Sultan's Wife (16 page)

Usually Ismail would not countenance such lack of ceremony or propriety as to stand in the same room as unwashed men, but he is avid to know their news; his eyes light up. ‘Show me what you've got for me!' he demands even while the men are on the ground in prostration. ‘Quick: jump to it!'

I expected captured booty: gold and silver, fine cloths, treasures taken from the fallen chieftains of the Rif. Well, I suppose that was exactly what he'd brought: their most precious possessions of all. There is a collective gasp as the heads roll out of the first sack and trundle, ghastly, across the marble floor. That'll take some clearing up, I think. The heads are so fresh they are still leaking blood and fluids. They must have marched the prisoners most of the way here and butchered them this morning. I wonder what the sultan will make of that, if he realizes it: he would have, I am sure, preferred to have dispatched them himself, and not quickly either. But it does not seem to matter: he is down on his hands and knees amongst them, oblivious to the ooze and muck, turning each one over and regarding it with satisfaction as the general reels off names and tribal affiliations. ‘Excellent,' Ismail keeps saying; ‘excellent. Another of God's enemies dead.' When last I heard, the Berbers were Muslims like the rest of us; but apparently you can't be a good Muslim and oppose the sultan.

I am dispatched with a contingent of slaves to gather up the grisly specimens and carry them to the Jews, while Ismail inspects the horses and other chattels his soldiers have brought to him. The mellah, the Jewish quarter of the city, derives its name from the Arabic
al-mallah –
‘the place of salt', and
that is why we are here, for it is only the rich Jews of the quarter who have sufficient salt with which to preserve these tokens of triumph, so that when Ismail has them impaled on the city walls they will last a sufficient time and not drop bits of their traitorous flesh on the heads of the good citizens of Meknes.

The Jewry of Meknes is easily distinguished: inside the city, the men must by law wear red caps and black cloaks and nothing on their feet; but in their own sector (which is close to the palace, for ease of access for the sultan to their money) they dress as they please. The women walk about bare-faced, and are handsome and bold; the men are clever in trade, which is why they are here, and mix easily enough for the most part with the Moroccans. There are a number of them at court, for they are more respected and less reviled here than in other parts, though the sultan taxes them mercilessly. It's said that without them he would be like a man with no hands: they pay for his army and his renovations. In return they are left to pursue their business interests and their religion in some degree of peace.

I take the heads to Daniel al-Ribati, a well-respected merchant who runs a dozen Saharan caravans the size of small villages, and a fleet of ships to sell the wares he brings out of the desert – ivory and salt; indigo, ostrich feathers, gold and slaves, amber and cotton – to Europe, the Levant and Constantinople. He is a man in his later years, perhaps his late fifties, dark and foursquare, with a neatly cropped beard and bright blue eyes. He has contacts everywhere and a reputation for being both shrewd and fair, which is a rare thing in business. It is also said that his fortune is buried in caves beneath the mellah, that he pays barely a hundredth of what he earns as tax, that he is as rich as Croesus, or Sheba.

He takes a head out of one sack and regards it solemnly. It is a ghastly object, ragged at the neck, with a great sword-slash bisecting the face. Al-Ribati clucks his tongue: it's going to be an expensive business (for him, obviously; never for the sultan), but he does not quibble at the work; his continued existence here depends on give and take, though it probably seems to him it's more give and give. ‘Two weeks,' he says succinctly. ‘Come back in two weeks and they'll be perfect.'

I express my doubts that Ismail will wait so long for his trophies and he laughs. ‘Even the sultan cannot hurry salt.'

That night Ismail takes one of the fallen chieftain's daughters to his bed, a pretty girl of fifteen with unruly eyebrows and a bush of black hair. She seems docile enough when she is brought in and I am dismissed from the royal presence, but am only few paces towards my chamber when a great roar issues from my lord's apartment and I run back in to find the door-guard wrestling a knife off her. How she managed to smuggle that in, I cannot imagine. Or, rather, I can. Good heaven, she must be a determined creature. Ismail sees me and waves me away with a laugh. ‘No damage done, Nus-Nus, off you go.'

I slope off, feeling some relief, first at not having to witness the coupling, which I am sure will not be pleasant; second, that she is not Alys. I leave a gap for the Berber princess's name, which I did not catch, in the couching book and go to bed, where I sleep like a baby, right through the night. Until, that is, I am rudely awoken.

As soon as I open my eyes, even without the lad shaking my arm, I know something is amiss: the light, it's the light that's wrong. Too bright, even for these summer months: first prayer must have been and gone by an hour or more.

I sit bolt upright. ‘The sultan?'

Abid nods, hardly able to find his words. ‘Not well. Asking for you.'

I throw on a robe and run. He is lying on his divan, looking pale. Beads of sweat stand out on his forehead. I am alarmed: Ismail is rarely sick, though he complains frequently about imagined ills. And he never, ever, misses first prayer.

‘Fetch Doctor Salgado,' he all but whispers.

The doctor – a Spanish renegade – is asleep when I find him, and wakes slowly, red-faced and bleary. His breath stinks of garlic and hippocras. When I tell him the sultan requires his services urgently, his eyes bulge in panic. I dash out into the nearest courtyard and pick a handful of mint leaves for him while he dresses. He chews them like an animal, mouth open, breath rasping, as we make our way back to the sultan's apartments.

Ismail is not fooled by our ruse: he recoils from the man and sends me to
fetch Zidana instead. It is as well he is feeling weak, or Salgado's head might be on its way to joining the Berbers'.

I find the empress squatting in her inner courtyard, poring over a pile of chicken entrails, watched over warily by a group of women. She looks up. ‘There will be a death,' she proclaims cheerfully. She places her hands on her vast thighs and pushes herself upright: at once the flies swarm in to settle on the hot meat.

It does not take chicken entrails to tell me this: there are deaths every day here.

‘The sultan is asking for you: he is unwell.'

She does not ask me what is wrong with him: it is as if she already knows. As she gathers her things, my eyes dart everywhere, but there is no sign of Alys. I am not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed; my nerves seem as alert as a cat's, too close to the surface. I do not know what I would say to her even if I found her. But she is not here, and now I begin to worry that something has happened to her. Gripped by sudden terror, I turn to Laila and ask after her health and she simpers prettily and says she is well, ‘but a little lonely'. It is not unknown for eunuchs to pleasure the ladies of the harem: people are inventive in their quest for rapture – fingers and tongues and male parts made from wax, from stone, from gold, even the occasional well-formed vegetable. If the sultan knew what went on beneath his nose, he would be apoplectic; it is in everyone's interest to ensure such things remain discreet.

Laila has been trying to lure me to play with her for the best part of a year. I think it is more the pursuit of the unattainable that thrills her than any genuine fondness for me, but I smile and say I am sorry for her plight and then ask about various other favourites of the harem and the health of the various children whose names I can remember, and only then, after listening dutifully to the catalogue of small ailments and aggravations, do I ask after Alys – or the English convert, as I call her.

Laila rolls her eyes. ‘She avoids company. Anyone would think she was a nun, the way she behaves.'

Two nuns were presented to Ismail in the last raiding season and had been so steadfast in their repudiation of Islam and the sultan that, strangled,
they had died with smiles on their faces, as if achieving everlasting bliss. Two Irish girls who were presented at the same time as Alys collapsed in such hysterics at the first threat that they were sent to the palace in Fez to serve as skivvies. I could almost wish the same fate for the White Swan, but at least she is still alive. There is no time to ask more, for Zidana returns now, properly dressed and with an armful of potions and unidentifiable items.

Back in Ismail's chamber the cause of his malady becomes clear: stripped to the waist, the bite marks stand out livid against his skin. They are no mere scratches either, but deep and torn, the skin around them puffy and infected. I cannot help but feel respect for the Berber girl: first the knife, then teeth and claws.

‘Love bites?' Zidana asks playfully and Ismail growls at her. ‘Poor lamb,' she coos, ‘has he been mauled by the little wolf cub, then?'

They have a curious relationship, the imperial couple: she treats him like a child and he rarely bridles. They still share nights, even after all these years; and the rest of the time she helps him choose his bed partners, selecting them for qualities that will pique his jaded palate; it is another form of power. But perhaps the Berber princess was a step too far into the wild.

‘She is a savage! A barbarian! I shall strangle her with my own hands.'

‘Hush, you will inflame the wounds further. I shall do it myself.' She fusses over him, muttering chants and waving her hands around in a mystical fashion. Incense is lit in braziers to cleanse the air of whatever contagions still linger here. He is made to drink infusions from the potion bottles. Zidana sorts through her simples, her bangles clashing, then curses. ‘Nus-Nus?'

‘Yes, sublime majesty?'

‘Run and fetch me two wolf onion tubers and some comfrey; oh, and some thyme honey – you know where to find them.'

Down in the secret chamber it is hard to see a thing. I search for a candle, for a flint; then for the items I have been sent to fetch. There is so much down here, and no apparent order to any of it. Everything seems to take an age. I find the honey first – so dense and dark it is almost black: not for eating, this stuff. It has a powerful, rank smell, worse than Doctor Salgado's
breath. Then the wolf onions, and I am still searching grimly for the comfrey when someone says, ‘What are you doing here?'

I turn, to find little Zidan standing behind me. His eyes glitter like a djinn's in the semi-darkness. ‘Your mother sent me to fetch some things.'

‘You lie! This is her secret place. Only I know about it.'

I spread my hands. ‘Not strictly true, as you can see.'

‘Call me “emir” or “sir”!'

‘Sir.'

‘I shall tell her I found you here.'

‘You go ahead and do that.'

A pause as he digests this. ‘What did she send you for?'

I show him the honey and the onions. Of course, he has no idea what the latter are: he is only six, almost seven, but he makes a great play of assessing them, holding them to his nose and sniffing them.

‘Are they poisonous?'

‘I don't believe so.'

‘Do you know a lot about poisons?'

‘I know a little. Why do you ask … sir?'

He shrugs. ‘What's the most powerful one?'

‘Your mother is a greater expert than I: ask her.'

This does not please him. He dogs my steps as I continue my search for the comfrey and eventually locate it in a basket of dried herbs. ‘Who is it for?'

‘Your father.'

‘Is he ill?' His eyes gleam. Before I can answer he says, ‘If he dies I will be king: then everyone will have to do what I say or I can have their heads cut off. Is he going to die?'

‘No, he is not going to die.'

‘Give him poison and he will.'

I stare at him, aghast. ‘Zidan, that's treason! If I were to tell him what you said you would be beaten, or worse.'

‘You won't tell,' he says confidently.

‘And why is that?'

‘Because if you do, I will kill you.' He smiles till his eyes are little slitted
half-moons. ‘Or Mama will. If I ask Mama, she will kill you for me, just like that.' He snaps his fingers.

I refuse to answer that: there is no answer. For fear of what else I might do, I brush past him and run up the stairs and out into the sunshine. I have left the candle alight down there: not very responsible to leave a candle alight in an enclosed place stuffed with dried tinder along with a six-year-old child; but I cannot help wishing for the whole palace to go up in flames and take him with it: poisons, plants, magical dealings and all. The world would be a better place.

All this talk of death and poisonings is unsettling: I walk fast with my head down, straight into a group of women pulling an unwilling participant in their game by the hands. I see there Laila, Naima, Fatima; Massouda, Salka. They flow around me, giggling, till the victim and I are practically nose to nose. Even then I do not recognize her at first, for her face has been made unfamiliar with dark cosmetics. Kohl and henna have darkened her pale brows and lashes and lips, and given her Egyptian eyes.

‘Alys!'

She has been crying: the kohl is streaked down one side.

‘They treat me like a doll!'

I am so relieved to see that loss of dignity is the worst of her concerns that I burst out laughing. Abruptly her face crumples and she turns her back on me and walks quickly away, into the arms of her tormentors, and I am left standing there, gazing after her in mortification.

By the time I arrive at Ismail's apartments he already seems better, less pale and sweaty. Zidana chastises me for my tardiness, but I can tell that she has enjoyed an excuse to have her husband to herself for a little while: it reinforces the power she holds over him, being trusted to tend him with magic and kind words. Sex, magic and kindness: the most powerful weapons in any woman's armoury, and no one uses them better than Zidana. She has already given him three strong sons: Zidan, the acknowledged heir, three-year-old Ahmed the Golden and earlier this year baby Abdel Malik (no one even realized she was pregnant till the birth, she is so fat: it seemed he popped into the world like a little djinn, out of thin air). Because she is First Wife, all
three will have to die for any others to succeed. Until a few days ago I would have said this was an impossibility; but now I am beginning to wonder.