Page 5 of A String of Silver Beads (The Moroccan Empire #1)

The slaves milk goats and churn butter as well as making cheese.

They kill the male kids. There is time to roll finely ground grains of barley to make buttery soft couscous, to prepare mouth-watering marinades of goat’s milk and spices that bring tenderness and subtlety to the meats.

Time to slice oranges and serve them with cinnamon and rosewater rather than quickly munching them and spitting out the bitter skins between one day’s journey and the next.

Cracked wooden spoons and metal pots are replaced.

The new carvings and patterns are appraised and give added pleasure to the dishes.

We eat well and invite many guests to our fire, other traders and sometimes their families.

Among them is Winitran, an old trader I have known since my brothers and I were little children.

He is a kindly man and an excellent jeweller, although his eyes are growing tired, and he no longer does the finer work.

Yet we make sure to trade with him whenever we pass by here.

“You’ll be back at the usual time next year?” he asks my father.

“Of course,” says my father. He thinks for a moment. “Although perhaps my youngest will soon join our village rather than continuing to trade. My sister is growing older and so he may be a help to her.” He is careful, always, not to use my name; not to let slip that I am a girl.

I sit bolt upright, seething. I’ve traded well and yet my father is still talking of sending me back to Aunt Tizemt! I scowl but under my veil no-one can see me. I hope that by next year, when we are due back here, he will have forgotten. It’s a long way off. I might still change his mind.

Winitran turns to his attention to me as the others talk of trading. “I have something for you,” he says. “Something to remember me by.” From his robes he pulls out a little leather pouch and shakes out its contents into his hand.

It’s a tchirot , a man’s silver amulet. A simple silver square, intricately engraved, hanging below a small scroll-shaped silver box. Between the two is a hinge, allowing the two parts of the pendant to move back and forth independently.

Winitran holds it out to me. “It contains the sand from the entrance to my house and my blessing for your own journey, that you may always find your way safely home.”

I bow my head, keeping my voice low as I answer. I’m fond of the old man and he’s been good to me over the years. But I wish he didn’t feel the need to say goodbye to me as though he will never see me again. “My thanks for the amulet. And for your blessings.”

Winitran lays his hand gently on my arm. “Blessings, daughter,” he says very softly, so that none of the other guests can hear him.

I pull my arm back quickly. “How did you know? No-one ever guesses.”

Winitran chuckles. “I am an old man and have seen many things. But I should tell you that a tchirot is a man’s jewel, you know, not a woman’s.”

“I know. May I keep it anyway?”

Winitran smiles. “Of course. I think you may be more of a man than many young men who think themselves most manly.” He pats my arm and then turns back to the others, joining in their laughter and talk while I finger the tchirot . I can’t help feeling a little pride in his praise of me.

***

We prepare to move on. The tent must be taken down and made into bundles that can be quickly and easily pulled from a camel to reassemble into a living space wherever we might be.

The slaves curse under their breath when old straps will not come undone but work fast and soon the tent crumples to the ground, sections already being taken away.

The camels are loaded up and stand blinking haughtily, shuffling from one leg to the other, pushing out their stomachs as the men tighten their saddles.

A quick poke to the belly and they blow out, disgusted at the failure of their cunning plan as the straps are pulled tighter.

The lead camel, my father’s, is a very dark brown female of great docility when dealing with her master and utter viciousness when approached in any way by anyone else.

She values her place in the lead, however, as it enables her to ever-so-subtly adjust her position when walking and reach out her thick lips for the leaves of passing poplars and willows.

My father allows her to get away with it when he is in a good mood.

When he is not, he corrects her direction, and she rolls her eyes back at him and glowers at the tidbit passing her by.

Each camel receives its due – a saddle and then a range of burdens are meted out.

The lucky ones get a single rider; perhaps an inexperienced slave, easy to fool into allowing it a stop or a nibble of passing food.

The less lucky ones get heavier people; the strong male slaves, or piles of trading goods and the party’s cooking pots and provisions.

They droop their heads and try to look hard done by, but their efforts are in vain as more goods come their way.

At last, they give up all pretence of delicacy and stand, blowing their warm breath into the cold air, bored and sulky by turns.

***

A new city and its souk. One known for its camel races.

The young men boast and show off their saddles; some new and some old but polished so hard that their colours shine, almost reflecting their owners in the wood and leather.

The riders introduce their camels as they might a well-favoured bride, boasting of her beauty, her good breeding and wondrous abilities.

Meanwhile they pour scorn on their rivals’ beasts, pointing out bucked, yellowed and missing teeth, straggly coats, an old saddle that will be bound to break under any strain.

“I don’t care for your camel’s knees,” one says, winking at his friends while shaking his head in sadness at his rivals’ grave misfortune. “Too knobbly, as you can see. Not like my camel’s – now she’s a beauty!”

One camel is given particular care, although mostly in secret.

Thiyya grunts as I examine her pads and brush her coat.

She sighs when the old worn tack is exchanged for new, stiffer reins and a halter that rubs her face a little at first. She groans when the straps of the saddle pull her stomach in a little tighter.

But she makes contented sounds when she is offered a little more salt than the others, a few handfuls of dates and even some whey left over from the cheesemaking.

I whisper endearments and praise into her soft ears for her long legs, her speed, her strength.

Thiyya blinks her spidery white eyelashes and takes all such praise as her due.

It is months since I have raced, and I can bear it no longer.

I have avoided all the races in minor souks and trading cities, turned my face away, allowed my brothers to ride Thiyya without a murmur.

But this race… this is the one where the champions compete, where the very best stretch their mounts and themselves to the limit; where just last year Thiyya came second by only a muzzle-length, and I know that she could win.

If I could just spur her on a little more, just the length of her neck and we would win.

I can taste the glory of it. Not the prizes or bets, for I have never cared about them.

But the elation, the thunder of feet followed by the fierce joyful moment of triumph.

Briefly, I consider riding a different camel, to hide my intentions from my father, but I know in my heart that Thiyya will make me a winner, that none of our other camels can win.

I beg my youngest brother to aid me.

“But if our father –” he begins.

I shake my head. “No, no. You will stand close to me all the time in the crowd. When I mount Thiyya, who will know for sure which of us did so? And when I win –”

“ When you win?”

“ When I win,” I say firmly. “When I win you must be at my side again, as soon as you are able. Then I will slip down and you can take Thiyya’s reins.

Parade around, show her off, make a fuss, strut a little.

People will forget which of us exactly they saw.

And with any luck father will only see you.

I will be back in our tent, well-behaved and irreproachable. ”

“Kella…”

“Please,” I beg him. “Please.”

“Very well,” he says. “But if this goes wrong it falls on your head.”

“How can it go wrong?” I ask.

***

The early evening grows cooler as the crowds gather for the race.

Those riding arrive with their camels walking proudly behind them.

The spectators fight over good positions, some little boys even attempting to watch from palm trees for a better view; their elders laugh at them as their grip begins to falter before the last of the riders has even arrived.

My father is safely in another part of the city; I saw him set off with my own eyes before I crept out of our tent, my younger brother already well ahead of me, leading Thiyya by the reins to the racetrack. I arrive just before the race begins. Envious looks are cast.

“Azrur’s two youngest sons. They are excellent riders and win often. I would not bet against them if I were you!”

“They’ve been working hard this week though, out every day and half the night trading. Maybe they are a little weary by now. Might be worth a small wager against one of them.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you – I’ve lost a dagger and a belt because of them!”

The crowd jostle, excited as the race grows nearer.

Children are hoisted onto shoulders. The women begin their ululation, the shrill trilling echoing out across the dunes, making the younger camels sidestep, ears pricked.

The more experienced camels are tense. Soon they will be racing, and they are keen.

After days of good feeding and drinking they are rested and full of strength.

They want to run, to feel the heat of the other camels all around them, the sand and wind in their ears, their riders’ feet and voice urging them on.