by Jane Johnson
Lying down on the divan, I suddenly remember an unwelcome detail of this dreadful day.
The damned pattens!
I left them beneath Sidi Kabour’s stall, thinking to retrieve them on my return. My heart threatens to batter down the walls of its cage: my groan fills the night. I cannot be seen to go back to the shop. Could I send a page to fetch them? But what if the boy was stopped and questioned? No one would lie for me out of love, and I have no money.
Sweat breaks out in the runnel between the muscles of my back. Vomit rises in my throat.
Pattens. They are only pattens. A lot of people were wearing them in the streets today, not just me, though mine may be better made than most. I fight down the panic and lie there, staring into the darkness.
4
First Gathering Day, Rabī al-Awwal 1087 AH
The muezzin began his first call to prayer before dawn, reminding me that it is better to pray than to sleep. Generally I prefer to sleep than to pray, but I last night I did not sleep at all. Gritty-eyed and with a leaden feeling of doom in my stomach, I roll from my divan, make my ablutions, dress in my Friday best and go quickly to accompany my lord Ismail to the mosque.
I am just exiting my chamber when two of the sultan’s body-slaves come flying down the corridor, nearly knocking me over. ‘Hoi!’ I cry at their retreating backs. ‘Watch where you’re going!’
Abid turns back. He looks distinctly pale around the gills. ‘His majesty is in a fearsome temper,’ he warns, then hurtles on as if pursued by demons.
At the magnificent double doors under the great horseshoe arch that marks the entrance to the sultan’s private chambers I enter unchallenged and at once cast myself prostrate, forehead pressed to the tiled floor. It is only then that I see I am not alone in making obeisance, for to the left of me I glimpse Bilal, the door-guard, doing the same. Two things strike me at once: the first being that as a door-guard he should have been guarding the door rather than lying here on the tiles; the second that he is staring at me in a very odd fashion. Then I realize the reason for his peculiar squint.
Bilal’s body lies at a small distance away from me … and away from his head, which, I see now, sits perkily on its stump of neck, lips slightly parted, as if in surprise at this unforeseen separation.
‘Ah, Nus-Nus, excellent timing! Come, get up: help me with this turban. I don’t know where those wretched boys have gone; they were here a moment ago.’
Despite all evidence to the contrary, Ismail sounds quite normal, cheerful even. I get nervously to my feet, keeping my eyes properly downcast, for I have already glimpsed that his majesty has this morning donned a robe of sunflower gold, which is now spoiled by an ugly splash of crimson. A yellow robe is always a bad sign. A very bad sign, especially in conjunction with a decapitated guard.
Should I mention the stain? Ismail would not wish to go to prayer with his clothing defiled by blood; but who knows how he will react if I point it out to him and thus infer his involvement in the death of poor Bilal? Lesser errors of etiquette have resulted in a nasty death. But if I let him go wearing the stained robe, he is bound to notice at some point and then may well murder me for failing in my duty. Caught on the horns of this dilemma, I concentrate on winding the turban, but can’t stop my eyes from straying to the ever-widening scarlet pool and the red gleam of the sultan’s favourite curved blade, chased with silver and inscribed with the sacred words of the Prophet: ‘The sword is the key of heaven and of hell.’ It certainly has been in Bilal’s case.
The turban completed, Ismail inserts a vast ruby pin in the front, pulls his sleeves straight and begins to flick out the creases in the skirt of his robe. For a moment he stands frowning. He touches the stain. ‘How did that get there?’ He sounds genuinely puzzled. After a time he raises his eyes and stares at me hard.
His lance is propped against his chair, and within two strides there are a dozen swords and daggers and crossed halberds decorating the nearest wall: any one of them could be the implement that brings my death. ‘I do not know, my lord,’ I whisper.
‘Well, what a confounded nuisance,’ he says mildly. ‘I can’t go to the mosque like this. Go fetch one of the green robes, will you, Nus-Nus? From the sandalwood box. Yes, green will do well for today.’
When I come back I find him in exactly the same attitude, gazing into space as if in meditation. I deconstruct the turban, draw off the saffron robe, aid him into the fresh green robe and rewind the turban. Then I wash his hands with rose water, dry them and wash my own hands.
‘Excellent.’ He sets the ruby pin in place once more, puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes it with an appearance of affection. ‘Come, then, Nus-Nus, let us go to our prayers.’ He beams at me and then walks to the door, lifting his feet carefully to step over the corpse, as if it is an inconveniently placed object. At the doorway he looks right and left. ‘Where in God’s name is Bilal?’ He shakes his head sadly at this dereliction of duty and walks on towards the mosque.
When we return an hour later another guard has been posted and all trace of Bilal has been scrupulously removed. The serenity of the chamber is so surreal that it is tempting to wonder if nothing has happened. But details keep slipping into my mind even as I check the safety of my lord’s breakfast, and I cannot help thinking of my own bloodstained clothing and the ruined Qur’an. Not to mention the wretched pattens.
As if he can read my mind, Ismail says, ‘Make sure you fetch the Safavid masterpiece to me in the library: now that the rain has stopped there can be no further excuse for delay.’ I back out with my head bowed low, my thoughts in turmoil.
As soon as I set foot inside my room I have the powerful sense that someone has been in there while I have been away. I look around but nothing obvious seems to have changed. Then my nose twitches: a faint whiff of musk and neroli, Zidana’s own perfume, forbidden to any other to wear. Has the empress herself been here? It is hard to believe that the most powerful, and most feared, woman in the kingdom may have visited my plain little room whilst I have been at prayer with her husband. I imagine her poking through my mean possessions with that sly grin upon her face, and shudder. I throw open the lid of my wooden coffer, half expecting to find some atrocity within; but there, neatly folded, is the white woollen burnous. Picking it up, I shake it out. There is no doubting it is the same cloak that I wore the day before, for the gold embroidery along its hem makes it unique, yet where it was stained with the herbman’s blood it is now brilliantly unblemished, perhaps better and brighter than it has ever been.
Beneath it is the Safavid Qur’an, its gilded bindings pristine. I draw it out and press it to my breast. ‘Thank you, O Merciful One,’ I say aloud, then add for good measure, ‘and thank you, my Lady Zidana, may the All-Powerful grant you long life and joy.’ Never have I believed so fervently in the grace of Allah, in his infinite wisdom and compassion.
I throw the cloak back into the box, tuck the Safavid Qur’an under my arm and run towards the library.
In there a taleb is reciting The Moon in a hypnotic sing-song chant, while my lord Ismail sits on his gold-and-pearl-inlaid throne, entranced by the poetic rhythms of the sacred words. As I enter, his eyes fix avidly on the object I carry. He waits until the scholar completes the sura, then waves a hand at the man, dismissing him. I see how the taleb’s gaze also falls upon the book and know it must be a torture for him to be sent away without the chance to look upon this priceless treasure; know also that it is Ismail’s pleasure that he be denied the opportunity. My lord has an equivocal attitude to scholars: he values their company for the reflected light they cast upon him, but he does not value any opinion that contradicts his own. He runs through talebs at a considerable rate, since a few ill-timed words or unwelcome sermons are likely to land them in a pit of Barbary lions or poisonous serpents, or head first down a well.
Once the scholar has gone, Ismail holds out his hands. He has long, graceful hands, fingers as slim as a woman’s. It is hard to believe that they have
that morning cleanly struck off the head of a favourite guard, and one of monstrous size at that. ‘Give it to me, Nus-Nus. I want to have a good look at the book that is costing my Treasury so dear.’
I place the Qur’an in his hands and watch as his fingers play along the intricately tooled patterns of its double border, how he turns it this way and that to appreciate the gilding. The hard planes of his face soften, as if he were touching the head of a cherished son, or the breast of a beloved courtesan. He is a curious contradiction, our king: at once violent and tender; cruel and indulgent; ascetic and sensual. I have seen him feed an ailing kitten with warm milk from his own fingers, fingers that an hour later put out the eye of a servant who offended him. When I was struck down with a fever, he carried me to his own bed and stayed with me till it broke, wiping the sweat from me with towels dipped in rose water, his concern for me overcoming his great fear of contagion. Two days later, when I was much recovered, he threw a water jug at my head because I was slow bringing a glass. His nature causes his subjects to love and fear him in equal measure.
‘Exquisite. Truly exquisite. You have done well to bring this to me, Nus-Nus, and you shall be rewarded. Ah, but they do not make books like this any more.’ He opens the cover and I hold my breath. The delicate cutwork of the interior cover had before boasted a silk inlay of turquoise: the colour of sea-washed glass; but now it is a dusky rose, as if the blood that soaked into it has merely been diluted rather than removed. And when he turns the page to what should be the first sura, I think my heart will stop.
‘Read The Cow for me, Nus-Nus.’ His lips are curved into a benevolent smile that is truly terrifying.
I have to recite from memory, for the text bears no relation to the holy words that Allah dictated to the Prophet, instructing men how to walk the straight path in his name. The Cow is a long sura, one of the longest in the Qur’an. It is the first sura one learns by heart as a Muslim child. But I was not raised as a Muslim and came late in life to Islam, and not altogether by choice. And everyone knows that as you grow older, the more difficult it is to learn by rote. Besides, to remember without distraction is one thing; but to recite the words that Ismail expects to hear while looking in horror upon those inscribed upon the page before me is another entirely. The calligraphy is elegant; but the contents … My eyes bulge in disbelief even as I intone carefully, ‘In this book there is no doubt, it is a guide to those who guard against evil. Those who believe in the unseen and maintain their prayers …’ My eyes skip over the next few lines and I almost choke. Something about it being better to take an ugly or a heathen woman from behind so that you will not have to look upon her face … I try desperately to stop the image that is now in my head from contaminating the holy words of the Qur’an. ‘There is a covering over their eyes, and there is a great punishment for them …’
Has she done this deliberately, Zidana? Taken the most profane text she can find to substitute for the ruined pages? Is it her revenge on me for failing in my mission, or on her husband, who prides himself on his religious sensibility; or on the entire culture that has imprisoned her in this luxurious cage? One way or another I am sure that even now she is sitting in her apartments, laughing at the unholy joke she has played upon us all.
Sweating, I stumble on, making error after error, until I reach ‘they shall have a painful chas … chastisement because they lied’ – at which point, Ismail smacks his palms together and brings me to a halt. ‘What is the matter with you, Nus-Nus? You usually read so beautifully: your mellifluous voice is one of the few reasons I keep you by me.’ He pauses to allow the implications of this threat to sink in. ‘It must be the value of the book that is stealing your composure; you should remember it is not you who has to pay for it! Which reminds me: you had better run along and fetch Abdelaziz so that I may discuss with him the sum he should release to the bookseller.’
I find the grand vizier taking his second breakfast in his own private pavilion within the Dar Kbira. Silver trays heaped with cold meats, olives, bread, cheese and fancy pastries cover the low tables, while Abdelaziz reclines amongst a pile of silken cushions, attended by a pair of near-naked slave-boys who can’t be older than twelve or thirteen, despite their burgeoning muscles and gleaming ebony skin. The vizier’s quarters are more resplendent even than the sultan’s own. The walls glitter with powdered gold looted from the palaces of the kings of the Songhai Empire, and gold and lapis glow in the starburst patterns up in the cupola. I wonder how his quarters can be finished to such a lavish standard when the rest of the palace is still a building site. Then I remind myself who holds the keys to the Treasury …
‘Nus-Nus – how lovely to see you in my humble chambers: come, sit with me. Help yourself – these almond pastries are superb.’ He waves a beringed hand at me, then pats the cushions beside him, giving me a basilisk stare.
I bow. ‘The sultan requests your presence.’
‘Surely it can wait until I have finished my breakfast.’
I say nothing. We both know that Ismail does not ‘request’.
Abdelaziz makes a face, then grabs a handful of the pastries and crams them into his mouth. A little avalanche of honeyed crumbs cascades over his beard as he chews untidily. Then he gets grumbling to his feet and slaps away the hands of the Nubian boy as he makes to brush his robes. ‘Presumptuous whelp! I shall whip you when I return.’ The words are uttered caressingly, but his gaze is flinty.
I see the boy turn puzzled eyes to him and realize he is new, and does not yet have much Arabic. The other lad understands well enough. He looks afraid, as well he might: thin white scars cover his arm and shoulder. He pulls the other boy away, and as we leave I hear him chattering to the other in their native tongue, catching a phrase here and there. ‘He is cruel … he likes to hurt, to see pain. Don’t give him excuse …’
Something twists inside me. I remember those blank, dark eyes watching my own pain, revelling in it.
‘So, Nus-Nus’ – the grand vizier breaks into my thoughts as we make our way down the arcaded corridor – ‘have you given any more thought to my offer?’
To survive in this place I have learned to adopt my ‘second face’, like the kponyungu mask I wore so long ago in the Poro rituals of our tribe. And I tell myself, I am not myself: I am another. The mask smiles. ‘I am flattered, sidi, but I fear it would not sit well with his sublime majesty.’
‘His “sublime” majesty need never know.’ His tone mocks me.
‘The sultan sees everything.’
Abdelaziz snorts. ‘You mean, his spies do. Spies like the Tinker.’ He makes a dismissive gesture, as if brushing away a fly.
The Tinker: he means the Kaid ben Hadou, Al-Attar. No love lost there. We are nearing the imperial quarters now and I have no wish for Ismail to overhear any part of this conversation. Neither, it seems, does the grand vizier, for he catches me by the upper arm and digs in his fingers, instinctively finding the most painful pressure points. I stare him down coolly, summoning my second face. I am not myself.
‘Do not make an enemy of me, Nus-Nus. It really would not be wise.’
He is already my enemy. I make a bow. ‘I am your humble servant, my lord; but first of all I am his sublime majesty’s servant.’
‘Ismail is a dog in a manger.’
There is a saying I have heard amongst slaves: what happens in the desert stays in the desert. We try our best to remake our lives and regain our self-respect. But how can I ever forget what Abdelaziz did to me? My hands curl themselves into claws at my sides.
‘No one need ever know.’ The basilisk smile.
‘Know what?’
Ismail walks quietly: he likes to take people unawares and when he is safe within his private quarters he often goes about alone, and shoeless. The Hajib and I swiftly prostrate ourselves. Down there, on the ground, the fragrant scent of freshly cut wood swirls around my nose like incense.
‘Oh, get up, man.’ Ismail prods the vizier with his bare foot. ‘I have something
to show you. A rare treasure.’
Oh, great heaven: the book. I almost forgot it. My god, if Abdelaziz sees what lies between its covers he will recognize the deception at once and, being subtle enough to keep the information to himself while it suits him, will hold my fate in his hands to use as he pleases. Death could not come fast enough …
Think of something, my brain goads me, anything to distract him! But my mind is a perfect blank.
Ismail takes up the book and I see Abdelaziz’s eyes gleam as he takes in the rich binding. He holds his hands out avariciously. The sultan stares at them. Then he brings the Safavid Qur’an down with a resounding thud on the vizier’s head. I can make out the imprint of the embellished binding pressed as perfectly into the fine cotton of his turban as a seal into hot wax. The Hajib groans and clutches his head.