Sultan's Wife (28 page)

Back in my own tent with Momo feeding contentedly, watched on by a wary Amadou, who has squirrelled the gold chain away in some secret cache of his own, I sit weighed down by a deep black dread that has now replaced the soaring relief of finding my child. For what shall we do now, just the two of us, with enemies all around? I do not think I shall ever sleep again.

Barely a fortnight after the accord with the Berbers was made, the weather turned against us and terrible snowstorms swept in across the mountains. The English brass cannons we brought all the way from the Tafilalt with us had to be abandoned: we ate the oxen that drew them. Then we ate the few Berber sheep we had rounded up. Now all that remain are the pack animals, but they are, as the imams explain to us, haram: forbidden by the Prophet, for every creature has its designated purpose, and beasts of burden are born to bear, not to be eaten. But we have eaten everything else, except for the harnesses and leather tack, so perhaps that comes next.

At last, when we are weak from starvation, the holy men declare that conditions are sufficiently critical for the prohibition on the eating of the mules and donkeys to be put aside and great celebrations break out. But Ismail would rather starve to death than contravene one word of the Qur'an: he declares that he and his immediate staff (which unfortunately includes me) will go without until halal foodstuffs are somehow miraculously made available to us. I am afraid there are some of us who curse our master in our hearts, though no one would do so aloud: there are djinns everywhere in these mountains who would carry the word to him. You catch them out of the corner of your eye at twilight and in the height of a snowstorm: a twist of light where there should be no light; a dull flame in the darkness.

Some of the body-slaves slip into the soldiers' camp after last prayer and beg a bit of mule: I catch Abid sucking the last scraps of meat out of a hoof and he all but weeps in relief when I promise I will say nothing of it. In truth, I do not have the energy. There are times when I think all I want to do is to go out into the snow and lie down and let its feathery white wings sweep over me, like the White Swan herself, and carry me into oblivion.

Just when dark memories of rumours about neighbouring tribes' cannibalism begin to haunt me, the longed-for miracle occurs and a hunter
staggers in with a mountain sheep he has stalked out on the perilous peaks draped across his shoulders. The sultan heralds his arrival with great praise and prayers. He marvels over its extravagantly curled horns and rewards the hunter with a bag of gold, which the poor man takes with proper gratitude but then looks at mournfully. Ismail, seeing that the man would trade each coin for a mouthful of mutton, graciously presents him with part of one of the beast's roasted legs, at which the hunter bursts into tears and prostrates himself and declares the sultan the most magnificent, munificent, godly and beloved leader Morocco has ever been so lucky to have. Ismail is so delighted by this that he raises the man up with his own hands and declares he is now a kaid and shall have equal shares of all the booty we have brought out of Sijilmassa. The man cannot believe his ears, and all that night goes from one to another of us, asking for the sultan's promise to be repeated, in case he was dreaming.

The weather worsens. For three days we cannot move. Snow engulfs us, covering everything. Guards are posted to keep the snow from collapsing the imperial tents and suffocating the occupants. One morning we find two of Ismail's door-guards frozen solid in place, grey shadows of their former selves.

When at last the snowstorms clear, a lookout reports that a horde of Berber tribesmen has gathered at the head of the valley below us, preventing our descent from the mountains. ‘They intend to starve us out,' ben Hadou says grimly.

It will not take long. The mountain sheep is a distant memory. ‘Go take them gifts and find out who they are,' Ismail tells the Tinker, who, even in his worn, emaciated state, is the best diplomat amongst us.

We wait, exhausted and frozen. Surely the barbaric Berbers will kill the Tinker and send back his head as a taunt? Perhaps he will simply expire in the snow. Or in a moment of weakness he will be tempted to their side by a fine dish of spicy
mechoui
(we are sure it would take less to win us over). No one expects a great deal from his envoy: the tribesmen have much to gain from the annihilation of their enemies, and nothing to lose. But the sultan, wily as ever, had other plans than mere diplomacy. When ben Hadou returns, he is not alone. With him are two of the Berbers, well
bribed with imperial gold to guide us to the Telwet Pass and thence to the Plains of Marrakech, circumventing the Berber army in the dead of night.

With the calm pragmatism of the truly desperate, we leave behind three thousand tents, all the costly treasures looted from the palace at Sijilmassa, and the bodies of the two hundred slaves who refused to walk another step, and make a silent retreat by the light of the full moon.

A full day's march later, we are in sight of the Red-Walled City. Since plague still rages within, Ismail returns to the hills, where we sack a Berber village and eat our way through every sheep and goat that the villagers have cosseted through this hard winter. The mood is one of elation. We are alive! The Defender of the Faithful has yet again proved worthy of his title.

By the time we reach Dila, where the court has relocated, more than half a year has passed. With every step, I find myself gripped, not by anticipation but by dread. Has Alys survived the birth, and, if so, has she then survived the predations of Zidana?

It is a torment not to be able to storm straight into the harem and seek her out, and there is no one left behind of whom I may safely ask news. Instead, as the sultan avails himself of the luxury of a long-awaited steam bath, I find myself wandering between the soldiers' camp and the court, a full member of neither one nor the other. There are celebrations all around as friends and families are reunited; wails of mourning as news of the fallen is received. But no one cares whether I am alive or dead, and I feel like a ghost as I drift around the compound.

‘You look forlorn, Nus-Nus.'

I turn. It is the cook, Malik. We clasp arms like old friends. We
are
old friends. From being cast down in the depths of melancholy, suddenly I am raised up on high. We grin and grin at one another.

‘Come,' he says. ‘There's lamb roasting for the emperor's supper, and his highness's favourite sweet pumpkin and chickpea couscous. You look as if you could do with some feeding up.' He holds me at arm's length, regards me with his head cocked. ‘You've changed, you know. Lost weight, not that you had much to lose; you look older.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Not in a bad way. Anyway, war will do that to a man. Toughens you up, I suppose. The High Atlas in winter certainly isn't my idea of fun.' He leads me to the long tent that functions as his kitchen. It is hot and bustling, full of pungent vapours that make my mouth water so hard I have to keep swallowing rather than drool like a dog. I take my place on a stool while he chops and shouts and stirs, and at last he brings me a dish of couscous ladled over with fresh, bright vegetables – vegetables! for the first time in weeks – and then anoints it with a magnificent scarlet gravy and for moments on end I just sit there with the dish cradled between my hands, gazing at it. Ruby tomatoes, emerald peas, opal chickpeas, golden squash. After our winter fare in the monotone mountains, it is a feast for the eyes, a treasure-trove of colour. I can hardly bring myself to spoil its perfection by eating it; but then Malik drops into the middle of the dish a steaming shank of lamb fragrant with garlic and cumin and I cannot help but fall upon it like the dog I am.

As I eat he tells me the news of the court, most of which streams in a meaningless babble past my ears as I apply myself to my food, until I catch the word ‘swan', at which my head shoots up. ‘Say that again,' I mumble through a full mouth.

‘The White Swan was delivered of a child, though there has been a lot of discussion as to its nature.'

My heart soars and dips like a dragonfly over a pond. ‘And are they both in good health, mother and child?' I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.

Malik shrugs. ‘There were rumours … It is not for me to say. I am sure she is well enough, but –' He has loose, mobile features, ridges of soft skin on his brow that furrow when he concentrates. He turns his steady brown gaze upon me. ‘Take care, Nus-Nus: there are malicious gossips who like to whisper that the child is yours.'

I stare at him. ‘Mine? That would be quite a feat!'

The frown becomes a half-smile, lopsided, ironic. ‘
I
know, Nus-Nus; and
you
know. But, even so, be aware. Your tenderness towards her hasn't gone unnoticed.'

I force out a laugh and bend my head to my food again so that he will not
see the truth of it, and eat my way to the base of the dish, long past the point at which I am no longer hungry.

‘So, Nus-Nus, How is your first taste of real food in all these weeks?'

Ismail is being uncharacteristically solicitous as we go through the daily rigmarole of my tasting his dinner for poison. I had completely forgot myself earlier. My belly feels as if it may give birth at any moment to a child made of pumpkin and couscous, with beady white chickpeas for eyes. It is all I can do not to belch as I force another spoonful in. I swallow and smile, swallow and smile. I force myself to rapture, making suitably appreciative noises, and as soon as the meal is declared safe for the sultan to eat, I am dismissed and waste all of Malik's artistry by heaving it up into a bucket.

The next day the sultan visits his harem. First he pays his respects to Zidana, who exclaims dolefully over his lost weight.

‘Djinns have taken your flesh! Someone has cursed you!'

Ismail has little patience with talk of djinns. ‘I think you have stolen it yourself,' he tells her, slapping her ever-more capacious rump. The empress is so surprised by this breach of protocol that she says nothing, but lets him lead her away to his quarters, to be the first in this new chapter of the couching book.

This gives me the chance I have been waiting for. I tell the harem door-guard that I have come to take back my monkey, and he waves me through with a knowing smile that I do not like the look of. Once inside the harem, another problem: Alys is nowhere to be found. I accost a harem servant. ‘I don't know, she keeps moving,' one girl tells me in exasperation. ‘Don't waste your time with her.'

Another says, ‘The White Swan? Don't make me laugh!' and walks on, as if I had asked the whereabouts of a unicorn or a phoenix.

And then I spy Makarim, Alys's body-slave. She sees me coming and makes to dodge me, but I stand in her way. ‘Where is the Englishwoman?'

The smile she gives me is mocking. ‘The djinns took her.'

I catch her by the arm. ‘What do you mean? Where is she?'

She tries to pull free, but I am desperate now. I shake her, not gently.

Makarim squeals. ‘Take your hands off me! I will scream and have the guards cut your head off!'

‘Where is Alys? I know you know!'

‘What if I do? She is just a crazy woman and you are just a cut-man. She has no wits and you have no balls: be damned to both of you!'

This is not the compliant little body-slave in whose charge I left Alys: something has changed in the balance of harem power. My fingers dig into the tender flesh of her upper arm: suddenly I want to hurt her. As if she knows this, she makes a sudden, jerky effort and wrenches free of me. But, instead of running away, she steps out of my reach and just looks at me. There is something in her expression that reinforces the sense I have that she knows too much, something bold and gleeful and exultant. She examines the reddening marks on her arms, then stares back at me, her eyes hard and glittering.

‘I will pay you back for that, eunuch,' she spits like a little cat, and then she runs.

I want to go after her, but what is the point? She will make a fuss and shout for the guards, show them her bruises. I turn and continue my search, running here and there, ducking my head into tents, feeling the panic rise.

At last, quite by chance, I come across an odd little makeshift shelter on the edge of the harem where a crone sits alone, a dark blanket draped over her head, hunched over a charcoal brazier on which she is cooking something for her lunch. ‘Good day, lady,' I start, and she stiffens as if I have alarmed her. I am about to ask her if she knows where the English courtesan may be found, when something comes flying out of the shelter and hurtles towards me, chattering madly. I feel the scrape of cold claws tracking across my skin, and then suddenly there is Amadou on my shoulder, bending his monkey-face towards me, baring all his yellow, yellow teeth. ‘Hello, my lad, have you missed me?' I ruffle the fur on the top of his head and he butts his skull against my hand and narrows his eyes in delight.

I turn to apologize to the old woman for the trouble my monkey has been causing her when she throws back the blanket and I realize it is no crone after all. Malik had told me I appeared older and thinner, but the effects of a hard winter in the mountains have taken a worse toll on the
White Swan. She is gaunt and sallow, with dark rings under her eyes, which seem twice their usual size. Her clothes are in a wretched state, filthy and worn; her body seems misshapen. She stares at me as if she has seen a wraith.

In some alarm, I set the monkey down and kneel beside her. ‘Alys. My God, Alys, what has happened to you?'

I would deny it if I could, but the smell of her almost knocks me backwards. Is this the radiant beauty I left behind, a woman as ripe and fragrant as a pomegranate, of whom I dreamed every night? What in the world would stop someone as fastidious as Alys Swann from visiting the hammam with the other women? Only something appalling, only fear, or madness …