Sultan's Wife (23 page)

I have, but I just stare into space over his shoulder as though he is not there. I hear the sly smile in his voice as he says, ‘It's not a pin, you know: it's a hollow tube. He uses it to piss through.' The squeeze he gives me makes me wince. ‘You were lucky: I decided against taking everything – I saw your potential as an investment for the future.'

Dead! I shall see you dead, with your head caved in and maggots in your eye sockets
.

‘Xenophon tells us that vicious horses, when gelded, have their worst tendencies curbed and will no longer bite or buck, but are still fit for service in war; and that dogs, when castrated, lose none of their strength or capacity for hunting, but no longer run away from their masters. I believe the same and more can be said for men. The removal of their balls alone will render them more placid. More grateful too, I hope. I have also heard that the procedure may actually enhance rather than hinder the sexual performance; and that if the cutting is done after puberty, there may be no diminishment of desire. And I am sure, Nus-Nus, that with the right degree of encouragement, it will prove to be thus with you.

‘It's not exactly the way I would have wished for us to come together, but you can't blame me for taking the opportunity when it is so neatly presented. A passage of sweet love-play, and then we shall take you back to where we found you and smash your skull in for real. And no one will know that you survived the massacre for a few short hours. It really is such a shame it should come to this, Nus-Nus. It could all have been so different had you been less … obstinate. All I have ever wanted to do was to instruct you in the art of pleasure. You are such an accomplished boy in so many other ways: it would have rounded out your education beautifully. Such a waste of this glorious body.'

He beckons to the slave, and together they turn me over and arrange me so that my rump is presented. As the boy is dismissed, I remember with horror Alys so arranged on Ismail's bed that first night. And then I feel his hands on me, and all at once I am back in the desert, suffering my first violation, and it is like being in a nightmare in which you are pursued by a monster but are unable to run …

The vomit rises out of my gullet, comes spewing out all over the gaudy silks, ejected with such force that it even spatters the glass of the French mirrors.

‘For shame!' the grand vizier cries with revulsion. He springs to his feet and kicks me in the ribs. More ejecta erupts, and now he has it on his shoes, which are no doubt expensive. He howls like a dog, kicks me again, lower in the gut. This time I can feel the pain of it and it is good: it surges through me like cleansing fire. I can feel the effect of the drug wearing off, a little. I flex my toes, and feel them move against the ground, feebly at first, then with more intent. Come on, I urge my useless body. I focus on my hands, bound to the iron stake, drive my thoughts into my fingers, one by one; and one by one I watch them move. I catch hold of the stake and start to twist and pull …

‘What? What?' Abdelaziz's voice rises to a screech. He fumbles for his dagger.

The stake comes loose and I catch him with it, a blow that connects sumptuously, triumphantly, with the middle of his turbaned head. But of course the grand vizier wears a turban that is even larger than that of the sultan. It contains acres of fabric, wound in incessant, intricate folds, so that his head resembles a vast onion. The blow stuns him for a moment only, then he comes at me with the dagger, all his thwarted desire in his eyes. I sidestep the first attack, try to barge him on the second, but he is like a rock. The dagger punctures me below the ribs. I feel it not as pain but as a heat that fuels my fury. I swing the stake around my head, allowing its full length to carry the momentum into the blow, which lands crushingly across his chest and sweeps him off his feet: an airborne hippopotamus, he lands on his back and all the wind goes out of him with a great huffing noise. He is not getting up from this: I will not let him. I stand with one foot amongst
the cushions, the other on his belly, and take his dagger out of his limp hand.

‘That's enough, Nus-Nus.'

At the door, ben Hadou, with Abdelaziz's silent slave-boy at his side. The child looks in alarm at the dagger, then at his recumbent master, and runs away.

‘Come away. Much as we both dislike him, this will do no good.'

Life resumes as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. When I reappear, in a change of clothing, and with my flesh wound dressed with calm practicality by the Tinker, Ismail simply orders me about my tasks as if he has not come within seconds of caving in my skull with a mallet. At dinner, once Amadou and I have carried out our tasting duties, he is in melancholic mood, as he often is after the spilling of blood.

We are seated on a carpet outside his main pavilion and he is gazing skywards. ‘My astronomers tell me that the same stars that shine on us now are those that shone on the Prophet as he sat in the entrance of the cave of Hira. See there Ash Shaulah, the raised tail of the scorpion.' He gestures towards the myriad indistinguishable points of light in the night sky. ‘At-Tinnin, the serpent; Sa'ad al-Malik, the star of the great king.' He lingers over this last spark of light for a long time, silent, thoughtful, the moonlight limning his fine profile, lending a silver sheen to his eyes. At last he says, ‘How will I be remembered, Nus-Nus?'

Was there ever a more perilous question to answer honestly? Over the years we have discussed many things, but they were in the main practical concerns: the merits of wool in winter and cotton in summer; the quality of salt from different sources – sea, or desert; the nature of cats and camels. He had asked me about Venice but I saw his eyes glaze as I told him about its watery streets: he could not imagine such a thing as a canal, nor did it interest him. But when I spoke of the architecture and the wealth on display, he listened attentively and asked many questions. He has asked me about matters of language and translation, especially in relation to business terminology; we have even discussed Aristotle, Homer and Pliny – writers who, because they pre-dated the birth of Islam, offered safer ground than
my beloved Rumi, with his flights of ecstatic imagination and his dangerously heretical views. But Ismail has never once shown me a glimmer of vulnerability or doubt, and I do not know how to respond. ‘As a great king?' I venture.

He nods slowly. ‘But what makes a great king? What will history say of me?'

‘I know little of such things, sire.'

His dark eyes are upon me, glittering. ‘Abdelaziz told me you are yourself the son of a king.'

I could deny it, and aver that the grand vizier had lied, but it would be a lie, although my poor father's kingdom by the end was barely bigger than one of Ismail's pavilions, and I had never considered myself a prince. I incline my head. ‘A very minor king, sire: there is little comparison to be made.'

‘Come now, lad, don't be coy.'

Is there anything so nerve-racking as to have the cold gaze of the executioner upon you as he asks you to condemn yourself? I trawl desperately through my brains for all I know of kings, from the words of the
griots
, the storytellers, spinning their songs and tales by firelight. The names tangle in my head: Akhenaton the pharaoh, Askia Toure, King of the Songhai, Caesar of Rome, Hannibal, Cyrus, Alexander and Suleiman, who sawed a child in two and gave a half to each of its mothers, or some such thing. My brothers and I were much taken by the bloody details of tales of these great ones – the prisoners whose skulls were crushed beneath elephants' feet; the enemies interred alive; the babies burned in sacrifice to pagan gods, the massacres at Jenné and Babylon … It occurs to me that maybe cruelty is a necessary quality for a king; or perhaps kingship forces such behaviour upon a man. Does the propensity to be a monster propel a man towards a crown? It is said that Ismail worked his way through a dozen or so more deserving claimants to Morocco's throne, though I do not know how much of that is true. Or does power twist a man's soul so that he believes himself to be above all others? If all bowed down to me, treated me like a god on earth, indulged my every whim, cast themselves terrified at my feet and looked away if I spilled blood, would I also be like Ismail? The thought is
treasonous, and I fear it may be written on my face. Already, I have taken too long. Quickly now, Nus-Nus, say something. Say anything!

‘I think, sire, that you will be remembered as the Champion of Morocco.'

The glittering eyes narrow into half-moons – suspicion? No, delight. ‘The Champion, yes, I like that. I shall be remembered as the Defender of the Faith, the Scourge of the Infidel, the Bringer of the Crescent Moon. And also as the Architect, the king who raised Meknes from a peasant village to a great imperial city. And as the founder of a glorious dynasty.' He is up on his feet now, striding about as if determined, right now, to propel this image of himself into the world. He is, of course, already part of a dynasty: the Alaouites, the sherifs descended from the Prophet through the line of his daughter Fatima. I do not say this. Neither do I mention his appalling beast-children, found only this morning in one of the store-wagons gorging themselves on an unholy mixture of dates and sugar and
smen
, the aged fermented butter worth near its weight in gold. I swear his sons have crammed their faces with it because it is so valuable. There are old women in villages who eke out a jar of smen spoon by judicious spoon, to glaze a sauce, add depth to a special-occasion couscous, a marriage tajine. But the rich and the spoiled understand the true value of nothing. They eat till they spew; then eat some more. The royal emirs were tracked by the trail of vomit they left behind them: but of course they were not punished. They are of Ismail's glorious line, carriers of his wondrous dynasty. The theft was blamed on two poor slaves; and they were beheaded for it. Greed drives the powerful to excess. They live to consume: food, drink, men, women. The world. Their appetite cannot be quelled; the avid, vicious void within them cannot be filled.

I think of my father lying, embittered, in the dark. Sometimes it is better not to be king.

For days now I have been in shock, sitting in the women's pavilion like a big wax doll, barely taking in my surroundings, the constant magpie chatter, the comings and goings of servants and children and food, barely daring to breathe. I knew already that the man whose child I carry was fearsome, but now I have seen his true nature and I feel as if I have stared into the abyss. The hands that caressed me I have seen dealing out shocking murder. When I close my eyes I see those long hammers coming down, left and right, caving in heads, smashing backs, legs, ribs, without mercy, without reason. The elemental brutality, the insatiable bloodlust of the man who got a child upon me has become my definition of the Devil himself.

Worst of all, there was Nus-Nus, lying face down on the ground simply waiting for the killing blow to fall. What level of terror must grip a man that he would just lie there and wait to die? I looked to Zidana, as if she might put an end to her husband's rampage, one force of nature to counter another, but a single glance was enough to show me her eyes shining and her hands flexing and clenching as if she would like nothing better than to wade in amongst the carnage and crush a few skulls herself.

I was so sure I would see my friend die that, I am ashamed to say, I almost ran away in his stead. But then I saw his hand reach out. He scooped up the blood of the poor man next to him, smeared it about his head and neck and then lay still again. My eyes darted to where the sultan was dispatching another victim. His back was turned, but he was moving towards Nus-Nus, his bloodlust still unsated, and I could not believe that this simple ruse could possibly work. The sultan went to him at last and stood staring down at
what appeared to be his handiwork and at that moment something seemed to go out of him, as if an evil spirit was exorcized from his body, and he let the mallets fall from his hands, took the grand vizier by the arm and walked off with him in easy conversation, as if discussing the morrow's weather.

I had no idea until that moment that he was capable of such monstrosities. And I? I am carrying his child. It sits there within, growing moment by moment into some tiny replica of its father. Is this not a terrible thought? I wished for a child so hard that I chose apostasy over death, and thus am I punished for my sin. I have been trying to pray, but it seems I have forgotten the words of every prayer I ever knew. They say shock will do strange things to a person's mind, but this seems the cruellest blow of all.

Life goes on, and I begin to seek acceptance within myself of the people on whom my existence now depends. I tell myself that the sultan must have been sorely provoked, insulted; betrayed. That the violence of the punishment must reflect the heinous nature of the crime committed against his name or person or estate, that his response was in some way justified, made all the more honest by its directness. The personal touch …

Sometimes I catch myself thinking in this way, using phrases like those I so despised when my mother used them to explain the profligacy of her husband. ‘He is a man of generous heart,' she would say, after he racked up another gambling debt, leaving us short on the housekeeping. ‘He is spontaneous. He gets carried away by the spirit of the moment. He does not like to spoil the enjoyment of his friends, when abstention would shame them …' And so on.

But what one cannot change, one must accept. Somehow I must school my thoughts to quietness, my emotions to gentleness, else the turmoil I feel will transmit itself to the baby and encourage monstrosity to take hold.

I find, after some weeks in this place, once the torrid heat of summer passes, that I am beginning to enjoy the peace of the life here, away from the hectic competition of the harem. The other women grumble and complain about the homogeneity of the food, the basic furnishings, the insects, the enclosed space offered by the tents; but they rarely go outside. Whereas I, once the
evening meal has been eaten, have taken to walking a little way away from the pavilions (although still within the designated area for the women: I am not so foolish as to try to stray beyond) and sitting upon a rock where I can see the river spooling past, and the mountains rising above it.