The Mer- Lion (71 page)

For another half hour the battle raged, the two men trying to maneuver each other into facing the sun. Back and forth in furious charges, and sometimes standing toe to toe, pummeling each other with great blows that made the fine Spanish steel ring and crash and clang.

The crowd was becoming restless, growing impatient for the kill, and screaming for the blood they felt they deserved. Still the officials showed no sign of calling a halt to the confrontation.

The Scottish earl made his decision. Sun and shadow must make the difference. He knew he was tiring, which was dangerous. He knew, too, that his adversary was even more tired, not moving his feet as much, preferring to stand and do battle where his extra' weight could stand him in good stead. He watched for the right moment, and seeing it, flung his scutum from his left arm, grasped the broad sword in both hands, and in great criss-crossing swings battered the red-haired one's sword and shield so fiercely on the left mat he must turn more and more, in spite of himself, to the right.

De Wynter did not dare let up his fusillade until he had his opponent positioned just right. If he let the other bring his own sword into pfay, the Scot was lost without his shield. How long he could maintain this attack he didn't know, but two more steps to the right, then one back, and it was all over for one of them.

The sword was what he had to get. He watched its every move as he continued to pummel the man's shield, driving him back out of the shadow cast by the great awning and into the bright westerly sun. Momentarily blinded, his opponent raised his sword hand to shield his eyes. In that instant, de Wynter swung his sword with all his might, hoping to catch the other's near the hilt and knock it from his - grasp. But the redhead's grip was too secure; instead, the blade snapped in two. De Wynter's gamble had paid off.

With terror in his eyes, the unarmed man flung aside the useless handle and grasped with both hands the shield now dented and battered from the heavy, two-handed blows of de Wynter which drove him in whatever direction the Scot chose.

"Throw down your shield. I won't kill you!" de Wynter yelled.

But the redhead understood neither the words nor the intent. The crowd screamed for the kill they felt was imminent. But still de Wynter stalled. Watching for an opening, he thrust his sword between the backtracking legs and tripped the redhead onto his - backside. In a flash the Scotsman was on top of him, kicking aside the scutum and placing the point of his sword at the base of his throat.

"Ma'dan!" "Affirm!" "Al rabb mujalid!"

Slowly, the cheers of the crowd penetrated the pounding in de Wynter's ears as he gasped for breath. Without moving his sword, he turned to face a crowd on its feet, stomping and clapping rhythmic applause. Even the two women and the her/him in the royal box joined in. De Wynter found himself staring into the bright sparkling eyes of Aisha. In spite of himself, he wondered if the lips beneath that veil ever softened and parted with passion. Then, he caught himself up short. He was not interested in this woman, he reminded himself. Tearing his gaze from her, he looked instead at the Moulay, aroused unwillingly from his stupor by the noise about him. Shaking his head in confusion, he called for more wine and without looking at the scene below in the arena, he gestured
imperiously with down turned thumb, then covered his ears with both hands to stop the noise.

His actions were not popular. The crowd renewed their cheers, thrusting their thumbs violently into the air and yelling,
"Mitte! Mitte!"
Still holding his ears, the Moulay looked wildly about and screamed for silence, but the crowd could not hear him over then-own noise. Anything to stop the noise, he thought,, and wrapping his left arm about his head in a vain attempt to cover bom ears, he quickly put his right hand out to save the man's life. Before he could give the signal, he felt a hand on his upheld arm. It was his daughter, desperate that the redheaded son of Barbarossa die.

"Are you ruler or subject?" she demanded deliberately. "Is your will the law or do you let that rabble bend you to theirs?"

He only stared at her, mouth drooping in surprise.

"You made your decision. Let it stand. Lest those within the stands think you weak. Unkingly. And decide to replace you with one stronger."

He dropped his hand, the noise forgotten. "Replace me? I'll have all their heads first!" Drawing himself to his full pouter-pigeon dignity, he repeated his thumbs-down gesture.

At Aisha's command, Ali's shrill whistle sounded over the din.. once twice, and again. Immediately, the silent ones tamed, spears at the ready, to face their commander, in so doing of course, facing the crowd. The crowd got the message. And though scattered throughout the crowd came cries of disapproval, most kept their mutterings to themselves.

De Wynter couldn't believe what he had seen. Even after the Amira intervened, still the Moulay persisted. What kind of monster was he to condemn this man who had fought so valiantly? Withdrawing his sword, de Wynter strode halfway to the royal box. There, raising his arms in appeal, he silently asked for the life of his fallen opponent.

The crowd roared its approval, but both Moulay and Asmira rejected his appeal. The former with both thumbs vigorously stabbing the air. The latter with what de Wynter took as a dejected shake of her head.

Turning on his heel, de Wynter defiantly walked back to the fallen warrior, scooping up'that man's shield as he went by. "Here, let me
give you a hand up," he said to the older man, who, although he didn't understand the words, rightly interpreted the outstretched hand.

Handing the man his shield, de Wynter gestured for the man to get behind him. "If they wish to kill you, they'll have to kill me first!" Back to back the two men stood, challenging the silent ones and    whip-bearers to do something.

Gilliver and Cameron started forward to join them, but the lances of four silent ones stopped them in their tracks.

The Moulay jumped up and down, screaming with anger. First, the crowd defied him, now a lowly gladiator. "I'll have their heads, all of their heads! Before I'm through those two will beg for death!"

Aisha ignored him as did Ramlah. The two women exchanged looks, Ramlah marveling at the slave's bravery in refusing the Moulay's orders, Aisha marveling at his foolhardiness. Only Ali acted decisively to break the impasse. Shortly thereafter, silent ones entered the arena bearing armfuls of the nets of the
retiarii
and surrounded the pair. Although the nets were inexpertly thrown, one sword could not cut in every direction, nor could two men who spoke not the same language coordinate their movements to stay together while dodging nets. Within minutes, the silent ones had trapped themselves two gladiators.

The Moulay would have seen them both killed, but Aisha intervened. "A king can and should be merciless. Cruel. Dispassionate. But a king if he would have his subjects' respect as well as fear goes not back on his word. You promised the winners would live. Keep your pledge." Her voice crackled with authority and the Moulay couldn't meet her scornful glance.

Mustering what little dignity he had left, he turned, gesturing for the her/him to accompany him, and stormed out of the royal box. Ali, down below, patiently waited the royal pleasure. Aisha hesitated a moment, then raised her hand, index finger pointing up, thumb down: one man must die. De Wynter, within his envelope of confining cording, could not see the byplay in the royal box nor who it was who condemned his fellow to death. But he heard the results: a long, shrill scream of sheer agony cut short in mid-crescendo, only to be replaced by the fearsome deep-throated gurgle of a dying man drowning in his own blood.

De Wynter froze momentarily, then renewed his mighty but futile struggle with the net. But he was caught fast and left that way to shout himself hoarse threatening, taunting, pleading, cursing. Finally, he fell silent and after what seemed hours, he was hoisted high on the shoulders of two silent ones and carried back to his cell, there to be dumped none too gently on the floor at the feet of his companions.

Immediately, many eager hands set to the job of disentangling the giant knot of webbing that held the captive as if in a cocoon. While they picked at, tugged, bit, twisted, disentwined and unraveled the cording, he badgered them with questions. Questions about themselves and their fights. Questions that no one rushed to answer. Growing suspicious, he twisted his head about and searched among the anxious faces surrounding him for that of the one he could count on to tell him true. Where was he? The others knew for whom he searched, and none could sustain his gaze. Finally de Wynter locked glances with the sympathetic gray eyes of Carlby. It was the younger man's eyes that gave way, his fears confirmed. Then, the nets came free and warm hands helped de Wynter to his feet. Still no words were said. Not then, not during the night when muffled cries disturbed the stillness, not ever.

CHAPTER
31

Involuntarily, her fingers curled as the
asira
lightly stroked the henna brush across her palm. Tonight, thanks to that hand, Aisha was content with the world. For the first time since Ali had alerted her to Eulj Ali's presence in the games, she could think of the outcome of the competition with anticipation, not trepidation. Squirming deeper into the soft cushions upon her couch, she permitted herself a small smile of satisfaction as she admired her free hand with its deceptively slender fingers that could control the unruliest of stallions
...
the buffed nails filed short to give her freedom with bow and lance and throwing dagger
...
the thumb that with one gesture proved itself greater than the rest, by ending a man's life and a princess's fears.

Stretching elegantly, Aisha smiled fondly at Ramlah, who lounged on a couch opposite, busily soothing herself by puffing from her waterpipe, the one decadent custom of her Arab in-laws that she had adopted wholeheartedly. Looking upon this woman who had selflessly sacrificed so much for her country, her people, her daughter, Aisha vowed to do as much for her. If that meant sitting through what seemed to Aisha to be a semisavage pre-wedding-night ritual, then so be it.

The bath ritual last night had been enjoyable. But then, it was merely an elaborate version of her own usual bathing habits. But this senseless dyeing of hands and feet, barbaric! But not by word or
glance or gesture did Aisha reveal her personal opinions to her mother.

Ramlah, who had been awaiting a repetition of the outburst of two nights before, noted her daughter's smile with relief. Finally, Aisha had reconciled herself to her marriage. At least, Ramlah hoped that was so. Deep down inside there was the nagging fear that her daughter's content might have been caused by the selfsame thing that always calmed the Moulay: the sight of gore. Resolutely, Ramlah put that thought from her mind as the euphoria of the .smoke from Zainab's special blend of tobacco spread throughout her system. As it did so, her smile grew wider, her eyelids dropped, her eyes glazed. For almost twenty years, the waterpipe had never failed to give her solace. She came awake with a jerk. She must not forget the
hafiz
sitting behind the latticework screen. A word to the white eunuch serving the coffee, who passed it on to the black eunuch guarding the screen, who respectfully requested the
hafiz
to begin the night's readings from the
Koran.

Ramlah, once she'd assured herself that he was reading the right passages, leaned back and gave herself over totally to the smoke of the
nargileh.
Aisha, engrossed in her own thoughts, watched disinterestedly as the
ama
finished repainting the egg and gathered up dye-pots and brushes preparatory to moving to the other side of the couch to begin on the other hand. But first Zainab must inspect her work and then summon a young cherubic castrato to dry the dye on the Amira's hand with an ostrich-plume fan.

All seemed apparent domestic docile bliss until Aisha suddenly sat up, tearing her hand from the
asira's
grasp. "Holy man," she called to the figure hidden from sight. "The blessings of Allah be upon you."

"And on you, my daughter. Why stop you me in my reading?"

"Holy man, I thought I misheard. Read me those last words again so I may be properly instructed."

"From where should I begin, my daughter... at the beginning?"

"Nay, holy man, from where you said, 'Men are in charge of women.'"

There was a rustling of vellum as the
hafiz
turned over the pages he'd just read and looked for the proper verse. Then, his dry inflectionless voice began anew:             

"Men are in charge of women, because Allah hath made the one of them to excel the other, and because they spend of their property for the support of women." "Is this the verse of which you spoke, daughter?"

Ramlah and Zainab held their breaths, waiting for the explosion from Aisha. But it didn't come. Instead Aisha laughed. Exuberantly, genuinely, almost girlishly. From what she had seen in the camp of the contestants, she had no fears in this respect; those men had no property to use to support a woman much less the only daughter of a king. Just let one of those penniless adventurers attempt to be in charge of the Amira Aisha; he'd live only long enough to regret it.

Ramlah knew not what amused her daughter but prayed the good humor lasted through the rest of the readings which she was sure would not be to her daughter's liking: