Page 30 of A String of Silver Beads (The Moroccan Empire #1)
She turns away and lifts the lid of one of her great carved chests. I catch a glimpse of many bottles, jars, measuring spoons and pestles, pouches, small, decorated boxes.
She closes the lid and comes back to me.
In her hands she holds a glorious tenfuk , a woman’s pendant.
It is large, hung from a string of onyx beads.
The sharp triangle of metal holds within it an arrow-shaped carnelian.
The pendant is a suitable gift for the birth of a daughter or could even be given to a pregnant woman as a wish for a daughter, with its connotations of sunrise, of life and birth.
I have lost my first child and am not yet carrying another life.
Tonight, my husband will take another woman as his wife.
It is a breathtakingly malicious gift, loaded with calculated hatred.
My hands tremble as I take it from her and put it round my neck.
There is no other choice available to me. I cannot refuse her gift.
Zaynab is all smiles as we leave the tent. “I rejoice that you can share in my happiness tonight, sister,” she says, as we walk towards the centre of the square and people fall back to let us past. “Yusuf will rejoice also, for I know he wanted you here with us.”
I let her words wash over me. I feel helpless, swept along in the crowd towards a husband I no longer know.
***
My meeting with Yusuf might as well be a meeting with a stranger.
He comes into the square and is greeted with cheers, many blessings and congratulations as a new husband.
He is also the recipient of ribald jokes and teasing by some of his men, which he waves away good-naturedly.
When he sees me, he smiles and embraces me.
“My dear wife,” he says. “You are welcome here.”
I swallow. “Husband,” I say, the word sticking in my throat. “I am glad to be by your side again.”
“It must feel strange to you to join me here on my wedding day to a second wife,” he says. “I am sorry I could not speak with you of it before. I hope you understand that this marriage is important for our mission’s success.”
I want to argue with him, but I do not even know where to begin. “Yes, husband,” I reply, cursing myself for my meekness. What else can I say? The marriage is already complete, all I will do is cause enmity with Zaynab.
His expression lightens. “The wedding feast is being served,” he says. “You will sit by me.”
***
He treats me with nothing but honour and kindness throughout the feast that follows. He inquires after my health, the journey I have made to reach him, my time in the garrison without him. He feeds me choice morsels from the dishes brought to him.
But his eyes stay on Zaynab.
She does nothing to draw his attention. She sits modestly by his side, accepts food from the servers and from Yusuf when he chooses to offer her food from his own dish.
She keeps her eyes downcast, a soft smile on her lips and her back straight.
Her calm and graceful demeanour make her the very model of a good wife.
She praises Allah every time she opens her mouth, which is not often, and smiles at me as much as she smiles at her new husband.
She pours his drinks before I can and sends the best dishes to me first. Yusuf speaks to me as a beloved sister, while he looks at Zaynab with a hunger in his eyes I have not seen before.
I cannot escape the sinking feeling that he is already lost to me.
***
The feast over, there is dancing, singing, storytelling.
At last, it is time for the bride and groom to retire.
I stand trembling and watch them go to Zaynab’s tent, surrounded by people singing, offering blessings and lewd advice.
I feel a soft touch on my arm and turn to see Adeola, the combination of her dark skin and clothes making her barely visible.
“I bring drink,” she says in her halting way.
I wave her away. “I do not want to drink.”
She shakes her head and tries again. “To sleep.”
I frown. “Sleep?”
She nods earnestly and summons all her vocabulary to make her meaning plain. “Drink. To sleep deeply. Not to hear.” She makes a small gesture towards Zaynab’s tent, looming within the darkness of the emptying square.
I feel the tears fall hot and fast on my face and nod.
I would give anything, drink anything, if it will make me sleep so deeply that I will not hear one single murmur from Zaynab’s tent as she spends her first night with my husband, barely a stone’s throw from my own tent, foolishly decorated with colourful embroidery promising good luck and happiness and children to its miserable owner.
I follow Adeola slowly back into my tent, which she and Ekon have arranged as though I had never left my aunt’s camp.
I sit on the bed and Adeola undresses me with the care of a mother for her child.
When she has finished and has pulled the blankets around me, Ekon brings in a small bowl cupped in his hands.
It steams and has a pleasing scent. I do not know what is in it.
I drink it without questioning, seeking oblivion.
Oblivion comes, but not before I hear the first moans from Zaynab’s tent, leaving my body rigid with despair before I sink into darkness.
When I wake my jaw is so tightly clenched that I fear my teeth will shatter when I open my mouth, but it is daylight and that first terrible night is over. This camp is now my home.
***
The camp is like a city of tents. Aghmat may still have a few people who live there, but it lost its soul along with its riches.
Those who wish to be rich and powerful in the future have seen that this new army is a force to be reckoned with and their best chance is to align themselves to it.
The once bustling souks of Aghmat have grown small.
More and more people come to the first souks held outside the camp, which are growing rapidly.
Craftsmen begin to set up their own little tents and do their work close by the camp, for the camp holds more customers for their wares.
The herds of goats and sheep kept nearby grow larger and the first few stone and mud buildings begin to be constructed, small and humble for now, but more will soon be built, and they will grow larger in due course.
Ramparts will be needed soon, for no important city can afford to be without them and the garrison-camp of Murakush will soon be an important city.
It will form the base for the army when they move further north to such cities as Fes, part of Yusuf’s plans.
***
I see little of him. He is busy with his plans for the army.
Men must be trained, horses purchased as their steeds.
New weapons must be forged, plans drawn up.
Negotiations must be made with important men, tribal leaders sought out to create the alliances that will support the army when the time comes to move north.
He is a figure that I see only at a distance.
At first, I wait eagerly for Yusuf to come to me.
I have resigned myself to my situation. Our religion allows Yusuf to have more than one wife, however much that pains me.
That same religion states that he must treat Zaynab and myself as equals, giving us the same privileges and care.
I think that at least I am here at last, in what will one day become a bustling city.
If I can speak with Yusuf, spend time with him, remind him of our plans together I may be given a role to play.
Perhaps I can manage the traders who wish to set up permanent stalls here. Once I try to speak with him.
“The army must need many provisions,” I say. “I could manage the traders who supply you with the traveling food, the weapons…”
Yusuf pats my arm. “Zaynab manages all such things,” he says, still walking towards his destination.
I follow him. “I want to be useful to you,” I persist.
He pauses for a moment and gives me a quick embrace, such as one might give to a beloved but nagging child. “I must go to the council,” he tells me. “You have everything you need?”
“Yes,” I say, “But I…”
“Good,” he says and is gone.
I stand still, watching him stride away, angry with myself for not telling him that I am unhappy, that I am bored, for not reminding him of our plans, the way we used to talk together.
But what is there to say? Zaynab all but rules Murakush, she is its queen.
Everything that is done here is done under her command and her voice is respected in council.
***
Days pass when I do not see Yusuf at all, then I will see his dark robes pass in the distance, always surrounded by other men, always earnestly discussing something.
Sometimes I see him at prayers, but he is too far away to speak with before or afterwards.
Often, he prays alone or only with his men.
I am a married woman without a husband. I am treated with courtesy but mostly left alone.
Aside from Adeola and Ekon I know no-one except Zaynab, and I avoid her as much as I can.
She is too busy overseeing the camp, for nothing escapes her hawk-like eyes.
She chooses where the craftsmen may ply their trade, what food will be prepared, where the herdsmen may take their animals. There is nothing she does not know.
I wonder how Amalu fares, but I can hardly go visiting him alone, it would not be right for a married woman to do so.
At first, I believe that Yusuf is so busy that he has time for neither of his wives.
When night after night he does not come to me, I believe that he does not go to Zaynab either.
Every night Adeola cooks good food. I sleep deeply and dreamlessly and hope that he may come the next day, or the day after.