Sultan's Wife (13 page)

‘Good luck, Nus-Nus,' says Zidana, her lips curved into a malicious smile. ‘You'll need it.'

A slight figure sits upright with its back to us on a gilded chair in the middle of the chamber below, one of a set donated by the French ambassador on behalf of his monarch. As a gift, they did not win favour: Ismail recoiled at the sight of them, with their immodestly curved legs, and banished them from his sight. I always wondered what had become of them.

Beyond the figure two men come sharply to attention as the sultan enters. I know the first to be Faroukh, one of Ismail's favourite torturers; a shaven-headed Egyptian with the cold, black eyes of a dead shark; the other is a minor lordling, a cousin or distant by-blow, no doubt pressed into this gruesome service by more ambitious members of his family. Certainly, he looks sickened, pale and clammy, as if he may throw up, or faint, at any moment. Woe betide him if he does: Ismail has no mercy for the weak of stomach. Which the Tinker knows well enough, and so has smartly sidestepped and brought me here to do his dirty work for him. And to think I was grateful. Small wonder he told me not to thank him yet …

‘What is her name?' I ask of no one in particular.

Ismail gives a dismissive snort. ‘When she goes into the couching book, only then will you need to know her name. She is an obstinate heathen and must be chastised and persuaded to the right path. Tell her to cease her foolish resistance and embrace the true faith. If she does not relent, she will lose her life. If it is her virginity she seeks to preserve, tell her she shall be given to' – he looks to the lordling, then away, clearly unable to summon up the lad's name – ‘to that one first, and then to Faroukh; then to any guard who wants her and finally to the dogs; and only when all are satisfied will her soul be released into the arms of Jesus the Pretender.' He fixes me with his burning black regard. ‘Do whatever it takes to convert her; then have her cleaned up and brought to my rooms. I shall expect her there, submissive to the will of Allah, after fifth prayer. Do this for me, Nus-Nus, and you will be well rewarded. Fail, and I shall give you to Faroukh, who is working on a special new technique for me. An exquisite flaying of the extremities that delivers excruciation, but keeps the victim alive for the longest time. You are just what he needs: a brawny, well-muscled man with some fighting spirit in him. The others have been too feeble to waste words on, let alone Faroukh's best knives.'

As the sultan's footsteps ascend the stairs towards the light, I almost wish myself back in my prison cell. Almost. I hope the woman will succumb to reason, but my first sight of her is not promising.

Her fists are clenched in her lap so that the tendons stand out on her forearms. Every line of her body is taut with defiance, even though her face is hidden behind curtains of yellow hair. But then I see how she has drawn her feet up, as if the turquoise silk of her stained and tattered robe might protect them. Her feet are bloated and bruised, glistening with blood and curled in towards one another: she has been bastinadoed.

I look accusingly at Faroukh and he holds my gaze, impassive. In his hands he grasps a long, thick Brazil stick. It is fearfully painful, to be beaten on the soles of the feet. Some men never walk again afterwards. Abruptly I remember the distant peacock-screech, and feel ashamed that, even as I was congratulating myself on my freedom, this poor woman was being battered in the name of God.

‘Go fetch cold drinking water and another bowl for washing; clean towels too,' I tell the lordling and he runs for the door.

Contempt for my compassion deepens the lines around the torturer's mouth. Suddenly I cannot bear to be in the same room as him. ‘Go outside, Faroukh,' I tell him. ‘Wait at the top of the stairs.'

‘The sultan told me to stay.'

‘Do you think she is likely to escape?'

He gives a barely perceptible twitch of the shoulders. ‘They try. You would not believe what I have seen prisoners try.'

I do not want to know what he has seen, but I do know what I would have liked to do to Abdelaziz when he held me captive. ‘Just go,' I repeat firmly. ‘Guard the damn stairs if it makes you feel better.'

He holds my gaze for two insolent beats, then strides towards the door, tapping the Brazil stick nonchalantly against his thigh.

The effect his absence has is tangible: the woman's shoulders slump as if it is only sheer will that keeps her upright, and her hands open like pale flowers unfurling. I go down on one knee beside her and take one of her hands in mine and turn it over. Crescent moons of blood have been carved by her nails into her palm.

‘Such a little hand,' I say, and close her fingers gently over the wounds. ‘They call me Nus-Nus, which means “half-and-half”. What is your name?'

Her head comes up. In the instant in which our eyes meet I see that hers are a startling colour, a wild flare of twilight blue around the black dilated pupils. Her lashes and eyebrows are golden. I have never seen such a thing. The women of the harem are black of eye and brow and make much use of artifice to heighten the dark drama of their regard. It makes her eyes seem naked, open and vulnerable. In the second before she looks away I know she could not have had a greater effect on my heart had I stared unblinking at her for an hour, or an eon.

I watch a pink wash tinge her white face, rising up to darken the bruise across her cheekbone, almost but not quite obscuring the smear of blood that runs from her nose. Then she says in a clear voice: ‘My name is Alys Swann.'

It is as well that the young courtier returns then; for in that moment I am lost. I get up and take from him the pitcher of water, pour myself a cup and drain it down in a single gulp, then refill the cup for the prisoner. She tries to sip it daintily, but, as the desert people say,
aman iman –
‘water is life' – and she cannot help but drink it greedily.

The servant who follows the courtier brings folded white cloths and a bowl of water with rose petals floating in it, which seems a ludicrous courtesy in the circumstances: I tell him to set them down beside the gilded chair, thank them both and send them away. Carefully, I bathe her feet, though she bites her lip so that blood wells up over her teeth. ‘You are lucky, Alys,' I say after a while, when my hands have stopped trembling. ‘No broken bones.'

She makes a mirthless sound. Then she raises her extraordinary eyes and pins me with them. ‘My bones aren't yet broken, and neither is my spirit –' She stops. ‘Why do they call you Nus-Nus? It sounds insulting.'

‘I am what they call a cut man. A eunuch.'

She gazes at me, unblinking. ‘You must forgive me if I do not properly understand exactly what you mean by that.'

I summon a crooked smile. ‘Only those who share my sorry estate can truly comprehend it.'

I see her thinking, putting together the cruel name with the implication. She gives a little nod. Then she asks, ‘What is your real name?'

For a moment there is just a blankness in my mind. What
is
my name? It is so long since I have used it. From the depths it surfaces and I tell her, and she repeats it twice till the intonation is correct. In her low, melodious foreign voice my name sounds exotic and honeyed. I feel my stomach swoop and fall.

‘Does it mean something, in your language, your name?'

‘It means “Dead, Yet Awake”. I was so slight at birth my mother thought me stillborn; then I opened my eyes. But I'd prefer that you call me Nus-Nus: the boy who was called that is long gone, and much changed.'

A small smile. ‘And you have been sent to effect
my
change?'

Her wits are still sharp, for all the pain of her beating. ‘I am here to persuade you to accept Islam and save yourself from further … unpleasantness.'

She laughs. ‘Unpleasantness! Are you some sort of diplomat, Nus-Nus? You are mealy-mouthed enough for one.'

I bow my head. ‘I am just a slave, a eunuch to the court; a servant to the emperor. I am sorry. This is not a task I would have wished to undertake. But I have known suffering and witnessed much and would not wish to see you cruelly used.'

‘No one would consider me a brave woman, Nus-Nus. I've never had to endure physical pain. Until now, no one has laid a hand on me in all my life. But in these past hours I have discovered there is a strength in me I had not expected, a hard seam that lies beneath the surface. Some might call it obstinacy. I don't know what it is, and I don't seem to be in control of it: I fear it may drive me to behave in a way that will threaten my own life.'

‘Then why not master that dangerous trait, cede now and save yourself?'

She pushes the cup back at me. ‘My mother was an expert in cajoling, wheedling and conniving. Your words may be gentle, but your aims are the same as theirs, whether delivered with a kind mouth or a stick.'

I change tack. ‘Let us talk about conversion, then. The change of one form of religion for another. We all serve one God. He is one and the same no matter what we call him – whether Deus, or Allah or Yahweh. He is the same one who hears our prayers. What does it signify to change the name of the religion that reaches out to him, if your faith remains true in your heart?'

Her lips firm into a flat line.

I press on. ‘We are all just people, Alys. I have travelled widely and know enough to tell you that there are good Muslims and wicked Christians just as there are wicked Muslims and good Christians. It is not the form of their religion that makes them so, but their essential nature.'

‘I have met plenty of bad Christians, it is true. And I dare say there is kindness and charity to be found amongst the people here. But they are not my people and their religion is not my religion.'

‘I should not say this, for I am counted a good Muslim, but in my heart I know that God is God and the rest is only words, and words are just noises we use to communicate with one another.' She does not cry out in horror at this heresy, and so I continue. ‘Plato said that the assignment of names to things was arbitrary, that any name might be given to any object, so long as enough people understood what it signified and agreed to use it to define that object. He also argued that existing names for things could be changed without any loss to the nature of the thing itself. So I ask you again, Alys: what does it signify that you say the words required of you, change the name of your religion and speak of Allah?'

‘Is it not hypocrisy to accept the outward form and believe another thing in one's heart? Of what value to your religion is such a convert if they do not truly believe?'

I shrug. ‘There is much hypocrisy involved in surviving from day to day in the world, especially in this world. I do not think God would sanction you for preserving your life in the face of such alternatives.'

‘I will not make myself apostate. The case is not as simple as you suggest. How can I knowingly reject every truth I have been taught regarding the
Holy Trinity and man's salvation through Christ? Just to save my own skin. Jesus hung for three days and nights on the cross to save our souls; I may be only a feeble woman, but I think one beating that has not broken even the bones of my feet does not suffice as excuse to revolt against God.'

I sigh. I am surrounded by those who believe fiercely in the oneness of God, people who will torture and murder without compunction anyone who avers otherwise. My own people believe that every tree and pool in the forest contains a spirit; that ancestors speak to us in our dreams and have themselves become divine. I am hardly the man to turn to in matters of theological debate. And yet I have said the shahada and embraced Islam … ‘Alys, I would not seek to change the nature of your beliefs: I just ask that you accept the outward form that is offered to you. Say the words and save yourself. They will not stop until you are completely broken, in every terrible way. I speak from experience.'

‘You do not look completely broken, to me. But then I do not know what you were before coming here today, a courtier sent to convert me. Tell me your experience. I want to know what has made you the person who would do such a thing.' She tilts her head back and gives me a long, challenging look.

‘We are not here to talk about me.'

She folds her arms. ‘Then we shall talk about nothing and you will fail in your attempt. And then no doubt I shall not be the only one to suffer.'

Of course, she is right in this assumption. If I fail to convert her, I shall surely be given to Faroukh. I swallow. Must it really come down to this? To the removal of my mask and the showing of my true face? I look at her, at the determination, will and pride holding together this fragile woman, and know I owe her as much truth as I can give to her.

‘I was born in a village of the Senufo people. Far from here, beyond the mountains and the Great Desert. My father was a chieftain of a small tribe. I had two brothers and three sisters, but I was the eldest and my mother's favourite. I was a disappointment to my father: he wanted me to be like my cousin Ayew, a warrior and a hunter, but I preferred to make music and dance. I wish I had paid more attention to the art of lance and sword: I might have saved the lives of my mother, my youngest brother … but
when our enemies came and sacked our village I was in the woods, making a drum. By the time I realized what had happened it was too late. They caught me and sold me to slavers, but I had more luck than I deserved. My first master was a decent man, a doctor. Rather than treating me like a slave, or even like a servant, he made me something of a companion. Taught me to read and write, about medicine and anatomy; he bought me instruments and encouraged my love of music; he took me all over Europe with him and dressed me well. I thought myself a grand fellow. My cousin Ayew would have said I had got above myself.'

She gives a little smile at that. ‘A slave who thought himself a gentleman?'

‘Something like that.'