And she understood too why the poets praised wine and the cool nights in which they drank it beneath the glittering stars. But she didn’t understand why they talked of love—endlessly, its sorrow and its glory, the way it captured a heart and laid low the powerful, how the mightiest man might be rendered helpless by the flash of an eyelid or the arch of a delicate foot, or the flutter of blood in a slim neck. Ahleme did not believe this. She wanted to know where these men were, these deep souls with their raging emotions who loved like women did. From what she saw of men in her father’s palace, women were either an afterthought or something to be consumed casually, like food. If you were poor and unmarried, she reasoned, like the young men who cooked in the kitchen or tended the formal gardens, you might dream of them, you might watch them with starving eyes, but you would no more feel enslaved to a pretty woman than enslaved to a tender joint of roast mutton. And if you were rich—well, her father had four wives still living and nearly forty concubines, and the thought that any one of those women could rule him through looks alone was laughable.
Of course if one of them had borne him a son…
Forty women—and yet no son and only one daughter grown to adulthood, they whispered in the palace corridors; the Djinn must have put the Evil Eye upon him. Ah, but there is no Fate but the one given to us by God.
So, Ahleme said to herself, admitting what she could never say even to her most trusted slaves, I am a poetic fool. I read my poems of love here in the palace garden, sitting beneath the old tamarisk tree or by the edge of the fountain pool, weaving wreaths of jasmine in my fingers and wishing there could be a man who loves me with all his soul like the poets pretend is possible—and not because I’m the daughter of an amir but because the curve of my lips makes his heart leap and the flutter of my black lashes stops it dead. If I married such a man, I know that my passion would mirror his. If he were handsome and kind and loved me, then I would love him forever. It is what I dream of.
Except that sometimes her dreams were stranger and more shameful, and she blamed the poets for that too. Even this last night she’d woken hot and agitated, flinging back her coverlet to let the air cool her wet skin, but unable to do anything about the melting sensation between her thighs. She’d dreamed she was lying in a room of gold—not gold leaf or plate but flowing, molten gold that ran down the walls and oozed from the ceiling. She’d opened her eyes in the dream but been dazzled by the glow and glint of the liquid metal, hardly able to see. There had been a man lying next to her, but he was so bright that she’d been unable to look at his face. He’d been covered in gold too, and so had she, every inch of their naked bodies slathered in the thick slippery melt. Not a strand of hair disrupted the slick smoothness of his body or head. He’d been touching her, running his hands over her firm breasts and across her slender waist and down between her thighs, his caresses heavy but almost frictionless, and he’d been kissing her throat and her breasts and pressing up against her. Ahleme quivered even now at the recollection. He’d been a big man, his hard muscles sharply defined even under the slippery gilding. He’d been very eager, and her response had been just as fierce. She could recall the thick bulk of his male member, like a gold bar under her hand. She could still remember the desire she’d felt for that hard shaft, and the searing pleasure as he’d parted her thighs and moved upon her, sliding that member deep into her needful body. Her spasm had shocked her awake, wet and trembling.
In the way of dreams, the whole scene—his hunger and hers—had possessed an intensity beyond anything she knew in waking life. It had made her moonlit room and the snoring slavegirls and the brush of her fingers across her own bare flesh seem faint and unreal. And all this day she’d clung to the memory of her dream, as if to the recollection of a momentous event.
This is all the fault of the poets, she told herself. They made her long for what was not hers—not yet at any rate, and perhaps never, unless her father chose for her someone as handsome and vital as the man of her dreams.
“I wish to go down and see the public audience,” she announced, making Nura strike the wrong note, and stirring Farida out of her stupor.
It was boredom though, not hope, that drove her. This was the one day of the week when anybody could petition to be presented at the divan of the amir, though she knew there would be no handsome princes or their envoys seeking her hand, not today at least, because she would have heard of it in advance from the servants, gossip in the palace being as efficient as it was. The arrival of such an envoy was not an uncommon thing, but so far, despite the gifts and the flattery and the politicking, they had all been turned away disappointed. Ahleme sometimes wondered when her father would see fit to let her leave his house for another man’s, or if he was holding out in hope of a marriage offer from the caliph himself.
Before descending to the audience chamber, she stole a look at the people waiting. There were interior balconies throughout the palace, of course, their gilded screens allowing a watch to be kept on almost every room, and the women of the amir’s house made good use of them. A cluster of concubines and servants were spying and whispering, their giggles probably not entirely inaudible to those waiting below. They all made way for the amir’s eldest and favourite daughter though, as she walked slowly around the upper floor, examining the faces below.
It was the usual collection of citizens, she thought. Those with enough money or influence to cut their way to the head of the queue, or enough persistence to take the long route. A trio of judges in close conference, their white beards nodding. A wealthy-looking widow, several merchants with gifts and taxes to present, a nervous-looking peasant chaperoning a slender girl with beautiful eyes who was probably hoping to be taken on as a concubine, a delegation of desert nomads with curved knives in their belts and arrogant, uncomfortable expressions. She scanned the faces, idly looking for the most handsome.
And there, Oh yes. Ahleme felt her interest quicken. He was standing against a marble pillar, dressed in the local style but very finely, his saffron-colored coat embroidered with gold thread. His hair hung low over his collar and his brows were knitted in what was a faint frown either of thoughtfulness or of impatience—both traits generally considered hazardous in the palace environs. Very handsome, she thought, feeling almost embarrassed at the warmth that bloomed inside her. Casually she signalled one of the household eunuchs to her side.
“Who is that man?” she asked, pointing at random at a haggard, bald fellow with an armful of scrolls.
“He’s an artist I believe, my lady, hoping to receive commission from the amir.”
“And that woman?”
“She’s locked in a dispute with her neighbor over orchard land they both claim, and is asking the amir to adjudicate because the neighbor is a judge. He is the one at the end there, with the blue sash.”
“And him? The one with the yellow coat?” She kept her voice bored.
“Rafiq ibn-Jurraia, called the Traveller. A merchant-master recently returned from Saba.”
She yawned. She’d heard of Rafiq, whose journeys were always a source of interesting news and gossip, but never seen him before. She regretted that now. “I will be attending the audience at my father’s side. Escort me there.”
“As you wish, my lady.”
So when Amir Jamil entered the audience chamber and all his subjects knelt and lowered their foreheads to the ground, Ahleme processed in with his entourage. She waited like all his councillors and judges and scribes to be told where to sit, and because Jamil was an indulgent father and proud of his eldest daughter, the ornament of the palace, he patted the divan at his left side and she sat next to him. They exchanged smiles and a few private words of greeting—Jamil liked to spend time with his children, and the affairs of the city left him little time to do it.
Ahleme in turn was pleased with her father’s approval. She didn’t remember her mother, who had died years ago, but the respect of this rather taciturn man, who let her have almost any luxury she wanted so
long as those things were of no importance at all, meant more to her than all the jewels and pets and dresses he so often gave.
When the petitioners were allowed to lift their heads, there was the faintest ripple of appreciative surprise through the room. Ahleme was properly veiled of course, but because of her exceptional status, her veil was not the thick homespun cotton of the streets nor even the light silk affected by concubines, but a net of seed-pearls and silver beads that left her facial beauty undisguised while still adhering to the demands of propriety. Thus her fame had spread, and after today there would be more witnesses to pass on the word. Her rich, stiff dress was modelled on the colors of her family’s emblem, in shimmering blue embroidered with peacock feather eyes, encrusted with emeralds. There were more gems in her long hair and gold bangles in rows about her forearms. Although she lowered her eyes modestly for the first few moments, she knew that her presence had brought pleasure to those who’d never seen her before. It made her want to laugh. What was the point of the whole world telling you were pretty when there wasn’t one of them permitted to love you, or you him? She felt at times like these like an admired saluki bitch or a particularly well-formed mare.
So the audiences began. Much of the proceedings were repetitive and dull, with the petitioners tying themselves into verbal knots of extravagant politeness before their ruler. Only the play of her fingers on the fringe of her cushion betrayed Ahleme’s impatience at these, because she was too well trained in the ways of the court. She did pay attention during the meat of the exchanges, because any novelty was of value to her, but she was pleased when it was the turn of Rafiq the Traveller to be called up from the mass of petitioners. Having returned from a trading journey with camel loads of frankincense and coffee beans, his caravan’s goods value had been assessed by officials and he’d come to pay his tax. He also presented a gift to the amir, which was brought in by two court eunuchs—an ivory boat carved in wonderful detail, its hull filled with dull red crystals of dragons’ blood. Her father leaned forward to inspect it and made appropriate noises of appreciation.
“You will have many interesting stories to tell us then, of the places you’ve been, Rafiq?”
The younger man looked up, meeting his gaze steadily. “Many, most wise of amirs.”
He’s a spy, thought Ahleme. Of course he is. It made sense that the amir gathered intelligence from travellers, and that he knew about events and plans in neighboring regions and their intentions toward Dimashq.
“Good. Perhaps you will wait behind after this audience, and entertain my vizier and myself with your tales.”
“As you wish, father of the city.”
“Very well.” Jamil waved his hand graciously.
Is that all? Ahleme protested inwardly as Rafiq made to withdraw. She wanted to hear more from this man herself, and in particular she wanted him to look at her. “Traveller,” she said with a bright guilelessness, “will you tell me something?”
His eyes flicked to hers. Whatever emotion he was feeling, it didn’t show, but strictly speaking he shouldn’t have held her gaze like that. Ahleme didn’t care a bit. Her heart made a funny jump in her breast. She liked his warm eyes and the dark arches of his brows and the little line of enquiry between them. And the play of his lips as he answered, “Of course, my lady. What do you wish to know?”
She improvised with, “What sort of clothes do the women of Saba wear?” Then wished she hadn’t picked a subject so vapid.
“Well, there are many tribes in Saba, my lady, and the women of each dress differently. Also there are traders from the Horn of Africa and from India, and they bring their families with them so there’s a great mix of peoples on the coast. But very common is a fashion for wearing gold jewellery that is pierced through the side of the nose and hangs upon the cheek.”
“You saw their faces?” She widened her eyes.
“Most of them go unveiled, though they cover their hair.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “It’s a terrible disappointment to learn that most women are no more great beauties than are most men.”
Ahleme smiled. The amir lifted his hand gently.
“My daughter, you are keeping all these people waiting upon you. You must curb your curiosity for the moment.”
Rafiq withdrew to the side then, and Ahleme had to hide her disappointment. The next petitioner brought forward was the artist, a tall, bony man who laid his scrolls upon a low table. He wished, he explained with slow, formal diction, to show the amir his work in the hope that he might find favour and perhaps future employment. In token of sincerity, he first wished to make a gift of a picture of great wonder and astronomical value, which had fallen into his hands during his sojourning in the East.
Ahleme, who had been sunk briefly in her own thoughts, started to listen at this point. There was something about that man with his long thin fingers and his deep-sunken eyes that she found oddly disconcerting. Something about him nagged at her instincts, as if reminding her of someone. Ahleme glanced at her father, but Jamil looked neither more nor less impressed than usual. The religious councillors were stirring—the argument about whether it was right to pictorially depict living beings or not was about to break out again, she suspected.
“What manner of painting?” the amir asked.
“Ah,” said the artist, stooping to the biggest of the scrolls. “This comes from the land of China, most wise of amirs, where they paint upon silk. And the boast of this scroll is that upon it are depicted all the most beautiful things that exist in the world, without exception.”
“Then it must include the Great Mosque here in Dimashq,” said Jamil with a little smile, “and my own daughter.”
“So it must.” The artist lifted the scroll over his head and let it unfurl all the way to his feet. Everyone on and about the divan craned to get a look. Ahleme’s view was better than most. She saw a landscape painting depicted in ink, all shades of grey and black. In the foreground at the bottom was a stand of reedlike plants and beyond that the land stretched away, full of tiny detail, to huge and impossibly steep mountains, their overhanging summits wreathed in cloud. The style was unlike anything she’d seen before, at once fantastic and beautiful and intensely melancholy.
“Vizier?” The amir was too dignified a person to get up and squint at a picture himself, so his highest official did the honors for him. He bent and peered at the middle ground, his brows furrowed.
“Where do you start? There is so much detail—cities, bridges, people. Oh—there! Yes, there it is!” He pointed at the scroll. “It’s the Great Mosque of Al-Walid! I see the minarets and the shrine of the head of John the Baptist! Such detail! You can even see the mosaics on the inner walls!” His expression of pleasure warped. “That isn’t possible. You could not paint such fine detail. And the trees there, the water—they’re moving!”
“The picture is magical,” said the artist, as if the vizier were a simpleton. There was a rumble of mistrust and excitement among everyone who heard those words. Magic was as always greeted with a confusion of fascination and great wariness. The vizier shrank back, looking conflicted.
“Is it safe?” Jamil asked, frowning.
“It is only a picture, oh father of wisdom. Do you not wish to see if your daughter is depicted among the most beautiful things in the world?”
Jamil’s frown deepened.
“I will,” Ahleme said quickly. She itched to see the marvellous painting, and that it might include her made it irresistible. When her father did not immediately say “No,” she sprang to her feet and approached the tall man and the hanging scroll. For a moment she looked him in the face, and she felt a strange clench inside her, something half-fearful, that sense of recognition again. Then he bowed his head as if acknowledging her courage and that made her heart swell. She wondered if Rafiq was watching her but did not dare to look his way. Instead she focused on the scroll.
To her indescribable delight the vizier was right—the landscape was alive. Rivers flowed over wa
terfalls. Cranes skimmed over rippling lakes. Contorted pine trees shifted their needles in the breeze. Everywhere she looked new detail sprang out at her. Buildings that seemed tiny blocks at first glance became elegantly detailed when she peered closer, caves opened up to reveal their painted interiors. And from round a wind-carved rock on a narrow mountain road stepped a tiny figure in a robe of peacock feathers.
“That’s me!” she cried joyfully, reaching with a finger to the ink-washed silk. “There I am!”
With those words she vanished from the room.
Rafiq, who had been watching the amir’s daughter even though he could hear little of the conversation up there at the divan, knelt bolt upright, wondering what on earth had just happened. There was a horrible silence in the whole of the audience chamber. Even those who wanted to cry out in shock did not dare.
Heart of Flame Page 3