by Jane Johnson
‘My lord, it is true! I too saw this happen. I was the servant to the White Swan, but she sent me away when I tried to stop the grand vizier entering the tent. “Let him in, let him in!” she wheedled. And when I protested that it was not seemly, she struck me across the head in a great rage and drove me away, so I ran to find the empress and she came running to prevent such dishonour taking place in your majesty’s harem, and so it was that she witnessed this evil scene!’
‘You see?’ Zidana’s eyes gleam with triumph: two enemies struck down with a single blow. ‘And there are others who can attest to the disgusting behaviour of this whore.’ She bends to whisper something to Taroob, who bobs her head and runs.
Ismail’s face is full of blood and flushing darker by the moment. He wraps the child hastily in its linen, pausing for a moment to examine the gold ring on the chain around its neck. ‘My lord,’ I find myself saying suddenly. ‘You cannot believe this calumny?’ My heart is beating wildly: and the sultan’s visage darkens further. I can feel Zidana’s gaze crawl over me: surely this will be my death warrant, by the hand of one or the other. But Alys is too bewildered to defend herself, and so I must speak for her. ‘The White Swan has given you a son, a truly beautiful son,’ I press on. But the sultan is staring at Momo now as if he is indeed an alien being: an evil succubus; a tricksy djinn. And it is true: there is no great similarity between father and son. Blue eyes, yellow hair: it is as if Momo has thrown off his Moroccan heritage in favour of his mother’s.
Ismail turns to me a face that appears hacked out of wood: mad and ravaged. I doubt he has heard a word I said. He surges past me to glare at Alys. They stand eye to eye: the sultan is not a tall man. ‘It is true?’ he growls at her. ‘You and the grand vizier?’ She stares at him, then down at the baby. She makes to take the child back, but Ismail holds it closer, so tight that it starts to cry. ‘Answer me!’ He thrusts his face at her: spittle lands upon her chin.
Terror robs her of her wits. ‘He… he… I do not know…’
I catch her before she hits the ground.
*
The faint saves her; but nothing can save Abdelaziz. One after another, Zidana’s paid witnesses step forward to add their testimony to hers and Makarim’s, saying how they have seen the grand vizier entering the harem at all hours of the day and night, particularly when the muezzin has sounded and all godly men are at prayer; and always he went straight to the Englishwoman’s tent. Even the ma‘alema testifies angrily that she found him alone with Alys, since he had sent her servant away. ‘But no fault can be attributed to the lady, my lord: she did not encourage the grand vizier’s visits and tolerated him only because he insisted he was your right hand.’
Ismail tells me to fetch Abdelaziz. He is controlled, stony. ‘Tell him nothing. I would not have him prepare a series of pretty lies.’
The grand vizier takes some finding: eventually I track him down to the hammam, steam swirling around him so that he looks like Ala’ad-Din’s djinn emerging from its lamp. The hammam attendant, who has been soaping his back, takes one look at me and scuttles out. The Hajib blinks as I stand over him, wipes the sweat out of his eyes. ‘Well now,’ he says, looking me up and down with a curious expression on his face. ‘Here you are, back from the wars, and in one piece, give or take. Remove your clothes, Nus-Nus, and bend over, there’s a good boy.’
‘The sultan requests your presence.’
He purses his mouth, blows out a great huffing sigh. ‘That’s a shame.’ He heaves himself to his feet, shameless in his nakedness. ‘Surely whatever he wants can wait just a little while?’
‘Get dressed,’ I say shortly. ‘I will wait for you outside.’
He takes an age to be dried and clothed. When I can bear it no longer, I storm back in, and of course find him gone. The hammam attendant lies in a pool of pale pink blood in the rapidly cooling chamber. There is no steam left in the place: it has escaped, along with the grand vizier, through a slit in the tent wall.
I fully expect to lose my head when I relay this news to Ismail, but he just smiles grimly. ‘Only the guilty run before they are even accused.’ He sends riders out from the camp in all directions.
It is two days later when they bring him back, bruised and dishevelled. ‘He put up quite a fight.’ The bukhari captain is almost admiring.
Two days is a long time in Ismail’s memory: he could easily have forgotten all about his edict by now. But it seems his anger has been smouldering away steadily; or perhaps it is Zidana who has been stoking the fire, reminding him of her rival’s many and various crimes. She presents herself today in a most oddly combative aspect, marrying the style of a Lobi warrior with… well, heaven knows what. She wears a leopardskin across her back, with its head resting upon her head and one of its great forearms draped over one shoulder, its paw tucked into her belt. She carries a sword at her hip and in her right hand is a great plumed lance. Her eyes are made up to look even more ferocious than usual. Clearly, her spies have got ahead of the riders bringing in the vizier to let her know the glad news and she has arrayed herself in this bizarre manner to crow over his downfall. Oblivious to the usual protocols, she now thumps the butt of the spear down perilously close to Abdelaziz, who covers his head with his hands and cries plaintively, ‘Forgive me, forgive me, O Great One!’
For a moment, Ismail looks upon him almost kindly. Then he kicks him so hard in the midriff that his whole body quakes. ‘You sack of filth! You abomination! You would dare to lay your foul hands on that which belongs to me, and only to me?’
Abdelaziz moans. ‘O, Sun and Moon of Morocco, Lord of Mercy and Charity, forgive your humble servant for whatever you believe I may have done.’
‘Do not try to wriggle out of it, you grub!’ cries Zidana. ‘I saw you lie with the White Swan with my own two eyes.’
The vizier’s face recomposes itself: this was not the accusation he had expected. And now a calculating look comes into his eyes as he assesses the various odds for his survival. Making his choice, he says, ‘But, my emperor, all who know me know that this accusation must be false. My appetites – for my sins, which I acknowledge to be manifold – lie not with women, no matter how lovely they may be. It will not please you, I know, sire, for me to say this, but you have only to ask your chief scribe and Keeper of the Book, dear Nus-Nus here.’
The sultan turns his opaque eyes upon me, his basilisk gaze so penetrating that I think I may be turned to stone by it. ‘Speak, Nus-Nus.’
I feel myself begin to tremble. I want to kill my prone enemy, to silence for ever his smiling crocodile mouth; I want to be swallowed by the ground. What I do not want to do is to broadcast my shameful past for all to hear. I am a bukhari now, a warrior who has survived a mountain campaign: I have no wish to be seen as a catamite. But I have to save Alys. I swallow, then say quickly, ‘To my knowledge, the grand vizier’s taste is more for men than women.’
‘For you?’
‘He has shown his… interest, on occasion.’
This evasion does not satisfy Ismail. ‘Speak plainly!’
‘You are amongst friends,’ Zidana encourages, her voice honeyed with anticipation. If the ruse with the White Swan does not work, she will happily accept another route to her goal. Then, with a wink, ‘Senufo spirit, remember?’
I gather my resources. The shame is not mine, I remind myself. I summon my second face, the kponyungu. I am not myself. ‘Abdelaziz ben Hafid forced himself upon me as we travelled from Gao to Fez, after buying me at the slave-market and having me gelded, raping me three times before I was fully recovered from the cutting. He has made other, unsuccessful, attempts since that time.’
Ismail’s eyes narrow as he takes this in, but he does not look surprised. ‘Other attempts, while you were under my protection?’
I nod. My mouth is dry, so dry I can hardly speak. ‘The last time was the day we arrived at the River Melwiya and you had to… ah… discipline the slaves who pitched the tents incorrectly. He had me drugged and
carried to his tent. The Raid ben Hadou can vouch for this.’
The kaid is brought. He raises his eyebrows when the question is put to him, looks first at the Hajib, who glares back defiantly; then at me. Do I see pity in his eye, or just amusement? Whichever, he tells the emperor that indeed he was fetched by one of the vizier’s own slaves and found me attempting to escape Abdelaziz’s unwanted attentions. He phrases it nicely but exactly, adding the unpleasantly telling detail that the child who fetched him had also fallen victim to the Hajib’s unnatural lust. Ismail’s face darkens by the moment.
‘You see!’ Zidana crows triumphantly. ‘Men, women, children: he is indiscriminate!’
‘I never touched the White Swan, my lord, never! This is a plot by my enemies to be rid of me—’
Ismail takes the lance from his wife and deals the vizier a blow that knocks his head back. ‘Do not speak unless I bid you speak!’
Zidana, to whom this rule seems not to apply, laughs. ‘Such desperate lies. All who know the grand vizier know him to be obsessed with status and power. While you were away, he sat upon your throne, he strode around the encampment in your stead, proclaiming himself your “right-hand man”. He even bestowed the gold ring given only to your trueborn sons to the White Swan’s brat.’
Ismail prods the Hajib with the lance. ‘Is this true?’
‘Yes, but—’
The sultan smiles, and passes the lance back to his wife. It is a benevolent smile, almost warm. ‘Stop grovelling and get to your feet, man. Come, take my hand—’
Abdelaziz catches hold of the extended hand and hauls himself inelegantly upright, standing there on quivering legs, looking suddenly hopeful that their long, brotherly association has reasserted itself, despite everything; after all, it always had done until now. Ismail, however, does not let go of him, but clutches his wrist ever more firmly, bringing it up close to his face. ‘That’s a very handsome ring you have there, Abdou, a fine stone. May I take a closer look?’
The vizier tries to wriggle his hand free of Ismail’s grip, but the sultan’s fingers are like iron. He hauls at the ring, getting it as far as the first knuckle, and there it sticks fast. An undignified struggle ensues, the vizier by turns yelping in pain and offering to remove the item himself, if his gracious lord will be so kind as to let him. A moment later there is a more piercing howl, and the Hajib clutches his hand, blood spurting between his fingers. Ismail wipes his dagger on his robe, pulls the ring free and throws the offending digit to the floor, where one of his cats noses at it curiously, then gives it an exploratory tap. When the finger refuses to play, it turns disdainfully away, sits and extends a leg skywards and proceeds to lick clean its nether regions.
‘I believe I recognize this stone, Abdou. It is one of a number given to me by the Governor of Herat: lapis, shot through with gold, out of the Pamir Mountains of Afghanistan. But, before you offer me an excuse, let me say that this comes as no surprise to me.’ He leans closer to the grand vizier. ‘Do you not think I know everything there is to know about you, Abdou?’ The diminutive is sounding ever more menacing. ‘Do you really think I sent my men after you only because of my First Wife’s accusations? All these years I have been aware of your unnatural proclivities, but I decided to ignore them while your usefulness outweighed your avarice and ambition. I think that balance has finally tilted, and not in your favour. I am perfectly well aware that you have been dipping your fingers into the Treasury these many years: it amused me to let you do it. But while I was away it seems you have given your greed full rein. Do not seek to deny it: I had the Tinker arrange a full inventory on our return. There were, shall we say, some considerable discrepancies…’
The Hajib begins to mew now, shocked beyond the ability to articulate.
‘And we might have turned our eye even to this theft were it not for the vanity and ambition that has seen you overreach yourself so shockingly in my absence. There is only one emperor of Morocco and his name is Abul Nasir Moulay Ismail as-Samin ben Sharif.’ With the jewelled dagger he prods the Hajib a little more forcefully with the iteration of each name. ‘Only I may declare legitimate a child and bestow upon it my own seal. The succession of my realm is no concern of yours, you worm! The Empress Zidana has already shown me evidence of the tampering with my couching book made at your orders by your nephew, so this punishment has been a long time coming.’
I stare at him; then at her. She told me she would not tell Ismail, pretending weakness: lies, all lies. She catches my eye and gives me the languorous smile of a satisfied snake. It is a long game that she has been playing, move by careful move, weighing the advantage of the moment, dripping her poison into her husband’s ear drop by drop, tightening her coils inch by inch, till she was sure her adversary could not bite her.
He instructs ben Hadou and the chief of his bukhari to take the prisoner and bind his feet to the hindquarters of a mule, which is then to be driven hard across the rough ground to the west. ‘I will not besmirch my kingdom by having him die facing the Holy City.’
The Hajib finds his voice: he pleads, but Ismail’s face is of marble, cold and hard. He goes out to watch the execution of his orders and takes his personal staff with him: a lesson to any who might think to overstep their place. Zidana begs to come with us, and is told to stay in the harem. She goes meekly enough, knowing she has won, but it is the first time I have ever seen Ismail refuse her.
The fat man is taken to the western outskirts of the encampment and bound to the largest and feistiest mule in the stables by his heels, still squealing and begging for mercy. Not once does he pray: I sometimes think if he had, Ismail might have relented; but his thoughts remain fixed on the fate of his corporeal self rather than on his soul. The beast rolls its eyes wildly, disliking its treatment, and is driven off in a great lather by much whipping and shouting from the bukhari. I watch as my enemy’s head bounces against stones and brushwood, the flesh being flayed from him till he is like an old piece of meat dragged for hunting dogs. I turn away, nauseated.
Ben Hadou glances sideways at me. ‘You do not rejoice, Nus-Nus, to see the end of your foe?’
‘I would not wish such an end on anyone.’
The Tinker shrugs. ‘You can’t afford to be choosy when it comes to righting life’s balances.’
And maybe he has a point. But, rather than any sense of triumph or relief at the death of the man who took my manhood from me, all I feel is emptiness.
*
The Hajib’s death casts a pall over the whole court. That one so powerful should fall so suddenly and so ignominiously – dragged behind a mule! – makes everyone recall the insecurity of their own positions. It makes people fear their mortality even more than they do in times of war or plague. Zidana is subdued: she dares not raise a complaint when Ismail declares Alys’s son as his own, and thus an emir of the realm.
But wherever I go, people look at me knowingly and talk behind their hands. They smile, they snigger or, worse, they show pity. It takes every iota of spirit I can summon to look them in the eye and face them down. After two weeks of this, they have started to lose interest; in three it seems forgotten, but I am left with a growing resentment. I wanted to settle my own account with Abdelaziz, but now my vengeance has been stolen from me and I am sorry for it. In my land, if a man dishonours you, you can redeem the insult only by taking his blood with your own hand: if he dies by other means, the dishonour remains to haunt you, the ghost of your good name dogging you for the rest of your days.
As we make our way back to Meknes, I hear egrets call over the plain and am convinced I am hearing the Hajib’s dying cries.
25
Ismail’s thoughts soon turned to his capital. A Frenchman was captured, a merchant caught supplying the still defiant English garrison at Tangier with gunpowder. Normally this act in itself would be enough to guarantee the man a swift death, but the gunpowder had been diverted to Kaid Omar and his besieging force, and the kaid was so delighted that the merchant was spared an
d instead sent to the slave-pens with the prisoners of war. There, one of the guards heard him babbling about Versailles and knew this would interest the sultan. The man was brought in, along with a batch of new workers destined to end their days in Meknes. The merchant, when presented to the sultan, was in a pitiful state. In one of his odd moments of benevolence, Ismail ordered that the man be taken away and his wounds cared for, that he be clothed and dressed more fittingly. You could see the look on the merchant’s face change from dread of his imminent violent demise to one of bemusement, but by the time he was brought back he had regained a certain jauntiness and at once launched into details of the works being carried out on Louis XIV’s great palace.
Apparently, the Sun King’s architect was in the process of planning a fabulous Hall of Mirrors at the heart of Versailles. It would consist of a vast open gallery with seventeen arched windows giving out on to opulent gardens; the opposite wall would be lined with seventeen arched mirrors to match. Thus the light entering the gallery would reflect the wonders of the gardeners’ art in the mirrored glass and give the sensation of walking in verdant space whilst safely enclosed by marble and gold. The merchant went on at some length about the exorbitant cost of the Venetian glass that would be used in these mirrors; of the gilding of their frames and the capitals of the towering marble pilasters that frame them, until Ismail was sent into a froth of envy and ambition.
All of a sudden, we were returning to Meknes amidst wild schemes of parklands and mirrored galleries; bridleways, orchards and olive groves; even a lake full of golden fish, with a fleet of pleasure boats to sail over their heads.
But the Meknes to which we returned was not the same Meknes we left, being greatly depleted: here and in Fez the plague carried off upwards of eighty-five thousand souls; but even more than that number had fled in its wake to far-flung parts of the realm. The building works had ground to a halt, with many of the overseers and artisans dead or gone, though surprisingly the remaining slaves appeared remarkably hale: it seemed as if the matamores had been the safest place to be.
