowly and deliberately closed his eyes, refusing her invitation. Never would he forgive nor forget Drummond and Cameron and Menzies
...
and Gilliver. Let Fionn eat her food and share her couch—in any manner he chose. Once this farce of a feast was finished, this particular Scot was going to find the gray stallion, if possible, and if not, walk back to Tunis to find a ship to England.

When the clapping died down, Eulj Ali with typical braggadoccio and ignoring the known fact that he was grandson of a washerwoman and a janissary-turned-potter boasted, "Eulj Ali, beloved son of the Beglerbey of Algiers, Uruj Barbarossa, whose very name strikes terror into the hearts of Allah's enemies and who now commands the fleet of the Sultan of Sultans, Suleiman the Magnificent."

The latter was news to her. That Eulj Ali's father found favor at the Sublime Porte might conceivably influence her plans for the son. That would need discussing with Ramlah and Ali.

In the meantime, the Taureg, finally over his concern with the
djinn,
spoke next "Ben Duailan, of the tarik el Taureg"—he smiled gently, the smile making a sharp countenance soft, a stem visage boyish—"whose ancestors welcomed Dido to our shores and sold her all the land she could encompass with one bull hide."

Aisha could not resist the sweetness of the smile and the gentleness of his message. Dido, as she well knew, had cheated the Tauregs put of their land by cutting the bull's bide into the thinnest of strips and laying these out end to end, encircling all of that promontory to the northwest of the city of Tunis. She smiled back. And captured at least one man's heart there and then.

"Ben Duailan, of the tarik el Taureg, welcome to my tent" She meant it. She also meant to cheat him of the reward for which he had risked so much, just as Dido had done to his ancestor centuries before. And both men she knew would always consider themselves fortunate to have been favored by such a beautiful woman.

Fionn, through all of this, chomped steadily away. Finally, Aisha addressed herself directly to him. "And you, tall man, do you go nameless?"