The Steel Seraglio (39 page)

The merchant’s wife came to the door with her two young sons clinging to her legs. She greeted Rashad with a cry of pleasure, and unveiled once they were safely inside—they had known each other since her childhood. She had grown to be a striking woman, as tall as he was himself. Her husband looked tired, and older than Rashad remembered, but he jumped up instantly to embrace his friend.

They sat together and drank mint tea while the woman played with her twins in the other room. The sound of their shrill voices filled Rashad with sadness; they reminded him powerfully of Dip, the last time he had seen him. He would be twice their age now, if he still lived. But there had never been any news of the seraglio, and Rashad put the thought away from him. His friend had been to the north, he said, among the hill tribes, who fought constantly among themselves but were glad to buy his skins whenever they stopped. He thanked Rashad for the goat skins he had bought last time, which had fetched a good price. He offered him half of it, which Rashad refused, and the two men bickered amiably for a while. Both of them knew that a man with two secure meals a day does not take money from a man without, particularly a father of young children—but there were courtesies to be observed, which were more important than ever at a time like this, Rashad thought.

As they talked, it seemed to Rashad that the merchant was oddly constrained in his manner, even nervous, as if something were weighing on his mind which he did not like to mention. It was all too common a happening these days, but the cook was sorry to see his old friend so afflicted. Questioning delicately, he assured himself that the family were all in good health, and that the trip to the north had brought nothing more than a good profit. That meant that whatever troubled his friend had arisen in Bessa, and he would not speak of it to a man who lived in the palace. Rashad sighed, but he understood too well. He finished his tea, pressed the merchant’s hand and took his leave.

The merchant’s wife met him at the door, holding a package. Rashad could see at once that she was as tense as her husband had been; he said something meaningless and prepared to leave her, but she grasped his arm to prevent him. This was unheard of. If they were outside, the contact could have them both arrested. Rashad started and tried to pull away, but she held him fast, smiling into his face. And for a moment it seemed to him that she was a child again: little Mayisah with the green eyes, who had teased him and wheedled from him when he was a kitchen boy.

“This is for you,” she said. “A present—to remember my mother.”

Then she released his arm and he was outside in the street.

He did not dare look at what she had given him till he was safely back in the kitchen. It was one of the cloths she embroidered for her husband to sell: a small one, but intricately worked. And folded in it, a smaller package of oilcloth, with a familiar, pungent smell. He unwrapped it with shaking hands.

Dried fish from the river villages; five of them. He had not tasted one for years.

6. Bread and Onions

Slice the onions and fry them in a little fat. Serve with hard bread.

If there is no fat, or if a fire cannot be made, slice the onions very fine. Soak them in a little water to take away the worst of the sting, then add salt.

It was not that Gursoon’s daughter had said anything to give him hope. She had told him only to remember her mother, which he did anyway, in friendship and sorrow. It was her smile, that look from their childhood. From that day, hope woke again in the cook, more painful than loss.

When he went out for supplies the streets seemed quieter each day, the market stalls less frequented as the patrolling men in black scarves became more arrogant in their power. Even women could be punished: one was beaten in the street for calling out to a young man; another for showing her hair. Blind Hama the beggar was hanged for using threatening words about the sultan, though everyone knew the old man was mad and would not kill a flea. And every now and then a man failed to turn up at his workshop or stall in the morning, and was not seen again. There were dark rumours of hidden prison cells, or worse—though perhaps, Rashad told himself, such men had simply left the city in search of a pleasanter life elsewhere. It was certain that Hakkim Mehdad was concerned about the traffic in and out of Bessa; some said that he feared attack from an outside enemy, though no one could say who it was. There were guards at the city gates, taking note of all who passed, peering into carts, and forbidding some to enter and others to leave.

For all that, there were still comings and goings. A few weeks after his visit to the merchant, Rashad went to the market and found the old flour-seller gone. His place was taken by a beardless boy who said he was old Abdullah’s wife’s sister’s son, taking care of the stall while his aunt and uncle visited their family in another town. Rashad had known the old man for years and had never heard of a nephew, only a niece who had been one of the old sultan’s ladies. But the boy was polite, and besides, had a familiar look to him. Rashad bought his flour and did not complain at the high price—he saw that there was less for sale than there had been even a week ago. Perhaps it was as well that people were managing to leave. Hakkim Mehdad’s men somehow saw to it that grain and flour still arrived, and there were the goats: a herd of them had reduced the plain beyond the western gate to stubble. But there was little else, and many in the city were hungry. In the kitchen, the shelves were empty most of the time, and Rashad and the others lived on lentils like their master, or on bread and onions. Karif and Suleiman and he had become comrades-in-arms of a sort, trusting only each other and working by unspoken agreement to protect the two boys, who had grown into great gangly young men, not lazy, but headstrong and loud-mouthed. They were always incurring punishment of one sort or another, and seemed proud of the marks of their beatings. Rashad feared for them, but it seemed they could not be taught caution.

He bore it all in silence, hope and fear alike. But outside, in the streets or the marketplace, he felt that something was changing. There were still few people about; at least, few that he recognized. Perhaps there were more women, heavily veiled and averting their faces from all passers-by, not just the men in black scarves. He saw a few boys, none known to him, walking fast from one house to another. No one loitered on the streets; there was no stopping for greeting or conversation. Of course, people were cautious, and rightly so. But Rashad could feel something more, a sense of . . . purpose?

One day, as the year turned towards summer, he paid another visit to the house of his friend the wine merchant, and found it empty. He was about to leave when two women came down the street towards him, and one of them spoke to him as they passed. He recognized Mayisah’s voice.

“My husband is away this week,” she said, soft and rapid. “A business opportunity, he will be sorry to have missed you. My sons have gone with him.”

She walked past the house as if it were not hers, and did not turn her head to say goodbye. But softly as she spoke, he heard three more words.

“Be careful, Rashad.”

Back in the kitchen, Rashad gave the two boys ten dirham apiece and told them they were no longer needed. “Not for a week or two, at least,” he said. “Go back to your parents and stay with them. I’ll call for you if things change.”

The boys were indignant, but it was little more than the truth; he himself ran most of their errands now, and no one would notice if the floors were swept less often. The money would feed their families for a few weeks. Suleiman and Karif looked on unhappily as the boys left, but neither spoke.

The attack came two days later. A column of dust appeared down the road leading to the main gate. Rumour said it was an army, perhaps from the hill-tribes, or some far-off enemy of Hakkim who had been biding his time till now. The soldiers were made ready with astonishing speed—before sunset a seemingly endless column of men in black scarves had assembled and marched out of the Northern Gate. A wave of townspeople ran to the walls to see them leave, and Rashad ran with them despite Mayisah’s warning. Women crammed the gateway, many with their baskets from the market still on their arms. Then, as the last of the long column of men headed over the rise of ground and out of view, the women moved after them as one mass, into the gateway. Two of them pulled the gates shut and hoisted the heavy wooden bar across to seal them. More of the women followed, and some of them had pulled off their veils. They reached beneath their robes and into baskets, and the red sun flashed off metal. Rashad saw them splitting into two groups, pulling at the doors of the guard towers, before the inner gates clanged shut. From one of the towers there was a hoarse scream. From the other, only silence, then a dull thudding as of a body falling down stone stairs.

Rashad would have fled then, but his feet seemed unable to move. The crowds had melted away, but he scarcely noticed the emptiness around him, the sudden quiet. His whole mind was fixed on the towers, with their blind windows. And then there was shouting from the wall to the left, and two black-scarfed archers came running towards the towers—and dropped, both of them, without a sound, before either had loosed an arrow. One sprawled on the stones where he had fallen, a leg dangling high above Rashad’s head. The other staggered, and plunged to the ground a few feet away. And a woman emerged from the tower with a sword to look down at them.

Rashad found himself running, his blood sounding in his ears like boiling water. It seemed to him he would never reach the palace walls, but he was there and through the wicket-gate which led to the kitchen. They had uncovered themselves, and killed Hakkim’s men. They had had knives, swords. His head whirled so that he had to sit down on the stone floor. The tall woman who had appeared at the top of the tower . . . had that really been Lady Zuleika?

Once again, he sat with Karif and Suleiman as night fell, staring at the walls and wondering. But this time there were no flames, and they heard no screams. Just scuffling, running to and fro, and as the moon rose, a great yelling of women’s voices.

7. Sesame Sweets

Heat two cups of white sugar with a cup of water until melted.

When the sweet smell begins to rise, take two good handfuls of sesame seeds and sprinkle them in, stirring until they are smoothly mixed. Add some pistachios and walnuts, if available.

Brush the sides of a broad, shallow bowl with nut oil and pour the mixture in till it covers the bottom. Leave to set. When it is cool, you can use a sharp knife to divide the mixture into squares or other shapes: when hard, it will break into sweets along the lines you have drawn.

Just before the sweets harden, decorate them with more nuts, or with sugar.

There was nothing to make a celebration, but Rashad felt that some gesture, at least, was essential. As soon as he knew it was safe to go outside, he walked to the homes of each of the kitchen boys and told them they had their jobs back. Then he sent them out—there would be no one yet in the market, but he knew people—to buy nuts and sesame and raisins. The big jar of sugar was still where it had been for the past four years, standing in its dark corner. He had told the soldiers it was a preservative.

Suleiman and Karif went out in the streets to join the festivities, but Rashad stayed in the kitchen. He would not admit even to himself that he was waiting, not until Lady Gursoon came in. She was shorter than he remembered, and her hair was entirely grey. Forgetting all propriety, he ran to embrace her.

“But see who I’ve brought, Rashad!” she said, and only then did he look behind her.

The boy was standing in the shadows, shy, taller than Rashad could have imagined. When they saw each other, his face lit with an uncertain smile. He still had his mother’s eyes.

Soraya, Zufir, Fernoush, Nasreen and Huma sat in tense silence at the bottom of the right-hand tower of the Eastern Gate, and listened to the sounds of the conflict above them. They had heard the long, terrible screams from the north watchtowers a few moments ago, and even though the voices of the dying had clearly been male, the knowledge had done little to reassure them. Zufir was rigid and trembling, and Soraya and Huma clutched each other in voiceless terror, flinching at each fresh shout. Nasreen and Fernoush sat in front of the younger girls and the boy, reviewing with them the details of the plan.

“Show me your keys,” Nasreen instructed the group. Three trembling hands produced three keys from around necks and looped through belt strings.

“Good,” Fernoush said, “very good.” She caught sight of the fear on Zufir’s face, and leant down to take his hand. “Don’t worry,” she told him softly, “Zuleika and Umi are going to cover us all the way. No one’s going to get a shot at us while they’re watching our backs.”

“Yes,” Nasreen chimed in with forced cheerfulness, “It’s Hakkim’s guards who should be worrying, not us!”

As the oldest of the volunteers, they were doing their best to reassure the others. But Nasreen and Fernoush were two of the youngest aunties, and the children had always looked on them more as older sisters than authority figures. Back in the seraglio they had been popular with the sons and daughters of the other concubines because of their willingness to join in with the younger ones’ games, or take their part when an older auntie scolded them. Zufir had always revered Nasreen, with her shining waterfall of hair, and Fernoush’s beautiful voice, far more than all the wisdom of stern old Gursoon. Here, however, both women seemed suddenly younger and less dependable, their smiles of comfort shaky and their embraces brittle with tension.

Umayma clattered down the stairs. “We’ve taken the walls,” she announced, before she had even made it into the room. “Layla has an arrow in her leg, but no one’s dead except the guards.” At the sight of his mother, Zufir sagged to his knees, as if all that had been holding him upright was a string which her arrival had severed. His nervous tension flooded out in a sob of relief.