"Louis-Philippe," he whispered. "You never could stay awake, could you?"
Louis-Philippe grunted and rolled over, groaning. "What is the hour, Ibrahim? I must be getting back." Then he looked around in confusion. "Where am I?"
Ibrahim poured water into a chalice and handed it to Louis-Philippe. "We are in the chapel, my lord, and here I am known as Jacques."
Louis-Philippe looked at the water, then set the chalice down, rubbing his knuckles across his eyes. "This is holy water," he said.
Ibrahim shrugged. "So much the better."
Louis-Philippe covered his face with his hands. "Maríana," he groaned. "Where is she?"
Ibrahim waited until Louis-Philippe looked up and he stared into his eyes. "Louis-Philippe," he said. "She stays with me."
Louis-Philippe grabbed the edge of the altar and lurched to his feet. "What?" he cried out.
"She is with me," Ibrahim repeated. "Remember your promise to Thérèse and me."
Louis-Philippe sank back to his knees. "You can't be serious! You can't hold me to that!" he sputtered.
"You watch me," Ibrahim said. His voice was iron; he would not be moved.
"I will not let you have her for your... experiment!" Louis-Philippe continued as though Ibrahim had not spoken. "It is out of the question!"
"I will have her. A year is what you promised and a year is what I will have."
Louis-Philippe set his jaw. "I received offers of marriage for her last night." His hand made a fist. "Even before I presented her to Thibaut. Two offers."
Ibrahim watched the small muscle at Louis-Philippe's temple jump. "Were these good matches?"
Louis-Philippe looked into his lap. Torches hissed quietly in their sconces. "No," he finally said. "But there will be others." He glared. "You cannot have her."
"But I will." Ibrahim brought his face close to Louis-Philippe so that there could be no mistaking what he said. "Or I will tell her what happened to her mother."
"No!" Louis-Philippe paled.
"I would do that," Ibrahim said, settling back on his heels.
"But why? Why do you want her?" Louis-Philippe rubbed his eyes vigorously.
Ibrahim regarded him for a moment. So many years, so much love, yet so little understanding. "You never could comprehend how rare her mother was," he said. "For hundreds of years, perhaps even thousands, these people have worked to refine their abilities, passing down the gifts and the training to each generation. I will not let that die. It was my promise to Maríana's mother, and your promise too, if you remember." He rose to go.
Louis-Philippe stayed where he sat. "You know what this means," he said. "Ysabel will not be here until next year."
"Just as well we end this now. I was becoming weary of the bangles." And it would be safer. "We decided on this last summer, or have you forgotten?" Ibrahim could still remember the angry words, the anguished pleading. They had argued for months. But Louis-Philippe had finally agreed.
"I will miss you," Louis-Philippe said, his voice echoing around the chapel. "And I will miss the bangles," he added with a flash of humor, but his eyes shone with moisture.
"So, my friend, we will see each other but not meet again." Ibrahim nodded and turned to the door. Stopping briefly, he said over his shoulder, "Do you tell Johanna or do I?"
"She is my mother. It is my place to tell her. I am sure she will be thrilled that you are to be a man all of the time again and that we will no longer... meet... but she will not like losing Maríana."
"Johanna will not lose her. She will never lose her. Tell your mother that," Ibrahim said as he walked out the door. Now, where was the white horehound? Oh, yes, down by the pond. He walked quietly among the servants, greeting those he knew and smiling at the children who were starting to awaken now. In the garden, he tweaked a branch here and pulled a weed there. He had two servants to help him in the garden and one of them, Yves, was ready for Ibrahim to give him more responsibility.
His days would be free for Maríana. He strode easily around the interlaced curves of the garden, locating bittersweet, colt's foot and lady's mantle, harvesting them with a small crescent-shaped blade that was polished to a brilliant sheen, and black as midnight.
After instructing Yves on his duties for the next two weeks, Ibrahim wrote a quick note to Johanna outlining his plans for Maríana and sent Yves off to give her the note.
Johanna could be trusted to take care of any details concerning the move of Jacques the gardener and Maríana, daughter of the Baron, to Louis-Philippe's Saracen palace. It would cause speculation, of course, but the servants were used to Louis-Philippe's caprices. He had asked Johanna to send Geneviéve as chaperon for Maríana. It would not do to have the devout and superstitious Alys up there with them, not with what he planned to do-but Geneviéve, that old heretic, she would enjoy herself.
MARÍANA opened her eyes and then closed them again tightly against brilliant sunshine pouring though large, unshuttered windows. She moved her aching head from side to side on the silken pillow. Someone entered the room; soft footsteps brushed across the rugs. Opening her eyes again, just a little, she looked up through dark lashes.
"Have some water. It will help." A velvety, deep voice spoke.
She opened her eyes more and saw a graceful, slender -- beautiful -- man. His high cheekbones and smooth golden skin spoke of the south, where the sun burned down on the desert. He touched a memory within her, but she could not retrieve it. She watched as he deftly arranged blood oranges, succulent blackberries, peaches still covered with downy fuzz, sliced apricots glistening with dew, and warm bread, the steam of baking still rising from the broken crust, on a brass tray. Then he poured clear water into a deep blue cup and handed it to her.
"Who are you?" she asked, and was astounded when he suddenly laughed. He stopped laughing when she held her head.
"I am Jacques," he said. "Please drink this. It will make you feel better."
She sipped the water, tasting the bite of ice. Pond water? Her eyes widened. "Ibrahim! But how did you... you look so different!" She gazed up at him, tall and handsome in his livery. Even now she was not sure if it was he.
The corners of his mouth lifted. "I am glad to see that my disguise was so effective. But you will never see it again." He walked over to where a kettle of water was boiling, took it off the fire and poured the steaming water through a cloth filled with the heads and petals of flowers. A tangle of green stems showed through the fabric.
"So the secret woman is gone forever?" she asked after she drained the rest of her cup. "But I have seen you. In the garden, I think. Not up close, just in the distance."
"I tend the garden and the people of the château know me as Jacques." He settled himself on the divan and picked out some blackberries. "I have brought us some breakfast. It would be good if you would eat." He motioned toward the tray on the table.
"Jacques the healer? Of course! You gave a salve to Alys when I burned my leg. I knew I had seen you before." She leaned forward gingerly and picked out a piece of warm, fragrant bread and one ripe peach. "But how did you know that I like these?" she asked, coughing as she settled back on her pillows.
Ibrahim shrugged. "I have been watching you for years. It was not difficult. As Jacques I could go just about anywhere in the château, although I always stay in the background." He popped a handful of blackberries into his mouth.
Birdsong entered with the sun, curling around the edges of the room. The hushed whisper of water continually spilling in the fountain outside soothed her. But Alys would wonder where she was. And Johanna would be coming to her chamber soon. She tried to stand, then fell back when her legs folded. "What did you give me last night? You did not need to make me sleep to keep me here, you know. You only needed to ask. I would have stayed." Her head still felt stuffed with cobwebs.
He swallowed the blackberries whole. She saw his throat working. Then he put his hands on either side of his face and leaned on his knees. "Just balm and meadowsweet," he finall
y said. "I couldn't take the chance that you would leave. I had waited too long already, and I knew I had to move quickly or your father would have you married off and away from the château. He has already received two offers, you see." His hands lifted when she recoiled. "He has not accepted them... yet."
"What would you have done if I had not come up here?" she asked, watching his face. If he had told her the truth about his relationship with her father, he loved men, not women. Why did he want her?
"I would have followed you." He shrugged. "Wherever you went. There is always use for a gardener and, as Jacques, I am known even outside of the de Reuilles territory."
"Why, Ibrahim?" She watched him again. "What do you want with me?" He was wrestling with some thought. His forehead creased and the lines around his mouth deepened. Then he leaned back and slapped his knees.
"I have written down my story," he said. "I wrote it for you, Maríana -- I have it here for you to read." He got up from the low divan and walked over to a chest. Opening it, he removed a book, several pages of parchment bound together with leather dyed the color of rich red wine. He handed the book to her, but held onto her hands before she could open it. "I must warn you," he said. "It is not a pretty story. You may find out much more than you care to know."
Ibrahim's hands felt moist and warm. The book was a heavy weight on her lap. She could smell its pages, musty vellum and sour ink. "I want to know," she said.
His face relaxed into a smile. "The first few pages are in Arabic. But the story you want to know is in your language." He stood, holding the breakfast tray. "Why don't you stay here today? I have some tasks I still need to complete down there, but I will be back before dark and Geneviéve will be up here before midday."
She sat with her hands on the book. The cover was rough and smooth at the same time. A flower pattern was engraved in the leather, four petals curving.
"Over there is a cup filled with an infusion of white horehound... and some other things." His hands were full. He pointed with his chin and smiled wryly as she regarded it with suspicion. "Don't worry, it will not make you sleep, but it may help your congestion." He put the tray down, pounded his chest a moment and coughed, then, after sketching a graceful salaam, he strode out of the chamber, leaving her holding the book.
Johanna would be worried. But Ibrahim had said Geneviéve would be coming up to the palace, didn't he? Surely she could stay here a while. Long enough to read his story. She ran her fingers over the leather cover of Ibrahim's book and hesitated before opening it. Long enough to see if her mother lay within the pages.
When she finally opened it, the strange letters danced across the pages. She wondered if the spoken language was as beautiful as the writing. Then she found the place where she could read what was written. An elegant hand, clear and bold. Ibrahim.
Chapter 7
I AM IBRAHIM Al'Khaldun, youngest son of the merchant Nazir Al'Khaldun of Alexandria. The story I tell you now is of three people, myself and two of my most cherished friends. What you may think of us, I cannot say, but I commit our story to this paper to ease the anguish in my heart. I know that I put myself and others in danger by writing my story, but if I am careful, I trust that no harm will come. Perhaps in the writing, some of the ache within me will cease.
My family followed the teachings of the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, but they also worshiped Isis, as our ancestors have for thousands of years. They gave me to the temple of Isis at birth and I was raised there to serve the Goddess. I performed all of my duties -- divination, worship, ritual -- and learned all that they could teach me, but I hungered for more! In every ceremony, every ritual, the truth reached for me even as I strained to see it, to touch it. The priests and priestesses, the acolytes, the worshipers all followed the teachings without ever wondering what was behind the words, the actions, the songs. They told me to forget my questions. Why wonder about things that no one can ever know? But me, I was born wondering.
The world is so large and incredible. Surely I could find the truth I sought there! We had maps in the temple, maps that showed the great inland sea and the lands that surrounded it. I wanted to travel and see other lands, other peoples. I wanted to see how they lived, to know what they believed, hear what they could teach me.
"Who made all this?" I could see myself asking them. "Have you seen this Being some call Allah, or Jehovah, or Artemis, or Isis, or Jesus?" Maybe they could tell me how I could see this Being too. And if I could, maybe I could get the answers I sought, the answers that would still the longing from all the questions I held inside me.
But they would not let me travel. They told me I was needed there to serve Isis. And to divine the future for the wealthy of our city.
What can I tell you about my city? Alexandria is brown and ochre; sand and earth walls, so many shades of brown, from palest shell to darkest mud. And the people are brown! The brilliance of the sun bakes everything, you see. We are all tempered in its furnace. But the glorious blue of the river! Of course, when you come close to it that blue is more brown, too, but from my window in the temple it glowed sapphire. I spent many hours hanging out of my window, smelling the air, the scent of camels and dust, of sweat and cumin. The river beckoned to me. But they told me I could not go, so I went back to the halls of the temple and gave obeisance to Isis.
Please do not think that I do not love the Great Mother. Whatever we call Her, Isis, Diana, Athena, or Mary, She is real. This I know. I have felt a shadow of Her presence hovering around the edges of our rituals. But Allah, Jehovah, Jesus, Ra... They are also real. This I know!
I once met in secret with some dervishes from the land far to the east. They told me about a group of masters who cultivated the spread of knowledge and ideas much as a gardener would cultivate a grove of pomegranates, weeding and seeding, pruning and planting. What they told me was so strange that I became dizzy. Yet the truth was shining so brightly in their faces that I came back the next night for more revelations, only to find that all of them had disappeared! I searched and searched and could not find them anywhere.
I returned to the temple. It was the festival of Nut, the sky Goddess, and our high priestess needed me to drink the milk of adder tooth to call down the heavens. I was Sheb, consort of Nut, earth forever straining toward sky. The acolytes prepared me, fed me the sacred drink of venom, lifted me on the dais to the roof of our temple. Then they all settled down to wait while the drink burned in my veins. Magic takes time, you see. Nut must be wooed from Her station above the earth, enticed to come down and share her wisdom. It was my job to call Her, to offer my heart and my body for Her pleasure. In return, She always gave me words and images that I would commit to memory, using my temple training to keep the thread of my awareness firmly rooted, so the drink could not lure me out of my body. These images were for my temple, not for me alone. But this time I was selfish. My heart cried out for the freedom to search for truth. I pleaded with Her. "Nut!" I cried. "Take me away from here! Help me find my destiny."
Ah, how I have lived to regret what I have said and done.
A month later my prayer was answered. My father brought two visitors from the north to see me. Iranzu was tall and swarthy, with long black hair flecked with white. He wore the robes of a monk, a deep rusty brown wool with a cowl that framed his face. A great oak staff rested in his broad, capable hands. I liked him instantly, but his daughter frightened me.
Thérèse was younger than me but her eyes were ancient, the kind of eyes that have seen too much. Her features were almost Greek with her high, strong brow and large green eyes. My father had once given the temple a statue of the Greek Goddess Artemis and when I first saw Thérèse I thought I was seeing Artemis come to life. Her hair was as black as her father's, though not touched by age, and it fell in unbound waves down to her waist.
She took my hands when we first met, and told me her name. When she touched me, I felt such a wave of desire that I nearly collapsed. What was happening to me? She was beauti
ful, but I had loved women before, many as lovely as she. Although marriage was forbidden to temple initiates many of us had lovers who could be termed "wives." At the time I met Thérèse I had thought myself deeply in love with a woman whose name I do not even remember now. When Thérèse dropped my hands, I backed away and tried to order my thoughts. I was so stunned by her touch that I nearly lost the sense of what my father was telling me.
"Iranzu has asked me to find a companion to accompany him and his daughter to Byzantium," he said, watching me carefully. "I have sent a message to our cousin Justin in Constantinople. We want you to travel with them." He turned to Iranzu, who was standing beside him, and placed a hand upon his shoulder. "They can speak our language, but it would be better if one of our family accompanies them." My father was gazing at me again, assessing my reaction.
Here it was, the chance to start my search! "Me?" I could feel my heart beating. "When do we leave?" I asked him.
WE SAILED on the Al'Bediah at the rising of the sun. The Al'Bediah was a fine large dhow with three strong sails, a swift vessel that would take us to Constantinople. It was my first time out to sea, and although I had sailed on the Nile many times, I spent the first day hanging over the side depositing my meals into the sparkling waters. The next day I was able to respond to simple questions. By the third day I was nearly myself again.
When I was ill, Thérèse watched me from the deck. I felt her eyes on me, but whenever I looked up she was gazing the other way. My face burned with humiliation. From my station at the side of the dhow I saw her stride the decks, laughing and joking with the crew. Their expressions shifted from disapproval to grudging admiration to adoration as she helped them swab the deck, climb the mast, trim the sails into the wind. Her skin turned golden in the sun; her green eyes flashed from underneath her brush of dark lashes in an emerald glow. I tried to ignore her, but when I recovered from the motion of the waves she came to stand before me.
"Your father told us you are an initiate of the temple," she said, her eyes pinning me with the single-minded glare of a hawk. I could not look away, but I would not speak. Had I not seen her easy familiarity with the crew? What kind of creature was she? The women I knew were soft, the doe-eyed concubines of the temple, my giggling sisters. They did not stare at me with the direct eyes of a man. She straightened her back and continued, "Please tell me what you can. I want to know."
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