Page 16 of A String of Silver Beads (The Moroccan Empire #1)

“Commander says we must be on our way,” he says. I put my hand to my face to make sure it is hidden but I am safe. I struggle to my feet and roll up my blanket, kneeling to fasten the strap holding it in place.

“You.”

I look up over my shoulder. A man stands behind me.

“Yes?”

“The General asks for you.”

I swallow. “The General? What for?”

“How would I know? Don’t keep him waiting.”

I stand, stumbling over my blanket and then follow the man’s pointed finger towards a solitary figure some way away from the men.

Yusuf. I hesitate but I have no choice. I make my way over to him.

He is sitting calmly, one knee pulled up, his hands wrapped around it while he gazes across the dunes.

When I reach him, I stop at a distance and wait for him to notice me.

I hope he will not ask me to come any nearer to him.

“Come closer,” he says, without turning his head.

Reluctantly, I take a few steps forward.

He doesn’t move for a moment, then slowly turns his head and looks up at me. His black eyes stay fixed on me for an unnervingly long time. I try to stand like a man, head up, feet planted a little apart, my shoulders thrust back. Still, he says nothing.

“Sir,” I say, keeping my voice as deep as I can. “You asked to see me.”

“Indeed,” he says. “Take off your veil.”

I swallow. “Sir?”

“Remove your veil,” he says.

I try to bluster my way out of it. “It is not seemly…” I begin.

His shoulders shake a little and I see laughter in his eyes. “Not seemly for a man,” he says. “Remove your veil.”

My shoulders drop. I remove the veil as well as my whole headdress, letting the cloth drop to the ground. My hair tumbles down my back and the wind blows it into my face. I don’t move.

Yusuf looks away from me, back across the dunes, nods to himself. “What is a young woman doing amongst my men?” he asks, as though to himself.

“How did you know?”

He looks back at me. “I know every one of my men,” he says, his eyes serious. “We have an army of many thousands, and I make it my business to know every one of them. They fight by my side; they would die for me. I should at least know their names, their faces, how they move. Do you not think?”

I say nothing.

“Well, you had better tie your hair up again,” he says. “And then fetch your camel.”

“I won’t go home,” I say. “I won’t go back to the camp.”

“No,” he agrees. “I thought you might say that. I will take you there myself.”

“What?”

“I will accompany you,” he says. “Your honour is in my hands. I would not allow any other man to escort an unmarried woman back to her father and explain what she was doing out in the desert with a hundred men, none of them her own family.”

“Please,” I begin, but he has already stood up and is walking back to the men. He speaks with Abu Bakr, before turning to wait for me.

Horribly aware of a hundred pairs of eyes on me, I use the veil to wrap my hair up into a woman’s headdress and walk back to Yusuf, my face flushed with humiliation and anger. I wait for the men to speak, for lewd comments or outrage, but they stand silent under Yusuf’s gaze.

Abu Bakr looks me over. “Yusuf will accompany you home,” he says. “With an escort. We will ride on to the garrison. Goodbye, Kella. I hope your return will be a comfort to your father.”

I wonder that he even knows my name. I stand and watch as Yusuf and Abu Bakr embrace one another and then most of the men ride away. We are left with a dozen men, Yusuf and myself. All of us will be riding camels; Yusuf’s fine grey stallion has been sent on ahead.

“Kneel,” says Yusuf.

The camels kneel and the men mount their steeds.

I stand unmoving.

Yusuf looks at me. “You are in the middle of the desert, Kella,” he says, his voice utterly calm. “You cannot hope to survive alone, even if I left you the camel. Mount.” He slaps my camel on the rump and it kneels obediently.

As slowly as I dare, I mount the camel.

***

“Rise,” he orders.

The men riding behind us occasionally talk to one another, but their voices are low. Yusuf and I ride side by side as though we are friends, but we are silent for a long time. When he does speak, I startle.

“Why did you run away?”

I don’t answer; I don’t know how to. Where to start and how to explain?

“Were you badly treated by your family?” He sounds concerned. “Beaten?”

“No,” I say quickly.

“Promised in marriage to someone you dislike?”

“No,” I say. I wonder what Amalu is doing now, whether he has joined in the search for me or thinks that he is well rid of such an ungrateful woman.

He looks amused. “I don’t suppose you actually want to fight?”

“N-no,” I confess.

“So why are you, a young woman not ill-treated by her family and with no desire to fight, running away with an army, dressed as a man? I think you owe me some sort of explanation, since you are wasting my time.”

“I used to travel with my brothers and my father when he traded,” I say slowly.

“Not a life for a woman, perhaps,” he comments. “Not very safe.”

“I was dressed as a boy,” I say.

“Dressed as a boy?” he asks. I am not sure if he sounds disapproving or just surprised.

“Yes,” I say.

He raises his eyebrows.

“I was a good trader,” I say defensively. “And an excellent camel racer.”

Now he laughs out loud. “You rode in camel races?”

“Yes,” I say. “And I won,” I can’t help adding.

“I see,” he says. Suddenly he brings down a whip on his camel, who begins to run. “Race me, then,” he calls back to me.

I gape at him but the sight of his back ahead of me brings out my stubborn side.

If he wishes to make fun of me, he will find out for himself what I am made of.

I do not have Thiyya, more’s the pity, but these camels have been chosen for warriors and already I can feel my own mount’s power gathering beneath me.

I urge it on, lean forward and note exultantly that we are already gaining on Yusuf a little.

He is an excellent rider, and I do not manage to beat him. But I am very close to him, only a few strides separate us when he finally reins in his camel.

He is bent over laughing. His men are still a way off, they have not raced with us. “Truly a descendant of Tin Hinan herself,” he says, his eyes amused.

I can’t help but smile.

“Ah, a happy face at last,” he says.

I frown.

“And gone again,” he notes. He waits for his men to join us, looks me over. “You miss your trading days so badly?”

“Yes,” I say and then swallow, so that I will not cry. I do not want to cry in front of him when he has seen me race well.

“And you thought – what? That you would run away in my army and then slip away unnoticed in some city, set up by yourself as a trader?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know,” I say. “Time was running out; you were leaving, and I had no time for plans.”

“Why run away with us? You could have waited.”

“You had such a vision for the future,” I say and then feel myself blushing, heat traveling up my neck into my cheeks. I sound as though I am flattering him.

“Vision?”

“For after the war is over,” I say. “When you win.”

“If Allah wills it,” he reminds me.

I nod. “If He wills it,” I repeat. “But you spoke of the whole of the Maghreb united under one rule. That great cities could flourish, that after the battles would come building: mosques, souks, caravanserai, bathhouses. That the trade routes would be made greater than ever before, and traders could travel further and bring back wonders from all parts of the world. That the people would live in peace.”

His head on one side, he watches me. “Go on.”

“I – I would want to help make that happen,” I say.

“To plan which routes could be made safer and faster, in return for taxes. To show where cities could best grow because of their position on the trade trails. To build caravanserai large enough for many traders and their beasts to rest. There is so much that could be done.”

His men have reached us. Yusuf only nods at what I have said and then falls silent. I turn over what else I could say but all of it sounds foolish in the silence and so we travel back to the camp without speaking again.

***

My father’s eyes are grim. I am afraid to dismount for fear he will drag me back to the tent by my hair, he looks so angry. Instead, I sit very quietly and wait.

“I humbly beg your pardon,” begins Yusuf. “I have behaved very ill towards you, sir. I must speak with you.”

My father looks as confused as I feel. What is Yusuf apologising for?

“In private?” asks Yusuf politely, dismounting.

My father walks away with Yusuf, looking back once over his shoulder at me, frowning.

They are gone some time. Half the camp has gathered to watch.

Their silence is unnerving. Aunt Tizemt’s lips are pressed so tightly together they have disappeared into a thin line.

I look down. If Aunt Tizemt is not roaring, then things are very bad.

Behind her stands Tanemghurt, who looks amused.

I dare not smile back at her. I look away and spot Amalu.

His face is pale with suppressed rage, his hands in fists by his side.

I have never seen good-natured Amalu look like this. I look back down at my reins.

“Kella.”

My father and Yusuf have returned. My father still seems confused but no longer angry. I risk meeting his gaze. He blinks a couple of times, as though he does not quite believe what he is about to say.

“Kella, I understand from Yusuf that he desires to marry you.”

I gape. I look to Yusuf, who raises his eyebrows at me, his eyes quite serious.

“Yusuf has apologised for the dishonour risked by allowing you to run away with him but tells me it was only because of your great love for one another. He has now formally asked for your hand and if you are content, the wedding will be arranged with all due haste. After which you may accompany your husband on his onward journey to fulfill his great mission.”

I look at my father and then at Yusuf again. There is utter silence all around me. I dare not look at Amalu. Aunt Tizemt’s mouth is open.

“Is this true? You wish to marry Yusuf?” repeats my father.

I think of my freedom. I am being offered my freedom if I will marry a man with whom I have only spoken today. I am being offered a chance to leave the camp as a married woman and to follow my husband on a great adventure.

“Yes,” I say, and my voice comes out so quietly and huskily that I have to say it again. “Yes. I wish to marry Yusuf.” It comes out too loud this time.

My father nods, still baffled by all that has happened.

“Very well,” he says and walks away. The rest of the camp scatters to make ready for the riders and no doubt to gossip amongst themselves.

Tanemghurt says something quietly to Aunt Tizemt, who stares at me one more time and then follows.

I look towards where Amalu was standing but he is already walking away, towards the dunes, no doubt to be alone as I did on the day my father left me here.

The riders dismount and begin to set up camp.

Yusuf walks over to me and holds up his hand to help me down from the camel.

I do so ungracefully, half-twisting my ankle.

When I have recovered myself, I look around.

My father is out of sight. I turn to Yusuf.

He seems serene, as though he has done nothing worthy of note.

“Why?” I say, blurting out the word.

He looks down at me and chuckles at the expression on my face. “Are you unwilling after all?”

“No,” I say, feeling the heat in my cheeks rise again.

“Very well,” he says with satisfaction, looking ahead again.

“But why? ” I ask again.

He looks at me again, his eyes grown serious.

He pauses, as though collecting his thoughts.

“For many years now, I have been set on my path by Allah. I have a mission to undertake, and I swore to stop for nothing and no one. But when I made my promise, I thought of warriors and armies seeking to cut down my body, of unbelievers seeking to cast doubts in my mind. I did not think a young woman would stand in my path and make me pause in my journey. Abu Bakr thinks only of battles. But I think of what the war will achieve. I want to create a land of peace and prosperity, of holiness and righteousness. And this is not done only through war. It is done through building and prayer, through treaties and trading. And then I hear my own thoughts spoken aloud by a young woman, a woman bold enough to ride away from her family, hidden within an army.” He thinks for a moment.

“I think Allah has sent you to me for some purpose. You will be at my side; you will help me create an empire when the battles are won.” He lowers his voice until it is barely a whisper, we are so close he could touch me.

“Perhaps you will be the mother of a son who will continue my work when I am gone.”

If I am breathless, it is surely only because Yusuf’s face is only a hand’s breadth away, his lips close enough to touch mine.