Zaynab, however, would not have that problem. She had already accepted her fate. Now she must strive to become the most fascinating, the most seductive, the most desirable Love Slave ever trained in the erotic arts. The caliph was, she had reasoned, a very powerful man. Even this wonderful city of Alcazaba Malina owed him fealty and paid him homage, she had learned. To capture the affections of such a man would assure her a wonderful life. Could she do it? She wanted to, yet how could she love another man when she loved Karim al Malina? There! She had admitted to herself what she would admit to no other. She was in love with him. Yet he could never know. It would only anger him. He would send her away from him, perhaps to another Passion Master. It was a horrific thought.
A year. He had said he would keep her for a year before taking her to Cordoba, to the man who would become her master. Who knew what could happen in a year? Perhaps the caliph would die. Then Karim al Malina would not be bound by honor to send her away. Then perhaps he would keep her. He had said he wanted to take a wife and settle down. Had he not told her during the voyage that his own mother had been a captive? And Oma. Oma might have a chance to wed with her black-bearded Alaeddin, whom she had neatly kept at bay all this time. How different their lives would be were it not for this Abd-al Rahman.
Neither Zaynab nor Oma had ever seen a litter before. It was a wonderful vehicle, more than large enough for the two girls. It was built of fragrant camphor wood, gilded, and painted with a delicate floral motif. The interior was upholstered in soft, honey-colored leather, and filled with brightly colored silk cushions. The litter was hung with diaphanous silk curtains, pale apricot in color. Twelve coal-black male slaves of identical height, in simple white loincloths, their skulls shaven, their necks encircled with solid silver collars studded with turquoise, stood waiting patiently.
The girls were helped into their transport. The slaves picked it up as if it and its occupants weighed naught. They padded off out of the harbor area, but did not go through the city. Instead they hurried with their burden along a road bordering the harbor that led out into the countryside. The road they traveled was paved in smooth stone and bordered by tall elegant trees, which Karim told them were called palms as he rode by their side on the horse his father had sent.
The countryside about them was a broad green coastal plain that seemed to stretch for miles. It was framed by mountains on two sides; the Er Rif to the southeast, and the Atlas range to the northwest. There was snow visible on the high purple peaks even from a distance. A river, the Oued Sebou, opened into the harbor. The river, Karim explained, was used to irrigate the plain, which was planted with neat fields of barley and wheat.
They followed the road several miles from the city, finally turning down a dirt road. Rounding a curve in the path, they saw Karim al Malina’s villa, a beautiful white marble building set amid a magnificent garden. Beyond, the blue sea gleamed in the sunlight. The bearers moved through the open gates into an inner courtyard and set the litter down.
Karim dismounted from his horse and drew the litter’s curtains open, handing out the two girls. “Do you like it?” he asked them.
They looked about them, and Zaynab said, “It’s wonderful!” Her eyes lit upon a fountain in the courtyard’s center: a pale pink basin resting upon the backs of six silver gazelles set in a circle. It was filled with creamy water lilies. “How marvelous, my lord,” she said softly. “Is it all like this?”
“You will judge for yourself, my flower,” he replied, leading them into the house.
A tall light-skinned black man came forward as they entered. “Welcome home, my lord Karim,” he said.
“It’s good to be home, Mustafa,” his master replied. “This is the lady Zaynab, and her servant, Oma. In a year’s time the lady will be presented to Abd-al Rahman. She is a gift from Donal Righ, the merchant with whom I trade in Eire.”
Mustafa immediately understood. He was surprised that his master had taken another student after the tragic Leila. Still, his smooth face remained impassive. “I will see the lady is made comfortable, my lord.”
“Go with Mustafa, my jewel. He will take you to the women’s quarters. I will join you later, after I have bathed.”
They followed Mustafa from the entry hall down a light-filled corridor that led into another wing. Passing through double ebony doors, they entered the women’s quarters, which Mustafa explained were smaller than those usually found in a well-to-do man’s home. This was because Karim al Malina used this villa for one purpose alone. He could deal with only one woman at a time in such circumstances. The two girls looked at each other and swallowed back their laughter.
“You will have the services of a masseuse, bath attendants, and seamstresses at your disposal, my lady. Some evenings you will take your meal with the master. If he wishes to see you, you will be brought to him. If he does not, you will eat here in your quarters with your servant Do you understand?”
“Of course my mistress understands you,” Oma said sharply as Zaynab turned silently away from Mustafa to explore their new surroundings.
“Do these quarters have their own bath?” Oma demanded.
“Naturally,” he responded haughtily.
“Then send the bath attendants and the masseuse at once, Mustafa. My mistress and I have not had the opportunity to bathe in all our weeks at sea. I am certain we must reek of sweat. The master has ordered that my lady wear gardenia fragrance, for it suits her.”
“At once,” Mustafa said, recognizing in Oma an upper servant of the first degree. He was impressed that this Love Slave had her own servant. She was obviously a girl of noble blood, and not some insignificant little peasant’s get. He inclined his head slightly in Oma’s direction, acknowledging her position, and departed.
When the door had closed behind him, Oma giggled softly as Zaynab said, “ ’Twas nicely done, my girl.”
“I but took my direction from you, my lady. I think I see how to get on with the other servants. You have status, and therefore I do too. I must be mannerly and proper, but I must never let any of the others lord it over me, else you lose stature.”
“You must be deferential to the slaves serving persons of higher rank than mine, however,” her mistress counseled. “We cannot give anyone an excuse to harm us. There may even be those who will help us. Come now, Oma, and let us investigate our new home.”
The room in which they stood was square. Its walls were a blush-colored marble, as was its floor. Upon the floor were coverings they later discovered were called carpets. They were blue and red, and soft beneath the feet. In the center of the room was a small square pool of pink and blue marble in which several gold and silver fish were swimming. In the middle of the pool a crystal spray of water thrust upward, sprinkling clear droplets back onto the surface of the water. There were chairs, and several pieces of furniture that Mustafa told Oma were called couches, as well as tables and standing brass lamps that in the evening burned scented oil. The room opened out into a small walled garden.
There was a hallway off the main room, leading to several other rooms: one large bedchamber, two smaller bedchambers, and the bath. The main bedchamber also opened into the garden. It had a beautiful bed set upon a dais, its feather mattress upholstered in turquoise-blue cotton of the best quality, its coverlet of turquoise silk and cloth-of-gold stripes, and it was strewn with coral and gold-colored silk pillows. The floor was covered with several small rugs scattered about. There was a couch for napping by the doorway to the garden, which could be shuttered in inclement weather. The tables were made from camphor wood, polished, their carved legs lightly gilded. The walls were plain marble; the room was elegant yet simple.
As they stood admiring it, slaves began arriving with their chests. The two girls moved on to the baths, but not before Oma had seen that her chest was put in the smaller chamber across the hallway from her mistress. Arriving at the bath, they found the attendants ready and waiting for them. Gratefully, they let the slaves do their work; allowing t
heir garments to be taken, their bodies rinsed with clean warm water, soaped, scrubbed, and rinsed once again. They rested in a scented pool for several minutes, and then the bath mistress asked to be permitted to wash their hair.
“Do Oma first,” Zaynab told her. “I am enjoying the water too much. It has been so long.”
The bath mistress nodded sympathetically, signaling Oma to come. When the girl’s brown hair had been washed, she called to Zaynab, who reluctantly came, rising gracefully from the pool to walk across the bath. The other slaves gazed admiringly at the girl.
“You are the most beautiful Love Slave our master has ever trained,” the bath mistress said frankly as she washed Zaynab’s hair. “Aiyee! Look at these tresses,” she enthused, finishing with a lemon rinse to bring out the highlights in the girl’s hair. “Never have I seen such a color! It is gold, yet silvery as well. Gilt! Your hair is the color of gilt! What a lucky girl you are, my lady Zaynab. Do you know who your master will be yet?”
“The caliph,” was the quiet reply.
“The caliph?” There was awe and admiration in the bath mistress’s voice, and the bath attendants were wide-eyed at Zaynab’s words. “Aiyee! The caliph! Of course, the caliph,” she continued. “You are fit for him and no one else, lady. Allah has blessed you greatly that you are to go to Cordoba and become a Love Slave of the caliph.” She brushed the girl’s hair over and over and over again, until it was finally almost dry. Then she rubbed it with silk in the same manner until it gleamed. Affixing Zaynab’s hair atop her head with tortoise-shell pins, she said, “You are ready for the masseuse, lady.”
A cotton mat was laid atop a low table, and Zaynab lay upon it facedown. The masseuse, a tall Slavic girl, began to lave gardenia oil in great, sweeping strokes over Zaynab’s body. Her supple fingers kneaded the girl’s pliant flesh, soothing it and removing all signs of tension.
“You have good skin, lady,” the masseuse remarked, her thumbs pressing into Zaynab’s flesh. “It is firm, yet soft. By the time you go to the caliph, I will make it even finer for you. I will also teach you how to make certain the masseuse in the caliph’s harem cares for you properly. Favored women in the royal harem are always bribing the slaves to help them destroy a rival, or to get better treatment for themselves. That must not happen to you.” She pummeled Zaynab’s flesh, the sides of her hands drubbing swiftly up and down her body. “This stroke brings the blood to the skin’s surface, which is good, lady,” she explained. “Roll over, please.”
The masseuse worked Zaynab’s shoulders and neck, her clever hands seeming to find the sore spots as if by magic. Her arms, her hands, her legs, each finger and each toe, were skillfully manipulated, until the girl was so relaxed she was close to falling asleep. She started at the sound of the bath mistress’s voice, her eyes flying open.
“Now, you are ready for a nice nap, lady. Your servants will escort you to your chamber. You are a pleasure to serve, lady.” She bowed politely from the waist.
Zaynab thanked them all, complimenting them upon the excellence of their service. Then she asked, “I will need a fresh caftan.”
“There is no need,” the bath mistress told her. “You are but going to your bed to nap, lady. There is no one here in the women’s quarters but us. Your Oma will need time to see to your garments, for they have spent so many weeks at sea in a tiny chest.”
“But what if Mustafa should enter these rooms?” Zaynab queried nervously.
The bath attendants giggled behind their hands, silenced only by a stern look from the bath mistress. “Why, lady, Mustafa is a eunuch. We could all run naked beneath his very nose and he would not care at all.”
Zaynab took a deep breath. Ask questions, Karim had counseled her. “I do not know what a eunuch is,” she told the bath mistress. “In my land no such creature exists; at least to my knowledge there is no such thing. Please enlighten me, I beg you.”
Although the attendants looked surprised, the bath mistress was not. This girl was a northerner from a far land. “A eunuch, lady, is a male being who has been castrated. He has had his testes removed. He cannot reproduce as normal men do, nor does he even feel desire for any woman. The operation is done when the eunuchs are boys, or very young men. Some physicians even remove the manhood, and then the poor fellow must pee through a reed the rest of his life. Most, however, just remove the testicles,” she explained. “Your nudity would have absolutely no effect upon Mustafa. Your beauty to him is like that of a lovely vase or jade carving,” she concluded.
“Thank you,” Zaynab said. “I have so much to learn.” Then, in Oma’s company, she returned to her own chamber, and naked, lay down to sleep in the afternoon heat.
“She will go far,” the bath mistress predicted to the others.
“Because she is beautiful?” the youngest among them asked.
“In part,” the bath mistress answered, “but mostly because she is wise, and kind, and has the breeding to thank those lower in rank than she herself. She is not puffed up, nor overweening proud as so many women of high rank are. This, as well as her beauty, will set her apart from the others and catch the caliph’s eye. Our lord, Abd-al Rahman, it is said, is a man of good judgment. He cannot help but love Zaynab. Aiiiyeee! What a bright future this Love Slave has. She will be the greatest of all those our master has ever trained.”
The object of their discussion fell into a deep, comfortable sleep. For a time she was without thought, and then she began to dream. Hands caressed her slowly until she was all a-tingle. Warm lips pressed kisses all over her body, sending a flush of heat racing through her veins. Zaynab sighed deeply, turning from her side to her back. Half awake now, her legs fell apart. Warm. Wet and oh so warm. She was being overwhelmed with pleasure. Her half-conscious body shuddered, and suddenly she was awake!
His dark head was buried between her splayed thighs. He was teasing at the badge of her womanhood. She whimpered, and raising his head up for a brief moment, he gazed on her with lust-filled eyes before bending once more to complete his sweet work. Reaching out, Zaynab dug her fingers into his dark hair, encouraging him onward. Within moments he was raising his body up and sliding between her legs, his engorged manhood delving deeply into her flesh. Seeking. Seeking. Seeking.
It was wonderful! She was dying! “Ohhh, God!” she moaned, “Yesss, my lord! Yessssss!” How she had missed this co-joining of their bodies in their time at sea. Yet abstention had, if anything else, brought her this incredible heaven. “Please,” she begged him. “Please!” She wrapped her legs about him, and he slid deeper within her eager, hot sheath.
“Allah! Allah!” he groaned, lost in the sweetness of her. How could he have gone so long a time without her? How would he survive after she was gone? After he had given her into the keeping of another man? Deeper and deeper he drove himself into her. They were one. There was nothing else but this raging hunger. This all-consuming passion!
Together they attained paradise; reaching it in a simultaneous burst of pleasure that left them breathless and eager for more. Still joined, he pulled them into a seated position, wrapping his arms about her, covering her face with kisses. They were both trembling with the force of their desire.
“You are magnificent,” he finally said. “You were born to be loved and to love, Zaynab, my flower.”
He was still within her, throbbing softly with his first satisfaction. “I cannot love you, can I?” she said low. The hair on his chest tickled her sensitive breasts.
“No,” he replied sadly, “you cannot. You must not.”
“Could you love me?” Her eyes searched his face.
“What man possessed of a healthy manhood, two good eyes, and common sense, could not love you?” he replied, skillfully evading her, keeping his face emotionless, his eyes blank and without feeling. Could he love her? He would never, Allah help him, love anyone else! He cradled her gently, all desire suddenly gone, and withdrawing from her, he laid her back. “I have disturbed your rest,” he said with a small sm
ile.
“I did not mind, my lord,” she answered him, and drawing him down, she kissed his mouth tenderly. She could not ever remember praying in her entire life, but she prayed now. Prayed for the demise of the caliph, Abd-al Rahman, so that she would not have to go to him. That she could remain with Karim forever. She would rather be the lowest of the low in his house than the favorite of this great prince. If only it could be!
His head now rested upon her breasts. She stroked his dark hair. He loved her. She sensed it even if he could not, would not, say the words. She understood. He was a man of honor, as she was a woman of honor. She would not burden him with the knowledge that she loved him; and if there was no other choice, she would go to this caliph gracefully. She would make Karim proud. She would bring additional glory to the name of Karim al Malina, the great Passion Master, even if it broke her heart And it would.
Chapter 7
There was so much to learn! Zaynab had had absolutely no idea what Karim had meant when he’d promised to make her the most accomplished Love Slave ever created. Now she knew. She had simply assumed being beautiful and accomplished in bed sport would be really all that was required of her, but it was not. Men, it would appear, liked interesting women. Karim assured her that there were even schools in cities called Mecca and Medina for educating women in intellectual and artistic pursuits. Lessons! Lessons! Lessons! Her day was filled with lessons. The learning of any kind that she had previously had was only in household matters, but even there she had not been greatly encouraged, for her fate was to have been the convent, not the castle.
A tiny old woman came each day to teach her the fine art of calligraphy. At first she thought she would never learn to use her bamboo pen, but she did. One day what had appeared as chicken scratches became exquisite script, much to her delight Although Zaynab soon excelled in the rounded cursive style of writing, she also practiced the angular kufic form as well. At the same time, she was learning to read. Once she had accomplished that, her tutor began to teach her how to compose poetry.
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