by Jane Johnson
People all think they know the bare outlines of what happened next, or at least the consequences of those atrocious events, but this is what I heard.
La Sabia had managed to insinuate herself into the inner circle of women attending upon the prince’s new bride. But this time, rather than attempting to poison her by direct means she set about her poisoning in a more insidious way. She encouraged the other women to pester Mariam about her nighttime experiences, accompanied always with much giggling and pouting innuendo. Had she been warm enough? Had she had sufficient sleep? Hadn’t they heard her sigh and cry out, or had that been an owl? When they helped her dress, they made much of her breasts—how soft a pillow for her lord’s head, how many babes she could suckle with such big nipples. How her wide hips would make for easy births for all the prince’s many sons, and surely she would be showing any day.
Soon they had her in a complete tizzy about the marriage bed, for she had still been unable to overcome her wedding-night nerves, and Momo, too gentle to force her, had let her be, hoping that she would in time relax.
Then one afternoon a page came to him with a private message. A very private message. This part I know from his own lips. The boy waited in a niche in the Court of Myrtles until the prince was alone and they could not be overheard. Then he said, “My Lady Zoraya, peace be upon her, begs to offer her assistance to you in the matter of your wife’s intimate difficulties. She is a great expert and would like to give you good counsel as to how to proceed with the lady.”
“I was a fool,” Momo told me later. “Such a fool.”
He went. Against all common sense and his own best instincts, he went, driven to distraction by Mariam’s anxieties and the very pressing need for them to consummate the marriage and produce an heir. Had I not been otherwise engaged, fighting for my life, I could have stopped him, or at least run to Qasim; but Momo was desperate, and rash.
Even given the length of the walk to the Tower of the Captive, through shaded bowers, where the winter-flowering jasmine gave out its sweet confectionary scent, Momo did not accord much thought to his enemy’s true motivation, or the fact that no guard accosted him or questioned his presence. For Zoraya was the sultan’s most prized possession, his most precious favourite, whom no other man was allowed near, even if he was the son of the sultan, a star in the firmament of the kingdom.
“You must seduce her,” Zoraya told him once the formalities of greeting were done. “Like this—”
And then she had pulled him down upon her on the wide couch, shrugging expertly out of her flimsy robe as she did so. “Stroke her breasts, like this,” she cooed at him, placing his hands on her flesh. “As gently as if they were kittens. See how the nipples stand to attention, seeking your approval.”
Even when he related this to me, the memory made him colour.
“Then you put your mouth upon them. Here—” She had tried to draw his head down to her nipples, but Momo had pulled away. She’d hooked a leg around him and tumbled him into an even more intimate embrace; and this was when (of course), with a howl of fury, the sultan burst into the chamber, flanked by two of the most massive of his eunuch guards, scimitars flashing.
When they hauled the young prince off her, Zoraya just lay there, breathing heavily, apparently dazed by his unexpected assault, tears tracking down her perfect cheeks.
“I should kill you here and now!” his father raged, his fists great knots of white bone. “I swear I should!”
Spittle flecked his beard: he looked quite mad. Momo said he thought that if he had cowered or begged or pleaded his innocence, his father would have dealt him a blow, one he would not survive. He stood silent and resolute and looked the sultan steadily in the eye, thinking that if the astrologers were right, it was too soon for him to die. At last the sultan turned away.
“Take the prince and his hyena of a mother, who has no doubt engineered this vile attack, and imprison them both in the topmost room of the Tower of the Moon!”
After this, events become less focused. They say that truth and legend become so entwined in the kingdom of Granada that no one can unravel the truth. All I know is that Momo and his mother, Aysha the Pious, directly descended from the Prophet, were made prisoners in the tower. But even this did not cool the sultan’s anger, and a few days later he sent out a summons to his wife’s closest allies from among the Banu Serraj, giving each of them precise instructions about when and how they were to present themselves to his majesty. Slaves showed them into the sultan’s private quarters, one by one. And one by one, they came in from the bright sunlight of the courtyard to the penumbrous light of that most beautiful of halls, blinking and screwing their eyes up, only to have their heads struck from their shoulders by the sultan’s own blade. One by one, the heads fell and were stacked into the fountain; one by one the corpses were shrouded in sheets and smuggled out through the apartment by the sultan’s body-slaves, so that the next man in line might not be forewarned of the fate of his predecessor, or the fate that awaited him.
Thirty-six men died that day.
Their blood still stains the marble bowl of the fountain in the sultan’s hall where it seeped into the stone.
11
Kate
NOW
“Jess? Jesus, Jess, at last!”
“Calm down, Kate.”
Her sister’s voice on the other end of the line was tinny and indistinct, making her seem even farther away from Kate than she was. “I got your message. The coded email. What happened? My God, is Luke okay?”
“He’s fine. He’s with Sarah right now, down on the beach turning over stones to look for crabs. I can see them from here: I’m surprised I can’t hear them, given how loud he shrieks every time anything moves. He’s a complete wuss!”
Kate sat on the steps; her knees were shaking. “Tell me everything that happened. How did he find you? What did he say? Does he know you’re in Cornwall now? Did I ever mention Sarah to him? I don’t think I did. I can’t remember. Oh God! I’ll get the next flight back. Or you come to me—I’ll pay for your flights, of course. There’s a sofa bed in the lounge and—”
“I’m sorry, Kate. I should never have sent that email. I didn’t mean to panic you. Honestly, we’re okay. James didn’t see Luke: he was already in bed. I shouldn’t have said ‘us’—I meant ‘me’—he found me. He was searching for you, obviously. And look, he wasn’t threatening or even unpleasant, not really—”
“I’m so sorry, so sorry, Jess. What are we going to do?” She hated the sound of her voice rising to a childish wail, as if she were expecting her twin to solve her problems for her.
The sound of Jess taking a deep breath. “Right now? I’m going to walk down to the beach, poke around in some rock pools, tickle Luke till he giggles himself sick and cook a curry for me and Sarah. That’s my plan.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Oh, Kate, he’s just a man. A sad, rejected man. That’s all. I shouldn’t have told you, let alone come dashing down here, scaring poor Sarah half to death in the middle of the night.”
“I knew something was up. I could sense it.”
“Don’t give me that weird twin stuff. Look, I’ve got to go—battery’s running down. And typical Sarah, she hasn’t even got an iPhone, let alone a charger. I’ll have to go into town tomorrow. I wonder if they’ve even heard of iPhones down here…”
“But I need to know. What did he say? You didn’t tell him where I was, did you?”
There was a pause at the other end of the line. “No, I’m not a complete idiot. Listen, I have to go—there are clouds gathering here. Bet it’ll rain before I even get down to the beach. Take care, Sis, okay? I’ll call you again soon.”
And the connection cut out. Kate sat there, in bosky shade on a little stone bench halfway up the steep hill to the red fort, with the statue of Washington Irving standing over her and the phone pressed to her ear, listening, listening, hearing nothing. She dropped her hands into her lap, sat sta
ring at them. They looked like the hands of a stranger, brown and narrow. She did not know who she was anymore. She had been so, so stupid. It was the best part of three years since she had left James, three years of running from pillar to post, running through her savings. She had even been thinking of going home, back to England, maybe even back to the Peak District, somewhere close to Jess, to pick up the threads of her unravelled life, putting her mistakes, and her cowardice, behind her. How had he found them? This was the question that kept running through her head. How had he tracked them down? Jess wasn’t foolish enough to use social media. Could James have hired a private investigator? And had he really been looking for her, Kate, and somehow stumbled on Jess? None of it made sense. But he had sniffed her out some way or another. Which meant that he had not given up. She lowered her head onto her knees and fought for control.
All this time.
What was so special about her? She was no beauty; it was that she had capitulated. She had allowed him to control her, to feel that he had power over her; when she had fought back, it had angered him. And when at last she had escaped him, his anger had become implacable.
“Oh my God,” she moaned. “What have I done?” Running away, putting Jess and Luke in danger in her place. What a dangerous fool she had been, and what a coward.
“¿Estás bien? Are you all right?”
Kate felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up, embarrassed. The woman had kind brown eyes and a thin, worn face. It was impossible to judge her age—she could have been anything from forty to sixty. “I’m fine,” Kate lied, managing a wobbly smile.
“You don’t look fine,” the woman said. “You look lost and alone.”
Lost and alone. The words slid through Kate’s defences and all at once she was crying, crying as she hadn’t in years.
The woman sat down and pulled her close, enfolding her, making soothing noises as if Kate were her child. Such generosity from a total stranger. She could not remember the last time anyone had held her like this, without wanting anything in exchange. The tears streamed down, racking her through and through. The woman said nothing, just let Kate cry, until the sorrow and disappointment and self-loathing she had held pent up all these years was undammed.
As if sensing her release, the woman sat back and regarded her. “Don’t fear,” she said. “God holds each one of us in his hands. He does not want you to suffer. What good does your suffering do anyone? Be at peace.”
“Easier said than done,” Kate sniffed. “I’ve ruined everything. And not just for me, but for my sister too.”
“I think you’re being too hard on yourself.”
“I honestly don’t think that’s possible. I’ve been stupid, and cowardly. I ran away from a situation I should have stayed to face.”
“Sometimes it takes strength to choose the path of weakness,” the woman said cryptically. “Sometimes surrender is more courageous than resistance. But it’s hard for people to see that.”
Kate thought about this. She didn’t feel in the least courageous, but the woman’s words were like a balm.
“What’s your name?” the woman asked gently.
“Kate,” Kate said, then closed her mouth quickly. She had never told anyone her real name, not since she’d run away. But somehow it didn’t seem dangerous to have given her name to this woman. It would have felt wrong not to do so. “What’s yours?”
“I’m Khadija,” the woman said, returning Kate’s smile. Under the coloured head scarf, her eyes narrowed to gleaming golden-brown crescents.
Two women: strangers acknowledging a common bond across cultures and languages, countries and age. It had been a long time since Kate had experienced such a sense of fellowship.
“Are you coming up or going down?” Khadija asked.
At once a simple and a significant question. Kate didn’t have the significant answer, so she just said, “Up. I’ll walk in the gardens if I can’t get a ticket for the palaces.”
“We’ll go together,” Khadija said. “I work there.”
“You do?” Kate was surprised, then chided herself. Of course she did: the Alhambra was the greatest tourist attraction in Spain; it had to require an army of workers to keep it running smoothly. But the woman wasn’t wearing the usual green uniform. “Where do you work?” she asked as they tackled the hill together.
“I’m a conservator,” the woman said. “An expert in the chahar bagr, the tradition of formal, quartered gardens.” She reached into her bag, then handed Kate her card: Dr. Khadija Boutaki, it read, followed by a long line of abbreviated qualifications, an email address and two phone numbers.
Kate read the card over and over. She had been expecting Khadija to say she worked in the café, or as a cleaner. “Goodness,” she said.
Khadija’s smile was forgiving, a little amused. “You’d be surprised how many of us there are in my field of study. Women, that is—and Moroccan women at that.”
Kate, caught out in this moment of prejudice, felt an excoriating wave of shame. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…” But she had. She was almost as bad as Jimena. “What a wonderful subject to specialize in. I love gardens. I’ve always loved plants, not just flowers but weeds, the lot. As a kid I could name them all, both their common names and their Latin ones.”
Khadija turned and pointed to a group of white-and-purple spikes of flower. They grew everywhere around Granada, seeming to thrive in whatever poor soil they found. “Do you know what these are?”
Kate grinned. “Bear’s breeches. I’ve no idea why. The Latin name is Acanthus mollis.”
“Good girl,” Khadija said approvingly. “You’ll find them represented in the stucco in the palace.”
“I know,” Kate said quietly. “I’ve seen them there.” She spread her hands: no words would suffice. “I’ve never been anywhere quite like the Generalife,” she finished lamely.
“There is nowhere quite like the Jannat al-Arif. Some translate that as the ‘Gardens of the Architect,’ but as the architect is in this case God, we often translate it as the ‘Gardens of Paradise,’” Khadija said.
Kate nodded. It was exactly how she thought of them.
They reached the ticket pavilion and Kate started toward the queues, but Khadija took her by the arm. “You are my guest.” She moved authoritatively to the counter and said something in rapid Arabic to the woman behind the glass, who opened a drawer, took out a card and fed it into a printer.
“What’s your name, Kate? Your family name?”
Kate told her.
A minute later the card, slipped into a laminated cover and threaded onto a lanyard, was slid across the counter to her.
KATE FORDHAM, it said, followed by Pase conservador: Conservator pass.
She had her identity back.
Later, having wandered the gardens, she picked the changeover time between lunchtime tourist tickets to enter the Nasrid palaces, made her way toward the Patio de los Leones and into the Hall of the Abencerrages, a corruption—as she knew from the tours she had taken—of the Arabic Banu Serraj. There, in a miraculous lull in the flow of tourists, she lay down on the floor to gaze up into its extraordinary cupola, a masterwork of carved and moulded plaster, set in the form of an eight-pointed star like a great lacy honeycomb. How long she stayed there contemplating it, she did not know. Moorish ornamentation had that effect on you, the reiterated patterns sending your brain into a sort of meditative trance. She had read that a mathematical formula had been applied to every aspect of the palaces to ensure perfect symmetry and give the sense of infinite space. It was quite extraordinarily soothing and for a time she felt she was floating, gliding through time.
Then she heard voices approaching. Abruptly she was pulled back down to earth, becoming aware that the marble floor was cold against her back and bare heels. Yet when she put her hand to it to push herself upright, its smooth, worn texture felt like a sort of skin, as if the place was alive but in a state of stasis, biding its time to breathe again. She looked aroun
d into the bowl of the central fountain. The staining inside did not much resemble blood, she thought. She knew the legend that had given the hall its name: a massacre, dozens of decapitations; rivers of blood. The stained marble was supposed to be the last trace of the victims, but of course that was just superstition. And maybe a little oxidization.
As the first group of tourists drifted in, craning their necks and blinking to adjust their vision, Kate walked out into the sunlight.
Instead of taking her usual route through the palaces, she wandered toward the ramparts and towers opposite the summer palace, passing a group of noisy, bored schoolchildren pushing one another off the brick paths, paying no attention to their teachers. But it’s your history! she wanted to say to them. One day you’ll boast of coming here but realize you remember nothing about it.
History was rather wasted on the young, who had yet to discover that looking back could sometimes be a lot more instructive than looking forward. To the young, the future was a wild blue yonder, full of hopes and promises and possibilities. Before their hearts and dreams are smashed, she thought.
And what about you, Kate? What’s in your future?
She had no idea. Some days it seemed too fraught to consider. As for looking back…She should never have married James. That much was perfectly obvious now. Even at the time, she had been beset by doubts. But everyone who met James was charmed by him: so good-looking and so easy to talk to; so polite and helpful, such a gentleman. Even Jess—usually more astute when it came to her twin’s relationships than her own—had been taken in by his apparent steadiness. “He’s just what you need after Matty: a man, not some hopeless, self-pitying boy. You should grab him while you can. You’re not getting any younger, you know.”
