Page 37 of A String of Silver Beads (The Moroccan Empire #1)

My own house is nearby, but I am grateful that it is mine alone, despite it being smaller and less grand.

Strictly speaking I could complain, could demand all that Zaynab has, for the Holy book would give me justice.

But I crave my own space, my own little kingdom rather than to be always under Zaynab’s watchful eye.

Yusuf offers me more servants, more slaves, but I refuse and keep only Adeola and Ekon with me, for they are all I need and the only people I trust. I do not trust Zaynab not to pay off someone to spy on me in my own home.

It is small with a pretty roof terrace, which I fill with flowers in tubs and a great basin of water, which ripples in the breeze.

An elegant city house should have fountains, but we are not so elegant yet.

Inside, the rooms are cool; dark in the heat and brightness of the day, and there I rest, surrounded by my own possessions.

I see little of Yusuf, although he visits me occasionally, bringing me fruits and asking after my health.

I do not try to make him stay longer than he wishes, and he has much to do.

We are kind and courteous, but there is little intimacy left between us now.

He is wrapped up in his new-found power to take his mission forward, I am wrapped up in my pregnancy and Zaynab stands between us.

My own rooms are simple. I keep the decorations plain, the carved white plasterwork and vibrant rugs enough for my liking without filling the rooms with fine objects.

I am used to tents, not living in buildings, and it seems strange to me at first. I feel shut away from the elements.

Inside my rooms the breeze cannot come at night for heavy drapes are hung over the windows, and the heat of the sun is kept away by the thick mud walls and wooden shutters.

I wonder how Yusuf fares. He was raised as I was.

I laugh to myself when I hear that he often sleeps in the courtyard of his fine house.

I eat, sleep and watch the world go by. I marvel at the city and how it grows daily, keeping pace with my own belly. It is a quiet time for me; alone but not lonely in my own little world, while all around me great plans take shape around the growing army, city and Yusuf’s power.

***

My child kicks within me and sometimes a little foot presses against the tight skin of my belly.

I rub my fingers against the bump and smile when it is quickly retracted.

Soon I will have my babe in my arms and will be able to play with it.

I think of stroking its silken hair, of a tiny hand clutching mine.

Yusuf visits me, offering me a box. I take out a beautiful necklace of silver and amber, an issaran pendant traditionally worn for a great celebration, perhaps held at the full moon, when the great circle of amber held within the silver will reflect the beauty of that celestial orb.

“For you,” smiles Yusuf. “And this is for our child, when he comes.”

He pulls out a string of silver beads, each one a thick tubular shape.

I smile. These are ismana, ‘long bones’ beads, given to a child to promise good health and that their bones should grow long, leading to a tall child.

He shows me how each one has been marked by the jeweler with my own name and Yusuf’s.

“When you first see your son, he will be wearing them,” I promise.

Yusuf pats my heavy belly. “It cannot be long now,” he says.

***

I awake to a strange sensation, which fades as I stir.

I think I have been dreaming and lie half asleep as the pale dawn lights my room, thinking to sleep again, for I was restless and slept badly in the night, my body uncomfortable whichever way I lay.

Then a slow return of that feeling takes hold of me; a squeezing and tightening in my belly and suddenly I am wide awake, for I know my baby is on its way.

I tell Adeola what is happening and warn her that no-one must know. She has Ekon close the heavy shutters of the house and hang blankets in front of each window, the better to muffle any sounds.

My pains come slowly, building all through the day.

I walk up and down in my rooms, restless and in growing pain.

I am certain that my baby will be born at any moment, but still time goes by and nothing happens.

I want to cry out with pain but I must be silent and so I clench my fists and teeth and try to stay silent.

“You need a midwife,” says Adeola.

I shake my head. There is no-one I trust.

But as the pain goes on and on, I grow afraid. How will I know if something is wrong?

“Fetch the Andalusian woman, the herb seller,” I say at last to Adeola. I know that she has healing knowledge, and I have need of someone as calm as she has always seemed to me.

Adeola slips out of the house and returns some time later with the woman.

She looks about her as though curious and when she sees me, she looks shocked. “Why do you not have a midwife with you?” she asks.

“There is no-one I trust.” I tell her, panting between the pains. “Zaynab…” I do not finish the sentence, but the woman nods as though I have said more.

“What is your name?” I ask her.

She hesitates. “Isabella,” she says, as though the name is both familiar and strange to her. I do not know if she is lying to me, but I do not really care, I only need a name by which I can call her.

“Your child comes too soon.” she says before she examines me. Everyone believes that Zaynab will be delivered of her child before me, so she must be worried that I am birthing too early.

I shake my head, awash in a wave of pain.

She frowns and comes closer, giving me her hands to hold, which I do gratefully, drawing on her steady calmness, her air of being unworried by anything. I badly needed her reassurance. As the wave dies away, she sits down with me.

“Not early?”

I shake my head again.

She thinks for a moment. “Zaynab…” she begins.

I shake my head again.

She looks at me, eyebrows raised, then nods to herself. “So.”

After that she questions me no more. She examines me and I look hopefully at her.

“I think it will be born very soon,” I say. “I have been in pain for a long time.”

She looks at me kindly. “You have not yet felt pain,” she says matter-of-factly. “And your baby will not be born for a long time yet.”

I gaze at her with horror and disbelief. She smiles and pats me on the shoulder as I bend over again with pain.

She is right. The hours go by until they are nothing but a blur, the waves by now not even separate, only coming again and again till I cannot distinguish between one and the next.

At last, there comes a most terrible moment when I believe I will be ripped in two. All about me goes dark and then at last I feel some relief. The pain brings me back to the light and I hear a small cry.

Isabella busies herself, then comes to my side, where I have fallen back on my bed in exhaustion. In her arms she holds a tiny form, which she hands to me.

“A son,” she says.

I hold the strange tiny creature in my arms. He is wet and slippery, and I fear I will drop him.

He is still partly blue as well as an angry red.

I think of how the indigo robes stains the men of our tribe blue and leads to all who meet them calling them the Blue Men and I laugh so hard that I think I will never stop.

I am drunk with happiness for at last I hold my own child, a son for Yusuf.

I remember his choice of a name for a son, and now I whisper to the tiny creature who nuzzles my breast impatiently, uninterested in my fits of laughter which make him bounce up and down on my belly.

He makes grumbling sounds, and I try to help him, although it takes Isabella’s help to show us both how he should drink.

“You shall be called Ali,” I say to him. “As your father wished. You are his first son, and you will be much loved.”

I am interrupted by Isabella who has brought me a strong golden broth made by Adeola under her direction, as well as two raw eggs, the traditional food given to a new mother.

She sweeps aside my refusal of her horrible concoction, insisting that I must have something to help me regain my strength.

She holds Ali while I reluctantly swallow the raw eggs, which I do not like at all.

Under her stern gaze I finish them and then hold my arms out for my son.

She shakes her head and hands me the bowl containing the broth, in which I can taste garlic, saffron, thyme and mint, along with pepper in such large quantities that I cough and splutter.

I wipe my streaming eyes as I finish and then set the bowl aside and look up. Isabella and Adeola have disappeared with Ali and before me stands Zaynab. I feel myself cringe at the sight of her.

“You have a son?” she asks, looking this way and that.

I thank Allah that Isabella has already taken Ali somewhere else, away from Zaynab’s cold eyes, for I do not trust her not to dash him on the floor if she could lay her hands on him. I stay silent.

“It is my own children who will follow Yusuf,” she says and there is a note of desperation in her voice that almost makes me pity her.

“Why do you hate me so much, Zaynab?” I ask. “I am nothing compared to you, yet you hate me and pursue me. You seek to do me harm at every possible opportunity. I have done nothing to you.”

She looks away, around the room, still searching for a glimpse of my son. “I am always second,” she says, almost to herself.

“What do you mean?” I ask. “You are Yusuf’s right hand; you are a queen.”

She shakes her head impatiently, as though I cannot see something obvious.

“You may have a son,” she tells me. “But I will have many more. And if I can do your son harm, I will do it and I will not hold back. Every time I see that life grows in your womb; I will find a way to take it from you. Before or after it is born, while I still live each one of your children will die.”