Page 34 of A String of Silver Beads (The Moroccan Empire #1)

“Dearest husband,” begins Zaynab. “I have been blessed.” I feel a lead weight sink in my belly. Zaynab turns her eyes slightly towards me and a smile curves her beautiful lips. Yusuf only raises his eyebrows and smiles, waiting for her to finish.

“I am with child,” she says. “Allah has answered my prayers. Blessed is His kindness to this unworthy woman.”

I shake my head as Yusuf embraces Zaynab and then smile widely for his benefit and embrace Zaynab myself. I can contain my secret no longer, so desperate am I to strike back at her.

“You are twice blessed, husband,” I say brightly, and feel Zaynab’s hate flow towards me as she hears my next words. “I am also with child, blessed is Allah.”

Yusuf, of course, is delighted, and once again we all embrace. As Zaynab leans towards me, her glorious smile struggling to stay on her face, I whisper in her small perfect ear.

“My son will be born before yours.”

Then I lean back and smile warmly at her. Shortly after this I make my excuses and leave them alone.

***

I wait for Zaynab’s retaliation. I keep a dagger by my side, for the threat I now pose to her is so great that I think she may well abandon all her subtlety and simply attack me herself, or worse, send an assassin to do away with me.

The nights seem very dark and cold to me; any small noises make me wake with a start and then lie awake for many hours until my eyes close without my knowledge or consent.

I wait. And wait. Then I hear the rumours flying around the camp.

Abu Bakr is on his way back from the south.

He will arrive in a few days. I can sleep again.

Zaynab has a far greater threat coming towards her than I, and I know she will have to work harder than she has ever done before to preserve her own status.

Although Abu Bakr has been away a long time, and although he gave Zaynab in marriage to Yusuf and left him in charge of the army and the new garrison city of Murakush, he is still Commander of the Almoravids.

It is his name that appears on the gold dirham coins that are cast, not Yusuf’s.

Yusuf might seem to have greater power at his command, but he is Abu Bakr’s subordinate.

He is also tied to Abu Bakr by blood, being his younger cousin.

If Abu Bakr is truly returning, there are only two options. Yusuf can either accept him back as commander and obey his orders, thus reducing his own status, or he can challenge Abu Bakr for leadership.

The camp is in turmoil. All the men have sworn loyalty to Abu Bakr.

But they love Yusuf. He is their general.

He is their true leader, the man who prays, fasts, eats and trains beside them.

He is the man they look to in battle. The men mutter in corners, for and against. They do not want to see Yusuf lose leadership, but to challenge Abu Bakr could well be disastrous, perhaps leading to splitting into factions, the unnecessary loss of much-needed men, the possibility of their mission failing when it has only just begun.

For Zaynab, there is danger too. If Yusuf is demoted, she will lose her status, something I cannot imagine her accepting.

But if Yusuf makes a bid for leadership of the Almoravids and fails, Abu Bakr might have Yusuf killed for daring to challenge him, making Zaynab a widow once more and vulnerable.

She is Yusuf’s right hand; she may well be considered to have been behind this challenge and might even face death herself.

***

I risk making myself visible to Zaynab, knowing she has more pressing concerns than her jealousy for me.

I wander the camp, listening to all sides.

There are rumours of ambushes, of formal challenges.

There are those who shrug their shoulders and say that Yusuf will have to swallow his pride and accept that he will no longer be the leader of the troops, that he will be a general again, not a commander.

But although I listen to the people of the camp, be they high or low, I watch only Zaynab.

I have learnt by now through my own experience and rumours that she is the mistress of such situations, that she can and will bend any situation to her own advantage.

If Zaynab looks happy, things are going well for her, no matter how the wind blows or who may fall to make way for her.

She looks terrible.

Her skin is pale and her immaculately plain dark robes grow dusty and stained by sweat under the arms, despite the weather beginning to cool as summer ends.

Her thick glossy hair has grown dull and wispy.

She grows thinner than before, so that her hands are bony, and her face is gaunt.

Her eyes are as bright as ever, but they are disturbing to look at, shining like the last embers in a dying fire, a fevered patient about to leave this world.

If she had a mother alive, that mother would make her rest, would feed her good foods and soothing drinks, and would bath and care for her, protecting the tiny life within her.

I rest and eat well and am careful not to over-exert myself, but I see that Zaynab does none of this.

The whole camp hears her retching in the mornings, sees her paleness and weakness when she walks, but no-one can stop her.

She sits in council every day, can be seen in Yusuf’s company at all hours of the day and night, their dark heads close together, their voices low.

Slaves bring food and take it away again barely touched.

Yusuf eats as simply as ever and Zaynab cannot stomach anything but a little unleavened bread.

The smell of yeast has her on her feet and running to vomit again and again.

Perhaps I should feel sorry for her, but like the rest of the camp I mostly feel curiosity.

How can she keep going like this? And what will happen when our Commander, Abu Bakr bin ‘Umar returns?

We wait.

***

Despite all the guards it is of course the children, with their keen eyesight and their games on the plain outside the camp, who spot them first. They come running with news that a sizeable number of men are making their way towards the camp.

That they are Abu Bakr’s men is quickly ascertained, but as they draw ever closer it becomes clearer that Abu Bakr is not among them.

Many of us, especially the women and children, have spent the morning on the outskirts of the camp, leaning on the low mud walls that are slowly growing in and around the camp or sitting on the dusty ground watching their steady progress towards us.

We have not been watching Yusuf and Zaynab, nor seen their preparations.

As the men draw closer all of us begin to look amongst the crowds to see where they are.

Yusuf will surely have to come forward to greet the men and inquire after the Commander, his cousin?

And Zaynab should be at his side. But they are nowhere to be seen.

A good smell of roasting meats begins to fill the air and I, along with most of the crowd, follow our noses back to the main square, then catch our breath as we see the scene before us.

The square has been cleared, fires have been built, and slaves are bustling back and forth, cooking great quantities of food.

On a hastily built raised platform covered with fine rugs sits Yusuf, with Zaynab by his side.

Although plainly dressed as ever, both wear clean fresh clothes, and Zaynab suddenly looks as though she has drunk some magic elixir of youth.

Her cheeks are tinged with pink, her lips are full and red, her hair glistens as though it is made of precious metals.

They sit in comfort, surrounded by coloured cushions, the very picture of a king and queen even though the camp is not a fine city.

They look powerful, healthy, at ease. They look like rulers.

Behind the platform stand many of Yusuf’s warriors.

They are fully dressed for battle, and make an imposing spectacle, like a king’s royal guard.

Many are the black warriors from the south, whom Yusuf favours for his own protection.

Very tall and dark, their faces gleam in the sun.

All the men chosen have fearsome battle scars and their bodies are hardened.

No-one entering this square could think that reclaiming leadership would be easy, nor think lightly about challenging Yusuf for the command of these men who stand by his side.

We stand, amazed, then scatter amongst the crowd as Abu Bakr’s men enter the square behind us.

These men have fought side by side with Yusuf before following Abu Bakr to the south, and it is clear from their faces that they are taken aback by what has happened since they left.

When they left Murakush it was a glorified version of their own garrison in the desert – tents of all shapes and sizes, none very fine, scattered here and there.

Food was scarce and simple. It was a training camp, not a fledgling city.

It has changed. The tents are larger, better made, laid out in a more pleasing formation, with more space between them to pass by.

There are the beginnings of real buildings; small mud-brick walls being worked on here and there, a few small edifices already completed.

The square is larger. There are regular markets, craftsmen ply their trade.

There are more women and children, older and younger men.

It is no longer a training camp. It is a new city, and it is growing rapidly.

It is clear that Yusuf has recruited many new men and that they obey him as their commander.

The powerbase has shifted. There are many more fighting men in evidence; not only the new black warriors, but also other men of our own lands, from important tribes beginning to align themselves to this new rule.