Sultan's Wife (24 page)

It is the first time in my life that I have seen such a landscape. There is barely a hill in Holland, barely even a prominence. From the top of our house in The Hague I could see all the way out to the coast at Scheveningen, across miles of park and farmland, polders and dunes, to the flat grey sea beyond. It was, if I may speak plainly, not the most inspiring view; though it was open and honest and serene, much like the Hollanders themselves. I begin to wonder, sitting here beside this turbulent river, whose waters roar brown and muddy after downfalls of rain, beneath the giant hills whose jagged peaks jut into the clouds and scratch the sky, whether the temperament of the people of this place may not also reflect the landscape that engendered them, making their humours more extreme, their passions more pronounced. Perhaps this goes towards making the sultan the man he is. I place my hand on my belly and pray to all the gods that the child within me will combine the best elements of both worlds. I pray that I will not bring another monster into existence.

As winter draws on word reaches us that there has been an uprising in the Tafilalt, where Ismail installed his elder brother Moulay al-Harrani as governor after showing him unprecedented mercy following the Marrakech rebellion. Al-Harrani has, it is reported, joined forces with his younger brother Moulay al-Saghir, and a tribe of particularly troublesome Berbers, the Ait Atta, and together they are preparing to march on Meknes to take the undefended capital.

As soon as the sultan hears this, his face fills with blood till it is almost black. He blows around the pavilions like a storm cloud, issuing furious orders, walking so fast that beads of sweat pop out on the face of Abdelaziz as he struggles to keep up with him. ‘Damn my brother! Does he want to destroy everything I have achieved? Does he hate me so much? I should have killed him the first time, instead of pardoning his insurrection. I thought it was the good angel on my shoulder I listened to that day when it spoke of clemency; but it was the black demon after all. I should have put his head on a spike on the walls of Marrakech when I had the chance. This time I'll take it and put it over the main gate of Meknes!'

Abdelaziz concurs effusively. When the sultan is in this mood, to do otherwise is suicidal. But when Ismail talks of taking the army south through the mountains to deal death to the rebels, I see the grand vizier blanch. At night a freezing fog lifts off the river like the ghostly breath of a thousand djinns and envelops the tents so that they are stiff with ice in the morning. Camping in the foothills is bad enough, away from his accustomed luxuries, but a forced march through fierce terrain in the depths of winter? Our vizier
has not grown slack and fat by going on forced marches: already he is volunteering to return to Meknes to oversee the building works.

There is a glint in Ismail's eye as he turns and I realize he is well aware of all this, that he is in fact baiting the Hajib, a man who would be of little practical use to him in battle. After allowing him to stew for a while longer, Ismail puts an arm around his shoulder. ‘Do not worry, Abdou. I shall not be forcing you to ride into battle with me: I doubt we have a horse strong enough to carry you! No, I need someone I trust to remain here to supervise my court while I am gone.'

Abdelaziz's shoulders slump in relief. Then something else occurs to him and he slides a glance at me, sharp and calculating. We have largely managed to avoid one another during these past weeks, the vizier and I; or, rather, I have avoided him; but with Ismail and the Tinker gone, there will be no one who can shield me from his intents.

Suddenly I find myself saying, ‘Do not leave your faithful servant behind, O Sun and Moon of Morocco: take me with you. I would dearly love to prove myself in battle!'

Abdelaziz shoots me a killing glance. ‘Nonsense, Nus-Nus! The mountains are no place for eunuchs: they have not the fortitude to withstand such conditions, let alone the wherewithal to survive a battle. Besides, the emperor will have no need of a Keeper of the Book or Servant of the Slippers on his campaign!' He invests my two poor titles with such scathing sarcasm that they sound ridiculous even to my ears.

‘I do not think Amadou would be very happy in the mountains,' Ismail says gently. He bends to stroke the monkey under its silken chin and it chitters delightedly. If Ismail ruled over a kingdom of animals both he and his subjects would be happy indeed.

‘I will place him in the care of the White Swan.' Thinking of her gives me a pang. By going with the army I will be leaving Alys to the mercies of Abdelaziz and Zidana, either of whom would gladly see her and her child dead. ‘But, sire, I am at your command to stay or go.' As if it needed saying.

He looks thoughtful. ‘I shall make you a bukhari, Nus-Nus. You will look the part.' Then he takes the vizier by the arm and away they go, talking logistics.

A bukhari: the idea is so preposterous that a laugh escapes me. It seems the warrior within will have the chance to reveal himself after all.

On the day before we are due to march, a nomad approaches the camp, coming down out of the hills with her little herd of goats, each of which wears a silver amulet around its neck, which causes much amusement and conjecture. ‘She is not a woman; she is a sorceress and those her children, travelling in disguise.'

‘No, they are the souls of bewitched men trapped in the bodies of goats,' declares another, and makes the sign against the evil eye. I smile, remembering Homer's Circe.

Ismail, who would usually be appalled at the idea of a woman travelling alone, and with her face brazenly uncovered, is greatly intrigued. Nomad women converse with spirits and have the ability to tell the future, and he likes to consult omens before a campaign. He is charming with her, for all that she is elderly and sun-worn, and complimentary of her charges. She names them all for him, one by one, and he recalls each name even though there are dozens of the little beasts, all looking identical – black and scraggy bundles of energy. She throws bones and declares he will see an easy victory, and then makes him a gift of one of the amulets she wears pinned to her clothing: a large square of silver with foreign symbols etched all over it, to ward off evil influences. In return, he kisses her hands (a gesture I have never seen him make before) and generously gives her a pouch of gold that he takes from Abdelaziz, since he himself never carries anything so vulgar as money.

As I escort her away, I ask her who she is and whence she has come and she says to me that she is Amzir, a Tuareg out of the
tinariwen
, the deserts. She has blue-black staining on her lips and around her eyes, and is adorned with heavy silver jewellery at ears, neck and wrists, proclaiming that she has no fear of brigands. I begin to wonder if she does have sorcerous powers. And then an idea strikes me. When I have outlined it and bargained a price with her, she grins widely, showing strong white teeth.

We leave her goats in the ambassadors' tent and I take her to Zidana. ‘This lady is Amzir. She has come out of the Great Desert, and like you
she is a mistress of the spirits. I thought you might like to consult with her.'

The empress looks the nomad woman up and down, clearly unimpressed. ‘You are very thin,' she says dismissively.

The Targui smiles: a thin smile sharp enough to cut bone. ‘You are very fat.'

Zidana preens, delighted. As if this exchange has somehow sealed the social order between them, she gestures generously for the visitor to sit, and rings for tea. They spend some time comparing the names they have for different spirits, and the desert woman shows enough knowledge that soon Zidana is drawing symbols in the soil and Amzir responds with her own curious combination of circles and lines.

‘That will protect your boys,' the older woman proclaims at last. ‘From fire and flood and pest.'

‘And poison?'

A nod.

‘And the blade?'

The Targui adds another symbol.

Zidana thinks hard. ‘There is death by water too; and the rope …'

‘Your sons will be safe …' Amzir pauses, interrogates the symbols, then makes a small sound of disapproval.

‘What? What is it?'

‘There is a white woman, foreign.'

Zidana sits back, her eyes slitted. ‘Go on.'

‘She is with child.'

The eyes widen, just a fraction. ‘I know the woman. Will it be a boy?'

The Targui wags a finger. ‘Not so you'd know. Her only child will turn out to be a girl. Even if at first it appears to be a boy.'

This pleases Zidana mightily: she chuckles. ‘A boy that is really a girl! Ha! I like that. So my sons will survive to succeed their father?'

‘For as long as the white woman lives.'

This pleases her less. I hold my breath. To my ears it seems an obvious confection, but at last Zidana nods thoughtfully; then she loads the woman up with gifts: jewellery and rocks of sweet-smelling amber,
almond pastries, fruit for her goats. They both seem well satisfied with the encounter. When I take my leave of the Targui, she looks me full in the eye, and then addresses me by my name: not Nus-Nus but my tribal name. This takes me so much aback that I hardly hear what she says next, and have to ask her to repeat it.

‘Be steadfast, you who are both dead and alive. You have seas to cross.'

Then she calls her goats to her and they come tumbling out of the ambassadors' tent, and away she goes, downriver where the sweet pastures have not yet been blighted by the frost, and I am left staring after her, frowning.

That afternoon I am tricked out to Ismail's satisfaction (and I must admit, in my small vanity, to my own) in the garb of the elite Black Guard, that is to say, a long scarlet tunic belted over a white shirt and wide trousers with a long sash of green cotton. Over one shoulder goes a leather baldric, and into this a small, curved dagger worn close against the chest. No turban, for Ismail professes that to cover the head makes his bukhari weak in battle; besides, how will the angel sweep them up to Paradise if he cannot catch hold of their topknots? I have no topknot: without a turban my naked head feels vulnerable, and cold. If I fall in battle, I shall slip swiftly down to Hell.

When I take Amadou to entrust him to Alys, she does not at first recognize me, but starts to her feet. It is the first time I have seen her standing for some time. Her belly is as pronounced as a ripe watermelon and I realize with sudden misgiving that she will surely give birth while we are gone to war.

The monkey sets off on a foraging mission around the tent, seeking treats beneath the cushions, which makes me yet more melancholy – it is easy to think animals value you for yourself, rather than as a source of food. It is probably the sight of Amadou that spurs Alys's recognition. ‘Oh, Nus-Nus, I thought you some stern-faced guard!'

‘I am sorry to have alarmed you. I came to say farewell. And to leave Amadou with you; I do not think he is ready to go into battle.'

‘Are you?'

With an attempt at a bravado I do not feel I indicate my uniform and the long sword that lies against my hip, given me by Ismail himself. ‘Do I not look the part?'

For a long moment she assesses me in silence, her mouth down-turned. Then she takes a step towards me and places a hand on my arm. When she gazes up at me, I am struck forcibly anew by the huge blue ocean of her regard. ‘Please do not be a hero, Nus-Nus. Do not be foolhardy.'

‘Tonight I must swear an oath to lay down my life for our sultan.'

The emphasis on the word ‘our' does not pass her by. Her eyes begin to well up. ‘Even so,' she whispers. ‘I had rather you come back a coward and alive than only as a brave memory.'

‘Berber women tell their husbands never to return in defeat. Plutarch tells that the women of Sparta exhorted their sons to come back with their shields, or on them. The Ashante say it is the woman who puts the iron in a man's sword. Are Englishwomen so different?'

‘You know too much.' She smiles wanly.

‘It is never enough. Knowledge. A man cannot live all the time in his head.'

‘You are no dry old scholar, of that I am sure.'

‘I, my lady, am sure of nothing. Actually, that is not true. There is one thing of which I am quite certain.'

‘And what would that be?' Her grip on my arm intensifies. I feel each touch of her fingertips separately, my skin alive with the sensation. How can I say what is in my heart to a woman who is about to give birth to another man's child, and that man my lord?

‘It is treason to speak it aloud.'

‘I think,' she says softly, ‘that it is sacrilege not to. But I would not have you risk yourself.' She places a finger on my lips to keep the words in.

I take her hand by the wrist to move the finger away, bend my head to her and kiss her firmly, every nerve alive with desire.

The world is spinning: or maybe I am? I would swear that for a fleeting moment I feel the gentle pressure of her hand on the back of my head, pulling me to her; but then it is gone and she steps away and we stand there, staring at one another. The enormity of what has just happened swells between us as if a planet has dropped suddenly out of the skies and into the tent. I could be executed for what I have just done – thoughtlessly, stupidly; and Alys could be too.

Then Amadou, frustrated in his search for food, comes chittering out from under the cover on the divan and the tension between us is broken.

With immense effort, I put on my second face and make a bow. ‘Be well, Alys. I hope the baby will come easily.' And quickly I walk away, my heart beating against the cage of my ribs as if it would fly out to be with her.

That evening I take the oath of allegiance on the Salih al-Bukhari, an exquisitely bound volume some centuries old that had been an accession gift from the Governor of Hejaz, Barakat ben Mohammed, protector of the holy city of Mecca. For this reason, Ismail treasures it greatly and it accompanies him always when he travels, housed in its own perfectly aligned tent, and transported by a gorgeously caparisoned horse (the very animal, in fact, for whom I had sought the gold-embroidered shitbag on that fateful day in the Meknes souq).