The Taste of Translation

by Anne Gambling

  Zamrak drops his pen, goes to his king. Lord al-Gani – can I send for my master?

  Is he here?

  Yes, it will take but a minute to find him. And hurries away.

  Mumu sits by the fountain and I run to kiss his cheek. What ails you, brother?

  He raises a hand. No, little star, return to the women. Perhaps there will be no feasting tonight.

  I retreat to the shadows where I hear my brother say: Always, always, Ismail taunts and teases, never ceasing with this ridiculous claim that Father preferred him, that he is the rightful heir.

  He stands up, sits down again, snorts. He is a half-brother, no more. Father’s choice was clear. Yet he persists with these accusations – and then today!

  But cousin, you exaggerate. Thus speaks Mumu’s closest confidante, Jamil bin Ali, from the family of our father’s brother. It was simply that his finger slipped as he drew taut the bow. Like he said himself – the shot simply misfired.

  al-Khatib arrives, bows low in his master’s presence. Pray tell what has raised your blood so, my Lord.

  We were tracking a stag. Mumu’s voice is a monotone of matter-of-factness. Ismail said he would take two of the party around and through the trees to the left, come at the animal from a different angle. I agreed but insisted they take care as it was a dangerous position with us where we were. He said he would, but laughed –

  Oh, cousin – you read too much into it, Jamil interjects. He knew well-enough it was a serious matter.

  Mumu shrugs. Well, it was not long before an arrow whistled close to my person, nowhere near the deer. That, he says to Jamil, is a serious matter. A cry went up, the stag shied, sprang away. That was the end of it.

  No, says Jamil. The end of it was when Ismail rushed to your side in remorse! He paid his respects – it was an accident, and it does not become you to be so untrusting! Jamil places a hand upon his cousin’s shoulder. I understand this is a cause of unease in your heart, but it is sheer coincidence!

  Mumu grunts.

  al-Khatib turns to the bodyguard. What say you, de Luca?

  There are grounds for concern, Pablo replies.

  Mmmmm, says al-Khatib. I suggest caution. Ismail is young and hot-headed and it is true he often laments he was not chosen in your stead. But I am sure if he did plan an attack on your authority, his advisors would counsel that he bide his time. I will send emissaries to Malaga and Algeciras, and others of the shires. Let them subtly inquire if this is a foil or if he has supporters enough to raise an insurgence.

  Esha comes into the patio. What has happened? Why the sudden conference?

  Leave us, Ayesha. We must conclude the discussion.

  I search only for our sister. She has been here much of the afternoon penning poetry.

  Mumu starts. Laleima? he calls into the darkness that looms beyond the circle of light around him.

  I creep forward, head bowed, face veiled, my parchment, reed pen, ink in hand.

  He sighs and leans into my veil. You speak of this to no one, he whispers and kisses my forehead. Now go!

  Handing Zamrak his satchel of like items, I run with Esha from the patio.

  Mumu said we would not feast, but al-Khatib counselled otherwise.

  Do not make anything of this, he advised. Do not let him think he has upset your equilibrium.

  And so I watched as Ismail, fat fingers encircling a goblet, flushed cheeks filled with the charred flesh of the day’s kill, laughed and joked about the incident in the forest. But the more he drank, the slower his chatter, and soon enough lolled on the shoulder of a pretty slave boy whom he would probably bed that night.

  With his leaving of table, the air grew less dense.

  You were wise not to show your anger, Esha commended.

  Mumu shrugged. I am learning to be a caliph.

  Days pass. Storm clouds loom.

  Come, let us be at peace, brother. Let us play chess, Ismail offers.

  On a day when it rains and all are at leisure, he calls for the board – pulls out its drawers, removes pawns, knights, kings. Stars of ivory surround the playing field and remind me of arrowheads more than the entryways to Paradise.

  My brother is distracted, he plays not well. Too soon Ismail has caught him check-mate.

  Ha! he cries. Victory! Grins his jackal’s teeth and sighs: Oh, that a kingdom could so easily be wrested.

  The hunt is over, the holiday finished.

  Till next we meet, Ismail says, bowing as low as his belly and ambitions allow. Rising, he takes a piece from the board in memory of his success. Only a pawn.

  For luck, he smiles.

  Would that it end there. Would. But it does not. This thing consumes energy, burns with a fire all its own, daily draining the joy from our faces, dragging us into a fetid pit of infectious paranoia. I hear them say things and know not what to think. They say things, but what shall be done? What, in the end, shall be done about this thing?

  There are whispers among the servants of the kitchen, stones scuffed, dice rolled in the courtyard. Members of the Royal Guard murmur so as not to disturb the nightingale in his bower. But still they speak of this thing. While here in the salon, all is circumspection. The eyes of Pablo betray his concern, the voice of al-Khatib speaks of treaties and subterfuge, the breath of my sister is measured and watchful. And there is my brother himself, the hunted stag, caught in a killer’s sight.

  They say things. All they say is things. While I sit and listen, and search out the unsaid.

  Six

  Child. Child! Sara tugs at my bedclothes. Candlelight licks her frightened face, deepens the darkness beneath pale eyes.

  I rub mine again, sit up. What is it? What has happened?

  Your brother’s rule has been usurped by that jackal, Ismail. Come, we must flee!

  The night air is cold. Fear has made it frigid. But where is Esha? What has happened to Mumu? I begin to tremble. Sara hugs me close, rubs my back.

  It will be alright, she soothes. Esha is preparing for our departure. Diya al Din will lead us to the Puerta de Bibrambla, the gate in the forest. They will bring horses for our journey.

  But where shall we go?

  Hush, child. For now, let us simply escape the madness overtaking the palace. What next unfolds is in the hands of the Lord.

  She has prepared a bundle of warm clothes, quickly helps me into trousers, robes and travelling cloak, wraps a shawl about my face and hair. We carry our riding boots and with two maids, leave the chamber. Crouched, hurrying along the gallery, I hear voices in the patio below, the sound of running feet, orders shouted from the Comares Tower. Sara taps lightly at the door to Esha’s apartments. She and her maids join our small band.

  Esha squeezes my hand. Fear not, she says. All will be put right in the end.

  We creep on to where Diya al Din waits at the small door at the end of the gallery. He guides us down the steps, through the next courtyard and beyond to the kitchen gardens where we cross in the shadows cast by the orchard on our way to the forest path which leads down to the gate. Soldiers loyal to my brother should be stationed there, he explains.

  But guards suddenly rush us. The maids squeal, Esha tightens her grip on my hand.

  An interesting little group, says one, reaching for his sword. A picnic by moonlight, perhaps? Coarse laughter, and we are led to the Torre de la Cautiva to await the sultan. The new sultan, they remind us. Our Lord Ismail.

  Diya al-Din is marched away to a different fate while two guards take up station in our cell. As dawn breaks, the crunch of stout boots through gravel grinds in my head. Esha leaps to her feet, smoothes her gown, rearranges her veil. I follow suit and seek again her hand.

  The door is unbolted, on the threshold is Mumu. Oh! I want to rush to him! But Esha holds me fast.

  Wait, she whispers. We know not what this means.

  With scimitar to his spine, he enters. Ibn al-Khatib follows, Ibn Zamrak, several others. Diya al-Din follows at a
distance, head hung, mission foiled.

  We embrace our brother. A three-way hug, the one used since the day of our orphaning. Forehead to forehead, cheek to cheek, arms locked to the outside, no space between kinship, no air between love.

  Prepare to greet our Lord Ismail! May the grace of Allah ever shine on his face! a guard cries.

  But we will not bow, kiss the ground before a leech who shares our blood but none of our affection, Nasrid in name only, spirit soiled by greed.

  Ah, he says. And his eyes sing with glee. The family reunited, such a happy day. Brother, he greets and bows low. It seems I am the only one who remembers his manners. Sister, he says to Esha. And yes, baby sister. A chuck under the chin for me. Such a happy day!

  We stay stiff and upright as lances.

  So, what is and always was rightfully mine has finally come to pass, he goes on. After all, it is the will of Allah. Now, let us agree terms. I do not wish a brother’s blood upon my kingly hands. His face is but an inch from Mumu’s but my brother does not flinch.

  Ismail shrugs, continues:

  I will grant you and your retinue safe passage to the border. There will be horses for the men, a caravan for the women, enough sustenance for the journey. What you do thereafter is for your own account. Perhaps some friendly merchant will take you into his employ, or perhaps you will starve on the streets of some Christian town as beggars. It is of no interest to me.

  Our brother bows. As you wish, we will leave the kingdom.

  Oh no, I am not yet finished. Ismail waves a fat finger in front of his nose. For safe passage, there is always a price. See, I have no Chamberlain – that silly fellow Ridwan was slain defending your honour. In his nightwear, and with a book in his hand no less!

  He laughs at the shock this news brings. And others of your excellent ministers, he chuckles, sweeping a hand around the chamber, are imprisoned here with you. Oh, and our cousin Jamil? The naive fool, he snorts. The surprise on his face when I personally slit his throat! No disrespect, dear fellows, but I need advisors who act in my best interest.

  He paces the chamber, hence and forth, hence and forth. I have chosen Ibn al-Sa’id as Lord Chamberlain, Ibn Ma’mun as Chief Vizier. As captains of my personal guard, they are both skilled in the arts of war, soon enough they will learn the judicial needs of the kingdom.

  Suddenly he stops his pompous pacing in front of Mumu, bares his teeth in a sly grin. Because my captains have been so loyal, I will offer them a reward, and you, dear brother, a small disincentive.

  So close, so close are his teeth to the neck of the gazelle. Let Allah catch my fall!

  I offer your sisters, he says. No – excuse me – I offer my sisters in marriage to my chief advisors. In short, they will remain, you and your party will leave. Now.

  An eruption, denial roared at a thousand decibels – Mumu cries: No – never! al-Khatib shouts: This is blackmail, an outrage! Esha screams, I wail. And Ismail standing at the centre of the vortex, his laugh broad with evil delight.

  No! Mumu shouts above the din. This will not be! His voice that of the true caliph. You heard our father’s promise – oh, excuse me – your father’s promise at Laleima’s coming of age. Would you feel the wrath of Allah upon your brow before even tasting victory’s cup upon the Nasrid throne?

  Ismail holds up his hand. Wait, he says to the guard who already holds my arm in a bruising grip. In my exuberance this is a detail I overlooked.

  And Ayesha, Mumu continues, is the guardian of this promise, to ensure Father’s will is heeded –

  No-no-no, Ismail interrupts, shaking his head, a small knowing smile crinkling his face. Do not push too hard, dear brother. I am a fair man, but I could still slice off your head if I weary of your talk.

  The room floods with silence. We trust in Allah alone. Esha bows her head, knows the sacrifice to come.

  Alright, he decides. The child is freed. But Ayesha, my beautiful sister, who still at this late age is an unmarried virgin, is my ransom. Try to reclaim this kingdom and her throat is slit before even a border is crossed. If I as much as hear a rumour of your return, she is dead.

  I cry aloud. Esha falls limp. The guard scoops her feather-light form into his arms and leaves before any can rush to her aid.

  Farewell brother, says Ismail. When next we meet, may it be in Paradise in many, many years.

  Oh, our lamenting! Oh, our wailing, keening! Mumu sits with his advisors in a small clutch, cross-legged in a corner of the room. Sara cradles my anguish while the maids beat their breasts, rock back and forth, invoke Allah’s mercy in unending prayer. Finally I dry my tears, creep over to the menfolk, rest my head against the shoulder of my brother.

  Mumu is full of regret. Oh, dear Allah, if I had but allowed Esha to be married to Ridwan as Father wanted –

  – then she would now be a widow, al-Khatib reminds him. My Lord, it would change nothing. This is the price he has exacted. You must only decide if you will double that price by sacrificing your sister to reclaim the throne.

  No! I cry. Mumu, no!

  Shhhh, small one, he says, cuddling me close. I would never make such a choice. He kisses my hair, soothes my fear, turns back to the men. We shall go into exile. bide our time, rescue my sister from this fate – somehow.

  Where shall we go, my Lord? To whom shall we entreat? Zamrak asks. The Castilian Don Pedro in Sevilla? Or the Merinids of the Maghreb?

  I think it is safer with the Merinids, al-Khatib advises. The sultan Abu Salim is supported by Castile but we do not know if Castile would afford us the same favour. If we journey to Fez, we can seek their counsel.

  Mumu nods. A sound plan. Let us hope we find subjects still loyal along the route or the journey will be arduous.

  I am strong, I tell my brother. I will not complain. And we must pray to Allah that Esha stays strong too.

  Ah, little star, he sighs. It is by Allah’s grace that you are by my side.

  Escorted to the borders of our land, not south toward the sea as expected but west toward Castile, we carried only what we had. The small keepsake of my mother – an ivory pyxide in which were woven our locks of hair – was my only companion. It had been in my hand ever since Sara had woken me, and from which I still drew strength each long hour of each long day.

  Sara had brought a pouch of jewels. Esha had remembered to do the same which her maid now showed us.

  Perhaps we can pawn some for food, Sara suggested.

  Yes, I agreed. But let me first search through the trinkets for something to remember my sister by.

  I tipped the contents out onto a shawl and my fingers traced a path through the gems strung on silver chains like strands of shining hair. There were rubies, emeralds, pearls as round as the moon, diamonds, crystals, sapphires. But I settled on a large amethyst disc, clear and unblemished.

  This one, I said.

  A practical choice, said Sara. It is worthless against the other gems.

  Yet priceless to me, I countered. It was our mother’s and ever did she wear it at her throat. So said, I placed its lilac face at my own.

  We had passed the last of our forts and were approaching the first outposts of Castile.

  The captain of the guard came forward and said: My Lord, this is as far as we take you. Farewell and God speed, and kissing the hand of my brother, pressed into it a pouch.

  What is this? Mumu asked. Stones to eat when all else is at end?

  My Lord, said the captain in a low voice. This is a matter of honour and my conscience. Be of good cheer for I have brought gold dinars from the Royal Mint. Enough, I hope, to ease your passage. Ismail knows nought of this, nor my men.

  Mumu nodded. Thank you. May Allah watch over you and keep you safe.

  We continued south to Algeciras and a ship to take us to the Maghreb. An awful time, but whenever I felt fear, hunger, thirst or fatigue, I thought of Esha’s suffering and spent the hours composing poetry to her beauty and wisdom, her strength and her smile.
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br />   Fair winds bore us across the sea and on deck, the breeze full in my face, my hair became the dark veil of a deck-bound shadow mouthing my words of love for her while I stared into the great void – the blue of sky, the blue of sea, the horizon a slippery eel in between, forever smudged by the roil of the ship. There I was, trying to memorise words when Zamrak came to join me.

  Recite to me, he said. Then we can both share your words of love.

  When I am away from you my eyes flood with tears.

  Wind-whipped desert sands swirl about me, ever-cruel,

  Desiring only that I weep, they refuse their pillow of sleep

  So I cannot even dream of my heart’s only love.

  And another:

  Your hair a tent of beauty for the full moon of your face

  Emerald pearls in your eyes greet me with inner grace

  When you laugh the world may laugh with you,

  But when you weep, your tears shall in my hands pool.

  Your verse improves with each composition, he commended.

  I shrugged. It is simply the passion that rests behind the words which results in their beauty:

  A poet will ever a poet be,

  And a lover ever a lover,

  But a lover-poet more than the sum of the two,

  The bridge between one and the other.

  He clapped at my spontaneous verse. Come, he said. Let us forget our pains and play with words together. I am sure there are parchment and pens to be had somewhere on this hulking vessel.

  We docked at Cueta where members of the sultan’s guard stood ready to escort us to the royal city of Fez. But first we were invited to the palace of the governor to wash and rest, and visit the mosque to offer prayers of thanks for reaching safe haven.

  Captaining the guard was a half-brother of the sultan, a Merinid prince by the name of Saffaar Salim.

  We knew not when you would arrive, he admitted. But ever since word came of Ismail’s coup, we hoped your party would find your way to our shores.

  In Fez, we were brought before the caliph at once. Falling to our knees, we bowed low, kissed the floor.

  Abu Salim tut-tutted. Rise my brother, he said to Mumu. A throne has been prepared for you to sit with me.

  He scanned the hall. You are a small party, he said. Which of the women are your wives?