Page 43 of A String of Silver Beads (The Moroccan Empire #1)

I leave my room and spend the afternoon in the souk, at the saddle-maker’s stall.

I make him show me all his stock, rejecting all the heavy men’s battle saddles and all the ornate women’s saddles, forcing him to find me the light racing saddles that young men favour.

He is mystified by my demands, muttering to himself as he fails to make me take an interest in the more appropriate women’s saddles, extolling their softness and comfort.

I laugh and wave them away, examining the racing saddles for their quality and workmanship.

I find one that reminds me of my days as a trader, one that I think will fit Thiyya well.

I pay him more than the saddle is worth, throwing gold coins at him with no attempt to bargain him down, leaving him blessing Allah while looking somewhat bewildered.

I give the saddle to a passing slave boy and pay him to take it back to my house, which he does, walking slowly, dwarfed under its weight.

***

More than once I take up my outer robe with its heavy hood and take a pace towards the door, before turning back.

At last, I take a coarse cloth and use it to cover my head so that no-one will know me.

I slip out of my home and take the smallest streets I can find until I reach Isabella’s house, looking behind me more than once in case I am being followed.

I hesitate again; my hand held up to knock.

At last, my knuckles strike against the wood, but there is no answer.

I swallow, then open the door myself and step inside her courtyard.

I have not been here in daylight. It is very small but pretty, full of herbs and flowering plants.

I think to call her name but the silence around me tells me she is not here.

I push at the door to her house and enter the room I remember from the night when I gave up my son.

It is still sparse, as I recalled it. The large cross still looms over the small room, but now there are signs of its new inhabitant. I see a bowl of water in which cloths are soaking to keep a baby clean.

The other item lies on the floor, discarded by its tiny owner, perhaps in a fit of temper.

It is a little rattle, such as are given to small babies to please them when they cry.

They delight in the sound that the beads make when they are shaken.

This rattle is made of ivory, a rare and precious substance to be used for a careless baby’s toy.

I kneel and take it in my hand. I touch its fine smooth surface and then bring it to my lips and kiss every part of it, hoping that when my son next holds it to his rosebud mouth, he may feel his mother’s kiss touch his lips.

I wipe away my tears, which have begun to fall, and then leave that house.

I could walk up the stairs and see every room, could even wait for their return from wherever they have gone, but it is enough for me to have stood in my son’s home, to see where he lives each day and to leave a kiss for him.

I am not certain that I could see my son, perhaps even hold him again, then walk away for a second time.

I close the door softly behind me and when I have walked three streets away, I take off the coarse cloth and give it to a beggar girl, who blesses my name as I walk home.

***

Now that I have made my farewell to my son, I seek out Amalu’s home.

Yusuf’s men no longer live in the barracks formed from tents.

I make enquiries on a morning when the army has left early for the plain outside Murakush, where they will practice manoeuvers all day.

I find his house tucked down a side street, its plain, orange-painted door unlocked.

I push at it and enter a small courtyard, modest in size and bereft of comforts: no fountains or flowering plants here.

His few rooms are also plain: a simple bed and blankets, a worn prayer mat along with some weapons, perhaps not needed for today’s practice.

No decoration, no cooking utensils save a water jar and dipper, a cup.

I think sadly of all he has given up to be close to me.

He, who was always at the centre of a group – playing with the camp’s children, playing the drums in the oasis, talking with friends, eating with his family – now lives in this silent house, fights faceless in Yusuf’s army and eats alone, perhaps something bought from a stallholder and eaten quickly without the pleasure of company.

I return to my own rooms and call for Adeola and Ekon.

“I have a task for you,” I say and tell them what I want of them, leaving them with a generous purse of money.

I visit the hammam where I allow myself to be soaked and scrubbed until I feel newborn.

When I return to Amalu’s rooms I wear a very simple pale robe and none of my jewellery, but my hair is soft and shining, falling down my back like a great waterfall.

My hands and feet and face are marked with henna, in beautiful patterns and the symbols of my people.

My body is clean, my skin is soft and hairless.

I smell of fine perfumes and the roses from the soap that cleaned my hair. My eyes are outlined with kohl.

I push open the orange door and look about me in awe. The courtyard has been filled with flowering plants and hung all about with lanterns in many colours. A great basin of water ripples in the breeze and sends tiny flower petals scudding across its surface.

“Food will be brought at the appointed hour,” says Adeola.

She shows me to a room where a tub of water, cloths and a clean robe await Amalu’s return.

She gestures to the stairs, scattered with yet more flower petals and I follow her to his bedroom, now lined with wall hangings and fine carpets, his bed draped in soft sheets and colourful blankets.

Bright strips of cloth hang at the windows, billowing as though we were back in a tent.

More lanterns are hung here, while platters of fresh fruits and little cakes have been placed on two small tables.

We return to the courtyard, where Ekon waits for us. I take a deep breath and feel my eyes fill at what I am about to do.

“I did not know why I bought you, Adeola. I thought it was the heat, that I was foolish to be sentimental. Now I know better. The two of you have been far more than slaves, bound to obey my orders. You have proven yourselves friends to me when I needed you most. There is no way in which I could thank you for what you have done but to give you your freedom, and I do it now.”

They stare at me.

I half-laugh, although I can feel tears falling. “You are free,” I say. “I have already had documents drawn up, your freedom will be made known, and I have left money for you. But I tell you now that you are free. You are no longer my slaves.”

Adeola meets my gaze, and her own eyes fill with tears.

She embraces me and I clasp her tightly to me, our muffled sobs and laughter joining together.

When I release her, I look to Ekon, who has been watching us, his face solemn.

Now he steps forwards until he is almost touching me.

I hold out both hands to him but instead he kneels before me.

“You do not have to kneel,” I say. “You are no longer a slave.”

But Adeola shakes her head. “It is the way of our people,” she half-whispers, her eyes still shining with tears as she watches him.

Slowly Ekon bows forward until his head almost touches the ground at my feet.

He presses first one cheek and then the other against the cool tiles of the courtyard and I think of the golden sand that clung to his lips when he thanked me in this same way for the purchase of Adeola.

When he rises, I bow my head to him before I am suddenly embraced, enveloped in his crushing arms, my face buried in his chest which shakes with the violence of his sobs; the years of enslavement he has endured in silence now being released from this most reserved of men.

It takes a while before we are all composed, little bursts of laughter and more tears coming from us as we speak together.

“You must go,” I say at last. “Amalu will return soon.”

We embrace again and they leave me alone in the courtyard, where I wipe my eyes and try to see myself in the basin of water.

Certainly, I am not as elegant as I was, the kohl lining my eyes has been somewhat marred by all the tears I have shed but then what I have to say to Amalu is greater than such petty matters.

***

I find myself a little nervous. I have prepared what I will say to Amalu but what if it is his turn to reject me?

I have not been kind to him, I think, yet he has shown me nothing but devotion and care.

What if he laughs at my proposition or sends me away?

I pace through the tiny courtyard, arrange and then rearrange the flowers to my liking although none of them look right.

What looked beautiful when I first saw it now seems too much, a foolish show of affection come too late.

“Kella?”

I spin round, my hands dirty with earth, my face flushed with the effort of lifting a heavy flowerpot.

Amalu stands in the doorway of the courtyard, staring at me.

For a moment I say nothing, flustered. I had meant to be calm, elegant, clear in what I have to say to him.

Instead, I am aware that I am sweating from my efforts, my hair is disheveled, and my kohl is smeared from the tears I wept earlier.

“Kella?” says Amalu again, coming closer. “What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

I can’t help it. I laugh. “I’m sorry,” I gasp. “I meant everything to be perfect and instead…” I gesture helplessly at myself.

Amalu frowns. “What was to be perfect?”