by Jane Johnson
The boy is named Mohammed, which is not my choice, but a common custom here for the eldest firstborn. I call him Momo.
Zidana visits me every day on some pretext or other; and every day she must unswaddle Momo and inspect him closely. She picks him up and regards his tiny body with the most curious expression and then she chuckles and goes away again without a word. She sends little gifts often – roasted nuts and sweetmeats, candies and once, memorably, a dish of sugared locusts – but I know better than to eat anything she sends me, and will not even let Amadou try them, despite Nus-Nus’s instructions.
It is not only Zidana who looks upon my child strangely: the monkey often sits beside me when my son is in my lap sleeping and gazes at his tiny form with such bleak menace that I fear he will do him some severe mischief if ever I leave the two of them untended. Sometimes when I feed the child Amadou will clamber into my lap and try to set his teeth to my other bosom. Repelled, he sets up such a chatter you would think I had tried to murder him. Such behaviour mars my days and peace of mind, for I know that if it continues, I will have to make a hard decision.
It seems that the absence of the sultan has led to some relaxation in the strict rules surrounding the harem, for today I am visited by the grand vizier himself, Abdelaziz ben Hafid. I am, I must admit, most perplexed by the sight of him here: I was given to believe it was death for an entire man to look upon the harem wives, but he tells me he is paying the sultan’s respects in proxy, and wishes to inspect the child. When he sees Momo, he seems much puzzled and asks if he may see him unclothed: I am afraid I demur. He has hands like a woman, Abdelaziz; the palms soft and padded with fat, but there is muscle behind the fat, and he has a determined, cool look in his black eyes. I do not trust him and feel sure he has come to do us mischief; even Amadou dislikes him, baring his gums at him and shrieking from a distance.
But my resistance does not deter him; he keeps coming back, each time bringing some fine gift: pots of perfume rich with musk and frankincense, blocks of sweet-smelling amber with which to fragrance my clothes, a French-made cot for the baby, covered all over in gold leaf. Laughing at the absurd extravagance of such an item, I try to refuse it. ‘La, bezef, bezef, sidi!’ (I have learned a little Arabic now.) ‘Ja mil… It is lovely, but no.’
But he insists. ‘The child is Ismail’s and must be honoured.’ He pauses. ‘It is Ismail’s, is it not?’
‘Of course.’
‘There can be no doubt of that? Only’ – he spreads his hands apologetically – ‘there has been talk.’
‘Talk?’
‘Of another interested party?’
I do not understand, and say so.
‘Forgive me such blunt speech, but I have heard the Lady Zidana saying that the slave Nus-Nus has a fondness for you.’ He watches me intently and must perceive my shock. I cannot help but colour: I feel the heat rise, like guilt writ plain upon me.
‘Nus-Nus is a perfect gentleman, and the emperor’s good servant.’
‘This is not the word that has been put around the court. It is said he lies with you and that the child is his.’
‘The child is the emperor’s, and no other’s. Besides, the gentleman you cite is, I believe, a “cut man” and so not capable of such a feat.’
An unreadable expression passes over his face. Then he says, ‘I believe you, my dear. But Zidana is an implacable enemy, and dabbles in sorcery. If you were to bring me evidence of her wicked dealings, I will be your shield and your strength against her. If you want to keep yourself and your child safe, that is.’
*
He leaves it a week before making his next visit. The ma‘alema’s arrival coincides with his, and she brings armfuls of rosemary with which to perfume my tent, shrieks and veils herself, then bustles in and sits between us, as if to shield me from his presence.
When he makes his excuses and leaves us, she says, ‘Powerful man. Dangerous.’
‘Yes, I know: he is Ismail’s right hand.’
She shakes her head vehemently. ‘Only my lord Ismail’s right hand is his right hand. Abdelaziz ben Hafid is something else altogether, and he should not be here.’
*
Powerful. And dangerous. I should have remembered her words. Perhaps my English upbringing prevented me from upbraiding him, or running from his presence. It is true that I am afraid of Zidana and would welcome an ally. For some reason, Momo is entranced by the grand vizier. It does not take too long to realize why. The man is covered with jewels. There are pearls in his turban, and gold thread glitters in the hems and facings of his robe; gold wraps his forearms and fingers, and he wears many chains of office bearing precious stones the size of ducks’ eggs. Jewels flash on the hilt of the dagger he wears (which does not look as if it has ever done more than peel an apple), even on the toes of his slippers. There is a particular emerald that the boy has taken a huge fancy to and one day he grabs hold of it and simply will not let go, no matter how we cajole, or pull, or try to draw his attention with something else. Detached from the stone at last, he lets out such a wail you’d think that Hell had opened and was issuing forth from his mouth. Abdelaziz takes a step back. ‘He has considerable lungs, and quite a temper too. Truly, he must be his father’s son.’ His black eyes bore into me until I look away.
When next he visits he brings a gift for Momo: a gold ring bearing the seal of the sultan, a single huge pearl set at the centre. ‘Ismail would give the boy this himself were he here.’ He has threaded the ring on a gold chain, since it is far too large for a boy to wear, and places it around the baby’s neck. Momo latches on to his new plaything with the utmost glee. ‘He gives one of these to all his trueborn sons.’ Abdelaziz leans in closer and pats me on the hand. ‘Best not let Zidana see it, eh?’ And he winks at me most familiarly.
I sit away from him and stash each hand in the opposite sleeve. ‘It is very kind of you, sir – mezian, mezian – but perhaps it would be better to wait until the emperor returns from his campaign so that he may bestow it himself?’
The grand vizier smiles indulgently. ‘Dear lady. Ismail may not return from this war with his brothers for a very long time.’ He pauses significantly. ‘If ever… You should remember that, and my offer to you.’
‘But who could withstand such a huge army? I do not think the King of England himself could muster such a number.’
‘The King of England!’ Abdelaziz scoffs. He waves his hand dismissively, as if shooing a fly. ‘A minor principality. His father had his head cut off by his own people. What sort of a king is that? And his son was an exile who ran from pillar to post without a coin to his name, throwing himself on the charity of the French court, then the Dutch…’
‘Indeed,’ I say smoothly, ‘he once lodged with my own family in The Hague.’
That surprises him. ‘If the King of England is a friend to your family, why is it you have not sued for ransom?’
‘It was a long time ago,’ I say shortly. I do not add: besides, my mother is so poor she sold me to a draper.
This exchange alters in some degree his manner towards me. But instead of becoming more respectful, as you might expect, it seems to make him even more intent on my company. Sometimes he visits me two or three days running. I keep the gold chain hidden beneath the divan.
‘It is not right,’ the ma‘alema says one afternoon, folding her lips. ‘It is not my place to say so, lalla, but you should have a greater care for your reputation. He is a great enemy of Zidana. But she is far more dangerous than he. And if she takes his visits and turns them into something more than they are, well… The sultan is not a forgiving man, charaf.’
The next time the grand vizier comes to see me, I make sure I am in the company of other women and like them pull my veil over my face; though I note that one or two of the bolder ones make eyes at him over their veils.
*
One night Makarim brings me tea for a headache. ‘It will take away the pain,’ she says gently, pouring the tea from its little silver
pot into the glass from a great height. The scent is fragrant and complex: sweetened tea and garden herbs. I wait until she has tasted it, then take a mouthful and hold it for several long moments, assessing. A deeper taste than the usual mint tea; less sweet. I swallow, and feel the liquid go down my gullet and into my stomach, warming everything in its path.
When I awake my head is heavy and pounding; I cannot think straight. I blink and try to focus, but it is dark in the tent, and unnaturally quiet. I lie there on the divan, knowing that something has changed. I look around, through the gloom. At first glance everything looks as it should; but I sense a void, an absence. I sit up, too fast: the world swims. When the world settles, I light the lantern beside me with a trembling hand, suddenly full of dread, and hold it aloft. Its golden bloom illuminates the gilt-decorated cot in which my angel sleeps. As the light falls across it, the quiet is broken by a raucous chatter that makes me cry out. There is no child in the cot, but only the ape, Amadou, with the gold chain draped around his neck, the ring catching the light as it swings. His eyes glitter triumphantly in the gloom.
‘Momo?’ The keen of my voice is reedy and tremulous, but it gains power as panic enfolds me. ‘Momo?’ It rises to a wail.
On unsteady feet I run out of the tent. ‘My baby! Waladi!’ I scream. ‘They have taken my baby!’
Women come running, but Makarim, my maid, is nowhere to be seen.
‘Perhaps she has taken him to be with the other babies,’ says one.
‘Perhaps he would not sleep and she is walking with him.’
‘Perhaps they are in the hammam. We will go and see.’
But others exchange wary glances when they think I am not looking.
I run wildly from tent to tent, barging past furniture, throwing covers aside, howling like an animal. Tears and mucus run down my face. I run out into the darkness again. From somewhere I have got a knife, a little decorative thing. I wave it around, drunk with terror. It is the ma‘alema who comes at last and takes me by the arm. ‘Hush now, lalla. Shhh, calm yourself.’
Relieved that someone has taken control of the madwoman, the other courtesans drift away.
‘Do you know what they have done with him? Do you know where he is?’
She flinches as the little knife glints past her. ‘Come with me, but quietly, and put that thing away.’
She leads me around the back of the tents. For a big woman she is agile and her eyesight is excellent, for never once does she stumble. As we go I listen for the cry of my child, and the cries of other children do not distract me, for each baby’s noise is as distinctive to a mother as its look. And yet all the time I am listening out for him I picture him in my mind’s eye lying motionless in a tumble of cloth, discarded and lifeless. Or bundled up and dug into the midden. Or left somewhere on a mountainside for the wolves and jackals. And whenever I think these terrible things, little moans escape me. I cannot help it; even when I press my lips tight shut, they tremble so much that the sounds slip out.
At last we creep around a tent loud with music, a tent that is decked out in rich velvets and silks, richer even than the sultan’s own, and by this, and the fact that we have passed no harem guards, I know it must be Zidana’s. Candlelight within throws silhouettes of dancing figures with their hands in the air and it seems suddenly obscene to me that others should be lighthearted and rejoicing when my child is missing. The ma‘alema puts a finger to her lips, then points to a smaller tent a little way from that of the empress. When she sees I have marked it, she nods once and walks quickly away.
I walk to the tent, listen for a moment, then take my little knife, cut a slit in its wall and peer through. Inside, it is full of stores: sacks and jars of flour and butter and honey, cones of sugar and salt. Near the entrance, two women are sitting on stools, bent over some glass contraption over a little burner. The light it gives off is eerie, for whatever is inside the glass is emitting a coloured smoke; but, even so, I can see that the women are my maid, Makarim, and Taroob, one of Zidana’s servants. And what is that in the darkness behind them? In a space between the bags and jars, something pale, wrapped in dark fabric. One of the women bends forward and the light picks out white-gold curls of hair poking through the sacking. Momo… He is not moving, and my heart falls dead inside me. I have to stuff my hand into my mouth to prevent a cry of despair and fury bursting out of me. Makarim and Taroob are just sitting there, surrounded by the smoke that spirals up from some vessel that sits beside them: they pass the gaudy mouthpiece one to another, and laugh.
I move to the side where the sacks are piled highest and with gargantuan effort heave out some of the pegs that pin the tent’s wall to the ground. Going down on my belly, I crawl inside. But all the time I hear a voice in my head telling me my son is dead: he is dead, and they are guarding his corpse for Zidana to use in some magic rite…
And then the bundle moves. I freeze in mid-crawl: have I imagined it? For long seconds I hold my breath and wait, and watch. A hand appears, a tiny fist, waving. It is Momo’s pre-waking habit, this small challenge to the world: in a moment he will wake fully and demand food with a scream. The thrill jolts my blood back to life, and it pounds jerkily through me. Another few inches on elbows and belly and I have hold of the sacking that swaddles him; a pull, and I have his foot in my hand. I can see his face now, screwed up in almost-sleep, his mouth opening, sucking in air for a howl. A third pull and… the sacking snags on an unseen obstacle. Desperate, I tug harder and there is the sound of tearing. To me, it sounds deafening, as if I have just pulled a hole in the fabric of the night itself, but the women are so intent on their smoke and gossip that they do not even turn around. A moment later, my boy is in my arms, seeming so surprised by the sight of me that he forgets to cry; and then we are outside the tent once more, swallowed by the velvet darkness.
*
Back in my own tent with Momo feeding contentedly, watched on by a wary Amadou, who has squirrelled the gold chain away in some secret cache of his own, I sit weighed down by a deep black dread that has now replaced the soaring relief of finding my child. For what shall we do now, just the two of us, with enemies all around? I do not think I shall ever sleep again.
24
Barely a fortnight after the accord with the Berbers was made, the weather turned against us and terrible snowstorms swept in across the mountains. The English brass cannons we brought all the way from the Tafilalt with us had to be abandoned: we ate the oxen that drew them. Then we ate the few Berber sheep we had rounded up. Now all that remain are the pack animals, but they are, as the imams explain to us, haram: forbidden by the Prophet, for every creature has its designated purpose, and beasts of burden are born to bear, not to be eaten. But we have eaten everything else, except for the harnesses and leather tack, so perhaps that comes next.
At last, when we are weak from starvation, the holy men declare that conditions are sufficiently critical for the prohibition on the eating of the mules and donkeys to be put aside and great celebrations break out. But Ismail would rather starve to death than contravene one word of the Qur’an: he declares that he and his immediate staff (which unfortunately includes me) will go without until halal foodstuffs are somehow miraculously made available to us. I am afraid there are some of us who curse our master in our hearts, though no one would do so aloud: there are djinns everywhere in these mountains who would carry the word to him. You catch them out of the corner of your eye at twilight and in the height of a snowstorm: a twist of light where there should be no light; a dull flame in the darkness.
Some of the body-slaves slip into the soldiers’ camp after last prayer and beg a bit of mule: I catch Abid sucking the last scraps of meat out of a hoof and he all but weeps in relief when I promise I will say nothing of it. In truth, I do not have the energy. There are times when I think all I want to do is to go out into the snow and lie down and let its feathery white wings sweep over me, like the White Swan herself, and carry me into oblivion.
Just when dark m
emories of rumours about neighbouring tribes’ cannibalism begin to haunt me, the longed-for miracle occurs and a hunter staggers in with a mountain sheep he has stalked out on the perilous peaks draped across his shoulders. The sultan heralds his arrival with great praise and prayers. He marvels over the sheep’s extravagantly curled horns and rewards the hunter with a bag of gold, which the poor man takes with proper gratitude but then looks at mournfully. Ismail, seeing that the man would trade each coin for a mouthful of mutton, graciously presents him with part of one of the beast’s roasted legs, at which the hunter bursts into tears and prostrates himself and declares the sultan the most magnificent, munificent, godly and beloved leader Morocco has ever been so lucky to have. Ismail is so delighted by this that he raises the man up with his own hands and declares he is now a kaid and shall have equal shares of all the booty we have brought out of Sijilmassa. The man cannot believe his ears, and all that night goes from one to another of us, asking for the sultan’s promise to be repeated, in case he was dreaming.
The weather worsens. For three days we cannot move. Snow engulfs us, covering everything. Guards are posted to keep the snow from collapsing the imperial tents and suffocating the occupants. One morning we find two of Ismail’s door-guards frozen solid in place, grey shadows of their former selves.
When at last the snowstorms clear, a lookout reports that a horde of Berber tribesmen has gathered at the head of the valley below us, preventing our descent from the mountains. ‘They intend to starve us out,’ ben Hadou says grimly.
It will not take long. The mountain sheep is a distant memory. ‘Go take them gifts and find out who they are,’ Ismail tells the Tinker, who, even in his worn, emaciated state, is the best diplomat amongst us.