Page 28 of A String of Silver Beads (The Moroccan Empire #1)
B lazing torches light up the camp. Songs are being sung and as we approach, I can smell a feast – rich roasting meats, good stews, perfumed drinks and the small, sweet cakes that Aunt Tizemt so loves.
My aunt seems very far away to me now.
I have never seen so large a camp in one place.
The army has expanded beyond my imagining.
No doubt all the slaves of the cities they have taken have been pressed into service as soldiers.
And perhaps many free-born men have seen that Abu Bakr’s army is a force to be reckoned with and have decided to pledge their allegiance to the winning side.
Not to mention the many mercenaries who will have seen that there might be spoils of war to be had with this new army, which has such grand plans for the future.
Now many of the men have been joined by their families or have taken women from the conquered cities as their brides, just as their leader has.
There are women cooking. Some are wives, cooking and caring for children, speaking with their men, handsome women, sure of their status and sturdy with years of hard work, women from many tribes but all from the same country.
Other women are there for a different purpose.
They are beautiful, of every colouring. One I see even has hair like saffron, her skin very fair and her cheeks as pink as fresh figs.
They wear bright clothes and tease the men.
They have no need to cook and care for children, leaving them free to wander amongst the tents and chatter amongst themselves.
Abu Bakr’s men may have been trained as holy warriors, but few would turn away from a beautiful woman.
Besides, now there are new men among the army, men who may swear their allegiance to Abu Bakr and profess to worship Allah as required but who are loath to turn away from the pleasures to be had in this world, no matter what the holy book may say on the subject.
There are slave women also of course, their faces visible here and there as they scurry about amongst the tents bringing water, wood, heavy bundles, basins, bags.
The slave men herd animals about, cursing in their own tongues, their muscles shiny with sweat, carrying even larger burdens than their womenfolk.
There are tents as far as I can see, of all shapes, sizes and colours, some small and misshapen, faded and greying, kept together more through prayer than good cloth and poles.
Some are lavish, elaborate, small palaces amongst the chaos.
Animals are everywhere, camels of every colour and size, fine warhorses, old nags, sturdy mules and little donkeys.
We pass goats and their kids, sheep and even cattle, for this part of the country has more green fodder to feed them.
Weapons are everywhere. This is no ordinary camp, it is a garrison, and there are signs of warfare wherever I look.
Some wounded men groan from their tents as healers seek to remedy their wounds, some of which will not heal or will take a long time to do so.
I see missing limbs and terrible wounds to the face and stomach.
Fine warhorses are being cared for, brushed and fed and watered, saddles being mended and armour being diligently repaired.
There is food in vast quantities. Great baskets of bread and cooking pots of mouth-watering stews are being carried towards a brightly lit space at the centre of the camp.
One day no doubt it will be the great square of the city, but for now it is only a big space with no tents, the ground firmly packed down with the passing of many feet.
Huge fires have been lit and whole animals are being roasted over the hot coals, the fat spitting and hissing and throwing up little sparks in the flames.
Around the edges are laid out rugs where people can sit and a crowd is already beginning to gather, drawn by the good smells and the chance to sit and gossip before the feast begins.
There are storytellers. Wherever there are a few people gathered and a tale to tell there will be storytellers, and here they are already weaving the army’s past two years into legend.
The ingredients are all there for the taking – a holy army on a mission from God Himself, a respected leader and his fearsome second-in-command who now leads the army while its founder tames the rebel tribes who dare to challenge their holy cause.
A pillaged city. A beautiful queen taken as a bride by first one man and then another.
A growing army of fearsome warriors and their glorious future.
The crowd listens entranced, and people whoop and cheer when their own names are mentioned in the legends being woven by firelight.
***
Amalu and I have reached this main square, if it can be called that, without anyone taking notice of us amongst the crowd. We have left the loaded camels, the other men of the escort and Ekon and Adeola on the outskirts of the camp, the better to proceed through it unencumbered.
I walk through the crowded spaces as though in a dream, while Amalu brusquely moves people aside, clearing a path for me as he walks ahead.
I see everything and yet nothing stays with me.
My mind holds but one thought: that if I can speak with Yusuf, he can tell me that there has been some mistake, that he has not married Zaynab at all, nor had ever intended to.
And yet all around me there are celebrations.
A feast is being prepared for everyone to share, and I know that the great weight in my belly is there because the marriage ceremony has already been held and now it is about to be celebrated by all the camp.
This is why there is so much food, why the storytellers are gathered to tell this latest part of the legend, and why the children shriek and giggle with anticipation of sweetmeats to come.
The women of pleasure ply their perfumed trade through the cluttered tents in anticipation of a busy night to come, for a feast will stir a man’s senses.
A man who sees his leader marry a beautiful woman will turn his own mind to the pleasures that may be his for a few coins or even trinkets, depending on the woman he chooses.
We circumnavigate the edge of the square and as we head towards a large black tent, I tug at Amalu’s robes.
“Is that Yusuf’s tent?”
He nods and I feel my heart race. Now I will see my husband again and he will embrace me. He will brush away my fears. I put my hand to my heart as though to still its wild rhythm.
We reach the tent, which is more than the height of a man and entirely made of thick black cloth and leather. Amalu stops.
The tent is not decorated in any way; unusual for such a large tent belonging to a person of importance, but then Yusuf has always liked things to be plain, he has little interest in material possessions. The flaps are all closed, which is strange when the night is still warm.
Amalu steps a little closer to the tent and calls out. “My lady?”
Even as he speaks, I grab his arm. “I do not want to see the lady Zaynab,’” I hiss under my breath. “Take me to Yusuf!”
Amalu flinches as my nails dig into his bare flesh.
He turns to look at me and his eyes are full of pity.
“Zaynab receives all visitors when they first enter the camp,” he says simply.
“Those are my orders. They are the orders given to everyone. No-one may see Yusuf or anyone else until she has seen them.”
I see from his face that he is telling the truth and that there is no way to escape this meeting. How has Zaynab taken so much power to herself so quickly? I let go of his arm and take a deep breath as I hear the tent folds being opened. I look down at the bare earth, seeking strength.
Perfume scents the air and envelopes me, a heady mix that I cannot identify, but which tells of great riches, sweet beauty and something else, something dark and dangerous.
Slowly I raise my eyes and see Zaynab for the first time, and something in me grows cold.
She stands in the opening of the tent, ignoring Amalu, looking directly at me.
She is tall, and dressed all in black flowing robes, which cover every part of her but her hands and head.
She wears no jewellery, not even a belt to encircle her waist and draw attention to her form, making her look almost like a man, were she not so beautiful.
Her eyes are large, and so dark they seem black. The fires of the square dance in them as she gazes at me without blinking. Her hair is very long, falling past her waist, entirely straight and again, unadorned. No head wrap covers it.
Her mouth is wide, and her lips are full.
Her nose is long and straight, and her cheekbones rise high on her face.
Her skin is a honeyed bronze, and although she uses no colourings nor has any tattoos to decorate her face I see the smoothness of her skin.
By the way it glows I know that somewhere in the tent behind her is a casket, and that in that casket are the finest oils and powders to make her skin beautiful without any further adornment.