Page 13 of A String of Silver Beads (The Moroccan Empire #1)
I am drawn to Yusuf. Abu Bakr is gruff but pleasant. He seems like a practical general rather than a visionary leader. That role, oddly, seems to belong to his second-in-command.
Yusuf’s voluminous black robes, turban and veil hide his body and most of his face, but his forearms, where they are visible, ripple with strength.
He has a sharp face, all angles. A long straight nose, high cheekbones and a pronounced brow line.
His eyebrows are thick and well defined.
I find out that he is forty-eight years old but I think that he could pass for a much younger man for his skin is still smooth, his hair dark and his body upright and powerful.
He has arrived on a very fine silver-grey horse, which he rides easily, poised and confident on his saddle.
Although the fineness of his horse should demand an elaborately decorated saddle, his is entirely plain, made of simple brown leather.
It is good quality, my trader’s eye tells me that, but it is plainer than a slave’s saddle.
When he dismounts to greet the men of our camp he walks briskly. He is of no great height, but the other men straighten as he approaches as though attempting to reach a physical height demanded by his presence.
The men gather in one of the larger tents and my aunt and I serve tea. The other men drink and eat, but I see that Yusuf has his tea unsweetened and does not touch the sweet sticky dates we offer.
“Someone needs to stay here with the men and look after them,” says my aunt, looking about for a likely candidate. “Make sure they have water and food if they ask for it.”
“I will do it,” I say before she has even finished speaking.
I cannot be stuck over some fire, poking at the coals and seasoning stews when there are people here talking of wars, of trading routes, of great new possibilities.
I want to be close to them, to hear what they have to say, to taste my old life, even second-hand.
Aunt Tizemt huffs. “I have enough to do without losing you as a helper.”
“But they are our honoured guests,” I say desperately. “We cannot leave just anyone to look after them.”
“Oh, very well,” she says and hurries away, chivvying her other helpers.
I try to be discreet, to keep myself to one side. I speak or move only when someone needs something. I do not want to be dismissed, for one of them to say that they will manage by themselves. I want to hear their plans, about the challenging adventure that lies before them.
They talk until it grows dark, my father sharing information about routes, cities, the terrain that he knows well on the other side of the mountains.
Abu Bakr and Yusuf talk about their plans: how many men, how many horses and camels, the weapons they have amassed, their battle tactics.
Yusuf is respectful towards Abu Bakr, but not deferential.
He speaks when required and falls silent when he has nothing of value to add.
His words are measured and certain. He speaks without pause or hesitation.
While he is silent, he listens with great care to those who speak, considering their words one by one, nodding slightly when an important point is made.
He does not become distracted, even when the talks continue for some time.
Other men in the group look around with natural curiosity at the camp or smile at the children who peek shyly at them from the folds of the tent, overawed by their weapons.
Yusuf seems to notice nothing except the people with whom he is speaking.
Abu Bakr pulls out maps and they all pore over them, tracing possible routes across the mountains. Sources of water are important, along with an understanding of which tribes they may encounter along the way, whether they may show resistance or could be encouraged to join the army.
As cousins, Abu Bakr and Yusuf seem to have an easiness between them, occasionally filling in the words of the other one, comfortable with taking over from one another when necessary.
Their military time together must have given them a deep understanding of one another’s strengths and weaknesses and the ability to work together closely without needing to question the other’s decisions.
Yusuf speaks of the army’s training, their strict discipline.
He wants to try new formations, better strategies.
Abu Bakr, for now, wants to talk about routes and recruitment, hence this meeting with my father, whose local knowledge, both of tribes nearby who might be persuaded to join the army and of the possibilities for attack once they crossed the mountains, is invaluable to them.
Yusuf’s face lights up when my father talks of a possible route through the mountains that would hide much of their progress as they make their way closer to the point of attack.
But my own interest comes when they stop talking of fighting formations and instead Yusuf begins to talk with enthusiasm of what will come after.
“We will command the trading routes. We will create a new city, a great city from which we will control the whole of the Maghreb. We will be better able to protect the traders, in return for their taxes. The trade will benefit all. There will be great souks, larger than those in place now. We can trade further and in greater quantities than before, for we will be the central point between the countries of the north, across the sea via Al-Andalus, and all the Dark Kingdom in the south. It will be a great new time.”
I edge closer. I think of what it would be to have all the Maghreb under one ruler, to encourage trade from distant countries.
The souks would grow and flourish. And a new city!
A gathering point of the greatest traders, where north and south would meet and trade.
I can feel the excitement growing in me of the trading possibilities, of what could be done.
The longing I thought I had buried for the trade routes rises up in me so sharply it is all I can do not throw myself on my knees and beg Yusuf to take me with him there and then.
I feel a sharp dig in the ribs and Aunt Tizemt hisses in my ear. “When you’ve finished staring, I need your help. They are fine by themselves.”
“They might need me,” I begin.
“They are wrapped up in their plans,” says my aunt. “They don’t even know you exist. Come on.”
I follow, reluctantly, looking back over my shoulder. “But I…” my voice trails off as my aunt laughs. “What?”
“I think you were staring at the Commander’s general. A very fine man, I’ll grant you that. But a little old for you, isn’t he?”
I feel heat rising through me and know my cheeks are flushed.
How to explain it is not the man I am interested in, but his vision for the Maghreb?
Aunt Tizemt will only laugh even more. And perhaps I must admit that there is something about this man, so fierce looking but so eloquent, so driven for a life of adventure, that does draw me a little to him.
I grab at the dough that has been rising in an earthenware dish nearby and begin to knead it.
Aunt Tizemt laughs even more when she sees how violently I press and pound it.
“They say you should knead bread when you are angry. Perhaps you should knead it when you are in love as well. All that new-found passion must go somewhere.” She looks over at the men in the tent, heads bowed over their maps and plans.
“Especially when the object of your affections is oblivious to you. Too busy thinking of fighting and glory. Typical man.” She bustles off, carrying a whole goat kid’s carcass high in one hand, a bowl of spiced yoghurt in the other for marinating.
Her voice can be heard as she makes her way across the camp, exhorting any men, women, slaves or children who cross her path to work harder – build up fires, bring water, cut up more meat, grind the grains finer.
My aunt can turn a whole camp into her own personal army when she needs to.
***
By evening a magnificent feast has been prepared.
There is meat in abundance, marinated, spiced, baked, roasted and cooked in rich stews.
There are soft warm flat breads, bowls with dips and flavoured oils, butters, cheeses and then fresh fruits and little cakes, soaked in honey and dripping with spiced sweetness.
There are olives, figs and dates in great bowls to be passed from hand to hand.
The children are half-mad with hunger, their mothers having denied them anything but simple foods.
Perhaps a little congealed porridge, a few dates, scraps of meat and stale bread for the lucky ones.
All day long they have smelt glorious foods being prepared, tantalizingly faint at first, then growing stronger as the sun fades.
They have been kept busy fetching and carrying, chopping and pounding, shelling and mixing.
Any straying fingers have earned them a quick slap, knocking their hands away from temptation.
Now that satisfaction and satiety lie only moments away, they grow shrill and restless with no chores left to steady them, hopping from one leg to another, begging their mothers and more especially their fathers to say blessings over the food and let them eat.
At last, the food is served, and the children watch in agony while the guests are offered the choicest morsels.
While Abu Bakr and most of his men give thanks and eat heartily, praising the fineness of the food, the wide-eyed children see to their disbelief that Yusuf bin Tashfin, although he also gives thanks, hardly eats at all.
He accepts a piece of plain roast meat, a small hunk of bread, and a handful of dried figs.
The other food he waves away politely but firmly or passes it swiftly to the next person.
He eats slowly and with apparent enjoyment, but finishes long before everyone else, for he eats far less than the other men.