We talked further of such things, and then returned to the heat and sun outside, which seemed, after the cool darkness of the cave-like mosq, akin to stepping into a flaming oven. Again, it took some moments for my eyes to adjust to the light, and then I discovered that someone had taken my sandals. This struck me as most peculiar—that a thief should practise his nefarious craft at the entrance to a house of prayer—and I remarked on it as we stepped back into the street.
“Why does this surprise you?” wondered Mahmoud. “It is, after all, the way of the world, is it not? The good man goes about his affairs with faith and good will, and the bad man looks only to satisfy his base desires, caring nothing for others, or for God.”
“True,” I agreed. “Yet, I did not expect to be robbed by thieves within the holy precinct.”
Mahmoud laughed at my foolishness. “What better place to steal shoes?”
We walked slowly—and for me, somewhat painfully—back to the amir’s palace, stopping often to rest in the shade where we found it. Once, while we sat under a tree beside the road, a man came out of a nearby house and brought us sweetened lemon water to drink. “You see?” said Mahmoud, when he had thanked the man and sent him away with a blessing. “Thieves in the temple and angels in the street. Allah is utterly mysterious, is he not?”
“Inscrutable,” I agreed sourly. My feet hurt.
Later that night, when Kazimain came with my tray she brought me a bundle wrapped in blue silk. “What is this?” I asked as she placed the tray on the tripod and the bundle in my hands.
“It is a gift, Aidan,” she replied, kneeling beside the tray. I do not know which surprised me more—the unexpected gift, or her use of my name.
I looked at the shimmering cloth and could think of nothing to say. Kazimain tugged at one end of the silk covering. “You must open it,” she instructed, “and see what is inside.”
“I do not understand,” I admitted, fumbling with the smooth material. Kazimain watched me for a moment, smiling, almost glowing with delight. She was more beautiful than I had ever seen her—black hair shining, her deep brown eyes alight with joy, her smooth almond skin slightly flushed with the excitement she felt.
“It is a gift,” she said, “there is nothing to understand.” With that, she pulled away the silk to reveal a new pair of sandals, good leather and finely made—far better than the ones I had lost at the mosq.
“Thank you, Kazimain,” I said, mystified. “How did you know my sandals had been stolen?”
She smiled slyly, taking immense pleasure in my bewilderment.
“Did Mahmoud tell you?”
She shook her head, her mouth quivering with suppressed laughter.
“Then how did you know?”
“I was there,” she said, laughing.
“There—at the mosq? I did not see you.”
“Oh, but I saw you,” she replied, and her smile took on a mysterious quality—as if she were keeping a secret to herself. “I was praying.”
“And what were you praying for?” I asked the question glibly, without a moment’s thought; I was so enjoying her laughter and was beguiled by her almost luminous presence, I merely wanted to keep her talking.
But her smile disappeared instantly. She turned her face away, and I thought I had offended her in some way. “Kazimain,” I said quickly, “forgive me. I did not mean—”
“I was praying,” she began, turning to face me once more; and I saw that her cheeks and throat were rosy; she was blushing. “I was praying that Allah would show me the man I am to marry.” She spoke solemnly, but her eyes still held the glow of excitement.
“And did he?”
Kazimain nodded, and glanced down at her hands in her lap. “He did,” she answered, her voice growing quiet.
“Who did you see?”
“I prayed that he would show me the man I am to marry,” she said again, her head still bowed. “When I finished, I looked up,” she raised her eyes to mine, “and I saw you, Aidan.”
For the space of three heartbeats neither of us spoke. Kazimain’s eyes met mine steadily and I read neither embarrassment nor uncertainty in her glance. She had confided her secret and was now measuring my response.
“Marry me, Kazimain.” The words were out of my mouth before I knew what I was saying. I reached across and took her hand. “Will you be my wife?”
“I will, Aidan,” she replied, softly acquiescing. Her glance did not falter. As if to emphasize her answer, she squeezed my hand.
We sat there awkwardly for a moment, looking at one another. I had asked and she answered. It was finished just like that. Very likely, she had given me her answer many times before; had I known how to listen, I might have heard.
Nevertheless, none of this surprised me; it was as if this meeting between us was foreordained by a force greater than either of us. I know I had the feeling of events wheeling swiftly over a well-travelled course to a destination long ago established. I felt as if I was merely saying the words I had been destined to say. If there was no surprise, neither was there fear or alarm. The circumstance seemed both right and natural—as if we had talked this way a thousand times, and knew well what the other would say.
“Kazimain,” I said, and reached out for her. She came into my arms at once, and I felt the warmth of her embrace filling me with an unutterable certainty. This, I thought, holding her, is the only truth we can know in life. Nothing else in all the world is certain—only this: that a man and woman should come together in love.
We kissed then, and the ardour of her kiss stole my breath away. I returned her passion with all the fervour I possessed. A lifetime of vows and heart-felt disciplines had prepared me well, for in that kiss I sealed with all my soul the fate before me, embracing a mystery clothed in warm and yielding female flesh. Holding only the moment, with neither thought nor care for the future, I kissed her, and drank deep the strong wine of desire.
I knew, even as we touched, that I had never wanted anything more in all my life. All my crabbed cravings were as a cupful of pondwater beside the vast ocean of longing I felt surging through me. My head swam; my eyes blurred. I burned from inside out as if my blood and bones were consumed with liquid fire.
It was only later, after she had gone, that the awesome implications of what I had done struck me. How could this be? I could not possibly marry her. Even if I wanted to—did I?—would the amir allow it? I, a slave of undetermined rank in his house, was in no position to marry a woman of his tribe. What is more, I was a Christian and she a Muslim. The thing could not be.
I would, I decided, undo what had been done. Tomorrow, when she came with my tray, I would explain to her that it could not be, that I was wrong to suggest such a thing as marriage. It had been but the folly of the moment; I had not been thinking clearly. No doubt she felt the same; she would agree. We had both been careless, perhaps confused. It was only a tiny lapse, after all. Kazimain was intelligent; Kazimain was wise. She would not fail to see how wrong we were, how foolish we had been to imagine what could not be.
“She will understand,” I told myself. “She must.”
52
When Kazimain appeared the next morning, I was amazed and distressed to watch my late-night resolve crumble and melt away like a clump of sand overswept by a sea wave. One look at her and the desire I felt at our kiss rekindled instantly, and flared brighter and hotter than before. The glance of Kazimain’s dark eyes as she came into my arms let me know she felt the same.
I clasped her to me and breathed her perfumed essence deep into my lungs, as if I would inhale her into my being. I wanted only to have her, to hold her, forever. The raw force of this feeling struck me with such intensity that it made me weak. I could only stop my limbs trembling by clutching her more tightly. I fell back on the bed and pulled her onto me. We lay there for a time, our bodies shaking with passion. She lay her head against my chest and entwined her arms around me. I felt her gentle weight upon me, and marvelled that I could have existed
so long without knowing this simple pleasure and indulging it every moment of every day.
We might have remained like this all day—indeed, I would have been content to remain so for the rest of my life—but the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside roused us. Kazimain smoothed her clothes and we hastily adopted the pretence that we had simply been talking to one another as I broke my fast.
I took up a bit of bread, tore it, and began eating, swallowing my first bite as Faysal stepped into the room. His eyes flicked to Kazimain, who was pouring water from the jar into one of the cups. “Greetings,” he said, “I have come to tell you that Lord Sadiq is returning. He arrives in Ja’fariya in two days’ time.”
“Greetings, Faysal; it is good to see you again. Please,” I urged, “Sit down and eat with me. I would hear what news you bring.”
He smiled to hear me speaking Arabic so well. “It would be a pleasure,” he said, inclining his head. As Faysal folded himself upon a cushion beside the tray, Kazimain poured him some of the sweetened lemon water, and then, rising, made a small bow of deference and left the room, taking my heart with her.
Faysal and I ate together and he told me that the amir and Abu Ahmad had indeed spent many long hours in council, trying to decide what best to do in light of Komes Nikos’s treachery. “And did they reach a decision?” I asked.
“It is not for me to say,” Faysal replied. “I think, however, my Lord Sadiq will be most anxious to speak to you upon his return.”
We talked of other things then—the heat and dust of desert travel, the remarkable abilities of camels in this regard, and the interminable southern rebellion. At mention of Abu’s campaign, Faysal shook his head. “Word is not good, my friend,” he said. “The revolt has quickly become a war and the khalifa’s forces have not been able to contain it as they hoped. Many have been killed on both sides, but the rebels are growing in strength, while Abu’s numbers decline.”
Although Faysal did not say it, I reckoned by this that the peace with Byzantium was more important to the Arabs than ever before. The rebellion was taxing the caliphate heavily; the Arabs could not fight two different wars on two such faraway fronts and hope to survive, much less win the conflict. I understood very well the predicament the Arabs faced.
After Faysal had gone, I sat and contemplated the curious opportunity this information had created for me. As I sat thinking, it came into my mind that I was in a rare and privileged position: perhaps only one other person in all Byzantium possessed the knowledge that I possessed. And that person was the traitor Nikos, and perhaps even he did not guess how much the Arabs needed the peace treaty. Certainly, no one in Byzantium knew of both Nikos’s treachery and the Arabs’ need. This knowledge gave me power. True, I would have to return to Constantinople to realize this power—a detail which imposed its own difficulties.
But that aside, if I were to reach the emperor and inform him that an attack on the Sarazens just now would win back in one campaign all that the empire had lost to the Arab predation over the years, how long would Basil the Macedonian hesitate? To crush an enemy that has for generations bedevilled the empire would be too sweet a victory to resist. The reward would be mine to name. But could I do it? Could I betray the amir and his people—those who had saved my life—just to satisty my bloodlust?
Oh, there was power here; I could feel it. Where power exists, danger lies close at hand. I did not cozen myself with illusions that the Sarazens would leave anyone alive who could, with a word, destroy them. I would have to act quickly to protect myself.
When Mahmoud came for me a little while later, I told him that I did not want to go into the city with him today. “Instead,” I said, “I want you to tell me about the customs of marriage observed by the Arabs.”
His smile was quick, and his reply suitably oblique. Glancing at my new sandals, he said, “Would this knowledge have for you a practical application, my friend?”
“I am ever curious, Mahmoud, as you know.”
“Then I will enlighten you,” he said, and made to sit down.
“Not here,” I told him quickly. “Come, let us go to the roof garden and enjoy the day before it grows too hot.”
Once on the roof, I led the way along the more secluded pathways so that we would not be overheard. As we walked in the shade of small, fan-leafed palms and flowering creepers, Mahmoud began to instruct me in the marriage customs of his race. “It may surprise you,” he said, “but there is no single practice which all Arab peoples observe. We are a nation of tribes, you see; each tribe will hold to its own particular rites in such matters.”
“Then let us take the amir’s tribe—for example.”
“Very well,” he agreed, “the people of the amir’s tribe, for example, come from the southwest where more primitive customs even now prevail. The marriage rite itself is exceedingly simple: a man and woman make vows before their kindred and the woman goes to live with the man in his house. There the marriage is consummated in the usual way, a great celebration ensues, and the two families concerned are ever after united—a unity which is further enhanced by the exchange of gifts.”
“What sort of gifts?” I wondered.
“Any sort at all,” he answered. “The gifts can vary greatly, depending on the wealth of the respective tribes: horses and camels, for the wealthy, in addition to gold and silver; or, if the young people have no riches they may exchange tokens only.” He paused, regarding me critically. “It may serve you to know that to this very day, many of the desert tribes hold to an ancient belief in the chieftain’s right to grant or withhold the marriage of his kinswomen. For this reason, the prudent man always seeks to win the tribal leader’s approval. Sometimes, he acquires this approval even before asking the young woman. Sometimes, this permission is granted without the bride’s consent. The practice remains the same, whether a man has one wife, or many.”
“I see.”
“If I were to find myself in the position—for example,” he mused pointedly, “of wishing to marry a woman of the amir’s tribe, it would be to the amir I must address my request. Whether my appeal was granted would be entirely the amir’s decision.”
I had suspected that this might be the way of it. Similar customs were not unknown in the royal houses of Éire, where, it was held, certain queens in ancient times had kept more than one husband.
“You see,” Mahmoud continued, “each marriage forms a bond not only between husband and wife, but between the families, and between tribes, too. The bond thus created is exceedingly strong, surviving even death, and can be broken only by the most extreme acts of violence or repudiation. The law of Islam recognizes this bond and considers it both sacred and holy.”
He paused, regarding me curiously. “Touching that, I have naturally assumed both husband and wife are to share a single faith in Islam.”
“Naturally,” I agreed.
“Otherwise,” he added delicately, “the union would not be possible. By Allah, it is strictly forbidden to marry outside the faith—and, of course, to renounce Islam is unthinkable.”
“I understand,” I replied, and spent the rest of the day pondering how I might gain the amir’s approval. I was still deep in contemplation when Kazimain brought me my evening meal. She brought me far more than that.
“You are unhappy, beloved,” she said. Putting down the tray, she knelt beside it.
“I have been thinking,” I replied, leaning forward to caress her cheek with my hand. She allowed me to stroke her cheek for a moment and then kissed my palm before bending to her work.
“It is said: too much thinking,” she replied, pouring my drink into a silver cup, “can bring a man to distraction, and distraction to ruin.”
“I truly hope not,” I said, “for I have been thinking about our marriage.”
“And this has made you unhappy?” She began breaking bread.
“But I am not unhappy,” I insisted. “I have been speaking to Mahmoud, who tells me that I must obtain Lord Sadiq’s ap
proval to marry you.”
“This is so,” she affirmed, her chin jutting in agreement. “You must go to the amir and beg on your knees if you wish to marry me.”
“I will crawl over burning coals for you, Kazimain,” I replied, “if it will secure the amir’s approval.”
“He will surely give it,” she said, smiling.
“I wish I could be certain.”
“Has not Lord Sadiq said that you are a guest in his house?” she said. “Hospitality decrees that the requests of a guest cannot be refused. Anything you ask will be granted.”
“Anything?” I wondered. Could the claims of hospitality be made to stretch so far?
“Anyway,” she continued, “it is not as if I were a woman of no account who must depend upon my kinsman for a bride gift. My father was a wealthy man—”
“So you have said.”
“—a wealthy and far-thinking man who provided handsomely for his daughter. I own lands and riches in my own right, and they are mine to do with as I will.” She smiled with sweet defiance. “The man who marries me will gain far more than a wife.”
“Kazimain, marry me,” I said, seizing her hand and kissing her palm.
“I have already said that Allah wills it.” Her tone was primly impassive.
“I have nothing to give you,” I warned lightly.
“Give me but yourself,” she said, “and I will be satisfied.” She made to rise. “And now I must go.”
“So soon? But—”
“Hush,” she whispered, placing her fingertips to my lips. “We must not be found out now. If anyone were to suspect, they might hinder us.” She rose and hastened to the door, glanced out into the corridor, and then looked back at me. “I will come to you tonight…” She paused teasingly then added, “in your dreams.” She kissed her fingertips and raised her hand to me, then disappeared into the corridor.
I ate my meal alone and watched the evening sky deepen to dusk, listening to the muezzin’s chanting call to evening prayer. This day, I thought, had gone very well. I had risen early with the firm intention of ending our proposed union, and now I sought it more ardently than ever.
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