Sultan's Wife

by Jane Johnson

  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).

  It is telling that it is with his First Wife that he passes his last night in camp. I enter the details in the couching book before first prayer the next day.

  Before the sun is fully risen, Ismail takes his leave of a bleary-eyed Abdelaziz. ‘My dearest friend, take good care of the women of
my harem, of my wives and sons. If anything evil befalls them I shall have you dragged behind mules!’

  The grand vizier’s eyes become round with horror; then the emperor roars with laughter.

  ‘You are so easy to tease, Abdou.’

  We ride out after breaking our fast: seven thousand cavalry and fifteen thousand foot, and cross the Melwiya at the ford, the horses’ hot breath creating a fog that wreaths around us, so that when I look back towards the camp, I can see nothing but what appears to be an army of phantoms, moving between worlds.

  20

  Ramadan 1088 AH

  I did not sleep that first night for thinking of that kiss, soaring at one moment to the heights of elation, the next to the depths of anguish. Torment endlessly succeeded delight; days later, I am none the wiser for all the thought I have given the subject, though unfamiliarity with keeping my seat on a horse has trained my mind to more practical concerns. Now, exhausted by a long day in the saddle, I sleep better than I have in years, despite the freezing temperatures and hard ground on which I lie. Conditions in the mountains are challenging: I have never experienced such cold. It freezes the hairs in my nostrils, the tears in my eyes, the urine I piss into gullies. I learn to breathe shallowly, to avoid the sensation of knives inside my chest. The sultan forces us on mercilessly, driven by his overriding desire to crush the uprising. When it becomes clear that the baggage-wagons are slowing us down, he ruthlessly jettisons beds, tables, braziers – anything that cannot easily be packed and carried on a mule. He tolerates the same conditions, sleeps on a cloak on the ground and eats the same dull fare as the rest of us. I am beginning to learn a grudging respect for Ismail as a man who bears hardship more easily than the toughest of his soldiers. Until now I have thought of him as a despot, a voluptuary, a divine madman who merely exercised his power in order to indulge his pleasures and obsessions. Now I begin to see glimpses of the man behind the title, the man who started his life as the younger son of a minor warlord a long way from the centre of power and plotted, schemed and fought his way to a throne that he has defended with grit and determination against all claimants and enemies; the man who is determined to unite the kingdom, extend its boundaries, found a dynasty and leave a magnificent legacy behind him. I also see ever more clearly the religious fervour that drives him: even when Ramadan begins he observes the fast and enforces it on the whole of his army. Although by sundown our unfed bodies shiver as if afflicted with ague, and many fall rather than dismount from their horses, Ismail shows no sign of discomfort or distress, and always ensures the mounts are well tended before he allows himself to rest.

  When one of the kaids foolishly suggests that since we are musaafir, travellers, which legitimately entitles us to postpone our fast until after the campaign, Ismail masters his great desire to behead the man and merely demotes him to mule-tender at the rear of the column. ‘We are on a holy mission to defend God’s kingdom!’ he storms. ‘Who needs bread when his will fortifies us?’

  No one dares to remind him that jihadists are also spared the fast.

  And so we march on with empty stomachs through crystal-bright days, the horses picking their way through snow so white it blinds the eyes. At night, a million stars wheel overhead and the cries of jackals shiver through the air, haunting our dreams.

  We come down out of the mountains just after sunset, having seen no living soul but a couple of ragged herders in all the weeks of journey, and approach a small settlement nestling in the hollow of a valley. Smoke is rising from an open fire: an entire sheep is turning on a spit. As we approach, an elderly man in tattered robes and a grubby head-wrap throws himself on the ground in prostration before the sultan’s horse.

  ‘Marhaban, my lord! Heaven’s gates are opened, Hell’s gates are closed, Shaitan is safely chained and the djinns are locked away. I beg you, break your fast with your poor subjects.’

  This pleases Ismail mightily and he happily hunkers down in an unkingly manner on the shabby rush mats that have been set around the fire, shares a meal with the villagers and avails himself of the virgin they offer for his bed that night. I do not have the couching book with me, as a result of the grand vizier’s sarcasm, and no one can tell me how to spell the girl’s name: for none of these people read or write. They repeat the sounds for me until I can make a fair approximation, and I inscribe it with a sharpened reed and ink I mix from ash and water on a piece of linen. That night all I can think of is Alys. I pray that she is well, and wonder if I will survive the battle to come when we ride into the Tafilalt tomorrow.

  21

  Alys

  What have I done? I try not to think of it, but some devil is in me: memories of that lewd kiss I bestowed upon my poor friend, which drove him from me in shame and confusion, keep returning, hotter than ever. I remember too the sight of his naked torso on that terrible day when the sultan went mad, a sculpture in obsidian. I must be possessed by some evil spirit, a spirit that is growing fatter and stronger by the day in my belly. Surely I will give birth to a monster.

  I try to pray, but feel a hypocrite to offer up Christian prayers when I am an apostate. My turmoil drives me to seek out the ma’alema, who comes to offer religious instruction to the women of the harem, alongside her more practical duties of overseeing their embroidery skills. We left Meknes in such a hurry that this latter has not overtasked her, for, ousted by sacks of henna, paints, jewellery, sweetmeats and bales of satin, our embroidery frames and silks were left behind at court and no one has felt the loss sufficiently to send slaves back to fetch them.

  I have a little Arabic now, but still it is not easy to make myself understood. When I show her the translated Qur’an given me by the English renegade Catherine Tregenna and try to explain what it is I would like – some instruction in their holy book – she throws it away from her as if it were poisonous, spits on her hands and then wipes them on the skirt of her robe. After this, she goes bustling off, muttering to herself, and I feel sure I have offended her beyond repair, but a while later she is back with a little volume most beautifully bound in green and gold morocco. This she opens, from the back, and, moving her finger from right to left, traces the symbols inscribed therein while she chants. The sound is rhythmic, repetitive, hypnotic; even the monkey is soothed by it. He lies quietly, curled up at my feet, watching us with unblinking eyes. Nus-Nus has taught me some Arabic, and I recognize words from the women’s prayers. I follow the sounds and learn them by heart and repeat them over and over like a talking bird, and sometimes the ma’alema makes a little gesture with her hands to help my understanding. Thus I discover that Al-Fatiha means ‘opening’, which she mimes by placing her hands together, then letting them fall open at the hinge; and that in their faith there are many names for God. The ma’alema is delighted with me. She pats my hands and chatters at me and struts around with newfound pride. It seems I have become her best pupil, a testament to her skill and powers of persuasion.

  Zidana comes stamping past swathed in blankets and furs and, seeing the ma’alema sitting with me and a Qur’an open on my knees, bestows black looks upon both of us. Amadou takes one look at her and creeps beneath my skirts.

  One of the other courtesans is, like me, nearing her time, her pregnancy perhaps a week or two in advance of my own. She is a young black woman with protuberant eyes as soft and watery as those of my mother’s pug-dogs. On the day that her labour pains begin the other women lave her solicitously and renew the henna on her nails, and the palms and soles of her hands and feet. After this, she is toted about like a gigantic baby, fed by hand, carried to the latrine and back, and finally to the makeshift hammam, where the paste is washed away, leaving behind a violent orange design, with which she seems inordinately pleased. Kohl is applied around her eyes; even her lips are coloured. These are, I have ascertained, superstitious gestures designed to keep evil influences at bay. Apparently the spirits they call djinns are apt to take advantage at times of weakness and may assay entry into the body. I find myself wonder
ing where else the henna has been applied.

  Well, it seems that the henna has not worked its protective magic and that the djinns have had a feast day, for the poor girl’s child was stillborn. Lamentations fill the day, the women all wailing and shuttling their tongues. The bereaved mother tears her clothing and rends her face with her nails and will not let the child be taken for burial, even holding on to its tiny ankles as they try to drag it away. It is a most heart-rending sight. Afterwards, I sit with her a little while, stroking her hands and murmuring consolations, but the sight of my ripe belly brings yet more tears, and at last I take my leave, feeling dread settle upon me at the thought of my own imminent ordeal.

  This is no place for birthing children. Even with the braziers burning you can feel the cold outside. It seeps in between the warp and weft of the fabric of the tents, through door flaps that never quite close, up through the ground, the reed mats and oriental carpets that overlay them. And yet sometimes I imagine slipping out into the night, crossing the river at the ford and heaving myself up into the mountains to give birth all alone in a cave, like a wild animal.