Page 41 of A String of Silver Beads (The Moroccan Empire #1)

“I will be glad to be closer to you, husband,” I say gently, and it would be the truth if Zaynab were not part of the bargain. As it is I know now that my days are numbered. Living in Murakush or living in Fes will make no difference. Zaynab will not be satisfied until I die.

Or disappear.

***

The next day I send gifts to my family. I spend many hours in the souk, wandering from stall to stall, even in the heat of the day when many retire to their homes for food and prayer.

I wander on, making good use of my trader’s eye.

I hold my family in my heart as I walk from one trader to the next.

For my brothers I buy fine saddles, each with different colours woven into them, as well as tiny trinkets and toys for their children who will no doubt be numerous by now, although I know I will never see them.

For my father I buy a fine sword, the best that can be found in a city supporting a great army.

It is the finest I have ever seen and indeed the maker does not even want to sell it to me, for he hopes an officer or even Yusuf himself will desire it.

He has no interest in selling it to an unknown woman, even one as wealthy as I obviously am, with gold coins already held in the palm of my hand while I bargain.

But I disclose my identity to him, leading him to believe the sword might find its way to my husband’s hand.

Then he grows eager and even gives me a fine scabbard for it.

My aunt I heap with gifts. Everything I see that I think may please her I buy.

Brass bowls, copper jugs, wooden spoons make their way into the hands of slaves who walk wearily behind me, wondering at my sudden desire for purchases, for I am known for my simple house and belongings.

I choose pots made from clay, a rarity for Aunt Tizemt for our earth is not suitable for the potters’ wheel.

I buy cloth and jewellery, powdered henna and tiny silver discs for her weaving.

I laugh to think of her grumblings as she unpacks my gifts, her mutterings that I must have more money than I know what to do with and all the while her good strong hands admiring what her mouth cannot bring itself to say, that I have good taste and that the things I have sent her are useful and beautiful.

They will colour her life a little brighter.

I even send a gift for Tanemghurt, though I do not know whether she is still alive.

In a tiny pot I place precious rose perfume such as might adorn a bride, paying many coins for it, for it has come from far away and is the finest of its kind.

I buy it hoping she still lives and may use it one day on another innocent young bride such as I was before I learnt some cruel lessons regarding marriage.

I think of the cold waterfall for her astonished brides and her secret pride in such rituals, the creations of her own imagination.

I hold the tiny pot in my hands, think of her wrinkled old face and struggle to stem my tears.

While I wander through the souk with my slaves running back and forth behind me, some taking my new purchases back to the house, others coming to take their place and carry my new items as I walk on, I hear a baby gurgle.

I look up at once, for I always hope that I might catch a glimpse, however brief, of Ali in the streets, held by Isabella.

My breasts dripped milk for days after losing him and even now, so much later, they still seemed to ache when I hear a child cry.

It takes me a moment to locate the child, but when I do I feel my heart, so eager to reach out, suddenly pull up short.

The baby is Zaynab’s boy Abu, only a little younger than Ali.

I steer clear of him whenever I can, for his sweet smiling face hurts my heart and his chubby little hands hurt my very soul.

Now he is just ahead of me, held as ever by his nursemaid.

He smiles over her shoulder at me. She is oblivious of me, striding along as best she can carrying a heavy baby, jostled by the many people who walk along the tight streets.

I gaze at his tiny jolly face and sigh. Certainly, I could plot against Zaynab’s child as she has done against mine, but I cannot bring myself to harm a baby, nor to wish any bad fate upon him.

He is only a baby and knows nothing of his father and mother, nor of me and my secret child who is, after all, his brother.

He smiles broadly and reaches out his tiny fingers.

I hold out my own hand, unable to resist his enthusiasm and happiness.

His fingers grab mine for a brief moment before he is pulled away as his nursemaid finds a gap in the crowd.

I watch him disappear, his bright eyes still fixed on mine, then turn back to the craftsman with a heavy heart.

He has been bargaining all this time and appears to have haggled me into a ridiculous price, so I clear my mind.

I think of my father and brothers, trading their way across the dunes and begin to barter in earnest.

***

That night I supervise the packing of all the gifts I have bought and wave goodbye to the men and the camels as they set out on the long journey to my old camp.

I wish I might lead them there but know that for now my fate holds me captive in Murakush, for the news we have been awaiting has finally come.

***

Fes has fallen.