Authors: Bertrice Small
“Then let me live at al-Rusafa,” Zaynab pleaded.
“Zahra hates you, my love,” he said sadly. “She will continue her attempts on your life and that of our daughter if you remain my concubine.” He sighed. He would not tell her that he had intended to make her his third wife; the wife who would comfort him and be a joy to him in his old age. He would never forgive Zahra.
“Why do you not send Zahra away instead of me?” Zaynab demanded, suddenly angry. “The jealousy is hers, not mine! How can I believe you love me when you would put me away!”
“I cannot put the mother of my heir aside publicly,” he said patiently. “Many would not understand. They would think I meant to put Hakam aside in favor of another son. I have explained it all to you, Zaynab. You are not like so many of my women.
You do understand
. You may not like what I am telling you, but you understand why I must do this. And never again say that I do not love you, for I do. So much so that I will deny myself your company for the rest of my days in order to save your life, and that of our little Moraima.”
“Ahh, Abd-al, I cannot bear it!” she whispered. “Where will I go? Will Moraima ever know her father?”
“How can you believe that I would set you adrift?” he cried. “I have given you this fine house on the al-Rusafa road. It has a vineyard and an orchard, and overlooks the river. It belongs to you, Zaynab. I will not free you, however, for you surely understand that in this society a woman without the protection of her family is at risk. I have given you to Hasdai ibn Shaprut. He will be your new master. He will protect you, and Moraima.”
She was astounded.
Hasdai ibn Shaprut?
The serious, long-faced physician? She suddenly giggled, and when the caliph looked at her, she said, “He is a pleasant enough man, my lord, but does this physician know what to do with a Love Slave? Or am I expected to remain celibate the rest of my days?” She cocked her head at him questioningly. “Perhaps you mean to come to me secretly? I would welcome it, my lord!”
He felt the dull pain in his chest once more, and struggled discreetly to draw a breath. “You will belong to Hasdai ibn Shaprut in every sense of the word, Zaynab. When this interview is concluded, I will not see you ever again, my beautiful love.”
“And Moraima?” she questioned him. “Will you cast our daughter off too, my lord?”
“Oma will bring her to me once each month,” the caliph said. “I do not intend to lose my youngest child. Zahra will not be jealous of Moraima if you are not in evidence. Besides, I have told Zahra I do not want to see her face ever again. She is confined to her apartments, not that that will prevent her continual meddling, I fear. And when I am gone from this earth, Zaynab, you need have no fears for our daughter. Hakam will look after her. You can rely upon and trust Hakam even though he is Zahra’s son. Now, my love, I must go from you.” He turned away from her.
“One kiss, my lord!” Zaynab cried.
He turned back, his face anguished.
“Of all the wonderful things you have given me, my lord, I have but asked you for two. Our child, and a kiss of farewell. Will you deny me this last request?”
With a cry of despair he swept her into his arms. They closed about her in a fierce embrace. His mouth found hers, and he experienced her lips for the last time; their sweetness, and softness, the taste of her, her scent. He would never again smell gardenias without thinking of her. She felt his heart hammering wildly and her own beating madly in return.
And then it was over
. Without another word he left her.
Despite his reassurances, Zaynab was frightened. The caliph had been demanding of her, but as his Love Slave, she had had a measure of security. What if Zahra was not satisfied to have her gone from Madinat al-Zahra? What if she was able to reach out from her confinement to harm Moraima? Zaynab had not loved the caliph, but she was fond of him, and he was the father of her child. She knew that she had made him happy. He had said he would never see her again because of the pain it would give him. What if he began to feel that way about Moraima? Without her powerful father to protect her, to make a princely match for her, the child would have nothing. Zaynab wept bitterly.
Oma came running and tried to comfort her mistress, but she could not. Weakened by the poison, distraught over what was happening, Zaynab collapsed in a heap upon the floor.
When Zaynab finally became aware once more, she was in a bedchamber. “Where are we?” she asked Oma, who was seated by her side.
“In our new home, lady,” the young girl replied. “Have you forgotten? You fell into a swoon when the—” She hesitated, but then not knowing how else to express it, said, “—when the caliph left you. You have been unconscious for almost a day, my lady. The physician said you were in no danger and would heal in time. Ohh, mistress, what has happened to us? Why have we been taken from Madinat al-Zahra?”
“Help me to sit up,” Zaynab said, “and then fetch me something cool to drink, my good Oma. I will tell you everything as it was told to me, but my throat is very dry.”
Oma helped her lady into an upright position, plumping pillows behind her to make her more comfortable. Then she
fetched her a goblet of fruit juice mixed with a little snow from the nearby mountains. When Zaynab had slaked her thirst, she explained in quiet tones why they were now living in this new place.
“That lady Zahra!” Oma said angrily. “I wish she would die! Perhaps if she does, the caliph will take you back, my lady.”
Zaynab shook her head. “It is over, Oma. The caliph did not free me. He gave me to Hasdai ibn Shaprut. I now belong to the physician. At least we were not given to someone from a far place, or sold in the open market, Oma. Do you remember the market in Alcazaba Malina where we saw the slaves being sold? We are fortunate.”
Without warning Hasdai ibn Shaprut entered the room. “You are awake,” he said. “That is good. How do you feel, Zaynab?”
For a moment she was about to reprimand the physician for not addressing her properly. Then she remembered she was his property now, not the caliph’s. “I am thirsty,” she replied, nodding at the goblet of juice with snow.
“It sits well? You have lost the nausea the poison was causing you?” He peered closely at her, then took her hand and looked carefully at it, his fingers seeking her pulse. He cocked his head to one side, humming and nodding to himself.
“The juice tasted good,” she said. “The nausea seems to have vanished, my lord. Am I getting better?” She put her hand to her head and grimaced. Her hair was all matted and tangled. She must look an absolute fright!
Hasdai laughed. “You are feeling better,” he said, chuckling.
“What do you find so amusing, my lord?” Zaynab snapped at him.
“I do not mean to offend,” he said, “but you are suddenly aware of your appearance. Only a woman on the mend would care.”
“Your experience with women then is vast?” she sneered.
He flushed. “I am a physician, Zaynab. We are taught to observe not simply a patient’s body, but their state of mind as well. Right now, for instance, you are angry because of your situation.”
“And should I not be angry, my lord? I have been sent from the caliph, and given to another man, all because of the irrational fantasies of a deranged woman who tried to murder me and my baby, whom she deemed a threat to her grown son! Do you believe that I should accept this situation meekly? Do you think a woman’s feelings are like a spring rain, pouring one moment and stopping the next? Yes, my lord, I am very angry!”
“I will leave you, then,” he said, rising from her bedside.
“
Wait!
” she commanded him imperiously. “Do you live here too? My lord, the caliph, said he was giving me this house.”
“I have my own home,” Hasdai told her.
“Why am I not there, then? I am now your Love Slave, my lord. Surely you are aware of all that entails,” she said quietly.
“I am a Jew, Zaynab.” He laughed, almost to himself. “You do not know what that means, do you? I am of the tribe of Benjamin, an Israelite. I am not of Islam. I am not a Christian.”
“Why should I care?” she asked him curiously. “You are a man. Are not all men basically alike, Hasdai ibn Shaprut? Two arms. Two legs. A manhood. Is a Jew any different from a man of Islam or a Christian?”
“History has made us a scorned race,” he explained.
Now Zaynab laughed. “Yet the Jews call themselves God’s chosen people, the imam told me. If God has chosen you, then how can your fellow man be against you? It does not make sense, my lord. And you have still not answered my question. Is it that you have a wife? I am certain the caliph would not have given me to you if he did not think it was proper.”
“I have no wife,” he answered her. “However, we Jews live by a set of special laws. I cannot have you in my house for you are considered unclean as both a non-Jew and a concubine.”
“Then you will visit me here?” How silly this all was, she thought.
“If you desire my company, Zaynab, I shall visit you, of course,” he replied. “You know that if you go into the city you must be well veiled, escorted by both Oma and Naja, and in a litter.”
“I may travel to the city?” She was surprised.
“You may do whatever you wish, Zaynab,” he said.
“I am your Love Slave now, Hasdai ibn Shaprut. I know that you know what that means. I asked the caliph how I was to serve you, and he told me that I belonged to you completely, and in every way. Do you not find me attractive, or is it that you are in love with another woman?” She looked up at him.
Hasdai had never had a woman look directly at him. It was startling. “I find you very attractive,” he said.
“Then when I am well you will come to me, and I will give you pleasure such as you have never known, my lord.” She smiled a beguiling smile at him. “No woman will ever please you as I will.”
He nodded gravely at her, and left the room.
“He is shy,” Oma said with a little chuckle. “I think you may have frightened him just a little.”
“He should be frightened,” Zaynab answered. “He must follow in the footprints of Karim al Malina and Abd-al Rahman.” Then she laughed. “He is tall, and handsome. I never really looked at him before. Did you note his hands? They are big, and the nails are beautifully shaped.”
“It is his mouth that I like,” Oma said. “It is a big and sensuous mouth. Alaeddin had a mouth like that.” She sighed.
“I have not asked you how you feel, Oma,” Zaynab suddenly realized. “You are better too, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes, my lady. The physician gave me that theriaca, and I got better within a day. He is a kind man, lady. We are very fortunate, as you have already said.”
Over the next few days Zaynab’s strength increased, and she was able to get out of bed without feeling dizzy. Her first trip was to her new baths, where Oma was her only attendant. Her cook, Aida, and Naja had also come with them to the new
house. There were several other women of intermediate age who kept the place in order.
“When will Moraima be returned to me?” Zaynab asked Hasdai ibn Shaprut daily. “I miss my daughter.”
“I will have to find a wet nurse for her,” he said.
“Why can I not nurse her again? My milk has not dried up entirely, and if my daughter returns to my breast, it will come again. Aida, the cook, says it will,” Zaynab told him. “I do not want a wet nurse.”
“You have no other choice,” he said. “I know you feel stronger every day, Zaynab, and indeed you are growing well again. Unfortunately, I do not know for how long the poison will remain in your system. It could be a year, or more. I cannot allow you to nurse your daughter under those circumstances. Moraima is safe for now with Rebekah’s niece in the Jewish quarter.”
“
But I am her mother!
” Zaynab said angrily. “She will not know me if you do not return her soon! I am not some lazy Moorish concubine who sends her child to the baby farm to be nursed. I want my daughter!”
“I will find a good nursemaid for her,” he promised. To his surprise, she grasped an earthenware trinket and flung it at him.
“Give me back my baby!” she shrieked at him.
“You are becoming irrational,” he said calmly. He ducked as another missile flew in his direction, this one better aimed, he thought wryly. “Did you ever show your temper to the caliph?” he asked her. “This is not, I believe, correct behavior for a Love Slave, Zaynab. You are not supposed to kill your master, except with passion, I was given to understand.” His brown-gold eyes were twinkling as he attempted to turn her fury.
“How would you know that, my lord?” she demanded scathingly. “You have never once attempted to arouse my passions.” Then she ran from the room so he would not see her angry tears.
“I have never seen her like that, my lord,” Oma said.
“Mother love is very strong,” Hasdai answered the girl. “I will make an effort this day to find a suitable slave woman to
nurse and care for the little princess. Your mistress is a good mother.”
“My lord,” Oma said boldly, “will you permit me to speak frankly?”
He nodded, wondering what the girl had to say that would be of import.
“You must address my mistress’s other needs as well, my lord. She is too young to live without passion, having been trained in it The caliph gave her to you because he believed you would protect her and make her happy.”
Hasdai ibn Shaprut was astounded by her speech, although his face remained a pleasant mask. He had thought only Jewish women were so outspoken. Obviously he had been wrong. “Your mistress is still not well enough for activities of an excitable nature. In time, of course, she will be, I realize,” he said. Then, with a bow in Oma’s direction, he departed.
Oma thought nothing more of it, for she had had her say. The physician would certainly, when Zaynab was well enough, become her lover. In the meantime they had to get settled into this new dwelling. It was located two miles outside the city of Cordoba, off the main road, behind whitewashed walls and down a narrow lane. There was a gatehouse kept by a gatekeeper.
The house itself was built in traditional style about a courtyard with a tiled floor. In the courtyard’s center was a tiered fountain that drizzled its water into a pool of water lilies and goldfish. Fat, squat vases were set about the portico of the courtyard. They were filled with gardenias whose heavy scent would, in warm weather, perfume the air. Beyond the courtyard and the house was an orchard that spread away to the low bluff overlooking the river. Next to it on either side was a vineyard.