Page 42 of A String of Silver Beads (The Moroccan Empire #1)
T he siege is successful on the eighth day, when the army breaks through the defences of Fes and crushes the twin cities beneath its might.
Buildings are sacked for riches and some even destroyed with brute strength or fire.
The inhabitants pay a high price for their stubborn defence.
Bodies lie slaughtered in the streets, while the two kings, who were proud enough to refuse to surrender, are now forced to beg for mercy at the feet of Yusuf’s general Yahya bin Wasinu.
He in turn makes them wait, grovelling, spending each day in fear of their lives, while he sends word back to Yusuf to ask for his clemency.
Yusuf gives it, allowing the two toppled kings to live where they may choose.
They slink out of their conquered fortresses like beaten dogs, taking those few who are still loyal to them to a new life of lowly status.
Those people who have not lost their lives have a choice – to leave the city with or without their kings, or to stay and swear allegiance to their new ruler.
Some leave, unable to bear a new ruler, some to seek their now-demolished fortunes again.
Those who remain must accept the changes now ordered by their new unseen amir, Yusuf, far away in Murakush.
The wall between the two parts of the city comes tumbling down, men of the city itself conscripted to do the back-breaking work alongside the army’s muscular soldiers.
Rich merchants cut their hands to ribbons handling heavy tools and curse in whispers over their blisters at night.
Once the wall is down the people must live day by day, side by side with those who have been strangers to them, now suddenly become neighbours in the rubble.
The city begins to change shape. Now it is truly one great city rather than two placed side-by-side. New people come to it from all over the land, and every day more men join the army, which numbers many different nations within its ranks.
Yusuf has ordered that building must begin as soon as the rubble is cleared away. Mosques are to be built, baths, water canals, mills. The city will be transformed, ready to take its place as one of Yusuf’s most important cities in his plans for future conquests.
He has also ordered the creation of the palace he promised.
It will be a fortified castle, its ramparts high above the city offering a lookout post where his guards can spot any attackers stupid enough to try and take Fes from Yusuf’s army.
The rooms will be bigger and more beautiful than those in Murakush.
Craftsmen will be called from far and wide to design complex tiled floors, to carve the plaster into swirling gardens of leaves and flowers, and to fill every room with fine rugs and cushions, low tables of scented wood, brass and copper dishes engraved with every possible shining design.
It will be a very different life from the one Yusuf and I once knew in the desert, where our only homes were our tents, and our meals were plain.
Now foods will be brought to us from far away, great banquets will be held, growing ever more formal.
Our clothes will become more and more costly, our servants and slaves multiplying day by day.
Zaynab’s great bed will take up residence in her rooms and we will all live in the palace together, her eyes everywhere, my life in danger.
***
Murakush is in ecstasy. The army has triumphed yet again, and now Yusuf rules over cities both north and south. His army is huge, and each city taken is another part of the greater plan.
There is feasting the night that word reaches us about the success of the army.
Torches burn brightly, lighting up the city’s growing fineness.
Good food and drink are made and eaten, the storytellers fill the squares and people gather to listen to the latest tales spun around Yusuf and his holy mission, his handsome baby son, a new city conquered, two new kings subjugated to Yusuf’s mercy.
Fes is described to those who have never seen it, its great riches now part of the wealth that Yusuf can command, the wall of division between its people felled at his orders.
My husband is becoming the stuff of legend, his conquests something from a fairytale, peopled with extraordinary heroes and princesses.
Zaynab, of course, has her own legends, and they grow greater by the day.
I have even heard the story of my own younger days when I entered the camel race and my veil fell from my face, showing that a young girl had beaten the men at a camel race.
I shake my head when I hear these stories, for I am described as more beautiful and daring than I truly was.
No longer a silly headstrong girl who risked her father’s wrath in order to please herself and make fun of proud young traders and their sons.
Now I am a stunning beauty who defied her father, beat off princes and warriors to claim a great prize and who amazed all when her fine robes unveiled her true loveliness, drawing the eye of Yusuf bin Tashfin himself.
I sit at a window where I can overlook the streets and watch the feasting, listen to the stories being told, the dances and songs that accompany them as the night draws on.
Children gradually fall asleep and are carried back to their homes, while the men and women continue celebrating.
I see a few men and women who should not be in one another’s company, for the night hides much.
I hear rumours passed from mouth to ear.
One of these makes my heart beat faster.
Two women stand in the street below me. One I recognise, a slave woman in Zaynab’s household, who washes her clothes and makes her bed. The other I do not know, a slave from another household no doubt, the two perhaps friends.
“She has not bled this month,” says Zaynab’s woman.
“By many days?” asks the other.
I lean further out of my window, wondering whether they can truly be speaking of Zaynab or whether they speak only of a slave girl or servant who has been a little too friendly with the soldiers.
“Enough,” says Zaynab’s woman, nodding knowledgably. “She looked faint today, pale. Like she was with the last one. She will give the Commander another child for sure.”
I sit back and breathe deeply. Zaynab, who somehow managed not to give her three previous husbands any children, seems fertile after all: her first son not a stroke of luck but perhaps the first of many.
“Praise be to Allah,” says the other, although there is not much praise in her voice.
Zaynab is not a favourite in her household, for she is harsh with her punishments and entirely lacking in praise.
She works her servants and slaves hard, thinking nothing of having them whipped or starved if they displease her in even a small way.
Her fertility is not a source of pride to them as it might have been with a more beloved mistress.
They continue talking as they walk slowly back to their own beds, while I allow the night air to cool my hot cheeks and slow my heart.
***
The next morning, I go to the stables where all the camels of Yusuf’s own household are kept.
I find Thiyya. I have not seen her since I first came to Murakush, but she is healthy and well-cared for.
I thank Allah Zaynab has never known she is precious to me or no doubt she would have found a way to harm her.
Thiyya recognises me but makes a great show of ignoring me until I offer her the dried figs I have brought.
She immediately fights off the other camels and flutters her long white lashes at me, daintily picking each fruit from my hand, then greedily nuzzling me for more when she has eaten them all.
I pat her gently and smooth her fur. I look around the stables but cannot see any racing saddles that would fit her.
There are large men’s saddles or dainty women’s saddles, neither of which are what I like to use with her.
I stroke Thiyya’s small ears while she tosses her head.
She has never liked to have her ears touched. I pat her forehead and leave her.
***
I am walking back through the streets when a little slave boy runs up to me.
“Lady, I have a message for you from a man.”
“What man?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I do not know, lady. He asked me to find you.” He pulls out a little pouch. “He said to tell you that a veil sometimes allows you to see more clearly.”
He looks at me as though to see if this makes sense to me. I shrug and give him a coin for his trouble. I let him go with my thanks and go up to my bedroom, calling for cool water to be brought to me. When Ekon has left the room, I open the pouch.
Amalu has sent me another veil key, one that matches the first one he gave me when Yusuf summoned me.
I sit and look at the little silver fastener for a long time, thinking about the time he had given its twin to me.
I was so full of innocent excitement and pleasure, a free and happy woman on her way to see her husband after too long apart.
Before I had met Zaynab, before I had lost two more children by her hand.
Now I feel like a prisoner, my innocence crumpled and dirtied by all I have experienced.
Amalu knew me before, when my man’s blue veil covered my face, allowing my shaded eyes to see clearly in the blinding desert sun.
I see clearly now the path I wish to travel, and I begin to take the steps to lead me there.
***