Court of Lions

by Jane Johnson

  The vizier appeared skeptical. “Sire.”

  “Tell me, sir, how was your mother when last you spoke?” Momo asked after a space.

  Qasim stiffened. “That was a sorry affair, my lord, mistimed and ill-judged.”

  “Your comings and goings are less of a mystery than you would like to think. I understand how my son now lies in enemy hands.”

  My heart stilled: would I be the next accused? I waited for Qasim to give me up, but all he said was, “Someone trustworthy had to do it. I apologize for the necessity from the bottom of my heart.”

  “That is a shallow trough indeed.”

  The vizier made no reply to this.

  “Trustworthy!” Momo snorted. He held his hand in the air, signalling for the column to halt. Then he regarded the vizier full in the face. “I should kill you for your part in this miserable affair, but I’m going to need a man of your cunning and ability if I’m to rebuild my kingdom. Get down off your fine horse and pledge your fealty on your knees, or by God I will find a use for this pretty sword they have given me.”

  For a long moment Qasim hesitated, then in the dying light he slid from the back of the grey. His robe looked, even to my untutored eye, to be even more expensive than that the young sultan wore. I knew where his money from Isabella had gone. Indeed, we both wore our portable ill-gotten gains.

  “There—” Momo pointed to the spot. “Kneel there.”

  A darker patch marked the place where a horse had just pissed. For a moment it seemed the vizier would risk Momo’s ceremonial sword for the sake of his finery; then he dropped to his knees with a grimace and made his obeisance. When he clambered back up into the saddle, I saw Momo take note of the stain on the silk, and how a tight expression of petty triumph flickered for a moment. But Qasim’s face was suffused with blood.

  It took a great deal to puncture the shield of urbane politeness the vizier held constantly before him and had just let slip. I knew Qasim’s dark side better than most—importantly, better than Momo did—so, not least for my own skin, I feared the consequences of this small piece of theatre.

  We crossed the border in the dead of night. I was almost asleep in the saddle when Momo caught my arm.

  “My banners!” he said with quiet satisfaction, and when I blinked and focused through the darkness, I saw his sigil rippling in the breeze. Three or four standards and beneath them just a handful of troops, barely more than the number who travelled with us already. That was all. Momo was craning his neck, but with a sinking heart I knew he would find no more: the rest had all gone over to his father.

  Our homecoming was furtive. We had to make a great detour to avoid being spotted crossing the wide Plain of Granada by Moulay Hasan’s lookouts. As we finally skirted the great promontory and crept into the Albayzín, I remembered how Momo’s lance had broken against the gate when we rode out all those months ago. Maybe there was something more to omens and portents than I had reckoned.

  Then I reminded myself that the spells I had contrived and hidden before we left the Alhambra had done their work: Momo had survived the battle, even if he was a shell of the man who had ridden out at the head of an army. Perhaps I should have been more careful in the composition of them.

  23

  They say that next morning, when guards ran to inform Moulay Hasan of his son’s secretive but successful return to the city, such was his shock that he fell down in a fit, his limbs twitching and froth falling from his mouth. And that when he came back to himself, his blindness was complete. But I heard this from a travelling musician who had been at the royal palace that day, and I know only too well how little the word of such wandering people can be trusted.

  What I do know is that coming back to the Albayzín was a miscalculation, though it’s easy to say this in hindsight. Momo was driven by his need to see Mariam, to disburden himself of his guilt as much as by his love for her, dread forcing him on through the nights, through the windless days, through barrancas dense with Barbary fig and thorn, where the heat came at us off the rocks like the breath of a hungry lion; over forested hills where the pine trees wept sap whose pungent scent stung the eyes. We had passed abandoned shepherd’s huts in hills that were sere and brown, and in the valleys meagre flocks of bone-thin sheep and scrawny black goats, those few that had survived this hard summer. The peasants were thin too, large-eyed with privation, though they cheered as we passed. “God’s blessing on you, lord, for stopping this war!”

  Some ran to kiss the hem of his robe, or his boot, or even the ground he had ridden over. By the time we came in sight of the city, tears had streaked a pale path through the dust on Momo’s cheeks: he was already in a state of high emotions before his reunion with his wife and mother.

  I was not privy to that reunion, for I had absented myself to get in and out of the bathhouse before anyone else. There, I paid the hammam attendant to leave me be and sat alone in the hot room, my sobs swallowed by the thick vapour.

  Before the week was out Hasan’s soldiers had stormed the Albayzín, and the common people, armed with only knives and stones, roof-staves and shovels, had rallied behind the young sultan to drive them out. Blood-spattered squares where the day before children had played with dolls; it coated the cobbles of the back streets; bloody hands marked the walls where the wounded had attempted to stagger home. Bodies lay one atop another as elite guards in shiny breastplates and helmets collapsed upon shopkeepers and shoemakers, butchers, bakers and scribes. And their sons: beardless young men not yet betrothed, though probably not entirely innocent of a girl’s touch. After the soldiers had withdrawn, Momo wandered disconsolately through the alleyways, closing the eyes of the dead and helping to carry the wounded of both sides (“They are all my subjects”) to a hastily constructed hospital tent at the top of the Albayzín hill. He, too, was covered from foot to helm in blood: I had never seen him fight with such ferocity.

  “I can’t stay here,” he said that night.

  “You can’t leave!” The emira was appalled. “I’ve spent a small fortune shoring up our defences and housing our allies.”

  “As long as I stay in Granada, people will be butchered by my father’s men.”

  “You know he has sent emissaries throughout the kingdom proclaiming you traitor—even apostate—for signing the treaty with the enemy?” she taunted him. “He claims you’re in league with the devil against him, that you’ve sold the good Muslims of Granada into Christian bondage!”

  “I can’t stop my father spreading lies.”

  “You can!” Her voice was shrill. “You can kill him—and that serpent of a woman whose evil spawn will claim your throne!”

  “Mother.” He took her by the shoulders, even braver now than in battle. “What point is there in fighting to keep a kingdom in which there are no subjects to rule? I will not see innocents slaughtered in my name.”

  She shook his hands off. “I’m beginning to see there’s some truth in your father’s poisonous words. You’re a coward, not fit to rule! You are no king if you can’t even keep your own city!”

  Momo shrugged. “Maybe I am no king. But I care more for these people than my father does. I signed the treaty to save them from an endless war. But for what? So they could lose their lives fighting one another? My mind is made up. We’ll leave for Almería.”

  Mariam was only a few weeks away from giving birth: she was as round as an apple. But her face belonged to another woman, not a young mother bursting with lush fertility. It looked grim and her eyes were sunken and dull. She had hardly exchanged a word with Momo since his return, clearly blaming him for the loss of their son as a hostage, and who could blame her? When Momo announced that she should pack only a few things to take with them to this unknown city, she burst into tears, and he ushered her away into their private quarters. I did not see either of them until another day had passed, but whatever wiles Momo had used to win her back seemed to have worked, for by the time they emerged once more her face was wreathed with smiles. Unable to r
ejoice in this, I went out and embraced my heathen origins. Not having to keep up the pretense of being a good Muslim, I got roaring drunk on a jug of the local rough red wine in a tavern for poor travellers out near the city wall and spewed my guts up in a side street where someone had daubed obscene drawings and slogans overtop of the dark, dried blood.

  Almería. I have nothing good to say about Almería. It had been at the peak of its glory half a millennium ago and it was a dour place now, its massive keep crouching behind triple walls, its outlook the sullen sea. I hated the sea, with its endless succession of grey waves rolling in to the harbour below the alcazaba. I hated the way the ships bobbed at anchor, as if like me they could not wait to get away. I hated the acres of empty space it represented, of no use to anyone.

  The empty space of the sea was partnered by the empty spaces inside the keep: miles of corridors lined with ages-old carpets worn almost threadbare by the passage of feet; cavernous chambers unrelieved by wall hangings or even furniture, where your voice echoed mournfully. The gardens had been tended by a small battalion of gardeners with no imagination and an overreliance on evergreens. Before a month was out I was sick of the sight of box and amsonia, basil and thyme, wormwood and mint. Oh, the mint. It was everywhere: you trod it underfoot and released its sugary sweetness into a cloud that seemed to follow you around.

  “Where are the roses?” I asked the man who claimed to be the head gardener. “Where are the calendula and iris? The amaranth and jasmine?”

  He spread his hands. “They don’ like it ‘ere. Too difficult.” He stuck a finger to the sky. “Too much salt in the air.” He paused, considering this. “Still, it keeps the djinn and their evil luck away.”

  It didn’t, though. Mariam went into labour weeks earlier than she was due, and the whole palace flew into panic.

  I went to find Qasim with a heavy heart, aware of what was coming. “So, Blessings,” he said, laying a hand on my shoulder. “It’s inconvenient, but we’ll have to make an adjustment to the plan. You will go to make the exchange and I will stay, since you will be less missed than I.”

  Thank you, I thought blackly. Thanks very much.

  “A boy will have your horse ready. You know what to do.”

  “I can’t do it.” It would destroy him. How could I hurt him so? It was too cruel.

  The fingers bit deeper. “You can. And you will. Or you know what will happen.”

  I swallowed. I knew exactly what would happen. Qasim would remove me, probably kill me, and bring in some other of his spies to do his dirty work. “It’s for the best,” I said at last, feeling like the worst sort of traitor.

  “Of course it’s for the best. You know that.” He was already walking away.

  “For Momo?” I called after him. “It’s the best thing for him, isn’t it? He’ll be less of a threat to them?”

  He didn’t even answer.

  My false foot, shining with its new gold, seemed to weigh like lead as I dragged myself back through the palace to my quarters. There, I garbed myself as we had agreed and, furnishing myself with a pile of swaddling clothes, made for the birthing chamber.

  Long before I reached it I could hear Mariam’s cries, hoarse and shocking. I turned the last corner, only to see Momo outside the door, pacing to and fro in anguish. I remembered how he had been at Ahmed’s birth. I had thought that bad, but this was much, much worse. How could I pass by him unobserved? He would spot me even in this guise and then praise me for being so kind as to disguise myself thus to help his Mariam where he could not. His heart was too generous: I couldn’t bear it. I hovered, desperate. Then, with perfect timing, the vizier appeared, bearing a sheaf of paper, looking agitated. There ensued a brief, intense conversation that I could not hear, then Momo followed Qasim toward the council chamber. Taking a deep breath, I slipped into the birthing room with the armful of swaddling clothes.

  I had never witnessed a birth before. Mariam’s bellows were urgent, guttural noises, like those made by a man mortally wounded on the battlefield, the sounds that drew crows. I felt like a carrion bird myself.

  The women attending the birth were pale with fatigue: Mariam had been sweating and groaning for hours and they were afraid they would lose her, or the baby, or both.

  “The baby’s early—it should be easy to deliver,” one whispered. “Something’s not right.”

  “This place has a bad feeling,” said another. “I’ve seen djinn here, in the night, eyes glowing with moonlight.”

  “Those were cats,” a third woman scoffed. “They’re everywhere.”

  The second speaker was not to be put off. “It’s his bad luck. It follows him wherever he goes. I knew this child wouldn’t come easily. It’ll be a monster—if it ever does come out—just wait and see.”

  “I strewed salt across the threshold,” said the local wisewoman they had called in to oversee the birth. “No djinn can enter here.”

  I tilted my good foot and scrutinized the sole of my slipper. Little white crystals were embedded in the soft leather: I had broken the line of salt and brought the bad luck in with me.

  No. I was the bad luck.

  It took another three hours until at last the baby was out—a lump of purple flesh with a slippery cloak of membrane across its head so that at first we all thought it had been born faceless, the monster some had expected. But the wisewoman knew better and the caul was soon off. The child was small, its first cry thin and reedy, but it punched the air with small, triumphant fists as if to proclaim its arrival: it would live.

  I ran forward with the swaddling clothes once the wisewoman was ready, stood head down and obedient to receive the scrap of life into my arms. Then, as soon as they turned back to attend to the afterbirth and look after Mariam, I ran as if all the djinn in the world were after me.

  At the postern gate I found the wet nurse, two guards in Qasim’s pay and the promised horse. We galloped north and I prayed that the arrangements had been well made. If he ever finds out, I am dead, I thought, over and over, as the horses’ hooves pounded into the ground. Dead, dead, dead. And then I caught myself in this selfish thought and made myself consider what Momo and Mariam must be feeling now: their elder son in enemy hands, their baby stolen from beneath their noses. What dark despair must they be in? I imagined Mariam wailing her heart out, Momo trying to comfort her. Or would he be out on his horse searching for the vile thief who had stolen his son, his mind full of murder? If he finds out, he will kill me, I thought again, and once more forced myself away from self-pity. I reminded myself it was a necessary step, that the removal of his heir would make Momo safer. But I knew I was doing something terribly wrong and my guilt felt as if it would engulf me.

  The case should have been put to Momo. He should have been given time to come to terms with the need for it and to talk Mariam around to the decision, but Qasim was too impatient. “He will never agree to it, and that will bring war to our doorstep. They can have others,” he had said dismissively.

  Qasim had no wife. Children were nothing to him. Coming from him the words sounded so callous, so cruel. Then I remembered I had said the very same thing to Momo myself about Ahmed.

  The vizier and the Special Guardian. The two who should have been his closest allies and his most trustworthy friends. We were betraying him in the worst possible way. And yet on I went with the precious scrap of life in my arms.

  When we reached the appointed meeting place, they were there, the dark-robed men hiding their Castilian insignia—quartered castles and dragons rampant—the arms of the foreign queen, whose catlike contentment at holding one son had so turned my stomach. Now I was giving her a second. Would this one finally satisfy her? Or would she come calling for more, demand every child the doomed pair produced as hostage against their continued subjugation? Well, I was committed now. I handed over the child and the wet nurse followed as arranged. I was surprised when one of the foreigners brought forth a leather pouch. It was heavy, and its contents clinked. “The agreed price
,” he said in his ugly language. “You can count, check it’s the right amount.”

  “What need?” said the second man. “Thirty pieces of silver is the same in any currency.”

  24

  Kate

  NOW

  Abdou and Kate walked through the narrow streets of the Albayzín, almost touching, barely speaking, wrapped in their own thoughts. They had pored over the fragments of manuscript into the early hours, Khadija fetching down books and examining photographs of etched desert stones, then resorting to the Internet to download pages of alphabet charts tracking the language from its ancient roots to its current Unicode values. Together, they had tried to transcribe the separate words from the fragments and locate equivalent symbols on the charts, but the code—as Kate had come to see it—was complex and obscure. Every so often Khadija or Abdou would exclaim that they thought they had pieced together a word, only for the following phrase to prove indecipherable or to render the guessed word meaningless. At last the professor had sat back, rubbing her temples. “Time to bring in the experts,” she had said with a yawn. “I’ll make some calls. I know of a professor of Tamazight in Rabat. He may be able to help if I send JPEGs of the fragments to him. May I keep these for now?” Of course they had agreed, but secretly Kate had been disappointed not to have deciphered them right away.

  Her heel struck a cobblestone and the sound ricocheted off the walls into the night air. She stole a sideways glance at her companion—it was what he felt like to her, a companion. Someone she could walk comfortably with, side by side, there being no need to speak. Then Abdou turned his head and caught her watching him. Moonlight slicked off his eye, caught the curve of his lips: he looked in that moment, she thought, almost demonic, and all thoughts of companionship fled, leaving her with a fast-beating heart and a sensation that flirted along the edge of fear.