Page 20 of A String of Silver Beads (The Moroccan Empire #1)

I am entirely naked except for my houmeyni necklace, the silver cold on my skin.

I tremble. Not from cold, for I am wrapped in fine blankets and even have furs which feel soft as they shimmer against my bare skin with every tremor.

I am trembling because I know very little of what will happen next.

I wish earnestly that Tanemghurt had challenged my airy claim to know what goes on between a man and a woman.

My erotic instruction comes down to everything I have seen animals do, none of which seems very romantic or alluring; matter of fact information from Aunt Tizemt, which mostly consisted of her view that we are not much better than animals; and hints from girls of my own age and the women of pleasure from the souks, which were nothing but a mass of unlikely-sounding fantasies.

None of this is what I need now. I lie silent as Yusuf undresses, and I see all of him for the first time.

His skin is very smooth and very pale, something like a fine golden sand rather than the dark brown of his forearms and feet, for it is always sheltered from the sun under his heavy robes.

I shrink back a little in my furs, for it now becomes evident to me for the first time that I have married a warrior.

Every part of his body is a weapon. His muscles are large and well-defined, and I have no doubt at all that any man facing him on the field of battle would think twice before approaching him.

He undresses quickly and efficiently, like a soldier stripping down armour, and as he does so I watch as his muscles ripple and play in the flickering light and shadows.

Last of all he unwraps his veil, so that I can see his face.

His expression is kind and calm and although I am still nervous, he is gentle with me as he begins to touch me and after a little while I cease to tremble.

***

Our days are spent in the colourful tent in the camp, where we can hear passers-by and the giggles of the children as they try to peek in at us.

Unlike his usual fierce bearing and passionate commitment to his cause, I find that Yusuf can also be humorous.

He will suddenly grab at the children’s questing fingers and cause high pitched shrieks of surprise, at which he roars with laughter.

The tent grows hot in the heat of the day, and we laze in each other’s arms, sleeping and waking.

We play games when we are awake, with pebbles or bones and rough marks in the sand of the floor.

We try to cheat and demand forfeits when we catch each other out.

We eat together. Tanemghurt’s food is surprisingly good, for I have never seen her cook with the other women.

She has her own work, and it is not cooking and caring for children, weaving, or any of the other skills women possess.

Her skills are valued highly enough that she has more offers of food, cloth or utensils than she will ever need, from those who have received her healing in the past and know that the day will come when they will need to call on her again.

So I have never seen her cook. But all the food brought to us now comes from her hands.

She uses herbs and spices better than anyone I know.

Her sweet cakes are soaked in honey and then coloured with spices to make them pleasing to the eye as well as the mouth.

Her stews warm the heart as well as the body and some of the drinks she leaves for us do more than warm the heart.

We feed each other with our fingers, sometimes giving each other the very best morsels, sometimes playing little tricks on each other, such as when I feed him fine cakes which he says are too rich for him, or when he chooses a particularly spicy morsel for me and laughs when I flush with the heat of it.

We pray. As each of the five prayers of the day come and go, I grow to care for him more, for his prayers are more sincere than any I have heard before.

Many of the tribesmen that I know pray rarely and some still cling to the old ways.

Amongst the tribes there are those who are very pious, but even they seem to pray by rote, as if by command.

But Yusuf prays with every part of his heart and soul.

His eyes are lit as if from within with a soft and gentle light, a true flame of faith.

When his body sways, so too does his voice as he murmurs his prayers.

At these moments I am certain that my choice was the right one.

This is a man who will achieve great things, and I wish to be by his side when he does so.

I am afraid of the battles yet to come but I know that if he is successful afterwards there will be a time of peace when I can prove my worth.

In the darkness we wrap thick blankets round us and sit outside, braving the cold to gaze at the stars and talk.

I hear of his childhood, his friends, his parents and siblings.

I hear of how he and his cousin Abu Bakr began by playing at war as children and are now engaged in a true war.

Abu Bakr is a dedicated leader, but Yusuf has a vision that Abu Bakr sometimes struggles to comprehend.

“He is a great commander,” says Yusuf, as we sit eating dates and bread and gazing at the stars.

“He cares for his men. He trains them to be the best that they can be, not only their bodies like any commander, but their minds also. He reads the Qur’an with them daily, he asks them about their families, their hopes for the future.

Their prayers are his prayers. He is a good man.

” He shakes his head as though at an unsettling thought, then repeats his words.

“A good man. I would hope to always serve under him. But he may not wish to continue as the commander.”

I know nothing of the politics of commanding and armies. I know only that Yusuf’s body is warm next to mine and that his voice is soft and soothing, even now, when he is serious. “Why would he not be the commander?”

Yusuf shrugs. “Sometimes he looks at me in wonder when I speak of all this country united under Allah, under one commander. I think perhaps he does not think it is possible. That the tribes are too many and will not swear allegiance to one commander. That there will always be fighting and squabbling. He knows the tribes well, he speaks easily with them. I do not have that gift. The heads of each tribe always speak more easily with Abu Bakr than with me.” He raises his head, and his voice grows a little stronger.

“But I have something he does not have. I look into the future, and I see a great land, united under Allah, with one commander. It could be done. We could do it. But we must keep that vision before our very eyes.”

I yawn a little. It is very late. “I am sure you will succeed, husband.” I say, warmly. It is the truth. I cannot imagine him wanting something and failing in getting it. Men from all the tribes are willing to join him in his holy war. He can accomplish anything.

He hears me yawn and chuckles. “My poor sleepy wife. Am I boring you with talk of war again? I am sorry. But you are married to a warrior, I am afraid. You will hear much more of war before you are an old woman.”

“Old woman?” I feign indignance. “How long do you intend this war to last?”

***

So our seven days and nights pass, and on the morning of the eighth day we say the dawn prayers together and leave our tent as husband and wife.