The Steel Seraglio (4 page)

In the courtyard some four hundred camels waited, their breath steaming in the cold air. Here the commander gave more orders. The concubines, as valuable commodities, were to ride, while the servants and children, all but the smallest, must walk.

There were protests from some of the mothers, but they were muted. The soldiers moved among them, enforcing their rule with kicks and shouted orders—but each man had a sword in his belt, and the women had seen over the last few days that they were prepared to use them. When one of the men hauled toothless old Efridah out of the saddle, and slapped the face of the concubine who had given the old servant her place, the women around them were cowed. Soraya, Zeinab’s daughter, who had been perched on the saddle in front of her mother and hidden beneath her cloak, slipped quickly down to the ground before the men reached them.

The moon was still high when they were driven out of the palace gates, across the market place and out into the desert. There were many tears, and many backward glances, but the sobs were stifled, and the last glimpse of their home soon lost in darkness.

Soraya walked alongside her mother’s camel until the plodding motion began to calm her. All around her trudged other children, her friends and rivals, most now subdued and silent. Little Dip, the cook’s son, who had been adopted by the seraglio after his mother’s death, cried quietly as he walked, his head bent so low that his tears fell on his knees.

It was cold enough to make them shiver, until the sun rose; then almost at once it became hot. That was when things got bad. The soldiers would allow no rest before the first waterhole, even when some of the smaller children began to stumble. Hayat tripped and grazed her arm on a stone; her big sister Huma, Soraya’s friend, picked her up quickly and stilled her tears before any of the men noticed. But when the sun was almost directly overhead one of the boys, Zufir, fell full-length and lay as if stunned.

One of the soldiers came and stood over the boy, prodding him with his foot. “Get up,” he ordered. Zufir moaned but did not move, and the man drew back his foot for a kick. It never landed. Prince Jamal, who had been walking with Zufir, had placed himself between the man and the boy.

Since the sultan’s death, the children had been given strict instructions to treat Jamal as one of themselves. For his own safety, he was not to be a prince any longer. But Soraya saw with astonishment, and then with growing horror, that Jamal had forgotten: he was about to give the man an order.

“You, fellow . . .” he began—when someone barged into him. Aunt Gursoon, looking wider than usual in her travelling gear, had dismounted from her beast and swept down on them. She pushed Jamal aside, almost knocking him off his feet, as she bent over Zufir, tutting and scolding.

“The foolish boy’s been walking with his head uncovered, and caught the sun,” she said to the soldier. “He’s recovering now, look.”

She half-raised the boy as she spoke, then handed him to his mother, who had run up in her turn. As Umayma got her son to his feet, Gursoon addressed the soldier again, speaking with great deference, and not looking him in the face. “We’ll make sure he gives you no more trouble, sir. If he might have a sip of water, he won’t hold you up any longer. He’s just not used to this sun.”

The man scowled. “Stop your gabble, old woman,” he said. “There’ll be no more water till we reach the stopping-place. Just keep him moving.”

He turned on his heel and left them. Only then did Soraya see that Jamal was standing close by Gursoon, his face white. She had his arm in a tight grip that looked as if it must hurt him, and she did not let go until the soldier was out of earshot.

“Not a word,” she said to him then, as he rubbed his arm and glared at her. “You do not speak one word—to any of them.” Remember your mother’s wishes.”

Jamal, still glowering, turned away in silence.

There was little talk after that, even among the children. Their mouths were dry and their feet sore, but there was no question of complaint. When the trees around the waterhole finally came into view, they were too tired to feel more than relief. Old Efridah sank to the ground, and two of the younger women found her a patch of shade, while others ran to arrange the filling of water-flasks, and those that knew how to put up tents showed the others how to do it. The soldiers showed no inclination to help them.

The camel-drivers took their cue from the taciturn soldiers and tended their beasts in silence—though Huma reported to Soraya that she had overheard two of them saying that they were bound for Perdondaris. The two girls shared a momentary excitement at the thought of seeing the great city, with its white towers, until the sound of a shouted order recalled their situation.

Once the sun had set, the desert was no longer infinite. The world shrank to the lit cones around their small fires, and the women did not feel the need any more to huddle together against the overwhelming space. Over on the flattest ground the soldiers who escorted them sat around a much larger fire. The legate, once his own elaborate tent had been raised by his servants, ordered a large wineskin brought to him and retired inside it. He had looked briefly among the women for a companion, but seeing most of the younger ones still disfigured by tears, or taken up with frightened children, he was discouraged and retired to drink in solitude, for that night at least.

The soldiers did not drink, or even loosen their heavy scarves. They sat upright, talking in loud, argumentative voices, with once or twice a burst of harsh laughter. But for the first time, they ignored their captives.

Away from the men’s watchful eyes, there was a small lightening of tension. The women stretched out toward the warmth and talked of unimportant things: a good shawl; a cut hand; how long the raisins would last. The smallest of the children were already asleep, having long before worn out their sobs. Each now lay wrapped in rugs with their feet to the fire, squashed between the comforting legs of their aunties. The boy, Dip, still snuffling a little, crammed his thumb further into his mouth for comfort.

“What a baby,” said Jamal, looking down at him with scorn.

“He’s half your age, and missing his father,” said Gursoon, who sat next to them. “Let him be.”

“I’ve lost my father too,” Jamal retorted. “And my mother and my brothers. But I won’t cry, I’ll go back and kill them for it.”

The other children had joined in the discussion. “The sultan is everyone’s father,” said Zufir. “We’ve all lost him. I’m not crying either.”

“That’s because he didn’t care about you!” Jamal said hotly. Zufir’s mother nudged her son with her foot and sighed, “Don’t squabble, boys.”

“How about a story? Gursoon said.

Soraya and some of the other girls looked up at this. Aunt Gursoon was known for her stories: in fact Soraya had forsaken her own mother’s side of the fire partly in the hope of hearing one. “The Fox and the Fisherman?” she said eagerly.

“We only just heard that one,” objected Huma. “Let’s have The Thief who Stole the Moon.”

There was a chorus of protests and suggestions. Gursoon raised both her hands to fend them off. “I’ll tell you a new story,” she said, and waited for their silent attention before she began.

“There was once a girl whose family sold fish for a living. Her father laid his nets in the river, and she and her mother dried the catch and sold them two or three for a dirham in the village market. The river was narrow, and the village small, and the family was very poor. In that part of the country everyone was thin. But the girl’s parents loved her and gave her the best of everything they had, so that she grew up fine and strong, with breasts like pomegranates, a slender waist and wide, swaying hips. But she was still a virgin, and had no lover.”

“You wouldn’t use such words in front of me if my mother was here!” complained Jamal. “Shall I stop, then?” Gursoon asked, and the nearest girls pinched Jamal until he yelled and shook his head.

“The girl went on carrying her father’s fish to the village, alone now as often as not, for her mother’s legs had stiffened. One day an old woman came up to her in the market.

“‘I’ve been watching you, my girl,’ she said. ‘You’re too pretty to waste your time here, smelling of fish. If you care to learn what I can teach, you could be a rich woman.’

“The girl was an innocent: she said yes at once and followed the old woman to her house.”

“What’s an innocent?” whispered Huma’s sister Hayat.

“Ssh!” said Huma.

“The woman’s house was no more than a one-room hut, like most in the village, but hanging on the wall was a thing the girl had never seen before: made of lacquered wood and shaped like a long-necked river turtle, with thin strings running down its back.

“‘My tanbur,’ the old woman said. ‘Don’t touch it.’ She made the girl stand in the middle of the room and walk to and fro. She told her to step here, step there, lift her arms like so. Then she took down the tanbur and ran her hand over it. A rippling music came from it, higher and softer than the songs they played in the main square on festival days. ‘Repeat the movements I showed you,’ the old woman said. ‘And now stay in time.’

“So the girl discovered dancing. She came often to the old woman’s house in the next months, visiting her after she had sold her fish, and swayed and bowed to the shrill music from the tanbur. She learned the ten ways of holding her hips and belly, the sixty-six movements of hands, arms and shoulders, how to place the feet and angle the head. And she came to love the work, which felt more and more like freedom, like flying. She told her parents only that she had made a woman-friend in the village. The old woman took no payment for the lessons beyond a few dried fish, but insisted only that the girl must do exactly as she was told. She drilled her precisely in the movements, watching her with intent and glittering eyes and playing a little faster each day. And when the summer winds had come and gone, and the dust settled, she declared that the girl was ready.

“‘I’ll take you to someone who will see you dance,’ she told her. ‘If you do well, you’ll never need to be hungry again.’ She answered no more of the girl’s questions, but instructed her to tell her parents she would stay with her friend in the village for two days. ‘I’m visiting my daughter in the town while her husband is away,’ the old woman said. ‘You can tell them I need help preparing for the journey.’

“The girl’s parents were doubtful—their daughter had never spent a night away from them—but they were old, and she was wilful. They begged her not to speak to any strangers, and let her go. She left her home before light the next day, and found her old teacher waiting for her.

“Outside the village they stood by the track until a trader came by with his cart; he seemed to know the old woman and agreed to let them ride for a half-dirham. The girl had never been so far from her home before. They travelled throughout the day, and when the shadows were long the old woman told their driver to stop at a fork in the track and climbed down, beckoning the girl to follow her. And before the sun had dipped much further they came over a rise and saw distant shapes ahead of them, which as they approached became high walls, houses and trees.

“By the time they reached the town walls, the girl was too excited to remember her tiredness. She had never seen houses with upper floors before, nor hangings as brightly coloured as the ones at their doors, nor a tree much taller than a man. Beneath one of these trees they stopped, out of sight of the walls, and filled their water pouch at a spring. Her teacher made her wash her feet and face, and gave her dates and hard bread to eat. Then she pulled from her pack a clean robe, light-coloured and so thinly woven that a breath could blow it about. She shook out something like a wisp of netting, holding it to her face in the manner of a half-veil.

“‘These are for you to wear,’ she said.

“The girl knew that her teacher was not to be questioned, but as she took the flimsy things with their glittering edges she could not hide her wonder and doubt. But the old one simply looked at her.” Gursoon fixed Soraya and Huma with a glare to show them how the old one had looked. “And she obeyed. Feeling half-naked, she stood in front of her teacher, who pulled and prodded at her till she was satisfied. They waited for the sun to set, and then the old one took her hand and led her through the town’s camel-gate. Though it was full night, the town was not dark: the walls of the houses were pierced with holes, through which shone more lamps and candles than the girl had ever seen in one place before. They stopped at the tallest, brightest house, where the old woman pulled at a silk rope that hung by the door. Then she turned to the girl.

“‘I must leave you here,’ she said. ‘Obey the master of the house: do whatever he tells you. I’ll come for you in the morning.’

“A man came out from behind the heavy curtain. He was dressed in grey, with a red sash. The girl shrank a little at the sight of him but he merely glanced at her and nodded. He pulled a small leather bag from his belt and handed it to the old woman, who turned away and left without a word. The man motioned with his head for the girl to follow him and darted back behind the curtain, leaving her alone in the dark. Her teacher had already vanished. There was nowhere else to go, so she breathed once and went inside.

“That old woman was wicked, to leave her so!” said Jamal. “And the girl was bad too, to go alone into a strange house. She should have run away.”

Soraya thought Gursoon would glare at Jamal, or scold him for interrupting, but she did not. She gazed into the fire, as if for a moment she had forgotten them all.

“No,” she said, at last. “There was no bad thought in her head. There was nothing there at all, in fact, only the wish to show off her skill to someone who might recognize it. She was stupid; no doubt about that. But some good came even of her foolishness, as you’ll hear.

“Inside the room it was so bright that at first the girl couldn’t see a thing. She heard the sound of men’s voices, and laughter. There were lamps hanging from the walls, lamps on tables surrounded by meat-bones, cups and bowls. The men sat among the tables smoking water-pipes; all were old, and none of them seemed to notice her as she stood by the door.