The Love Slave

by Bertrice Small

The bride was put into her litter in the late afternoon and taken in procession to her husband’s home outside the city. Karim led the guests, riding upon a white stallion his new father-in-law had given him as a wedding gift, down a street strewn with rose petals. Musicians accompanied the wedding party. The bridegroom tossed gold dinars to the well-wishers along their route. When they reached Karim’s villa, the household slaves under Mustafa’s guidance served the guests refreshments. Not long after, they departed, leaving the newlyweds alone to get acquainted with each other.

  Karim gave his bride an hour’s time before he entered her chambers. Beyond the windows of her rooms the sun was setting into the western sea. “You may go,” Karim told the slave girls clustered about his bride.

  “You will all remain,” Hatiba said harshly. The slave girls looked uncomfortable and confused.

  Karim snapped his fingers sharply, saying as he did so, “I am master in this house, Hatiba.” The slave girls hurried swiftly out of their mistress’s apartment.

  “How dare you order my servants about!” she cried to him.

  “I repeat, Hatiba, I am master in this house. I cannot believe that your father allowed you to behave in such an unchecked manner under his domain. I will assume that you are frightened. You need not be.” He took a step toward her, and to his surprise a small dagger appeared as if by magic in her hand.

  “Do not come any closer, or I shall kill you,” she said low.

  With a swift movement, Karim grasped his wife’s wrist and yanked the weapon from it. Looking at it, he laughed scornfully. “You couldn’t kill an orange with that, Hatiba,” he said.

  “The tip is poisoned,” she replied softly.

  Looking closely at the blade, he saw that its pointed end was indeed darkened. Karim sighed deeply. “If you did not want this marriage,” he said, “why then in the name of Allah did you agree to it? Or was it your father’s decision, Hatiba?”

  “He could not resist the bride price, for one thing, my lord,” she told him honestly. “He never received as much for any of my sisters.”

  “Was there another reason as well?” he pressed her.

  “Do you need to ask?” she replied. “You are the son of the Prince of Malina, my lord. What a coup for my father to have his youngest daughter married to a son of Malina’s ruler. My father is no longer content with just his wealth. Now he seeks power.”

  “My father is hardly a mighty lord,” Karim said. “He is the hereditary prince of this land because our ancestor founded the city. He governs with the aid of a council, not by his whim alone. We keep no court; the court is in Cordoba We live like ordinary citizens. My father is respected because he rules through his council with wisdom and kindness. We give our allegiance to Allah, and to the caliph. It has always been the way of our family.

  “Besides, I am my father’s youngest son, Hatiba. I shall never be Prince of Malina. I do not want to be. What did your foolish father think he could gain by forcing you into a marriage you did not want?”

  “It was the prestige of being able to say that his daughter Hatiba is the first wife of the Prince of Malina’s son; the status and distinction of being able to claim that he and the Prince of Malina have grandsons in common. Being related by marriage to your family gives him new power among the mountain clans. That is what he wants.”

  “Do you love someone else?” he asked her bluntly.

  Hatiba flushed, her pale golden complexion growing rosy with his words, but she answered him honestly. “Yes, and he was to have been my husband, but that your family offered for me. The contracts were already signed, the bride price and dowry agreed upon, although not paid. But then came your father’s offer. My father tore up the contracts. The old qadi who had overseen them died suddenly. There was no proof that any agreement had been made. Since neither the bride price nor the dowry had been exchanged, my beloved was forced to watch as I was contracted to you. Ohh, why of all the girls you could have had did you want me?” Her gray eyes filled with tears, and she angrily wiped them away.

  “I did not want you,” he said quietly, deciding that her honesty deserved his in return. “I did not even know of your existence until the match was made. Last year I asked my father to find me a wife. I have spent most of my life a sea captain and trader. I knew how much it would please my father if I finally settled down.

  “This spring I delivered to the caliph in Cordoba a slave woman whom I loved, and she loved me. You have been told, I know, that I was a Passion Master. The girl was put into my care by an old friend of my father’s. I trained her in the erotic arts, but I broke the cardinal rule of my own order by loving her, and by accepting her love in return. Neither of us had that right. In the end, for honor’s sake, we did what we had to do. Zaynab went to the caliph’s bed and quickly became his favorite. I came home to Alcazaba Malina to wed with you.

  “It is unfortunate that we each love another, but we cannot change our fates, Hatiba. If I sent you back to your father this very day, it would change nothing. I should not have Zaynab, nor would your father’s honor permit him to let you have your lover. You know that I am right. Neither of us knows if we can love the other, but I will give you the honor and respect that you deserve as my wife. More I cannot promise. Will you honor and respect me in return, Hatiba?”

  She was astounded by his speech. Suddenly her cold and distant demeanor collapsed, and her face was that of a frightened young girl. “You must send me back,” she half whispered. “I am not a virgin.” Then she began to weep, childish little sobs of fear and sorrow.

  “The rejected bridegroom?” he asked her gently.

  She nodded, her gray eyes upon him, desperate with fear.

  “When was the last time you lay with him?” Karim asked her.

  “Three days ago,” she said low.

  “Your maidenhead is not important to me, Hatiba,” he told her. “However, if you are with child by this man, I have no choice but to send you back to your father in disgrace.”

  “If I am with child, I could say it was yours,” she replied defiantly. “No one could prove otherwise, my lord!”

  “I will not sleep with you, Hatiba, for two months,” he told her, “and now I will recall your handmaidens to keep you company this night. What a pity you were so foolish. I would have initiated you sweetly.”

  He left her weeping softly, and returned to his own apartments. “Tell Mustafa I wish to see him immediately,” he told an attending slave.

  Mustafa came, and Karim told him, “I must return to Alcazaba Malina to speak with my father. See that my wife and her handmaidens remain in her apartments. No one is to leave those rooms, Mustafa.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Mustafa said with an impassive face. “Shall I have your stallion saddled for you?”

  Karim nodded, and several minutes later he was on the road back to the city. Arriving at his father’s house, he was relieved to find it quiet.

  “Karim!” His father looked up, surprised, at his entry.

  “What is the matter?” his mother said, a concerned look upon her beautiful face. “Why are you here instead of with Hatiba?”

  Karim explained to both of his parents the scene that had taken place between him and his bride.

  Habib ibn Malik was outraged. “You will divorce her immediately!” he said angrily. “I will find a decent girl for you, my son.”

  “No,” Karim said. “The girl’s father is to blame, but what is done is done. I will renounce her only if she has been foolish enough to get herself with child. I cannot accept another man’s son as my heir. Tonight I want your physician to examine her to ascertain if she speaks the truth. Then I want her father informed. If the girl must be returned to her family, I want no doubt about the reasons why, and the bride price must be returned to me. That old Berber bandit will not profit at my expense and embarrassment.”

  Habib ibn Malik sent for his physician, and the matter was explained to him. He was then sent to Karim’s home to examine the bride. He returne
d almost two hours later and announced, “The girl is not a virgin, my lord Habib. She did not lie.”

  “You will not speak of this to anyone,” Habib ibn Malik said. “Later I may need your testimony before the qadi, but for now you will remain silent, Dr. Sulayman. Thank you.”

  The physician bowed and departed.

  Habib ibn Malik then called to one of his slaves. “Go to the apartments of Hussein ibn Hussein and his wife. Tell them I must see them both at once. Then wait, and escort them here to me.”

  Hussein ibn Hussein and his wife, Qabiha, arrived shortly thereafter, puzzled, and not just a little frightened.

  Habib ibn Malik wasted no time. “Your daughter is not a virgin,” he said coldly. “She admitted such to my son, and Dr. Sulayman has confirmed her shame. I am also told that you had agreed previously to another match for Hatiba prior to my asking for Karim.”

  “There is no proof of such a contract!” Hussein sputtered.

  “Aye, I understand the qadi responsible conveniently died,” Habib returned dryly. “Nevertheless, the girl is not pure.”

  Hussein turned angrily to his favorite wife, Qabiha. “She is your daughter! Why could you not oversee her behavior?”

  “She has been in love with Ali Hassan since she was ten,” Qabiha replied spiritedly. “They would have wed three years ago but that you would not let her go, and held her suitor off demanding a huge bride price! They are young and hot-blooded. They believed they would one day wed, my lord. I could not keep her locked up all the time. Do not blame me! She is your daughter too, and more like you than she is like me,” Qabiha finished.

  “He will divorce her! I shall have to return the three thousand dinars, and they are already spent,” Hussein hissed at his wife as if no one else were in the room.

  “If Hatiba is not with child, Hussein ibn Hussein,” Karim said quietly, “I will keep her. If her lover’s seed has taken root, then she must be returned to you. I do not hold the girl responsible for this disaster. I hold you responsible. Do you understand me?” Karim’s face was fierce with anger.

  “My lord,” Qabiha pleaded her daughter’s cause, “Hatiba is really a good girl, but she is strong-willed and has always had her own way. When her father would not let her wed Ali Hassan, she became as I have never known her.” The mother, Karim thought, very much resembled the daughter, but where Qabiha’s gray eyes were soft, Hatiba’s were hard and cold; except when she was frightened.

  “You will stay with your daughter for the next two months,” Karim told his mother-in-law. “I will expect that you monitor her behavior closely during that time and remind her daily of her duties as my wife. If at the end of that time I am absolutely certain she has proved infertile from her lover’s seed, then I will return home to begin our life together. You will then be sent back to your husband.”

  Hussein ibn Hussein opened his mouth to protest, but an angry look from his wife silenced him. His jaws snapped shut with an audible click. “You are more than generous, my lord,” he said, none too graciously.

  Karim glanced at the man cynically. “You had best use the grace period I give your daughter to find the three thousand dinars of her bride price that you have so wantonly squandered. That gold is Hatiba’s, not yours, Hussein ibn Hussein. It is for her safety and protection should she ever find herself without a husband. I would see it returned in two months to either me or to my wife.”

  His father-in-law looked away guiltily. “Yes, my lord,” was all that he could now say, but his facile brain was contemplating how in the name of the prophet he would recover the money. Perhaps his new son-in-law might meet with some unfortunate accident Then the young widow would be returned to her family, bride price and dowry intact, and available for another match.

  Karim watched as Hatiba’s father narrowed his black eyes and considered his next move. It was undoubtedly underhanded. He hoped his new wife would avoid being returned to her father. It was not that he had any particular feeling for the girl, but having become more closely acquainted with his father-in-law, he was beginning to feel very sorry for her. He turned to his own father and asked, “Will you see that the lady Qabiha is transported to my home this night?”

  Habib ibn Malik nodded. “At once.”

  Qabiha took up residence in her son-in-law’s villa. Her daughter looked angry and sullen upon her arrival. Qabiha slapped her and said harshly, “You will no longer have your father to condone your bad behavior, girl. He may protest to the contrary and declare his innocence of the matter, but he knew what you were doing when you would ride off into the hills. He knew! Yet he placed you in this position for the sake of three thousand gold dinars and the chance to ally himself with the princely family of this city. You had best pray to Allah, my daughter, that you are not with child by Ali Hassan. If you are, your father will kill you. I cannot protect you from him in this matter. What else can he possibly do with a daughter who has brought such shame upon her family, and still retain his own honor? You are fortunate in your husband, Hatiba, if indeed he remains your husband. If you are not with child, he says he will keep you. I cannot imagine any other man being so generous.”

  “Generous?” Hatiba sneered. “He loves another he cannot have, Mother. My lost virtue means nothing to him. If he keeps me, it is for his benefit, not mine. He will never love me.”

  The days passed quickly by. Karim rode with his two brothers and a group of friends most mornings, hunting in the fields and hills about the city. In the afternoons he visited Hatiba, always in her mother’s presence. He discovered she was an appallingly ignorant girl. She could not read or write. She had no ear for music. When he brought tutors in to help educate her, she grew quickly bored and wept.

  “She has absolutely no attention span, my lord,” the tutor he respected most told him, speaking for them all. “She cannot be taught, but worse, she does not want to learn.”

  Afterward Karim groaned to himself, wondering what they would possibly have in common if she remained his wife. He found she was an enthusiastic game player, however. She played both chess and backgammon with a childish zeal, wagering wildly, clapping her hands gleefully if she won, pouting if she lost. It was something. He remembered his brother Ja’far’s advice to get her with child and then find some exotic creature to start his harem. He sighed sadly. He didn’t want a harem of exotic females, or a wife named Hatiba who was already proving more trouble than she was worth. He wanted Zaynab, and he would never have her. She was beyond his reach forever.

  Finally the waiting period was at an end. Hatiba had bled twice since their wedding day, Dr. Sulayman coming to examine her during each cycle to be certain there was no fraud. Now the physician declared his wife not with child.

  “You may enter her without fear, my lord. Any issue she produces in the next year will be your child without a doubt. She is healthy, and free of disease. She should prove a good breeder.”

  Karim sent his mother-in-law back to the mountains. He dismissed his wife’s serving women for the next few days. He entered his wife’s apartments, where Hatiba awaited him. There was no turning back. No excuse for putting her aside. It was time to begin his life anew.

  Chapter 12

  “Drink this, my lady Zaynab,” the physician Hasdai ibn Shaprut said, his arm bracing her, his other hand holding a cup to her lips.

  “What is it?” she asked him weakly. Her head ached so.

  “More of the antidote I have been giving you. It is called theriaca. Allow me to reassure you that you are going to be all right,” the doctor told her. “We are fortunate you reacted so quickly to the poison you were given. It allowed us to diagnose you and save you.”

  “Poison?” A look of shock crossed her beautiful face. “I was poisoned? I do not remember. Who would poison me?” Zaynab asked, confused. How could she have made so strong an enemy so quickly?

  “We do not know the culprit yet,” the caliph answered her, “but if I find out who it is, she will die the very death she planned for you, m
y love.” His face was grim with anger and frustration. His harem had over four thousand women in it: his wives, his concubines, those who hoped to gain his favor, his female relations, and their servants. It was impossible to keep track of them all. The assassin had been very clever. It was most unlikely they would ever find out who it was.

  “How was I poisoned?” Zaynab queried Hasdai ibn Shaprut. “Is my poor Naja all right? He tastes everything I eat or drink.”

  “Other than the fact your eunuch is beside himself with worry and remorse, he is fine,” the physician assured her. “The poison was ingrained into a shawl you wore. It seeped into your skin. It should have worked gradually, over a period of time, but instead the first time you wore it you reacted violently. You are obviously very sensitive to foreign substances, my lady, and a good thing too.” He turned to his assistant. “Rebekah, show the lady Zaynab the shawl.”

  The older woman opened a metal container and displayed the contents.

  “Who gave you this shawl, lady?” Hasdai ibn Shaprut asked her. “If you can remember, perhaps we will have our culprit. Do not touch it, I beg you. It is quite lethal, and must be destroyed. Just look.”

  Zaynab looked at the shawl. It was a particularly lovely fabric: a light, soft wool, dyed a rich rose color, with a fringe of even deeper pink. She had absolutely no idea where it had come from, and looked to Oma, who shook her head in bewilderment.

  “It was not among the garments you brought from Malina,” Oma said. “Remember this morning we were looking in the trunk for a shawl because the day was proving to be chilly? It was simply there on top of all the others. I did not stop to think where it had come from. I thought perhaps our lord, the caliph, had given it to you.”

  “Lady, I must ask this question,” the physician said. “Can you trust your maidservant?”

  Zaynab was outraged. “How dare you?” she said icily. “I would trust Oma with my life, sir. She is with me by choice. I offered to free her and send her back to Alba. She refused. She even refused to marry Alaeddin ben Omar because she would not leave me.” Zaynab reached out for her friend, and Oma, tears in her eyes, took her hand. “Oma is faithful. She would not harm me.”