by Tim Severin
He slid his sleeve back down so the skin paintings disappeared before continuing, ‘Women who have little to do, love to primp and paint themselves. They’ll spend hours at it, and run after anything that’s new. Can you imagine the boredom in Moulay’s harem – dozens, if not hundreds, of women all cooped up together. One thing I was certain of when I left young Ahmad’s rooms was that those same servant women would carry word back to their mistress that there was someone newly arrived in Meknes who could beautify a woman’s skin. It’s taken less than twenty-four hours for my summons from Zidana to arrive. Hector can accompany me as my helper. When we meet the hippo, maybe I can put her into a good enough mood so that she’ll let Hector try to seek out his sister. From what Sean has said, I’ll have a broad enough surface for my paints.’
FIRST WIFE Zidana proved as daunting as her reputation. When Dan and Hector were ushered into her presence, she was sprawled on a vast yellow satin couch fringed with tassels and heaped with cushions. Nearby was a clutter of low tables, stools, more cushions, and several large trays laden with bowls of fruit and sweetmeats. Behind the couch stood two elderly eunuchs, and half a dozen female attendants busied themselves in various corners of the room. The female attendants, Hector noted, wore veils or kept a fold of cloth across their faces, but their hands and arms were bare and decorated with intricate dyed patterns. Zidana herself wore no veil. She had slightly bulging eyes in a broad, pudgy and heavy-set face, and her massive bulk was swathed in layer upon layer of a shimmery green gauze-like material. On her head she wore a strange cap made of flexible sheets of gold and silver which had been cut through so that they resembled lace. The fringes of this headgear swung and tinkled as she heaved herself into a more comfortable sitting position and regarded her visitors. Her bare feet, which now touched the thick carpet, were surprisingly small and delicate. Hector thought that her eyes glittered dangerously.
‘Which of you paints?’ she asked in a harsh voice. She spoke Turkish with a strong accent.
Dan inclined his head politely. Zidana focused her attention on him and demanded, ‘What country do you come from?’
‘From across the western ocean. My people are called Miskito.’
Zidana frowned. ‘Why is your skin dark? You look like the southern people from near the desert.’
‘All my people are this colour. It is said that some of our ancestors came from Ifriqya and they mixed with the native peoples whose skin is the colour of copper. So our skin is halfway between the two.’
‘Do your women guard their skin against the sun?’ The question was blunt.
‘No.’
Zidana turned towards one of her serving women and said, ‘You! Come over here. Show him your hands.’
The woman did as she was ordered, and Zidana demanded of Dan, ‘Can you do better?’
Dan looked at the patterns drawn on the servant’s skin and murmured, ‘They are well drawn but could be more striking and colourful.’
Zidana waved the servant aside and heaved her bulk closer to the edge of the couch. She extended her right arm and pulled back the silk sleeve. The arm was very fat. ‘Could you make good colours on my skin?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Then proceed.’
‘First I must tell you that what I will paint is not permanent,’ Dan said. ‘The colours will last only a few days.’
‘That is not important. If I like your work, I will summon you again when the colours fade. You can paint them again or make different pictures for me. You will paint no one else.’ It was clear that Zidana was used to giving orders.
Dan opened the cloth satchel he had given Hector to carry, and took out several small clay pots and jars. Hector knew that his friend had found the necessary ingredients for his skin paints in the Meknes marketplace which sold all manner of brightly coloured spices and powders. He had mixed them with coloured minerals that Sean Allen used in his foundry work.
Carefully licking the end of a brush, Dan dipped it into one of the jars, advanced on the plump arm and began to draw on it carefully. Zidana looked on in critical fascination.
‘My assistant here,’ said Dan casually as if making light conversation, ‘believes he has a sister among the Emperor’s women. He has not seen her in a long time and, with your permission, would like to speak with her.’ He had drawn the outline of a flower on the pudgy arm, and was beginning to colour in the first of the petals.
‘What is the name of his sister?’ Zidana was so intrigued with the pictures appearing on her skin, that she hardly seemed to listen for the answer.
‘His sister is called Elizabeth, but she may have another name here.’
Zidana withdrew her fat arm and held it up in the air, turning it this way and that to admire the first pictures that Dan had drawn. The images gleamed brightly, the paints still wet. Abruptly Zidana called across to one of the eunuchs. She spoke rapidly in a dialect that Hector could not understand, and the man beckoned to him to follow. Leaving Dan to continue with his drawing and painting, Hector followed his guide through a door concealed behind a heavy velvet curtain, and down several empty corridors until he was brought into a plain unfurnished room with bare walls. The room had two windows, both screened with a fine lattice of stucco. The window facing him was already blank, shuttered from the far side. His escort crossed to the open window where the sunlight entered the room and closed its shutters. ‘Stay here,’ he said and left the room, leaving Hector in near-darkness.
Hector did not know how long he would have to wait. His heart was pounding in his ears, and the dense gloom and stifling airlessness of the room made him feel adrift from the real world. As the minutes dragged past, he slowly became aware that the shutter facing him had swung open. He heard a soft footfall behind him and he sensed that the eunuch had returned. A moment later he felt a hand guide him forward so that he stood with his face close to the lattice of the window in front of him. His eyes had grown used to the dim light, yet he could see nothing except the pattern of the stucco a few inches away. He shifted sideways, trying to squint through the gaps. As far as he could make out, the room on the far side was similar to the one where he now stood. It, too, was in darkness except for a small glimmer of light seeping under a door to one side. He could just distinguish a dark figure standing in the middle of the floor.
‘Elizabeth?’ he blurted out. ‘Is that you?’ His mouth was dry with excitement and anticipation, and the fear of imminent disappointment.
There was no reply. ‘Elizabeth. It’s me, Hector.’ What he had thought was a single figure, was in fact two people standing close together. One of them moved aside, and the shadowy outline came a little closer.
‘Elizabeth,’ he repeated. ‘If it’s you, please say something.’
There was a long silence and he could hear the wheezing breath of the eunuch standing somewhere behind him. Again the figure moved slightly. Hector’s nostrils detected a slight musky perfume. He did not remember his sister ever smelling that way.
Finally, a woman’s voice, barely audible, said, ‘Are you well?’
Fighting down his anxiety Hector tried desperately to remember his sister’s voice. It had been so long since he had seen her that he had forgotten what her voice sounded like.
‘It’s me, Hector,’ he said again. ‘Is that really you, Elizabeth?’
The answer was so soft that he had to strain to hear. ‘Yes.’
Hector sagged against the latticework, his head pressed against the stucco. He felt dizzy.
‘Are you keeping well?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice gentle though his head was in a whirl.
‘I am . . .’ there was a pause. ‘I am healthy.’
Hector swallowed hard. Suddenly his throat was unnaturally tight. He wanted to speak in a normal voice but somehow it seemed that if he did, it would break the spell and destroy his fragile link with his sister.
‘How long have you been here?’ he croaked.
But he was answered with a question. ‘Wha
t happened to you? And the others?’
‘We were sold as slaves in Algiers. I don’t know what happened to the others afterwards, but I worked for a Turkish sea captain for a time, then was aboard a French galley. Now I’m here in Meknes.’
‘Are you still a slave?’
‘No. I’m not. I’m here with friends, and one day we may be allowed to leave. I want to take you with us, to bring you away.’
There was a long silence as the dark figure stood silent. Then Elizabeth’s voice said,
‘That’s not possible.’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Hector fiercely. He was feeling better now, more sure of himself. ‘The Emperor has promised to give you your freedom if I and my friends serve him well.’
Elizabeth seemed not to grasp the importance of what he had just said. She ignored his answer and instead enquired, ‘Have you news of our mother?’
‘I have heard nothing from home, nothing at all since we were taken. I’m hoping that she went back to Spain to live with her own people. You and I will go to find her as soon as you are released.’
Again, a long pause followed by a low whisper, ‘I told you, Hector. That’s not possible.’
‘Elizabeth, listen to me,’ Hector pleaded. ‘I’m sure that I can get you set free. My friends will help me. We can get Moulay to agree. You must not give up hope.’
‘You don’t understand. That is not how it can be. Please don’t ask again.’
‘But what of our mother? You want to see her again, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’
Hector could tell that his sister was very close to tears. He could hear the tremor in her voice. But he knew that he had to insist.
‘Please, Elizabeth, please. You must not give up hope. You will not be here forever.’
He heard a stifled sob, and then Elizabeth’s voice said, ‘It is not so bad here. We look after one another. I’ve learned to speak languages, and we try to keep ourselves busy. Our servants look after us so there’s no drudgery. We gossip and amuse ourselves.’
‘Elizabeth, I made myself a promise long ago, when I was first a slave in Algiers. I told myself that I would find you and bring you home.’
When Elizabeth spoke next, her voice was firm, and her response came like a blow. ‘Hector, please go away.’
Hector felt his stomach turn hollow. For a moment he could not believe his sister’s words. He was stunned at the rebuff.
‘Are you frightened of Zidana?’ he hissed, angry now. He was exasperated by his sister’s obstinacy, and had to struggle to keep his voice level. ‘Please don’t be fearful of that old harridan. She can be got round. I can arrange that Moulay remembers who you are, that he treats you as special.’
There was a sudden note of alarm in Elizabeth’s immediate reply. ‘No, don’t do that, Hector, I beg you. Don’t do anything to attract Zidana’s attention to me. She is dangerous. She is jealous of anything that may threaten her own position or her son as the Emperor’s favourite. Zidana will destroy anyone who could be a rival to Ahmad. I told you, the women and mothers in the harem all gossip. They scheme and they plot. It’s how they pass the time. No one is safe.’
‘But you need not be involved . . .’ Hector began, and then the meaning of her words sank in. ‘Elizabeth,’ he said slowly, ‘are you telling me that you have a child?’
Her silence gave him his answer. He felt mortified, but he had to know.
‘Is it a boy? And the father is Moulay?’
‘I have called him Mihail. It sounds almost the same whether spoken here or back at home. He has our mother’s eyes.’
‘You could take Mihail with you when you leave,’ Hector beseeched in desperation.
‘You know that is not true. Moulay would not permit it, and what sort of life would the boy have, the son of a concubine from Barbary.’
‘Then let Mihail grow up here. He’s also the son of an emperor and can make his own way.’
‘I cannot abandon him. I know what happens to Moulay’s offspring. If they are not his favourites, they must fend for themselves. They have no one to help them except their mothers. I am not alone, there’s an Englishwoman here who has had a son by Moulay, and several Spanish women. We have promised to help one another and our children, as best we can.’
‘What am I to tell our mother?’ Hector asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.
‘Tell her nothing. Don’t even tell her that you found me. Say that I have disappeared.’
Hector pressed his head against the surface of the lattice, the stucco hard against his forehead, feeling the pain. He felt completely empty, striving for words that would change his sister’s mind. But he knew that it was useless. She had reached her decision much earlier, and nothing would change that. He gave a small groan of anguish.
‘Hector, please try to understand,’ his sister begged him. She had stepped closer to the grille now so that her words were very clear. ‘I love my Mihail. He is my life now. I will watch over him, raise him as best I can. Moulay will not touch me again. He rarely returns to any of his women. I can forget him but I cannot forget my child. Through Mihail I will find happiness.’
Hector was drained of all emotion. He was numb, at a loss what he should do.
Elizabeth must have sensed his despair for she said gently, ‘Hector, I did not mean to hurt you. I had never expected to see you again, and I am grateful that you did manage to find me. That was truly noble of you, and I’m desperately sorry that it has come to nothing. I know that it is a difficult thing to ask, but it would be best if you did not think of me again, except to recall your memories of our childhood together. I am a woman now, and a mother. My life has taken me down one path, and your future will be very different. I know that when you’ve had time to think about all this, you will be able to come to terms with our separate lives.’
Hector’s eyes filled with tears. A great sadness was tearing at his inside. He leaned forward in the near-darkness, his eyes squeezed tight shut to hold back the tears, and reached up to cling to the lattice to stop himself from sliding down the wall, his legs weak. He reached with his fingers through the lattice and gripped tightly, feeling the pain as the sharp corners of the stone cut into his flesh. He was whirling in a misery of black despair. Out of that pit of desperation, he felt – or perhaps he thought he felt – a light touch on the fingers of his right hand where they gripped the lattice. It was as if someone on the far side had stroked them gently. But when he lifted his head and opened his eyes, the tears wet on his cheeks, he saw that there was no one standing in the far room.
TWENTY-ONE
WITH THE BACK OF his hand Hector brushed the moisture from his cheek. The gesture reminded him of his parting from Elizabeth. She had urged him to forget her, yet the pain of her rejection was ever present. For several days after his meeting with her he had considered returning to Ireland to find out what might have happened to his mother, to learn whether she had stayed there or gone, as he had suspected, back to her own people in Galicia. But in the end he abandoned the idea, as he felt too bruised to embark on another search. And, he asked himself, what was he to tell his mother when he found her? He was unsure that he would be able to sustain the deception that Elizabeth wanted, to tell their mother the lie that he had never found his sister. He decided that if he was to find his mother, it would only be when there was something positive to say, something to make her proud, something that he had achieved. He was very concious that, at eighteen years of age, with his father dead and his only sister vanished into a Barbary harem, he was left to make his own life. Now, a month later, they were not tears which were running down his face. They were beads of sweat.
The day was as hot as he had ever known, hotter even than when he was working in the quarry at Algiers. He turned to look back at his companions. Dan, Bourdon and Karp were riding in single file behind him, Karp leading their packhorse on a halter. They had all wanted to take the chance of leaving Meknes. Dan, always level-headed, had made the initial sugge
stion. Perhaps his friend had wanted to jolt him out of his despondency by pointing out that staying so close to Elizabeth was only adding to his distress. There was no future in lingering in Meknes, Dan had said. There was nothing Hector could do to save his sister, and the day would come when Moulay demanded to see his castle smasher, and when it failed to materialise, Moulay’s disappointment would have dangerous consequences. Better to slip away quietly, the Miskito had advised, provided that Sean Allen did not suffer as a result. The gun founder had assured him that there was no need to worry on that score because the Emperor always valued a man who would make and mend his cannon. Go south, Allen had urged, for that will give you several days’ start on any pursuit. Moulay’s people will search for you as soon as it is known that you have left without his permission, and they will presume you are heading west or north, directly for the coast. No one will imagine that you’ve gone towards the Great Desert. Then the gun founder had insisted that they accept his gifts of money and weapons – the latest muskets, pistols and powder – because their flight would surely lead them into wild lands.
Hector glanced up at the sun. It was well past the zenith but still blazing down, its heat reflecting from the rocky ground. He could feel his horse tiring beneath him. From time to time the exhausted animal tripped on a loose rock, the stone clattering away down the slope of the barren hillside across which the little column was moving. He reached inside his shirt for the qibla that he had bought in the market at Meknes. No one had thought it strange that a renegade should want to buy a little prayer compass. He checked the direction they were travelling in, for the land was featureless, a succession of rocky slopes with scrubby vegetation and dry water courses. From the outset the little group had avoided main roads. For the past week since leaving Meknes they had travelled by compass, using tracks and byways wherever possible, skirting around the towns and cities, visiting villages only to obtain fodder for the animals and some basic supplies for themselves. Diaz’s cavalry friend Roberto had provided the essential directions. He had campaigned with the imperial army in this region, and Hector had written down the Spaniard’s recollection of the towns, passes and days marched with the army, then transferred it all to a rough sketch which summarised the terrain. He hoped that the Spaniard’s memory had been accurate. He dreaded wandering in a circle, like the dead rowing master, and perhaps stumbling on a detachment of Moulay’s troops. But the others, riding behind, had confidence in him, insisting that he should be their leader. ‘You’re best qualified,’ Bourdon had assured him. ‘You’re thoughtful as well as educated. It’s more than just making a map of our route. You are good at making plans, and at taking everything into consideration. That’s what a leader’s for.’ Hector had tried to dissuade the others, but they were adamant. They had resolved on trying to reach Negritia, the Land of the Blacks. From there they would find a ship far beyond the reach of Moulay Ismail.