The Sultan's Wife

by Jane Johnson

  ‘Or a death.’ I turn to him, my heart beginning to pick up speed. ‘You go to Ismail – I’ll go and see what’s happened.’

  He nods and strides off, glad enough no doubt not to be involved in the messy world of women that lies beyond the iron gate. I present myself to the harem guard. ‘What is going on here?’

  The guard – a big Asante man with a face that looks as if it has been etched out of stone – regards me coolly. ‘Do you have a pass?’

  ‘The emperor has sent me to find out what the noise is all about,’ I lie. He holds my gaze for a long moment, then stands aside to let me pass. I hurry along the walkways towards the storm of noise, knowing as I do so that I am nearing Alys’s quarters, and a cold gripping of the gut assails me.

  In the courtyard outside the White Swan’s suite of rooms, women are weeping. I grab hold of Alys’s maid, Mamass. Her eyes are swollen almost shut; snot drips from her nose. She buries her face in my robe, her entire frame shaking with sobs. I hold her from me: ‘What is it, Mamass, what has happened?’

  Her mouth begins to frame a shape, then wobbles. ‘It… it… it’s Mo… mo.’

  ‘What, what about him?’ But I know already. Putting the girl aside, I run into Alys’s apartment. Inside, it is almost dark. The contrast between the bright winter light outside and the gloom within has me blinking for several seconds. Then, as my eyes start to adjust, I make out a tiny figure on the divan, an arm hanging limply, and Alys beside him, screaming and screaming. Her veil is torn into strips, the blonde hair beneath unbraided, disordered into a pale straw rat’s nest. The face she turns to me is a mask of blood and smeared kohl out of which her eyes stare madly. For a second the keening wavers, then she takes another breath and the volume redoubles.

  I kneel beside the divan and take Momo’s tiny hand in mine. It is still warm. He looks as if he is asleep, lying with his head thrown back, his mouth open as if he is breathing through it. Except that he is not breathing at all. I shake him. ‘Momo! Momo!’

  There is no response: of course there isn’t.

  I run out into the courtyard, straight into Zidana. ‘Has someone sent for the doctor?’

  ‘There is no need.’ She looks grave but there is a certain gratified sheen in her eyes that gives her away. ‘It’s far too late for that.’

  ‘I will go. Has the sultan been notified?’

  Now she smiles widely. ‘Perhaps you would like that honour.’

  I would not, but it’s a task I have to shoulder. I run from the harem.

  *

  Doctor Friedrich’s sanatorium is on the way to the sultan’s apartments. I knock loudly on the door and enter without waiting for a response. A small, flayed creature lies spread-eagled on his workbench, all red and glistening. The doctor stands over it with a scalpel in his hand. He looks alarmed when I appear. For an instant I remember the beating heart in the fetish doll, then I say in a rush: ‘You’re needed in the harem: the little prince Mohammed is dead and his mother is likely to kill herself with grieving. I am going to find his majesty.’

  Before he can ask me anything more, I am away again, running down the corridor, the slap of my feet echoing off the marble pillars.

  The emperor is in deep discussion with ben Hadou. The only words I catch are ‘transportable twelve-inch mortars’, which mean nothing to me. They look startled when I run in, though their faces relax as soon as they see it is only me. I cast myself headlong on to the floor, hoping Ismail will not kill the messenger. ‘Most sublime majesty, I bring terrible news. The Emir Mohammed, son of the White Swan, is dead.’

  The stunned silence that follows this pronouncement fills the room. I can feel my overworked heart beating against the cold tiles, thud, thud, thud. Then the sultan lets out a great cry and I see his feet go past me, a flash of gold and green, and he is out of the door. I raise my head, to find ben Hadou watching me intently.

  ‘Not an easy message to have to deliver.’

  ‘Indeed no, sidi,’ I say, getting to my feet. ‘Poor little lad.’

  ‘His father dotes upon him.’

  ‘As do we all.’

  ‘Maybe someone does not dote quite as much as the rest.’

  We look at one another steadily. Then I say, ‘I do not know the cause of the child’s death, but I saw no mark upon him.’

  ‘Some… substances leave no trace, I believe.’

  ‘Doctor Friedrich is examining the body now.’

  He makes a dismissive sound. ‘Doctor Friedrich is in the empress’s pocket.’

  I keep my face motionless. ‘I know nothing about that. Look, I must go and attend upon his majesty.’

  I can feel his eyes on my back until I am out of his sight.

  *

  The boy is dead: Doctor Friedrich finds no pulse, and by the time Ismail arrives Momo’s body is cold. Superstition prevents him from approaching the corpse; he just stares at it as if he cannot believe the child he was carrying around the palace on his shoulders yesterday, laughing and shouting, lies there silent and immobile and will never laugh or shout again. The body is duly washed, perfumed and wrapped in a pure white shroud, then carried to the mosque and placed before the imam. I have never seen the sultan weep before, but he is inconsolable, and when the time comes for the child to be interred he declares that he cannot bear to see such beauty consigned to the earth, and so I am sent with the kaids and court officials to oversee the burial. Momo’s little body is laid to rest in its narrow strip of ground facing east, towards a holy city he will never see.

  Prayers have also been said at the women’s mosque, though I later hear that Alys was so overcome by grief, and behaving so wildly, that it was thought best she remain in her quarters, where she roars like a beast, tears her clothes to rags and her cheeks to ribbons. The next day when I visit the harem there are still traces of her mad passage wherever I go: a shred of cloth here, a drop of blood there, as if she is such a cursed being that no one even wants to clean up after her.

  My heart yearns to visit her, but when I inquire after her I am told that she has shut herself up in her apartments and refuses to see anyone – that she has quite lost her mind and reverted to her previous animal state, one that is shaming to any good Muslim, indicative of her infidel soul.

  *

  The day before the embassy is due to depart I am summoned by Zidana. She is full of good humour: it radiates from her like sunshine. The White Swan’s son’s death has been attributed to natural causes, a crisis of the heart from a defect he must have carried since birth, so no suspicion has fallen upon her. Indeed, Ismail spent the previous night in her company (though I have not been asked to make an entry in the couching book), and has not even asked to see Alys, she tells me with some satisfaction. It seems the boy was more dear to him than the mother.

  She hands over a calfskin bag full of coin and jewels for use in my quest for the elixir she seeks; or to persuade its maker to come to the Meknes court. Her hand closes over mine as I take it. ‘Thank you, Nus-Nus: for all our difficulties over the years, you have proved yourself a true friend and a steadfast servant.’

  I feel quite sick as I walk away.

  *

  I have one more task before I leave with ben Hadou, which is the handing over of my court duties and the couching book. I have been dreading this: there is bad blood between me and Samir Rafik. I do not want to go anywhere near him and it is with a heavy heart that I return to my little room. But the man waiting for me there is not Samir, nor even a man, but a slight, ill-favoured boy with a pale, Fassi look to him. He introduces himself as Aziz ben Faoud, and he has had the foresight to bring with him his own writing kit: inks, reeds and portable desk. When I take him through his duties he surprises me with his deference and his quick mind. His handwriting is elegant, his ways neat and precise. He listens to every word I say with rapt attention and carries out the exercises I set him accurately and without fuss.

  He watches as I find the entry marking Momo’s birth and, in the space that
is always left for such eventualities, add: ‘Emir Mohammed ben Ismail is pronounced dead Third 5th Day, Dhū al-Qada 1091, may God’s blessing be upon him.’

  ‘Poor little boy,’ Aziz says softly. I am surprised to see tears in his eyes.

  When I entrust the couching book to him, he takes it in his hands with awe, strokes the cover as if it is alive, and stows it reverentially in its cerecloth. ‘I will guard it with my life, sir,’ he breathes. ‘You will have no need to chide me when you return: I shall do my utmost to maintain your high standards.’

  I do not remember the last time I was treated with such respect; but I do not feel as if I deserve it.

  *

  I said I had one more task to fulfil: in fact, the handing over of the book was my last official duty. There is one more unofficial task to perform, though the most crucial of all.

  The sultan does not leave his quarters that day. So, after last prayer, instead of turning left out of the mosque to return to the imperial apartments, I am free to turn right and head out into the city.

  It is eerie in the medina at night. My footsteps echo off the narrow alley walls, so that it sounds as if I am constantly being followed and I am forever looking over my shoulder. When a cat shoots out from a doorway, my heart leaps like a frightened hare. The sound of my knuckles on the door of my destination is so loud I half expect guards to come running.

  Daniel al-Ribati opens the door and for a long moment we stand staring at one another. I am sure this day has taken its toll on both of us: certainly, he appears haggard, and I am sure I look no better. ‘Come in, Nus-Nus,’ he says, and ushers me inside. We embrace. More than friends now, we are coconspirators, brought close by shared danger.

  I do not even have to frame the question that beats to escape, for he smiles and nods towards the ceiling. Upstairs, we enter a tiny back room lit by a small candle. In the circle of its golden light lies a small shape covered by a striped blanket. I kneel beside it and take the hand that is visible on top of the covering in my own.

  ‘Momo?’

  For a tense pause there is no response, then the boy stirs, wrinkles his nose, screws up his eyes, squirms; pulls away his hand as if he would turn over and retreat back into oblivion.

  ‘Momo!’ This time he opens his eyes. For a moment they are so black and blank that I feel sure he has lost his mind in the toils of our mad scheme; then personality surges up through the darkness and infuses them with life. He focuses and, seeing me, smiles.

  I have never felt such relief in all my life. I hug him tightly. Over his head I see Daniel grinning at me. ‘You see, he is fine. I gave him something to counteract the datura and when he came round this afternoon he ate half a loaf of bread and a leg of chicken as fast as a starving dog. After which he slept soundly—a proper, healing sleep.’

  Momo is sitting up now. His skin is so translucent he looks like a ghost of himself, which in a sense he is. ‘Where is Mama?’ he asks slowly, as if it is an effort.

  ‘In the palace, still. She’s…’ I pause. ‘Well enough…’ What else can I say? He’s not four yet, how could he understand what is happening here, what his mother will be going through? I must go back, I think. Somehow I must get word to her that he lives or she really will go mad with worry.

  ‘When will she come?’

  ‘She cannot come, yet. Don’t fret, Momo. You are going on a journey with me, on a long journey, at your mama’s request.’

  His face, alight one moment, now falls. Tears gather, but he is too proud to let them fall. ‘Very well, then,’ he chokes out. ‘When do we leave?’

  ‘Tomorrow. For a few days we travel by mule train to Tangier, and then by ship to England, where your mama’s family come from. It will not be comfortable, Momo, and you will need to be quiet and brave. Can you do that, for your mother’s sake?’

  He nods solemnly.

  ‘Let me show you the chest,’ Daniel says softly, touching my shoulder. ‘Let the boy sleep: he’ll be more himself tomorrow.’

  I tuck Momo back in his blankets and press the tips of my fingers against his forehead as my mother used to do to me, to keep bad spirits and bad thoughts at bay. ‘Rest now. I will come for you in the morning, insh’allah.’

  ‘Insh’allah,’ he echoes sleepily, and turns away.

  The great wooden travelling chest is a marvellous thing. The shallow concealed compartment in its base, in which poor Momo will lie, is lined with padded fabric punctuated with discreet breathing holes in the bottom and sides. No one searching the contents of the box is, I hope, likely to suspect the existence of the hidden drawer. I have a gentle soporific for him that may ease the worst of it, but, even so, it is hard to imagine how he will prevail, poor little lad: to lie prone and unmoving for hours, jolted by mules and porters, would be a trial to even the most desperate fugitive, let alone a lively child who cannot usually sit still for a moment, and who cannot fully grasp the necessity for such secrecy. Above him will be piled the cones of salt and sugar, the bags of saffron and spices we are taking to the English king as a gift of the sultan. Fine treasures, but not so rich or rare that they will attract casual thievery or undue attention, I hope.

  There is still so much that could go wrong with this venture that I have to stop my mind from running headlong down all manner of dark alleys. But for now, at least, Momo is alive and shows no great ill effect from the dangerous potion with which he was drugged this morning by Zidana’s own hand, thinking she sent him to his death. The potion with which I supplied her. It is an audacious double-game I have played, forced into such daring ingenuity by Alys’s growing terror for her son and the slim chance of escape afforded by the English embassy. But I could have done none of this without the good merchant. He has risked his life to help us, and for no reward other than that of friendship. For it was Daniel – rather than any untrustworthy herbman – who procured for me the potion, a decoction in large part of desert thorn-apple, that I gave to Zidana, which put Momo into a death-like state; Daniel who assured me that his friend Doctor Friedrich would certify the boy’s demise; Friedrich who for the past few weeks had tested the substance on all manner of creatures of increasing size to determine the correct dosage. It was Daniel who, with his son-in-law, Isaac, shadowed the funeral procession to the burial field, lingered till all had left, removed the body of the infant from his shroud within the soft earth as the light failed, replacing it with the bones of another, nameless child, dead of the plague, and brought Momo to his own home to await me. It was Daniel who had the travelling box made by a trusted carpenter, who has supplied the salt and other goods within – these being my alibi in visiting his house, since this commission at least was official and, for once, remunerated by the Treasury.

  When I leave, he presses a note into my hand. On it, in his firm hand, is written a name and an address in London.

  ‘Whether he will help you, I know not. I did not much care for him myself when we did business together, but that may have been a cultural misunderstanding, and we must trust to his better nature.’ He folds my fingers over the note, then embraces me warmly. ‘Go with God, Nus-Nus. I will see to it that the box and its precious contents are delivered to the palace gate first thing in the morning, to join the rest of the embassy’s cargo. I will pray for your success, and, God willing, we shall meet again.’

  *

  I never did get to say farewell to Alys.

  Deciding against involving little Mamass in our dangerous plot, I sought out Doctor Friedrich and asked him to get word to the White Swan that her son was well and on his way to England. He grimaced. ‘I have already risked my neck once in this affair,’ he said unhappily. ‘I think I have ridden my luck in this place as far as it will go.’ I cajoled him, but he just shook his head and paced out into the corridor, leaving me standing in his grisly laboratory, surrounded by jars of organs, racks of flayed skins and the boiled bones of a myriad unidentifiable creatures.

  On the long ride to Tangier, I think of her, tearing her hair and
her clothes, acting mad with grief, not knowing whether her charade may not yet turn out to be a cruel mirror of the truth.

  As we make our way across the Gharb, we are set upon by optimistic bandits, who have underestimated our firepower. They are soon made aware of their error of judgement, but even so manage to make off with four of the mules at the back of the baggage train, and that is when I see the wagon bearing my travelling box is missing and spur my horse after them, yelling like the King of Djinns. Poor Amadou, who has accompanied me, and whose leash is wrapped securely around the pommel of my saddle, screeches with outrage at this unexpected change of pace. He turns his head to me, all gnashing teeth and rolling eyes. He gets in the way of my first attempt to level my gun at our attackers and I have to push him to one side. Terror concentrates the mind and adds steel to the arm: it also makes me a better shot with a musket than I have ever been before. One man goes down with a bullet through the back of his head that clean tears his face off: I see the red ruin of it as he cartwheels off his mount in front of me. My lance takes another through the thigh and pins him, wailing, to his saddle. Amadou echoes his unearthly howl and chatters like a demon. Seeing that I am merely the vanguard of a battalion of imperial troops, the rest of the bandits ride off at speed, abandoning the stolen wagons.

  Ben Hadou surveys the scene with a raised eyebrow. ‘Good work, Nus-Nus. Such fervour to guard the sultan’s gifts to the English king! I don’t ever recall you going after the Berbers with such a vengeance.’

  I hang my head and mumble something about duty, and he laughs.

  ‘You’re an example to the rest. I’m going to promote you to deputy ambassador for the course of the visit – though you’ll still be called on in the role of secretary. Agreed?’

  Words fail me; I simply nod. Amadou capers on the horse’s withers as if it is all his doing and ben Hadou laughs. He reaches across and claps me on the back. ‘Good man. I need someone I can trust. They’ve already saddled me with some wretched English renegade, a man well known as a troublemaker, and there are other vipers amongst the embassy too. Watch and listen and report anything suspicious back to me. If anyone else makes you an offer, tell me at once. I shall make it worth your while.’