In the Pits of Isfhan – Mari Ness

In the Pits of Isfhan

by Mari Ness

The water is a deep, dark sapphire blue, the most brilliant I have ever seen. A narrow sandy pathway, lined with tall weeds on one side, lies next to the shallow lake. Tall grey birds dart long beaks into the water, sucking tiny fish into their necks. A few trees overhang the lake. I suck in my breath: I have never seen such beauty.

On the pathway stands a male lion; behind him stands a female lion, mouth opened in a slow yawn, showing her teeth. The tail of a third lion dangles from one of the trees.

This is what I must walk around.

#

This is how it works, in the markets of Isfhan: We are brought there in slim silver chains, quite breakable, except that each of us is tied by at least one hundred of them, more in the cases of those deemed recalcitrant. We are all women, all beautiful in one way or another. Those that do not fit this category have already been slain – peacefully, we are reassured, with the gentlest of poisons slipped into the richest of wines. They would not even have known, would have felt nothing other than sleep. They are kind to us, their prisoners, most kind. This is not my first trip in these chains, and so I know their kindness.

The silver is terribly heavy. It makes us, they say, look most beautiful.

We have heard of the markets of Isfhan, of course, the markets where everything is for sale – food, weapons, exotic animals, jewels, clothing, poisons, magic, souls – and of course, people, but not many of those. We are, we are assured, most rare, and special licenses have been granted for our care. And care it is: we have been bathed, and rubbed down with oil by other women in silver chains, our hair brushed out until it shines, our bodies carefully fed and watered so we will not fall in the heat.

For the markets of Isfhan are known for their pulsing, endless heat.

We are brought there under shade, a canopy that a few of us hold over the others, as they hold the ends of our silver chains. About us, we see and hear the wonders of Isfhan, its patrons gaping at the glorious wares. It might interest us, were the chains not so heavy. Were we not part of the wares. We walk and walk – however privileged they may name us, we are not so privileged to warrant silken palanquins. The silver chains press into our shoulders and waists. We do not smile, but we do not frown, either, until we reach the stage where we shall be displayed. Below us gapes a fighting pit, its walls lined with comfortable seats for spectators.

This is how it works, in the markets of Ishfan: In order to own us, to have the privilege of owning us, our owners must fight for us, drawing first blood, at the least, before they can chose which of us they will purchase. They are not told whether they will be blooded or killed before the contest can end; in truth, I am not sure that is always known, since some of the creatures our owners may fight are not all that controllable. The fighting pits, smeared with dried blood and less savory things, show this.

Already, some spectators have arrived, armed with sweet, cooling drinks and shaded parasols. I would feel ill if it were allowed, but it is not, and so I stand with the others, feet aching, and watch the markets of Isfhan  shifting and shimmering in today’s swift winds.

#

I cannot go back. I know of no other path. I hear a knocking sound; it takes me a moment to realize that it is my knees. I cannot stop the shaking. The sapphire water sparkles, and I try to watch it, but my eyes cannot leave the lions.

#

The first to attempt a purchase is a swaggering young boy, draped in wealthy clothing, teased into doing so, doubtless, by his friends. He is far too young to own any of us, and they would not permit it in any case. But they do not shame him by saying so, for fear of losing a future customer, and bow deeply to the boy. I imagine he is perhaps twelve. The boy assures them he can pay, flashing a huge sapphire. They bow again, and escort him to the pits.

The crowd does not lean forward. This will be short and dull; the boy clearly does not have the skill to last long, and they will not waste one of the more valuable and fabulous fighters against him. Sure enough, from the pits comes a large man, perhaps from the barbarian lands to the east,  spinning two huge curved weapons , one in each hand.  The boy gulps, but stands bravely, and even manages to strike a blow or two before his sword is knocked out of his hands, and he is lightly nicked on the neck. Some of the spectators clap politely. The boy leaves in decent enough humour, giving us a final glance as he leaves, sapphire clutched in his hands.

A pause while we wait for the next purchaser. Some of the spectators leave, while others enter, a sign of how the day will progress. We are watered, although I still find myself wishing for one of the sweet fruit juices – a luxury we are never allowed on the stage.

#

I had not planned for lions. I knew the marshlands hid many wild and mystical creatures, but I imagined that they stayed far away from the pathways created by humans, or at least that I would not encounter one so soon. My hands are empty. I could wade in the water, of course – will the lions follow? But I do not know how deep it is, and what of crocodiles? What if I am trapped in the sands beneath the water?

The birds, more accustomed to lions, I suppose, continue fishing. The lions watch me.

#

A woman fights for us next. This is slightly unusual, we are told, though not unheard of – women, particularly fighting women, need pleasure slaves as well, and some of us are renowned for our training. Nods are exchanged, and for her, the fighting pits bring out something more spectacular: an angry male bull and a lizardbear with its steel claws sharpened to razor thinness. She had not expected two opponents, this is clear, but she performs well, pulling off her top tunic and throwing it on the head of the bull, blinding him for a moment, and then fighting nearly barebreasted against the lizardbear as a result. This intrigues the spectators, and is indeed an awesome fight. They dart around the pit and the angered bull, stabbing towards each other, fending off blade and claw and blade. Even I, who have already seen too many of these things, find myself enthralled. I would lean forward, if I could.

They fight for an astounding half-candle as the spectators ooh and aah. The bull frees himself from the cloth and lunges; the crowd gasps. For a moment, it seems as if the lizardbear will fight the bull, but no – it was a trick, a deception against both us and the woman. A quick slash, and the woman’s left arm is bleeding.

First blood. And enough.  Iron chains and heavy nets are flung out, and the bull and the lizardbear are pulled back into their cages. The woman, understandably exhausted, leans back against the walls of the pit, her eyes shadowed with disappointment. She accepts water and an apple, which she eats as her arm is bound. She is escorted from the pit with all honor and cheers; they bow to her. She turns her head towards us, then grins, specifically at one of us who looks (oh so deceptively) sweet and fragile and yielding. She will be back.

The next man dies, crushed by three angry bears. Nothing magical in that fight, merely exhaustion. I feel ill. Someone notices, and I am given water. I am not allowed to feel ill, to feel any weakness. I can only stand.

#

I could wait, of course, for the lions to move. Surely, they must either move to hunt – although they could eat on the birds and fish here, I suppose – or move back to their den, unless they have chosen to make this a den. Perhaps the heat, which will increase very soon, will send them to cooler places – unless this pathway lined with trees and water is the coolest place they can reach.

I cannot wait long, I know.

A small sound behind me – perhaps a bird, something else – decides me. I step forward, as the lions watch.

#

We have had three more purchasers since the first death: a merchant who hired a warrior to fight for him; a young drunken lordling; and an elderly man. The warrior died, to the mild distress of the merchant; the lordling left the pits alive, but with a wound blackened from the poison of a manticore. He may live, if his friends can reach a healer in time, if the healer is gifted with the magic needed to lift such poisons. The old man was allowed to leave with only a scratch on his wrist, though he begged for another chance.

No one may fight more than once per day, he was told, and he left without another word.

The sun beats down upon us as the next man approaches.  This man is perhaps 35, dark skinned, dangerous. He is dressed exceedingly simply, plainly, cheaply, but neither I nor anyone else is deceived about his wealth: behind him stand four well dressed attendants, and even I can recognize the rare quality of his sword. He can afford us, perhaps more than one of us, if he wins.

Bows are exchanged. I expect the man to smile, but he does not. I see them exchanging glances, and know immediately what this means. They expect this one to be a champion. The crowd, too, stirs a little with excitement, and a young boy runs off into the market, to tell others of the coming fight, or perhaps to bring drinks and sweets to sell. More bows are exchanged. The man steps into the pit, armed only with his sword and a single dagger.

A gate is opened, releasing a griffin.

#

I keep a watchful eye on all three lions as I step closer. If I remember correctly – and I may be wrong – only the female lions hunt and fight; the male lions merely stand guard over their own. Still. I do not wish to approach him too closely either, and one of his mates rests in a high tree above. I do not see any young lions, and that, I reason, must be a blessing; at least they will not think I am after their young.

Standing so long, as I have, has granted me one thing: patience.

#

I have never seen a griffin, and like the others, I forget myself for a moment and gasp at its beauty – the body of a lion, the head and wings of an eagle, but such an eagle! The wings are multicolored, brilliant; the eyes twin luminous emeralds. It opens its beak and shrieks, then rises into the air, circles, and swoops.

The man, like all of us, has been stunned for a moment; one lion claw rakes his shoulder, but he is able to recover quickly and bring his dagger against the griffin’s leg. Blood is spilt, but the fight continues: this will be to the death, then.  The griffin, knowing this as we do, shrieks again, and with two powerful flaps of his wings, soars above the spectators, about half of whom scream. (None, I note, leave.) With a third shriek, the griffin plummets and seizes the man’s shoulder in its beak. To his credit, he does not scream, even when with another great flap of the wings, he lifts the man off the ground. The man uses his free arm to swing the sword and cut at the griffin’s legs. The shrieks this time do not come from the griffin, who keeps its beak firmly closed on the man’s shoulder, but from the audience, watching the griffin’s claws slide down the man’s back.

The man was beautiful, in a way, when he arrived. He will not be so beautiful now. The griffin’s feathers sparkle in the sunlight, and the dazzle hurts my eyes..

#

I try to remember everything I know about lions, and give up when I realize that I know nothing beyond what I have seen in the pit, and that is very little. I have visited the markets of Isfhan, after all, only three times.

The lions do not move as I watch them. Do not let them see your fear, I hear in my mind, and although that voice had not been speaking of lions, it as good advice as any. I take a step forward. They remain still. A good sign. I take another step, and feel something brush my foot.  I kneel, never taking my eye from them. They stare back, unblinking.

#

The fight seems to last for hours, although we are no judges of time. At last, the griffin frees its beak from the man’s shoulders, gives a final shriek, and soars up in the sky, although it is bleeding from every leg, and we can almost feel the strain upon its shoulders. The man is in no better shape, but as the griffin rises, he manages to swing his sword up and into the griffin’s neck before cutting through to its heart. Their fall is sudden, harsh. The griffin lands upon the man, its glittering feathers spraying everywhere in a dizzying fashion.

The crowd is silent.

This is how it works, in the markets of Isfhan: The purchaser must rise, alone, unassisted. Once this is done, they approach, with chilled rose or lemon water and fruit, and bow. The purchaser drinks, and eats, and then displays money and jewels. We are expensive, their prisoners, most expensive. The price is handed over, with another bow.

You are honored, they tell us, so honored. For what other women would be worth such a battle, such a victory, such a triumph?

I stare at the griffin, at its glittering glorious wings. An honor, an honor.

This is how it works, in the markets of Isfhan: after payment is made, the owner rises, and approaches us, one by one, staring at our faces, at our chains, at the silk robes we wear beneath him.  It is a slow, unhurried process. An honor, an honor. We may even be freed, afterwards, they tell us, although no one can actually name a single woman so freed.

He pauses in front of me, and nods.

#

My foot has brushed against a stick, a thick and heavy one. I kneel down and pick it up in my left hand. My right hand brushes against the metallic feather at my waist.

Another step.

#

He has fought a griffin for you and won, they tell me.

Now he is grinning, grinning, through the sweat and blood running down his face. Behind him, the griffin lies motionless, its glorious feathers broken.

Rules be damned. I am completely sick.

#

Now I remember: in the pits, men placed things into the mouths of lions to halt their bites, and then would wrestle the lions to the ground, or attempt to cut their legs or backs or chests. It varied: some men tried to keep the skin intact in battles, while others hungered for the blood of lions. Unbidden, the memory of a time when a lion ripped off the arm of an owner comes to mind; the way the owner had screamed and screamed as his blood has sprayed over lion and some of the spectators alike, the way he had looked at us, almost in hatred. We did not ask you to save us, I remember thinking. We never asked you to fight.

Those thoughts are unimportant now.  But the way the men lived, by placing something in the mouth of a lion. I have this stick. I could force it between the lion’s jaws, perhaps.

I caress the stick.

I must not look afraid. I must not feel afraid. They will sense that.

I step forward.

I have learned certain things from  standing still.

#

I am delivered into his care, or, rather, into the care of one of his attendants, who grabs my chains roughly and pulls, causing me to cry out a little. One of them raises a finger, just once, in slight warning, but I no longer belong to them, and am no longer under their protection.

I follow the bleeding man – my champion – and his attendants through the crowded markets of Isfhan, the colors and noises jangling in my ears and eyes. My vision swims, possibly from tears, although I do not think I am crying.

I never thought I would be chosen, or won. The silver chains cut into me as I am half pulled through the streets.

#

The lion stands, watching me as I pass. It opens its mouth a little, and I almost freeze in terror before remembering that I must not show fear, I must not show interest, I must show determination.

I take another step, and another.  The lion in the tree yawns and dangles a paw. I imagine I can feel her hot breath on my neck, although this is nonsense.  She is too high. Too high to touch me. Unless she leaps.

The male lion opens his mouth. I tell myself, again, not to run. If I show fear, if I run, he will leap. I remember the spectators at the pits; I remember them calling out to the men that would face lions in the hope of touching me. I step forward again, and calmly walk past the lion, so close to him that I could reach out and stroke his fur. Almost, I do, until something metallic brushes my hand, and that reminds me. I clutch it, but lightly; if the lions smell blood, I fear they will attack instead of watching.

This is how it feels, I realize, to face monsters without champions. And with that, I step under the tree, beneath his mate.

#

When we arrive, I am taken directly to the baths. Gentle salve is rubbed into my shoulders, under the delicate chains. I am fed a light meal of soup and fruit, and then taken to a low, soft bed in a small, dark, room. The door is locked behind me. I do not question. I sleep.

The next day I am fetched for more bathing – my champion must have been told of the regular baths we take in preparation for our champions– fed again, and taken to a small garden, where I sit and watch the flowers and the few insects buzzing nearby. My chains are tied to a marble column, giving me little room to move.

I am not entirely sure where we are – someplace just a little outside the city, I think, given the general silence about the house. On the east side, I am certain. I have been told little of the city’s geography, in any case, knowing only the endless trek to the market and back. I have heard – although I do not know – that the city has marshlands on the east side, a sea on the west, and steep hills leading to mountains on the north – but that may have been mere tales for us. In truth, I am startled by how much I do not know. I cannot even name the flowers in this garden.

We should have been trained to talk, to not be merely beautiful.

But I have no other skill.

I find myself playing with my chains, taking one slender, fragile chain in my fingers, playing, and pulling – and breaking it.

I freeze, but no one has seen.

The day passes quietly enough. Growing groggy in the warmth, I fall asleep, to be tugged awake in the late afternoon by a maid, who smiles at me before leading me back for yet another bath. She dresses me in a silk robe – seemingly modest, covering my chest and body, though one twist of the button on my left shoulder will send the robe shimmering to the floor. The silk rests between the silver chains and my shoulders and waist, easing their touch a little. Once dressed, I am taken to a room filled with soft cushions and low tables. My chains are fastened to one of the tables, and I am directed to sit there, waiting. I place myself in a kneeling position, kneels just under the table, rearrange my silver chains as gracefully as I can, and wait.

He does not keep my waiting long, my champion.

He arrives as the food does; elegant, delicate dishes that I do not associate with this man, who should, I imagine, be gnawing on huge hunks of beef and bread. But perhaps this is for my benefit, or perhaps I misjudge him.  After all, what little I have seen of the house does not fit him either – the house is elegant, luxurious, and light and airy, not the dark fortress I imagine him springing from. We have been told not to judge by externals, but by the face, by the eyes, by the movements.

My champion is wounded. Gravely so. A bandage covers half his face where the griffin struck him; one arm is in a sling, and he walks with a terrible limp, even though I imagine he is a man who usually does not show his pain. He sits on the floor only slowly, and his servants watch carefully, waiting for him, I imagine, to fall. Once he is seated, I note the other bruises and wounds on his body. I find myself swallowing. I am not precisely sorry for him, but I am wondering how he has survived.

He is dangerous, I think, and find myself staring into my lap.

“Eat,” he says, gesturing, and we do so.

It is a quiet meal. I do not speak unless he does, and he speaks only rarely, and always about the food.

As the meal progresses, the servants bring in more pillows, one by one. As the champion begins to loosen his clothing, I realize, suddenly, what these pillows are for: we will not be walking to another room. The pillows are soft, silken. He turns and stares at me, and then twists the button on my robe and drops a griffin feather into my hands.

The feather is metallic, sharp, still gleaming. Even in the softer candlelight I can still see the traces of the brilliant colors that had sparkled into the sun. It hurts my eyes. I look up at him, instead, staring at his bandaged face.

I have been told to relent, even to participate, no matter if the silver chains dig into my back, causing bruises, no matter if my purchaser is not one to be concerned with the pleasure of women. It will be easier, they tell me. Less painful. Although some purchasers, it is whispered, are more pleased by resistance from the women. Judge your purchaser carefully, the woman who oiled me whispered in my ear. Know whether you should resist or relent.

I cannot judge him. I stiffen. The chains weigh heavily on my shoulders.

I do not know if he sees my stiffness, or if mere pain causes his next words. “I am too injured for you tonight,” he whispers. “I would not have this moment sullied by any pain on my side.” He caresses my cheek. ”Tomorrow, then. I wait.”

He runs his tongue over his lips, and I see the bandages on his face, where the griffin raked him, twitch.

He ties my chains to the table, allowing me to fall back amongst the soft silk cushions. I lie in the darkness, waiting, until my fingers start to fiddle and play with the fragile silver chains. I break one easily enough, though it pains my fingers. I pause. I must be careful not to let my fingers bleed, or someone will suspect. I break another chain, and another.

#

Past the lions, I do not dare look back. I will hear them, I assure myself; I do not need to see them coming. A few more steps, and I find myself running, running. Not from the lions, who would be far swifter than me in any case.

They will discover my absence soon, and the heavy pile of silver I have left behind me, and I want to know, now, how it feels to run, run. My neck, freed from silver, still aches, but I toss my head as I run, laughing.

I think I hear roars behind me, but I do not turn to look. I have no need of champions, and no need to watch for monsters.

---

Once a week, Mari Ness blogs about classic works of children’s literature over at Tor.com.  Her own writing has appeared in numerous places around the web and in print, including Clarkesworld, Fantasy, Ideomancer, Jabberwocky and Goblin Fruit. She lives in central Florida, where she frequently encounters alligators and other dangerous critters on regular trips to the library and grocery store. Fortunately, she has never had to distract any of those critters with sticks. Yet.

© 2011 All rights reserved Mari Ness.

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