The Sultan's Wife

by Jane Johnson

  ‘I… see.’ The ambassador is uncomfortable: he shoots me an accusing look. ‘Well, we are back to the subject of the male captives, then…’

  The sultan waves his hand: he is bored by all this. ‘Come, Nus-Nus.’ He turns his back on the Englishman, an unforgivable insult, and walks away without another word.

  *

  The next day Sir James Leslie and his retinue leave. I am one of those delegated to ride with them to the north road. As is Samir Rafik. It is hard to know who is spying on whom: even though the Tafraouti speaks little or no English, I see him watching me and ben Hadou and Kaid Omar and the ambassador whenever one of us utters a word. Sir James is curt with me and will not meet my eye. He blames me, I think, for yesterday’s embarrassment. When I take my leave of him, English style, with a shake of the hand, I ask that he will pursue the matter further when he returns to England, but all he says in return is, ‘The book is closed on that matter,’ and wheels his horse away to take his formal leave of the kaid and the Tinker.

  ‘What was that about?’ asks Samir, his sharp face alight with curiosity.

  I mask my disappointment. ‘Nothing that concerns you,’ I tell him shortly.

  *

  ‘He will never let you go, nor Momo either,’ I tell the White Swan when next I have good reason to visit the harem. ‘I am sorry, Alys. I tried.’

  Her eyes well up. Water gathers in them, then trembles and spills, making a runnel in her kohl. She dashes the tears away angrily, as if her body is betraying her just like the rest of the world. A black streak mars her perfect face. My hand itches to reach out and cup her cheek, but she is in a temper now.

  ‘Damn it! Damn them! Damn all men!’ She looks up. ‘Forgive me, Nus-Nus. I do not include you in that.’

  I do not know which makes me feel worse: to be included or exempted from the general category of men.

  28

  Alys

  For weeks now, Momo has been suffering terrible nightmares; twice I have found him walking in his sleep. Last night, I woke to find him standing in the courtyard.

  I have heard that when the French king was a child a craftsman called Camus designed for him a miniature coach and horses, complete with footmen, page and a lady passenger, and that all these figures were capable of exhibiting the most life-like movements. When I called my son’s name and he turned towards me with the moonlight in his eyes, he looked like one of those ingenious devices: a perfect replica of a human being, but soulless, dead and empty inside.

  ‘Momo!’ I called softly. ‘What are you doing?’

  He answered me like an automaton. ‘I have to be ready.’

  ‘Ready for what?’

  ‘He is coming to kill me.’

  ‘Who is coming?’

  He did not answer me, just kept staring with his white moon-sheen.

  ‘Darling, come with me, let me put you back to bed. You will be quite safe there.’

  ‘No one is safe.’

  I could not help but shiver.

  I got him back to bed eventually and he went straight to sleep again and did not stir till morning, but I lay awake all the rest of the night. This morning as I dress him I ask, ‘How are you getting on with Zidan?’

  He throws me a swift, dark look, his eyes almost black. ‘He is my brother.’

  ‘He has not done anything to you?’

  His expression becomes guarded. ‘No.’

  ‘Are you quite sure?’

  He nods but will not look at me.

  ‘And he has not threatened you in any way?’

  ‘Silly Mama. He is my friend.’

  ‘If he does, you must tell me, Mohammed. Do you promise?’

  ‘I promise, Mama.’

  ‘And I am sure your father did not really mean to hurt you when he hit you that time. His mind was elsewhere. He was angry with me, you see, and when he loses his temper, well… he cannot help himself. But he loves you dearly, Mohammed, do not ever doubt it.’

  Momo nods solemnly, though of course he is far too young to understand. He is such a brave little man, and barely more than a babe. I have to save him, no matter what it costs me, though the thought of being without him makes my heart clench like a fist.

  I have a plan, a plan that came to me in my hours of staring at the ceiling these past nights. I have learned much here at the Moroccan court. I have learned craftiness and watchfulness and self-reliance. I have learned some Arabic, and not to show I know it: I have listened to Zidana as she gives instructions to her maids and tells them tales of poison. I have learned to don the second face, as Nus-Nus advised me to, to smile when I would rather spit and claw. I have learned to show pleasure when all I feel is pain and degradation: in short, I have learned to be so good an actress I could take to the stage alongside the best whores in London.

  And in all this my little maid, the cook’s daughter Mamass, aids me as an extra pair of eyes and ears. She has proved herself a clever spy. She looks so small and innocent, hardly more than a child herself, that tongues are left unguarded around her. She asks questions no other would dare. She has befriended the herbman’s boy and, with her understanding of unusual ingredients, thanks to her upbringing in the palace kitchens, is able to chatter with him on all manner of subjects. She is a proper little treasure. And because her father is Malik, the sultan’s cook, she has free run of the palace: all she ever has to say is that she is visiting her father. But she is rarely challenged: everyone knows little Mamass, with her great black eyes and enchanting, gap-toothed smile.

  I send her to fetch Nus-Nus to me.

  *

  ‘I hear there is to be an embassy to London.’

  I stare at Alys with some surprise.

  ‘The harem may be walled and gated and guarded, but rumours do sometimes manage to penetrate these fortress-like defences,’ she says.

  ‘Yes: the Kaid Mohammed ben Hadou is to lead it. The English ambassador asked as a boon, having had no joy of the sultan over the redemption of slaves, nor the matter of Tangier, that a Moroccan embassy be sent to visit the king in London to negotiate terms further. I think he feared to be blamed for his own inability to press either discussion to a successful conclusion.’

  ‘This, I had heard. Also, I gather that Kaid Mohammed Sharif will go, the English renegade Hamza and a dozen more.’

  Sharif is a decent enough man, for all he is related to the sultan’s family in some complicated way. But Hamza! The name jolts me with a sudden shock of memory: he was one of the three men who accompanied Samir Rafik in their failed attack upon me all those months back. Why has such a man been included in this prestigious embassy? A bitter taste fills the back of my throat.

  ‘So, do you know if the dozen are chosen?’

  I shrug. ‘I am not privy to such information.’

  ‘Who makes the choice?’

  ‘Why, the sultan, of course.’

  ‘You must ensure that he chooses you to go to England with ben Hadou.’

  ‘Me? Ismail will not send me!’

  ‘For my sake, Nus-Nus, can you not find a way?’

  She wishes to send me away from her. At first, this is all I can think. But then I see the fire in her eyes: she is determined, driven.

  ‘I will try, but you had better tell me why you wish this of me.’

  ‘I want you to carry… a message for me.’

  29

  I am just about to leave the harem when Samira, one of Zidana’s maids, comes running up to me. ‘My mistress summons you.’

  I follow her to the empress’s private quarters and there find her seated in state, on a couch covered in leopardskin, crowned by a high headdress of gold with teardrops of crystal arrayed across her forehead and with a collar of cowrie shells and pearls reaching high up her neck. Her robe is of silver and purple, stiff with embroidery. In her right hand she holds a sceptre topped by the skull of some poor, fanged animal.

  I make my obeisance but she bangs the staff impatiently against the floor by my head. ‘Get up,
get up, get up!’

  When I scramble to my feet she strikes a theatrical pose, neck twisted to present her face to the sun so that all those crystals dance and flash. ‘Am I still beautiful, Nus-Nus? Of all men, you of the Senufo can best judge a Lobi girl.’

  Girl she is not, and complications following the last birth have slowed her down: her fat is spreading ever outward. When she moves the staff, ripples of flesh run down her arm. She has jowls now, and wattles: to be honest, she looks exhausted and age-slack. Of course, I cannot be honest. ‘Madam, you are as lovely as I have ever seen you.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me, eunuch. I am old and tired and losing my charms. My husband does not call on me as often as he used to, my joints pain me and the women of the harem are becoming unruly. They sense my power is waning; they jostle for position amongst themselves, waiting for any opportunity to take my place.’

  ‘Your sublime majesty, I am quite sure they walk in fear of you.’

  She waves a ring-laden hand at me. ‘I did not summon you here to seek empty compliments. I have a mission for you.’

  I incline my head. ‘I am at your command, madam, as ever.’

  ‘There is something I need. From London. You must fetch it for me.’

  I almost fall down. Why is it that suddenly everyone wants me to go to London? ‘But, sublime majesty, I am not going to London.’

  ‘Yes, you are. I shall talk to Ismail and ensure that you are chosen to go to England with Al-Attar’s embassy. When you are there I need you to seek out that country’s finest alchemists. I hear they have discovered some miraculous substance that will ensure everlasting life and youth. Pay them whatever price they demand and bring it back with you. Or, if they will not sell it, bring, by whatever means, the man who made it so he may come here to make it for me.’

  ‘Everlasting?’ I cannot keep the note of scepticism out of my voice.

  ‘If it only gives me another ten, fifteen years of influence I shall be happy – enough to see Zidan safely to his majority and his succession secured.’

  ‘You could ensure his succession for yourself, I am sure. You’ve managed to do so these past nine years.’

  ‘He dotes upon the Swan’s pale worm! Heaping the little beast with gifts and compliments. Have you seen the size of that gold cuff he has given him?’

  Time to play the dangerous game. ‘His father loves to spoil him. Only last week he sent a great basket of jewels and treats for the boy. He is forever carrying the child about the court with him, showing him off to visitors, saying what a fine little emir he is. I am surprised you have not removed this obstacle to your Zidan before now.’

  She looks at me oddly. ‘Why do you say this now? I thought you had a certain… tenderness for the White Swan and her brat.’

  I force a laugh. ‘She is a little strange, don’t you think? Cold, I have always thought, and after we came back from the southern campaign, quite mad.’

  Zidana laughs. ‘Ah, yes, you mean when she was living like a wild sow, grubbing up the earth for her food. How Ismail can bear to rut with her any more I cannot imagine, but men can be such odd creatures when it comes to what provokes their desire.’

  ‘I have heard there’s a merchant visiting from Florence who deals in… medicines. They are, I believe, a most subtle race in their use of’ – I lower my voice – ‘poisons.’

  She thinks about this for a moment. Then her eyes narrow. ‘You have travelled in Italy, haven’t you? And you speak the language, don’t you?’

  I acknowledge that this is true.

  ‘Well, well, Nus-Nus. I think you know the sort of… medicine I might require. Do this thing for me and I will lift the curse I have put on you.’

  Such largesse. ‘Your majesty deserves only the best.’ I bow my head.

  Zidana is as good as her word: the next day, as I am helping Ismail robe himself after his visit to the hammam, he says to me, almost casually, ‘So, Nus-Nus, how would you like to visit London?’

  I do my best to pretend shock. ‘London, sire?’

  ‘Ben Hadou needs a secretary for his embassy. My lady Zidana believes that you would be best suited to that position, and I must say I think it an astute choice. Besides there is another matter that needs to be addressed.’

  He thrusts an object at me. It is a book. I open the cover: the flyleaf reads: ‘The Alcoran of Mahomet, Translated out of Arabick’ – my eye skips onward – ‘and Newly Englished, for the satisfaction of all that desire to look into the Turkish Vanities. London Printed, Anno. Dom. 1649.’

  Turkish Vanities? It is as well Ismail does not read English…

  He cuts into my thoughts. ‘I want you to find the man who printed this abomination. Do you hear me?’

  I nod, nonplussed. ‘Of course, sire.’

  ‘Search London and when you find him, kill him and bring me his head.’

  ‘Kill him?’ My head shoots up in shock. ‘I… I am no assassin, my lord—’

  He looks at me coolly, head on one side. ‘Are you not, Nus-Nus?’

  I feel my knees begin to tremble under his regard. Retract the denial, for heaven’s sake, I tell myself, but cannot summon the words.

  ‘How can any good Muslim abide an infidel defiling the holy book so? The only language in which the Qur’an can be read is Arabic, the language in which Allah dictated his final revelation. To make a translation is to make a travesty, an atrocity: a blasphemy.’

  ‘Of course, sire, I understand that.’

  He sighs, shakes his head wistfully. ‘You cannot truly understand: you are not of our people. Though that is not your fault.’ He takes the book back from me. ‘Go in peace, Nus-Nus. I will not ask you to act against your nature.’

  I stand there for a full second, not believing what I have heard. Someone, somewhere, must have worked some strange magic, to render him so amiable.

  Second 5th Day, Shawwāl

  Lalla Zidana, born Aisha M‘barka in Guinea, now Empress of Morocco, First Wife to his sublime majesty the Sultan Moulay Ismail.

  The next day, just after dawn, there is a knock at the door of my chamber. I open it to find little Mamass standing outside. Wordless, she takes a roll of fabric out of her sleeve and hands it to me. ‘My lady has made something for you to take on the embassy.’

  ‘I see word travels fast.’

  She beams. ‘We are all so proud of you.’

  I look down at the object. It appears to be an embroidered scroll, but when I try to open it out, I find it has been sewn shut.

  ‘It is for the eyes of the English king only: a gift from the White Swan.’

  I smile. ‘I doubt very much I shall be in a position to give him a gift from my own hands, Mamass, but tell your mistress I shall do my utmost to carry out her wishes.’

  *

  When I seek ben Hadou a few days later, I pass a crowd of petitioners outside his official quarters and inside find the Tinker embroiled in a merchants’ dispute that has clearly become very heated: some shipment of expensive French soap has apparently been stolen. The aggrieved merchant whose stock has gone missing brandishes a bill of lading that shows that his goods sailed from Marseilles the previous month and were unloaded at Salé. ‘It is a nest of vipers and crooks!’ he cries, beating his chest. ‘And this… this… thief’ – he points an accusing finger at the other man, long-bearded and grinning at his opponent’s growing fury – ‘has many friends amongst those vipers.’ Spittle is flying everywhere. ‘He has greased their palms—’

  Ben Hadou laughs. ‘I don’t believe that serpents are blessed with hands, Si Hamed.’

  Undeterred, the merchant continues to rant: his caravan was set upon in the Forest of Marmora by brigands, and somehow – strangely – his soap has now turned up in the souq in Meknes, where it is being sold by the Jews at premium prices. He digs in the pocket of his robe and pulls out a wrapped cake of the stuff, waves it under ben Hadou’s nose. ‘Pure olive oil soap, fragranced with lavender from the fields of Provence! I hold the monopoly with
the Marseilles Company – so where has this come from?’

  Ben Hadou takes the cake from him and unfolds the paper around it, holds it to his nose. ‘Lavender? This smells to me of almonds, good Moroccan almonds.’

  After a long peroration, he finds in favour of the bearded man and Si Hamed goes away swearing horribly. ‘I will overlook your blasphemy,’ the Tinker calls after him. Then he turns to the other man and shakes him by the hand. ‘Have a box of the soap delivered to my residence, won’t you?’

  They exchange conspiratorial grins, and the bearded merchant leaves well satisfied. Ben Hadou turns to me, one eyebrow raised. I had always wondered where his income came from: his official salary is not insignificant, but it would never support the upkeep of two houses in Meknes and the one in Fez he is rumoured to keep, let alone the desert caravans he runs. I say nothing of course: discretion is crucial in my position. ‘The sultan has asked for you, to discuss the particulars of the embassy, I believe, sidi.’

  ‘We leave at the end of the week: have you packed?’ he asks as we walk. His expression is sardonic. He knows I own practically nothing.

  ‘I am ready, if that is what you mean.’

  ‘Inks, reeds, a good supply of Egyptian paper.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I hope you have suitable clothing?’

  I shrug. ‘I am a slave: does it matter?’

  ‘Appearance always matters. You will be in the presence of the English king and his nobles. It is important that you are well arrayed: they will judge Morocco, and the emperor’s power, by such details. If even the lowest member of our embassy is richly turned out, they will see our strength: it will bolster our negotiating position.’

  The lowest member… I had almost come to think of ben Hadou as a friend. Foolish Nus-Nus: a eunuch slave has no friends.

  We are rounding the corner into the shady colonnaded walk leading to the emperor’s quarters, when we become aware of a great racket issuing from the harem: moaning and shouting, and, over the top of all the background noise, a woman’s screams, on and on and on. We both stop dead and look at one another: the sound is unnerving. ‘A stillbirth?’ the Tinker suggests.