by Jane Johnson
He beckons to the slave, and together they turn me over and arrange me so that my rump is presented. As the boy is dismissed, I remember with horror Alys so arranged on Ismail’s bed that first night. And then I feel his hands on me, and all at once I am back in the desert, suffering my first violation, and it is like being in a nightmare in which you are pursued by a monster but are unable to run …
The vomit rises out of my gullet, comes spewing out all over the gaudy silks, ejected with such force that it even spatters the glass of the French mirrors.
‘For shame!’ the grand vizier cries with revulsion. He springs to his feet and kicks me in the ribs. More ejecta erupts, and now he has it on his shoes, which are no doubt expensive. He howls like a dog, kicks me again, lower in the gut. This time I can feel the pain of it and it is good: it surges through me like cleansing fire. I can feel the effect of the drug wearing off, a little. I flex my toes, and feel them move against the ground, feebly at first, then with more intent. Come on, I urge my useless body. I focus on my hands, bound to the iron stake, drive my thoughts into my fingers, one by one; and one by one I watch them move. I catch hold of the stake and start to twist and pull …
‘What? What?’ Abdelaziz’s voice rises to a screech. He fumbles for his dagger.
The stake comes loose and I catch him with it, a blow that connects sumptuously, triumphantly, with the middle of his turbaned head. But of course the grand vizier wears a turban that is even larger than that of the sultan. It contains acres of fabric, wound in incessant, intricate folds, so that his head resembles a vast onion. The blow stuns him for a moment only, then he comes at me with the dagger, all his thwarted desire in his eyes. I sidestep the first attack, try to barge him on the second, but he is like a rock. The dagger punctures me below the ribs. I feel it not as pain but as a heat that fuels my fury. I swing the stake around my head, allowing its full length to carry the momentum into the blow, which lands crushingly across his chest and sweeps him off his feet: an airborne hippopotamus, he lands on his back and all the wind goes out of him with a great huffing noise. He is not getting up from this: I will not let him. I stand with one foot amongst the cushions, the other on his belly, and take his dagger out of his limp hand.
‘That’s enough, Nus-Nus.’
At the door, ben Hadou, with Abdelaziz’s silent slave-boy at his side. The child looks in alarm at the dagger, then at his recumbent master, and runs away.
‘Come away. Much as we both dislike him, this will do no good.’
Life resumes as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. When I reappear, in a change of clothing, and with my flesh wound dressed with calm practicality by the Tinker, Ismail simply orders me about my tasks as if he has not come within seconds of caving in my skull with a mallet. At dinner, once Amadou and I have carried out our tasting duties, he is in melancholic mood, as he often is after the spilling of blood.
We are seated on a carpet outside his main pavilion and he is gazing skywards. ‘My astronomers tell me that the same stars that shine on us now are those that shone on the Prophet as he sat in the entrance of the cave of Hira. See there Ash Shaulah, the raised tail of the scorpion.’ He gestures towards the myriad indistinguishable points of light in the night sky. ‘At-Tinnin, the serpent; Sa’ad al-Malik, the star of the great king.’ He lingers over this last spark of light for a long time, silent, thoughtful, the moonlight limning his fine profile, lending a silver sheen to his eyes. At last he says, ‘How will I be remembered, Nus-Nus?’
Was there ever a more perilous question to answer honestly? Over the years we have discussed many things, but they were in the main practical concerns: the merits of wool in winter and cotton in summer; the quality of salt from different sources – sea, or desert; the nature of cats and camels. He had asked me about Venice but I saw his eyes glaze as I told him about its watery streets: he could not imagine such a thing as a canal, nor did it interest him. But when I spoke of the architecture and the wealth on display, he listened attentively and asked many questions. He has asked me about matters of language and translation, especially in relation to business terminology; we have even discussed Aristotle, Homer and Pliny – writers who, because they pre-dated the birth of Islam, offered safer ground than my beloved Rumi, with his flights of ecstatic imagination and his dangerously heretical views. But Ismail has never once shown me a glimmer of vulnerability or doubt, and I do not know how to respond. ‘As a great king?’ I venture.
He nods slowly. ‘But what makes a great king? What will history say of me?’
‘I know little of such things, sire.’
His dark eyes are upon me, glittering. ‘Abdelaziz told me you are yourself the son of a king.’
I could deny it, and aver that the grand vizier had lied, but it would be a lie, although my poor father’s kingdom by the end was barely bigger than one of Ismail’s pavilions, and I had never considered myself a prince. I incline my head. ‘A very minor king, sire: there is little comparison to be made.’
‘Come now, lad, don’t be coy.’
Is there anything so nerve-racking as to have the cold gaze of the executioner upon you as he asks you to condemn yourself? I trawl desperately through my brains for all I know of kings, from the words of the griots, the storytellers, spinning their songs and tales by firelight. The names tangle in my head: Akhenaton the pharaoh, Askia Toure, King of the Songhai, Caesar of Rome, Hannibal, Cyrus, Alexander and Suleiman, who sawed a child in two and gave a half to each of its mothers, or some such thing. My brothers and I were much taken by the bloody details of tales of these great ones – the prisoners whose skulls were crushed beneath elephants’ feet; the enemies interred alive; the babies burned in sacrifice to pagan gods, the massacres at Jenné and Babylon … It occurs to me that maybe cruelty is a necessary quality for a king; or perhaps kingship forces such behaviour upon a man. Does the propensity to be a monster propel a man towards a crown? It is said that Ismail worked his way through a dozen or so more deserving claimants to Morocco’s throne, though I do not know how much of that is true. Or does power twist a man’s soul so that he believes himself to be above all others? If all bowed down to me, treated me like a god on earth, indulged my every whim, cast themselves terrified at my feet and looked away if I spilled blood, would I also be like Ismail? The thought is treasonous, and I fear it may be written on my face. Already, I have taken too long. Quickly now, Nus-Nus, say something. Say anything!
‘I think, sire, that you will be remembered as the Champion of Morocco.’
The glittering eyes narrow into half-moons – suspicion? No, delight. ‘The Champion, yes, I like that. I shall be remembered as the Defender of the Faith, the Scourge of the Infidel, the Bringer of the Crescent Moon. And also as the Architect, the king who raised Meknes from a peasant village to a great imperial city. And as the founder of a glorious dynasty.’ He is up on his feet now, striding about as if determined, right now, to propel this image of himself into the world. He is, of course, already part of a dynasty: the Alaouites, the sherifs descended from the Prophet through the line of his daughter Fatima. I do not say this. Neither do I mention his appalling beast-children, found only this morning in one of the store-wagons gorging themselves on an unholy mixture of dates and sugar and smen, the aged fermented butter worth near its weight in gold. I swear his sons have crammed their faces with it because it is so valuable. There are old women in villages who eke out a jar of smen spoon by judicious spoon, to glaze a sauce, add depth to a special-occasion couscous, a marriage tajine. But the rich and the spoiled understand the true value of nothing. They eat till they spew; then eat some more. The royal emirs were tracked by the trail of vomit they left behind them: but of course they were not punished. They are of Ismail’s glorious line, carriers of his wondrous dynasty. The theft was blamed on two poor slaves; and they were beheaded for it. Greed drives the powerful to excess. They live to consume: food, drink, men, women. The world. Their appetite cannot be quelled; the avid, vicious void within
them cannot be filled.
I think of my father lying, embittered, in the dark. Sometimes it is better not to be king.
18
Alys
For days now I have been in shock, sitting in the women’s pavilion like a big wax doll, barely taking in my surroundings, the constant magpie chatter, the comings and goings of servants and children and food, barely daring to breathe. I knew already that the man whose child I carry was fearsome, but now I have seen his true nature and I feel as if I have stared into the abyss. The hands that caressed me I have seen dealing out shocking murder. When I close my eyes I see those long hammers coming down, left and right, caving in heads, smashing backs, legs, ribs, without mercy, without reason. The elemental brutality, the insatiable bloodlust of the man who got a child upon me has become my definition of the Devil himself.
Worst of all, there was Nus-Nus, lying face down on the ground simply waiting for the killing blow to fall. What level of terror must grip a man that he would just lie there and wait to die? I looked to Zidana, as if she might put an end to her husband’s rampage, one force of nature to counter another, but a single glance was enough to show me her eyes shining and her hands flexing and clenching as if she would like nothing better than to wade in amongst the carnage and crush a few skulls herself.
I was so sure I would see my friend die that, I am ashamed to say, I almost ran away in his stead. But then I saw his hand reach out. He scooped up the blood of the poor man next to him, smeared it about his head and neck and then lay still again. My eyes darted to where the sultan was dispatching another victim. His back was turned, but he was moving towards Nus-Nus, his bloodlust still unsated, and I could not believe that this simple ruse could possibly work. The sultan went to him at last and stood staring down at what appeared to be his handiwork and at that moment something seemed to go out of him, as if an evil spirit was exorcized from his body, and he let the mallets fall from his hands, took the grand vizier by the arm and walked off with him in easy conversation, as if discussing the morrow’s weather.
I had no idea until that moment that he was capable of such monstrosities. And I? I am carrying his child. It sits there within, growing moment by moment into some tiny replica of its father. Is this not a terrible thought? I wished for a child so hard that I chose apostasy over death, and thus am I punished for my sin. I have been trying to pray, but it seems I have forgotten the words of every prayer I ever knew. They say shock will do strange things to a person’s mind, but this seems the cruellest blow of all.
Life goes on, and I begin to seek acceptance within myself of the people on whom my existence now depends. I tell myself that the sultan must have been sorely provoked, insulted; betrayed. That the violence of the punishment must reflect the heinous nature of the crime committed against his name or person or estate, that his response was in some way justified, made all the more honest by its directness. The personal touch …
Sometimes I catch myself thinking in this way, using phrases like those I so despised when my mother used them to explain the profligacy of her husband. ‘He is a man of generous heart,’ she would say, after he racked up another gambling debt, leaving us short on the housekeeping. ‘He is spontaneous. He gets carried away by the spirit of the moment. He does not like to spoil the enjoyment of his friends, when abstention would shame them …’ And so on.
But what one cannot change, one must accept. Somehow I must school my thoughts to quietness, my emotions to gentleness, else the turmoil I feel will transmit itself to the baby and encourage monstrosity to take hold.
I find, after some weeks in this place, once the torrid heat of summer passes, that I am beginning to enjoy the peace of the life here, away from the hectic competition of the harem. The other women grumble and complain about the homogeneity of the food, the basic furnishings, the insects, the enclosed space offered by the tents; but they rarely go outside. Whereas I, once the evening meal has been eaten, have taken to walking a little way away from the pavilions (although still within the designated area for the women: I am not so foolish as to try to stray beyond) and sitting upon a rock where I can see the river spooling past, and the mountains rising above it.
It is the first time in my life that I have seen such a landscape. There is barely a hill in Holland, barely even a prominence. From the top of our house in The Hague I could see all the way out to the coast at Scheveningen, across miles of park and farmland, polders and dunes, to the flat grey sea beyond. It was, if I may speak plainly, not the most inspiring view; though it was open and honest and serene, much like the Hollanders themselves. I begin to wonder, sitting here beside this turbulent river, whose waters roar brown and muddy after downfalls of rain, beneath the giant hills whose jagged peaks jut into the clouds and scratch the sky, whether the temperament of the people of this place may not also reflect the landscape that engendered them, making their humours more extreme, their passions more pronounced. Perhaps this goes towards making the sultan the man he is. I place my hand on my belly and pray to all the gods that the child within me will combine the best elements of both worlds. I pray that I will not bring another monster into existence.
19
Sha’aban 1088 AH
As winter draws on word reaches us that there has been an uprising in the Tafilalt, where Ismail installed his elder brother Moulay al-Harrani as governor after showing him unprecedented mercy following the Marrakech rebellion. Al-Harrani has, it is reported, joined forces with his younger brother Moulay al-Saghir, and a tribe of particularly troublesome Berbers, the Ait Atta, and together they are preparing to march on Meknes to take the undefended capital.
As soon as the sultan hears this, his face fills with blood till it is almost black. He blows around the pavilions like a storm cloud, issuing furious orders, walking so fast that beads of sweat pop out on the face of Abdelaziz as he struggles to keep up with him. ‘Damn my brother! Does he want to destroy everything I have achieved? Does he hate me so much? I should have killed him the first time, instead of pardoning his insurrection. I thought it was the good angel on my shoulder I listened to that day when it spoke of clemency; but it was the black demon after all. I should have put his head on a spike on the walls of Marrakech when I had the chance. This time I’ll take it and put it over the main gate of Meknes!’
Abdelaziz concurs effusively. When the sultan is in this mood, to do otherwise is suicidal. But when Ismail talks of taking the army south through the mountains to deal death to the rebels, I see the grand vizier blanch. At night a freezing fog lifts off the river like the ghostly breath of a thousand djinns and envelops the tents so that they are stiff with ice in the morning. Camping in the foothills is bad enough, away from his accustomed luxuries, but a forced march through fierce terrain in the depths of winter? Our vizier has not grown slack and fat by going on forced marches: already he is volunteering to return to Meknes to oversee the building works.
There is a glint in Ismail’s eye as he turns and I realize he is well aware of all this, that he is in fact baiting the Hajib, a man who would be of little practical use to him in battle. After allowing him to stew for a while longer, Ismail puts an arm around his shoulder. ‘Do not worry, Abdou. I shall not be forcing you to ride into battle with me: I doubt we have a horse strong enough to carry you! No, I need someone I trust to remain here to supervise my court while I am gone.’
Abdelaziz’s shoulders slump in relief. Then something else occurs to him and he slides a glance at me, sharp and calculating. We have largely managed to avoid one another during these past weeks, the vizier and I; or, rather, I have avoided him; but with Ismail and the Tinker gone, there will be no one who can shield me from his intents.
Suddenly I find myself saying, ‘Do not leave your faithful servant behind, O Sun and Moon of Morocco: take me with you. I would dearly love to prove myself in battle!’
Abdelaziz shoots me a killing glance. ‘Nonsense, Nus-Nus! The mountains are no place for eunuchs: they have not the fortitude to withstand su
ch conditions, let alone the wherewithal to survive a battle. Besides, the emperor will have no need of a Keeper of the Book or Servant of the Slippers on his campaign!’ He invests my two poor titles with such scathing sarcasm that they sound ridiculous even to my ears.
‘I do not think Amadou would be very happy in the mountains,’ Ismail says gently. He bends to stroke the monkey under its silken chin and it chitters delightedly. If Ismail ruled over a kingdom of animals both he and his subjects would be happy indeed.
‘I will place him in the care of the White Swan.’ Thinking of her gives me a pang. By going with the army I will be leaving Alys to the mercies of Abdelaziz and Zidana, either of whom would gladly see her and her child dead. ‘But, sire, I am at your command to stay or go.’ As if it needed saying.
He looks thoughtful. ‘I shall make you a bukhari, Nus-Nus. You will look the part.’ Then he takes the vizier by the arm and away they go, talking logistics.
A bukhari: the idea is so preposterous that a laugh escapes me. It seems the warrior within will have the chance to reveal himself after all.
On the day before we are due to march, a nomad approaches the camp, coming down out of the hills with her little herd of goats, each of which wears a silver amulet around its neck, which causes much amusement and conjecture. ‘She is not a woman; she is a sorceress and those her children, travelling in disguise.’
‘No, they are the souls of bewitched men trapped in the bodies of goats,’ declares another, and makes the sign against the evil eye. I smile, remembering Homer’s Circe.
Ismail, who would usually be appalled at the idea of a woman travelling alone, and with her face brazenly uncovered, is greatly intrigued. Nomad women converse with spirits and have the ability to tell the future, and he likes to consult omens before a campaign. He is charming with her, for all that she is elderly and sun-worn, and complimentary of her charges. She names them all for him, one by one, and he recalls each name even though there are dozens of the little beasts, all looking identical – black and scraggy bundles of energy. She throws bones and declares he will see an easy victory, and then makes him a gift of one of the amulets she wears pinned to her clothing: a large square of silver with foreign symbols etched all over it, to ward off evil influences. In return, he kisses her hands (a gesture I have never seen him make before) and generously gives her a pouch of gold that he takes from Abdelaziz, since he himself never carries anything so vulgar as money.