Sultan's Wife (5 page)

That night, I accompany the sultan to the mosque for the evening prayers, taste his food and eat a very little of my own. I sit with him then in the company of twenty or so of his women, all of whom are armed with musical instruments and fearsome amounts of kohl, under the watchful eye of Zidana and a dozen of Ismail's beloved cats. Eventually he makes his choice of partner for the night, and at long last those of us who are surplus to requirements are waved away.

I retreat gratefully to the solitude of my room to make the necessary entry in the couching book:

I sit there staring bleakly at this bald notation, before closing the book with a sigh and putting it aside. Only then do I think to open the chest. Where the burnous and the Holy Qur'an were there is now a yawning space. Somehow, Zidana has contrived to have them removed; just as she contrived to have little Aziza deflowered this night. Aziza is no threat; whereas Fatima, sister to the Hajib, must be kept out of the sultan's eye. Abdelaziz has long had designs on the succession. His lineage is noble, though his family were till his own rise impecunious. Ismail entrusts him with all aspects of state, including the keys to the Treasury; even Zidana fears to threaten him directly, though two of his food-tasters have mysteriously
perished. When all is said and done, she is a slave, with no lineage and no status, except that which is accorded her by the sultan's own whim. And he is a whimsical man, as all know to their cost. I have with my own ears heard Abdelaziz advise the sultan that his acknowledged heir should be of true Moroccan stock if the kingdom is to be safeguarded after his death (may the Compassionate One be minded to make that terrible day long hence). Only the Hajib could ever risk his wrath by suggesting such a thing and survive; but Ismail indulges his vizier, treats him like a brother. Though by no means does he treat lovely Fatima as a sister, buxom little baggage that she is. Three years ago she gave birth to a boy; unfortunately the child perished: just as well, or he would have outranked Zidana's second son. Last year she gave birth to another boy, but this one has thus far proved more hardy. Of Fatima there was no sign tonight, though; no doubt she was indisposed by some carefully measured dose of aconite.

Lying down on the divan, I suddenly remember an unwelcome detail of this dreadful day.

The damned pattens!

I left them beneath Sidi Kabour's stall, thinking to retrieve them on my return. My heart threatens to batter down the walls of its cage: my groan fills the night. I cannot be seen to go back to the shop. Could I send a page to fetch them? But what if the boy was stopped and questioned? No one would lie for me out of love, and I have no money.

Sweat breaks out in the runnel between the muscles of my back. Vomit rises in my throat.

Pattens. They are only pattens. A lot of people were wearing them in the streets today, not just me, though mine may be better made than most. I fight down the panic and lie there, staring into the darkness.

The muezzin began his first call to prayer before dawn, reminding me that it is better to pray than to sleep. Generally I prefer to sleep than to pray, but I last night I did not sleep at all. Gritty-eyed and with a leaden feeling of doom in my stomach, I roll from my divan, make my ablutions, dress in my Friday best and go quickly to accompany my lord Ismail to the mosque.

I am just exiting my chamber when two of the sultan's body-slaves come flying down the corridor, nearly knocking me over. ‘Hoi!' I cry at their retreating backs. ‘Watch where you're going!'

Abid turns back. He looks distinctly pale around the gills. ‘His majesty is in a fearsome temper,' he warns, then hurtles on as if pursued by demons.

At the magnificent double doors under the great horseshoe arch that marks the entrance to the sultan's private chambers I enter unchallenged and at once cast myself prostrate, forehead pressed to the tiled floor. It is only then that I see I am not alone in making obeisance, for to the left of me I glimpse Bilal, the door-guard, doing the same. Two things strike me at once: the first being that as a door-guard he should have been guarding the door rather than lying here on the tiles; the second that he is staring at me in a very odd fashion. Then I realize the reason for his peculiar squint.

Bilal's body lies at a small distance away from me … and away from his head, which, I see now, sits perkily on its stump of neck, lips slightly parted, as if in surprise at this unforeseen separation.

‘Ah, Nus-Nus, excellent timing! Come, get up: help me with this turban. I don't know where those wretched boys have gone; they were here a moment ago.'

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Ismail sounds quite normal, cheerful even. I get nervously to my feet, keeping my eyes properly downcast, for I have already glimpsed that his majesty has this morning donned a robe of sunflower gold, which is now spoiled by an ugly splash of crimson. A yellow robe is always a bad sign. A very bad sign, especially in conjunction with a decapitated guard.

Should I mention the stain? Ismail would not wish to go to prayer with his clothing defiled by blood; but who knows how he will react if I point it out to him and thus infer his involvement in the death of poor Bilal? Lesser errors of etiquette have resulted in a nasty death. But if I let him go wearing the stained robe, he is bound to notice at some point and then may well murder me for failing in my duty. Caught on the horns of this dilemma, I concentrate on winding the turban, but can't stop my eyes from straying to the ever-widening scarlet pool and the red gleam of the sultan's favourite curved blade, chased with silver and inscribed with the sacred words of the Prophet: ‘
The sword is the key of heaven and of hell
.' It certainly has been in Bilal's case.

The turban completed, Ismail inserts a vast ruby pin in the front, pulls his sleeves straight and begins to flick out the creases in the skirt of his robe. For a moment he stands frowning. He touches the stain. ‘How did that get there?' He sounds genuinely puzzled. After a time he raises his eyes and stares at me hard.

His lance is propped against his chair, and within two strides there are a dozen swords and daggers and crossed halberds decorating the nearest wall: any one of them could be the implement that brings my death. ‘I do not know, my lord,' I whisper.

‘Well, what a confounded nuisance,' he says mildly. ‘I can't go to the mosque like this. Go fetch one of the green robes, will you, Nus-Nus? From the sandalwood box. Yes, green will do well for today.'

When I come back I find him in exactly the same attitude, gazing into space as if in meditation. I deconstruct the turban, draw off the saffron robe, aid him into the fresh green robe and rewind the turban. Then I wash his hands with rose water, dry them and wash my own hands.

‘Excellent.' He sets the ruby pin in place once more, puts a hand on my
shoulder and squeezes it with an appearance of affection. ‘Come, then, Nus-Nus, let us go to our prayers.' He beams at me and then walks to the door, lifting his feet carefully to step over the corpse, as if it is an inconveniently placed object. At the doorway he looks right and left. ‘Where in God's name is Bilal?' He shakes his head sadly at this dereliction of duty and walks on towards the mosque.

When we return an hour later another guard has been posted and all trace of Bilal has been scrupulously removed. The serenity of the chamber is so surreal that it is tempting to wonder if nothing has happened. But details keep slipping into my mind even as I check the safety of my lord's breakfast, and I cannot help thinking of my own bloodstained clothing and the ruined Qur'an. Not to mention the wretched pattens.

As if he can read my mind, Ismail says, ‘Make sure you fetch the Safavid masterpiece to me in the library: now that the rain has stopped there can be no further excuse for delay.' I back out with my head bowed low, my thoughts in turmoil.

As soon as I set foot inside my room I have the powerful sense that someone has been in there while I have been away. I look around but nothing obvious seems to have changed. Then my nose twitches: a faint whiff of musk and neroli, Zidana's own perfume, forbidden to any other to wear. Has the empress herself been here? It is hard to believe that the most powerful, and most feared, woman in the kingdom may have visited my plain little room whilst I have been at prayer with her husband. I imagine her poking through my mean possessions with that sly grin upon her face, and shudder. I throw open the lid of my wooden coffer, half expecting to find some atrocity within; but there, neatly folded, is the white woollen burnous. Picking it up, I shake it out. There is no doubting it is the same cloak that I wore the day before, for the gold embroidery along its hem makes it unique, yet where it was stained with the herbman's blood it is now brilliantly unblemished, perhaps better and brighter than it has ever been.

Beneath it is the Safavid Qur'an, its gilded bindings pristine. I draw it out and press it to my breast. ‘Thank you, O Merciful One,' I say aloud, then add for good measure, ‘and thank you, my Lady Zidana, may the All-Powerful
grant you long life and joy.' Never have I believed so fervently in the grace of Allah, in his infinite wisdom and compassion.

I throw the cloak back into the box, tuck the Safavid Qur'an under my arm and run towards the library.

In there a
taleb
is reciting The Moon in a hypnotic sing-song chant, while my lord Ismail sits on his gold-and-pearl-inlaid throne, entranced by the poetic rhythms of the sacred words. As I enter, his eyes fix avidly on the object I carry. He waits until the scholar completes the sura, then waves a hand at the man, dismissing him. I see how the taleb's gaze also falls upon the book and know it must be a torture for him to be sent away without the chance to look upon this priceless treasure; know also that it is Ismail's pleasure that he be denied the opportunity. My lord has an equivocal attitude to scholars: he values their company for the reflected light they cast upon him, but he does not value any opinion that contradicts his own. He runs through talebs at a considerable rate, since a few ill-timed words or unwelcome sermons are likely to land them in a pit of Barbary lions or poisonous serpents, or head first down a well.

Once the scholar has gone, Ismail holds out his hands. He has long, graceful hands, fingers as slim as a woman's. It is hard to believe that they have that morning cleanly struck off the head of a favourite guard, and one of monstrous size at that. ‘Give it to me, Nus-Nus. I want to have a good look at the book that is costing my Treasury so dear.'

I place the Qur'an in his hands and watch as his fingers play along the intricately tooled patterns of its double border, how he turns it this way and that to appreciate the gilding. The hard planes of his face soften, as if he were touching the head of a cherished son, or the breast of a beloved courtesan. He is a curious contradiction, our king: at once violent and tender; cruel and indulgent; ascetic and sensual. I have seen him feed an ailing kitten with warm milk from his own fingers, fingers that an hour later put out the eye of a servant who offended him. When I was struck down with a fever, he carried me to his own bed and stayed with me till it broke, wiping the sweat from me with towels dipped in rose water, his concern for me overcoming his great fear of contagion. Two days later, when I was much
recovered, he threw a water jug at my head because I was slow bringing a glass. His nature causes his subjects to love and fear him in equal measure.

‘Exquisite. Truly exquisite. You have done well to bring this to me, Nus-Nus, and you shall be rewarded. Ah, but they do not make books like this any more.' He opens the cover and I hold my breath. The delicate cutwork of the interior cover had before boasted a silk inlay of turquoise: the colour of sea-washed glass; but now it is a dusky rose, as if the blood that soaked into it has merely been diluted rather than removed. And when he turns the page to what should be the first sura, I think my heart will stop.

‘Read The Cow for me, Nus-Nus.' His lips are curved into a benevolent smile that is truly terrifying.

I have to recite from memory, for the text bears no relation to the holy words that Allah dictated to the Prophet, instructing men how to walk the straight path in his name. The Cow is a long sura, one of the longest in the Qur'an. It is the first sura one learns by heart as a Muslim child. But I was not raised as a Muslim and came late in life to Islam, and not altogether by choice. And everyone knows that as you grow older, the more difficult it is to learn by rote. Besides, to remember without distraction is one thing; but to recite the words that Ismail expects to hear while looking in horror upon those inscribed upon the page before me is another entirely. The calligraphy is elegant; but the contents … My eyes bulge in disbelief even as I intone carefully, ‘In this book there is no doubt, it is a guide to those who guard against evil. Those who believe in the unseen and maintain their prayers …' My eyes skip over the next few lines and I almost choke. Something about it being better to take an ugly or a heathen woman from behind so that you will not have to look upon her face … I try desperately to stop the image that is now in my head from contaminating the holy words of the Qur'an. ‘There is a covering over their eyes, and there is a great punishment for them …'

Has she done this deliberately, Zidana? Taken the most profane text she can find to substitute for the ruined pages? Is it her revenge on me for failing in my mission, or on her husband, who prides himself on his religious sensibility; or on the entire culture that has imprisoned her in this luxurious cage? One way or another I am sure that even now she is sitting in her apartments, laughing at the unholy joke she has played upon us all.

Sweating, I stumble on, making error after error, until I reach ‘they shall have a painful chas … chastisement because they lied' – at which point, Ismail smacks his palms together and brings me to a halt. ‘What is the matter with you, Nus-Nus? You usually read so beautifully: your mellifluous voice is one of the few reasons I keep you by me.' He pauses to allow the implications of this threat to sink in. ‘It must be the value of the book that is stealing your composure; you should remember it is not you who has to pay for it! Which reminds me: you had better run along and fetch Abdelaziz so that I may discuss with him the sum he should release to the bookseller.'