by Jane Johnson
I turn, to find little Zidan standing behind me. His eyes glitter like a djinn’s in the semi-darkness. ‘Your mother sent me to fetch some things.’
‘You lie! This is her secret place. Only I know about it.’
I spread my hands. ‘Not strictly true, as you can see.’
‘Call me “emir” or “sir”!’
‘Sir.’
‘I shall tell her I found you here.’
‘You go ahead and do that.’
A pause as he digests this. ‘What did she send you for?’
I show him the honey and the onions. Of course, he has no idea what the latter are: he is only six, almost seven, but he makes a great play of assessing them, holding them to his nose and sniffing them.
‘Are they poisonous?’
‘I don’t believe so.’
‘Do you know a lot about poisons?’
‘I know a little. Why do you ask … sir?’
He shrugs. ‘What’s the most powerful one?’
‘Your mother is a greater expert than I: ask her.’
This does not please him. He dogs my steps as I continue my search for the comfrey and eventually locate it in a basket of dried herbs. ‘Who is it for?’
‘Your father.’
‘Is he ill?’ His eyes gleam. Before I can answer he says, ‘If he dies I will be king: then everyone will have to do what I say or I can have their heads cut off. Is he going to die?’
‘No, he is not going to die.’
‘Give him poison and he will.’
I stare at him, aghast. ‘Zidan, that’s treason! If I were to tell him what you said you would be beaten, or worse.’
‘You won’t tell,’ he says confidently.
‘And why is that?’
‘Because if you do, I will kill you.’ He smiles till his eyes are little slitted half-moons. ‘Or Mama will. If I ask Mama, she will kill you for me, just like that.’ He snaps his fingers.
I refuse to answer that: there is no answer. For fear of what else I might do, I brush past him and run up the stairs and out into the sunshine. I have left the candle alight down there: not very responsible to leave a candle alight in an enclosed place stuffed with dried tinder along with a six-year-old child; but I cannot help wishing for the whole palace to go up in flames and take him with it: poisons, plants, magical dealings and all. The world would be a better place.
All this talk of death and poisonings is unsettling: I walk fast with my head down, straight into a group of women pulling an unwilling participant in their game by the hands. I see there Laila, Naima, Fatima; Massouda, Salka. They flow around me, giggling, till the victim and I are practically nose to nose. Even then I do not recognize her at first, for her face has been made unfamiliar with dark cosmetics. Kohl and henna have darkened her pale brows and lashes and lips, and given her Egyptian eyes.
‘Alys!’
She has been crying: the kohl is streaked down one side.
‘They treat me like a doll!’
I am so relieved to see that loss of dignity is the worst of her concerns that I burst out laughing. Abruptly her face crumples and she turns her back on me and walks quickly away, into the arms of her tormentors, and I am left standing there, gazing after her in mortification.
By the time I arrive at Ismail’s apartments he already seems better, less pale and sweaty. Zidana chastises me for my tardiness, but I can tell that she has enjoyed an excuse to have her husband to herself for a little while: it reinforces the power she holds over him, being trusted to tend him with magic and kind words. Sex, magic and kindness: the most powerful weapons in any woman’s armoury, and no one uses them better than Zidana. She has already given him three strong sons: Zidan, the acknowledged heir, three-year-old Ahmed the Golden and earlier this year baby Abdel Malik (no one even realized she was pregnant till the birth, she is so fat: it seemed he popped into the world like a little djinn, out of thin air). Because she is First Wife, all three will have to die for any others to succeed. Until a few days ago I would have said this was an impossibility; but now I am beginning to wonder.
I wait until Zidana has applied the last salve, smeared the healing honey over it and bound a cloth criss-cross over his bitten ribs and shoulder (how determined had the girl been to press her head hard into those bony parts, hard enough to get some flesh between her teeth?) and then follow her out into the hallway. There, out of earshot of the guards, I tell her what I have found in the couching book.
‘I knew something was afoot when he had his nephew gelded.’
‘Samir Rafik? Who took my place?’
‘Of course. You think Abdelaziz has a superfluity of ball-less nephews?’
The man is a monster. Even his own family signifies nothing more to him than a means to power.
She sighs at my innocence. ‘Why come to me with this information?’
‘We both hate him. I thought you might make use of it.’
‘You mean, you thought I might tell the emperor.’
I wait expectantly; but all she does is sigh. ‘Do you not think I would leap at the chance to bring my enemy down? It would take much more than mere words scribbled in a book presented to a man who does not read. Bring me tangible evidence of the Hajib’s plotting if you would see him brought low.’ She laughs at my expression of dismay. ‘Foolish boy. Leave the book in your chest while he is at prayers tonight and it will be restored.’
I remember the Safavid Qur’an, and shudder.
Before last prayer I make the entry:
Third 1st Day, Rabī al-Thānī. Illi, Berber princess. Vicious.
13
Alys
Over a week has passed and I have not been recalled to the sultan’s bed. For a time I feel relieved that I will not have to repeat the vile encounter. But have I quickened? That is the question that plagues me. Indeed, is it even possible to fall pregnant from such a peculiar coupling?
After his violation of me I was swaddled up like a baby by two dark-skinned girls who chattered like jackdaws, so as not to disturb the seed he might have implanted; the next day when they unwrapped me they touched my skin with wondering hands and poked their fingers into my arm, pinched to see how easily the flesh turned pink. Washed, dried and dressed, I was hoisted shoulder-high on a bier and carried through the courtyards of the harem, while the rest of the women made high-pitched warbling howls, their tongues shuttling from one side of their mouths to the other, like creatures in a madhouse.
For them, it seemed some sort of celebration, but it made me feel ill just to look at them. And so I looked away. Above their heads, arched colonnades and tumbles of flowers; little birds; deep blue sky. Somewhere beyond that the god I spurned was gazing down, judging, judging …
I have wept for my sins until I have no more tears.
‘Alys!’
My name is pronounced oddly, the syllables widely separated. I look up and see that it is the queen (or whatever she is) who has come to visit me. Vastly fat, she is garnished all over with gaudy jewels and cloths: ropes of thick gold and pearls are looped around her bull-like neck; heavy earrings drag her lobes low; a headband encrusted with sequins and jewels sits upon her brow and disappears into the thicket of her hair; bangles sit from wrist to elbow (it is a wonder she can raise her arms, except that she is as well muscled as any man). Her skin is as black as jet, as black as that of the eunuch Nus-Nus, he with the face like a mask. She lays her forearm against mine and laughs at the contrast. It does not seem like a friendly laugh, more as if she is making fun of me, pointing out that in contrast with her – dark and glowing, lush and abundant – I am a pale, thin, feeble creature. She grins so widely that I can see her gold teeth and the gaps where others are missing, but her eyes glitter at me like lumps of steenkool, hard and cold and mineral.
Then she turns and takes something from one of her attendants and holds it out to me. It is a cup, as gold as the Grail, and inside it some dark liquid gives off a little vapour with a curious odour. All the while she keep
s speaking in a soothing tone, patting me on the arm, as if the very touch will convey her meaning.
Whatever is in the vessel, I do not wish to drink it. I shake my head and push her hand away as politely as I am able, but she persists, even lifting it to my lips and cupping my head with her other huge hand to force me towards it. The contents of the cup smell rank and bitter; I twist my head away. She tries again, more insistently, becoming angry at my evasions. Then she pinches my arm with undisguised malice.
I cry out and dash the cup from her hand and the liquid spills out of it over the carpet and steams in the air and she stamps around me, arms raised in frustration, no doubt inveighing against me to her heathen god. Her bracelets rattle and clash.
I am frightened of her, but I will not show it, though my legs are trembling, and I hope it does not show. She takes one more furious look at me, then strides off, screeching for her women to follow her, and I am left in blessed peace.
The next thing I know, she is back and there is a man with her. He is so tall he fills the doorway and for a moment I have the irrational sense that between them they have sucked all the light in the place into themselves, leaving none for me. Then he comes closer and I see that it is Nus-Nus.
‘Good day, Alys,’ he says, unsmiling.
I cannot speak, for his eyes are on me and the weight of his regard makes it impossible.
‘Alys, are you well? You look pale.’
‘I am so light-skinned I wonder that you can tell the difference.’
He dips his head. ‘I must apologize for my behaviour the last time we met. I pray I did not offend you.’
I remember how he laughed at me, and square my shoulders. ‘Not at all, sir. It is quite forgotten.’
Our words are careful, but a dark gulf stretches between us. He has seen me stripped naked and used like an animal.
The queen jabbers at Nus-Nus and I see his eyes widen. Then he says to me, ‘Alys, listen carefully. Nod and smile when I tell you to do so. Show no outrage: appearances are crucial to survival in this place. You must learn to wear a second face, one with which you hide your own. Do you understand me?’
I nod, but my heart begins to jump. What can be worse than what has already been?
‘She has something for you to drink. Take the cup from her and thank her. Take it and kiss her hand in gratitude. I will explain to her that you did not understand the honour she did you before. But, and this is very important, Alys: do not drink it. Make it appear that you are taking a sip from the cup, then I will find some excuse to take her away with me. Drain the liquid from it into the ground out of sight of everyone and be ready to give the empty cup back to me in a few minutes.’
I feel myself go hot, then cold. ‘Is she trying to poison me?’
‘Smile,’ he urges me, and I comply. ‘Not exactly. I will explain when I can.’
The queen clicks her fingers and a slave appears with a refilled cup. I find I cannot take my eyes from it. What is in it? Not exactly poison. Something that will make me ill but not quite kill me? How, in such a short time, can she have conceived of such a hatred of me? What threat can I be to her?
‘Take the cup and thank her profusely,’ Nus-Nus prompts and I can see his concern. Is this the face beneath his ‘second face’? There are lines there I had not noticed before, strain showing around his eyes and jaw. He is a very well-looking man, I shock myself by thinking; dignified; impressive. At once I can imagine my mother’s outraged voice in my head: He is a savage, a slave – as black as tar! Actually he is not quite black: his skin is a very dark brown, the colour of my grandmother’s well-loved oak settle, the wood polished and blackened by time and a thousand backsides. It looks warm, his skin, where mine is cold. I find that I am shivering again, my knees trembling under the cover of my foreign robe.
‘The cup,’ he says again, hoarsely, and I snap my eyes away from him and take the thing and then, remembering, kiss her hand. ‘Thank you, my lady, you are most kind,’ I babble. ‘It is good of you to think of me.’
She watches me intently. I feel like a fly struggling in the sticky silk of a web with the spider looking on, biding its time before moving in to eat its prey.
‘Pretend to sup from it,’ Nus-Nus tells me, and I put my lips over the edge of the gold until the liquid touches my skin. It is warm, and it smells rancid. It is all I can do to go through with the pretence of sipping and swallowing.
‘Tell her the taste is foreign to me, but that I am very grateful for her care and I shall be sure to drink every drop,’ I say to the eunuch, and I watch as he translates. The queen nods, but does not move. I take another pretend swallow, and this time the liquid gets in between my lips and touches my tongue. Despite the sweet smell it is as bitter as wormwood. Perhaps it is wormwood. It makes me splutter, and that makes the woman smile. Nus-Nus looks alarmed, but he talks urgently to the queen to catch her attention and they move away, out of my chamber. A moment later the rest follow, more curious to find out what they are talking about than to watch me drink my bitter draught.
I turn up the corner of the rug and upend the cup. Then I sit on the divan and wait for them to return, the empty vessel held dutifully in my lap. When they come back, the queen strides swiftly to my side and inspects the cup, then the area around me. She is suspicious; but the liquid has drained away into the untiled ground. We smile insincerely at one another, and she leaves.
Nus-Nus steps forward. ‘The sultan has requested your presence again tonight.’
I feel as if I have been hit in the stomach. I think I may vomit; but I master the urge, knowing that more of the bitter liquid is sure to be administered if I do.
‘Bear up, Alys,’ he says. ‘It is a good sign: you have his favour.’ He turns away.
‘What was in the cup?’ I call after him; but he does not answer. Instead, he goes out into the courtyard and returns a moment later with a green sprig in his hand.
‘If ever you have need of me, send your servant to me bearing a piece of coriander,’ he tells me, ‘and I shall come at once.’
14
Alys has become the sultan’s favourite: three times in the past week he has asked for her. I suspect he would request her presence every night if it did not provoke Zidana’s wrath so.
As it is, the empress fulminates about Alys. She refers to her as the White Worm, the Serpent, the English Stick and other such unflattering names. In this, as in other matters, I have become Zidana’s confidant. She complains constantly to me about Ismail’s neglect of her, for since Alys entered the harem the sultan has not spent a single night with his Chief Wife. She demands information from me as to every detail of Ismail’s state of mind, his temper, his eating habits and bowel movements. She wants reports on everything I hear him say about the Englishwoman. Of course, I do not fully comply: Zidana does not recognize the logic that separates message from messenger. And so I report back to her what I deem to be safe, committing many sins of omission; and, in an uncomfortable twist of fate, find myself acting as her mouthpiece and go-between with her rival.
Zidana encourages me to spend time with Alys Swann – under the cover of teaching her Arabic (which she is learning with greater ease than I had expected) – to win her trust sufficiently so that she will drink without question the noxious concoctions she brews up to prevent her from conceiving Ismail’s child; or to kill it in the womb. Such apparent complicity appals me, but I cannot help but look forward to each visit, and reason that only by keeping close can I keep Alys safe. But in my heart I know myself fatally compromised.
The stallholder who has now taken over Sidi Kabour’s business in the souq, a small, dark man from Imchil, is both subtle and circumspect. We both pretend that he does not know for whom I work; and I pretend I know nothing about herbs, which enables me to ask questions. When I am sent to procure dried tansy flowers and the leaves of pennywort, which will stimulate miscarriage and poison the womb, I bring away with me red clover, dried raspberry leaves and an elixir of agnus castus, w
hich will promote fertility. Sometimes I manage to switch the concoctions; at other times, it is necessary that Alys discards or conceals those that Zidana has sent her. There is a powerful emetic I have had the herbman make up, if worse comes to worst.
It is a risky venture: if Alys falls pregnant, Zidana will know I have been playing her false and will surely attempt to kill her rival, the unborn child and me as well; but it will consolidate Alys’s place at court and make Ismail more attentive to her welfare. Perhaps he will even allow her to be removed to another pavilion, away from Zidana’s direct influence.
Today she asks me, ‘Has she bewitched him? Does she have knowledge of some form of European magic that is stronger than my own?’
I am not used to Zidana showing any vulnerability. ‘Not to my knowledge,’ I say carefully. Maybe if she believes Alys has some witch-powers it will make her more circumspect.
‘It’s those eyes,’ she declares, walking around and around. ‘Blue: it’s unnatural. Normal people don’t have blue eyes: it’s an abomination.’
I assure her that Ismail pays little attention to the Englishwoman’s eyes, and it’s the truest thing I’ve said all today.
‘It cannot be that sickly white skin. I know Ismail too well for that. It is black women he loves.’ She thrusts her huge chest out. ‘He was raised by a black woman: his mother had skin as dark as mine, or yours. He likes women with some meat on them too: he values sturdiness and strength. She is like a ghost, a wraith, a drifting spirit. Why would he want to mate himself to a dead person?’
There is a lot more of this: privately I think Alys looks like one of the angels in the paintings I saw in the great houses of Venice, but wisely decide to hold my tongue.
‘Even if she manages to produce an infant, can you imagine what it would look like? I’ve blended walnut cankers with arsenic paste: I know what happens when black and white are mixed! Does Ismail want a grey worm as a child?’ Zidana raises her hands to the skies and her bangles rattle deafeningly. ‘Ah, Thagba, take her from this life!’
