by Jane Johnson
The
Sultan’s
Wife
ALSO BY JANE JOHNSON
Court of Lions
The Sea Gate
The Salt Road
The Tenth Gift
Pillars of Light
The
Sultan’s
Wife
Jane Johnson
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the UK in 2021 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Jane Johnson, 2021
The moral right of Jane Johnson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (PBO): 9781789545296
ISBN (E): 9781789545289
Head of Zeus Ltd
5–8 Hardwick Street
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For Abdel
Contents
Also by Jane Johnson
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part Two
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part Three
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Part Four
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Historical Note
Glossary
Acknowledgements
Bibliography
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
Part One
1
First 5th Day of Rabī al-Awwal Year 1087 Anno Hegirae (1677 in the Christian calendar) Meknes, Kingdom of Morocco
The rain has been coming down hard since the early hours, turning the ground to a quagmire. It beats on the roof tiles and on the terraces where usually women hang out washing and spy on the comings and goings of the men below. It beats on the green faience of the Chaouia Mosque and on the four golden apples and the crescent moon atop its tall minaret. It streaks the walls surrounding the palace with dark stains like blood.
The artisans stand with their robes plastered to their bodies, staring at the massive slabs of cedar for the main gate, now sodden and mud-spattered. No one thought to protect the wood against rain: this is the time when marigolds should carpet the scarred red hills like drifts of orange snow and figs begin to swell in city gardens.
A continent away, the French king is engaged in extravagant plans for his palace and gardens at Versailles. Sultan Moulay Ismail, Emperor of Morocco, has declared he will construct a palace to dwarf this Versailles: the walls will run from here in Meknes for three hundred miles over the mountains of the Middle Atlas all the way to Marrakech! The first stage – the Dar Kbira, with its twelve towering pavilions, mosques and hammams, courtyards and gardens, kitchens and barracks and koubbas – is nearing completion. The Bab al-Raïs, the main gate to the complex, is to be inaugurated in a day’s time. Provincial governors from all parts of the empire have arrived for the dedication, bringing with them presents of slaves, cloth-of-gold, French clocks and silver candlesticks. At midnight Ismail plans to slaughter a wolf with his own hands, set its skull in the wall and bury its body beneath the gateway. But how, if the door itself – symbol of the entire grand enterprise – is not finished? And what will the sultan do if his plans are thwarted?
At least one of the artisans is contemplatively feeling the back of his neck.
Across the compound a group of European slaves toils away on top of the outer walls, repairing a monstrous-hole where there has been an overnight collapse. The pisé is waterlogged: the sand and lime were probably not correctly cured in the first place, and now the rain has made it fatally unstable. No doubt the repair will fail too, and then everyone will be flogged for negligence. Or worse.
The workers are meagre of flesh and pale of skin, their faces sharpened by hunger, their tunics ripped and filthy. One of them, heavy-bearded and hollow-eyed, gazes across the desolate scene. ‘God’s bones, it’s cold enough to kill hogs.’
His neighbour nods glumly. ‘As grim as Hull in winter.’
‘At least there’s ale in Hull.’
‘Aye, and women.’
A general sigh.
‘Even the women of Hull look good to me after five months in this place.’
‘And to think you went to sea to get away from women!’
The laughter this remark provokes is brief and bitter. Survivors of months in the stinking underground matamores in which they have been confined by these foreign devils after being seized from merchant vessels and fishing boats from Cork to Cornwall, they have spent their first weeks in Morocco telling their stories to one another, keeping the dream of home alive.
Will Harvey straightens up suddenly, pushing his rain-slick hair out of his face. ‘Christ’s eyes, will you look at that?’
They all turn. An inner door within the great palace door opens and an odd contraption pokes out, followed by a tall figure that has to bend almost double to exit, then draws itself up to an exaggerated height. It wears a scarlet robe partially covered by a white woollen cloak with gold borders. Above its turbaned head it holds a round testern of cloth on a long handle which shields it from the driving rain.
‘What the devil is it?’ Harvey demands.
‘I believe it’s a bongrace,’ ventures the Reverend Ebslie.
‘Not the implement, you dolt: the thing that holds it. Look at how it picks its way like a trained Spanish pony!’
The figure moves gingerly between the pools of standing water. Over its jewelled slippers it wears a pair of high cork pattens at which the mud sucks greedily. The workers watch its progress with growing fascination and soon begin to catcall:
‘Clownish fool!’
‘Catamite!’
It is a rare pleasure to pass a fraction of their torment on to another, even if their target is a foreigner and does not comprehend the insults.
‘Mincing coxcomb!’
‘Lily-white quean!’
‘Half-and-half!’
As if this last and most innocuous remark has found its mark, the figure suddenly halts and, tilting the ridiculous contraption back, gazes up at them. If its demeanour and clothing have given the appearance of wilting femininity, the face that is turned up to the hecklers gives the lie to that impression. Lily-white it most certainly is not; nor delicat
e either. It looks as if it has been carved out of obsidian, or some hard wood blackened by age. Like a war-mask, grim and immobile, it gives no sign of the human beneath – except that a warning line of white shows under the black iris of the eye as the man’s gaze scorches over them.
‘You should be more careful whom you insult.’
A shocked silence falls over the group of slaves.
‘One click of my fingers will bring your overseers running.’
In the shelter of a doorway some thirty yards away four men are brewing up a samovar of tea. The vapour from the pot wreaths around them so that they look like wraiths. But the impression of insubstantiality is deceptive: given the opportunity to dole out punishment they would abandon their tea-making in an eye-blink and come storming into the world of men, whips and cudgels at the ready.
The prisoners shuffle awkwardly, too late realizing the gravity of their error. No one else speaks English in this godforsaken country!
The courtier regards them dispassionately. ‘Those men have been chosen for their ruthlessness. Not an ounce of common humanity remains to them. They are instructed to punish the lazy and the insubordinate without mercy and will kill you and bury your corpses in the very walls you are rebuilding without any regret. There are always more to take your place. Life is cheap in Meknes.’
The captives know this is no less than the truth. Desperately, they look to Will Harvey as their spokesman (after all it was his fault for drawing their attention to the man in the first place); but his head is bowed as if waiting for a blow. No one says a word. The tension is palpable.
At last Harvey raises his head. His expression is mulish. ‘Are you a man? Or a devil? Would you see us die for a few unwise words?’
There is an intake of breath from the others; but for a moment the courtier gives him a bleak smile; then the mask is back in place. ‘Am I a man? Ah, that is a good question…’ He pauses, allowing them a good look at his gold-trimmed cloak, the expensive bracelets on his muscled black forearms, the silver bond on his left ear. ‘I am a half-thing, a nobody: a slave, just like you. You should be thankful that when they cut me, they did not take my heart.’ The testern swings back to obscure his face.
No one says a word, unsure what is meant. They watch as the courtier continues to pick his way through the mud towards the long stretch of waste ground that lies between the palace and the medina beyond. He passes the overseers; pauses. They hold their breath. Clearly, greetings have been exchanged, but no more. At last, chastened, cognizant that they have survived a hair’s-breadth escape, they resume their never-ending toil. They live to work – and die – another day. And that, at the final count, is all any of us can ask.
2
‘Peace be upon you, sir.’
Sidi Kabour is a slight, elderly man with an immaculate white beard, carefully manicured hands and perfect manners. You would never take him to be the greatest expert in poisons in all Morocco. He tilts his head and smiles up at me, blandly polite, the neutral formality of his greeting designed to give the impression he has never met me before, as if I am just another random customer who has stumbled on his hidden stall at the back of the Henna Souq, drawn by the scent of incense, Taliouine saffron and more illicit substances. In truth he knows me well: my mistress has frequent need of his skills.
At once my court-bred instincts are on the alert. I look down at him, my already considerable height further elevated by the ridiculous pattens. ‘And with you, fkih.’ Giving nothing away.
His left eye twitches and I glance past him. There is a man in the shadows at the rear of the shop. When I look back the storekeeper purses his lips. Be careful.
‘What rain!’ I try for joviality.
‘My wife, God watch over her, took all the carpets from the guest salon yesterday at noon and hung them out on the terrace to air.’
‘And forgot to bring them in?’
Sidi Kabour gives a helpless shrug. ‘Her mother was sick: she spent the night sitting with her and remembered the carpets only after first prayer. They were my grandmother’s, woven of good strong wool, but the colours have run.’ He grimaces, but I know the conversation is designed only to dull the ears of the lurking client. As he lists the herbs he mixed for his mother-in-law and the effects they have had on her constipation, the man speaks.
‘Do you have root of wolf’s onion?’
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. Wolf’s onion is a rare plant with contradictory properties. Beneficial substances in its tuber can stem bleeding and promote the rapid healing of wounds, as I know only too well. However, the leaves in reduction have the ability to produce a deadly toxin. The scarcity of the plant and its powerful effects render its price extravagantly high. The buyer’s accent places him as coming from somewhere between the lower Atlas range and the Great Desert, which is the region in which wolf’s onion is most commonly found (and looking down I see he wears slippers with round toes, which you do not commonly find here in the north). He must therefore know that it can be bought in the souq in Tafraout at a far more reasonable price. Which means that to this man, or to the master he serves, money is of no object, and the need for the plant is urgent. But the question remains: is it required for healing or for killing?
Sidi Kabour scurries to the back of the shop. I feel the man’s eyes upon me and smile blandly at him, only to be taken aback by the intensity of his stare. Courtiers are often envied; luxury men and blackamoors frequently despised. I put his look down to such prejudice. ‘Salaam aleikum. Peace be with you, sir.’
‘And with you.’
On the pretext of removing the wretched pattens, I slip the paper I am holding, which contains a list of the required items, beneath a bottle of the Empress Zidana’s preferred brand of musk, where Sidi Kabour will know to find it. We have used this system before, he and I: you can never be too careful when you deal in secrets. I stow the overshoes beneath the stall, where I can retrieve them later, then straighten up, making a great show of brushing rain off my cloak, so that the stranger can see my hands are empty.
His eyes are still upon me: his gaze makes my skin crawl. Have I seen him around the court? The cast of his face is in some way familiar. Under his knitted red skullcap his bones lie close to the surface: he would be considered handsome if it were not for a certain meanness around the mouth. No slave-bond in his ear. A freedman? A merchant in his own right? Anything is possible: Morocco is one of the world’s trade crossroads, the entire country a marketplace. But if the man is a mere merchant why did Sidi Kabour flash me a warning? And why is this man attempting to purchase, in plain hearing, a powerful poison? If he knows who I am, he must know I am here on a similar mission. Is it some sort of test? And if so, by whom?
Of course, I have my suspicions. I have my enemies, and so does my mistress.
Sidi Kabour reappears. ‘Is this what you’re looking for?’
The customer sniffs the tubers as if he can by the sheer power of his nose ascertain whether they meet his standards. Another false note: any true poisoner knows it matters not how old the root is: like its cousin, the lily, the wolf onion preserves its lethal qualities indefinitely.
‘How much?’
The herbman names an extortionate price and the man agrees to it with a minimum of haggling. Which decides me that there is something sinister going on. While the southerner is digging in his pouch for the coins, I walk quickly away out into the Henna Souq, almost colliding with a handcart piled high with water vessels, pots and pans, swiftly putting several donkeys, a bustle of veiled women and a gaggle of children between myself and any pursuer. Taking refuge under the awning of a coffee stall, I stare back and watch the people pass by, looking for sharp features under a knitted red skullcap. When it becomes clear that no one is in pursuit, I curse my foolishness. The catcalling of the European slaves has set my nerves on edge. I am not myself.
Besides, there are errands to be run for my master: I have no time to dally here, coddling my paranoia. Best leave Sidi
Kabour to get rid of the southerner and set about fulfilling the empress’s order: I will return for it later. There are some items on the list that may take him some while to prepare.
The horse-dresser’s stall is on the other side of the souq, beyond the cloth-merchants, haberdashers and tailors, the cordwainers and cobblers. The caparisoner is a big man, almost as dark as myself, with large, lugubrious features that, on hearing my request, arrange themselves in an expression of almost comical dismay. ‘A shitbag? Embroidered in gold?’
I nod. ‘It is for a very holy horse. It has made the pilgrimage to Mecca and its droppings cannot be allowed to fall upon the ground.’ I explain in precise detail the design Moulay Ismail desires.
The man’s eyes bulge. ‘And how much will the sultan pay for such intricate work?’ But already he looks defeated: he knows the answer.
I spread my hands apologetically. The sultan never parts with a coin if he can help it. The country and everything within it pertain to him: what need to pay? What need for money at all in such a system? But my master hoards it in the Treasury and, if rumour is to be believed, in many secret chambers dug beneath the palace grounds. The day after his brother Sultan Moulay Rachid died, celebrating the Great Feast by riding his horse wildly through the gardens of his palace in Marrakech until fatally crowned by a low-hanging orange branch, Ismail occupied the Treasury at Fez and declared himself emperor. Since he thus controlled their pay, the army at once pledged their support. He is a wily man, my master: he has a nose for power. He makes a good emperor, albeit self-styled.
I remind the poor caparisoner that the royal commission is sure to win him more lucrative work from those who wish to ape my master’s example, but, as I leave him, I can see he is not convinced there will be many other takers for gold-embroidered shitbags.
The rest of my important tasks are accomplished with greater ease, since the tradesmen know the score well enough. Besides, it is an honour to supply the emperor, descended as he is directly from the Prophet. It is something to boast of. Some have even made signs which read: By order of His Majesty, Sultan Moulay Ismail, Emperor of Morocco, God grant him Glory and Long Life. He’ll live longer than any of us, I think as I walk on. Certainly longer than any of those of us within reach of his temper. Or his sword.