Page 10 of Do Not Awaken Love (The Moroccan Empire #3)

I grow used to the endless swaying walk of the camels, they are a different kind of beast to a horse, having neither their skittishness nor their elegance.

They are bad-tempered and slow, groaning in protest when they are made to sit and stand.

I suppose I should be grateful that I am allowed to ride them at all, for to walk this distance each day in this heat would kill me.

I do not know where we are going, I do not know how far away our destination is.

I know only that the landscape through which we travel is so different to the one I am used to that it feels as though I am in a dream, or some fantastical tale told by a storyteller.

If I were one amongst many slaves, I would assume that I was being taken elsewhere, to be traded onwards.

But I am the only one. I try to ask the men with whom I travel where we’re going, who they are, but they speak only what I suppose is Arabic and I do not understand their gestures.

One thing I give grateful thanks for each night, however, is that my body has not yet been sullied.

I have not been dishonoured. I know from what Rachel said that my virginity was seen as a valuable commodity, which explains why the Norsemen did not touch me, as I expected them to.

I can only suppose that these men, with whom I travel, have been instructed not to tarnish me, for they leave me alone, only touching me to help me gain my seat or leave it each day.

I give thanks to Our Lady for this, for in her purity she has protected mine.

I do not know how long this protection will last, nor for whom my virginity is intended, for I cannot help but think that if it has been respected so far, it is not because of my faith, but rather because I am the property of one man.

I do not know if the man is the one who walked around me in the marketplace, whose fingers crawled across my bare scalp, or whether he was only choosing me for another.

At night I watch the sky and the stars, knowing that we are travelling south-west, further and further from my home.

By day, I sway endlessly on my mount and wonder whether this journey will continue to the ends of the earth.

Much of the land here is like a desert, reminding me of passages from the Bible, of Jesus’ time in the wilderness, of His fasting and prayer, of the Devil’s temptations and His refusals to be tempted.

I think that perhaps I, too, should fast, but when I am offered hard bread and sweet dates, I am too afraid of possible future deprivations to refuse.

I eat what is given to me, I drink as much water as I can.

Whatever is to come, I must be prepared for it.

The dread in my heart is lifted only by a few tiny moments each day, when I recognise some plant or tree.

The olive trees at first, for they are large and easy to recognise.

But later on, smaller plants come to my attention.

I see wild thyme and smell it as we trample over it along tiny paths and the smell gives me courage, for it signals to me that, even in this strange new land, in this unknown world, in what is to be my unwilling new life, there are things I know.

That my knowledge has sailed here with me, is travelling with me even as we make our way through desert dunes and treacherous mountain paths.

And all the time I am learning things about this new world.

I see chattering monkeys for the first time, which I have only ever seen before in paintings, see date palms up close, look across desert sands.

I grow accustomed to the camels and their ways, sometimes pat my own mount, who huffs and nuzzles my hand, the only touch of kindness I can expect.

Once or twice, we stop on the outskirts of the city, and on those days, we eat better food.

I eat hot stews, flavoured in ways I have never thought of, but with plants which I recognise.

I taste cumin, which I had previously used mixed with flour and egg yolk, baked in a hot oven and given to patients to avoid nausea in their intestines.

Here, it is being used for flavour only.

I smell rose water and wonder if they use it for cramps, as I would have done.

There is much use of cinnamon and fennel, both of which bring heat, and I wonder at their use in a country already so hot.

After the first days, I felt the fear inside me lessen a little, for the men surrounding me at least seemed to bear me no ill will nor to have evil intentions towards me.

They are even, perhaps, slaves, as I am, doing only what they have been told to do, bound to the same invisible and unknown master.

One morning there is much chatter amongst the men, and one of them even turns to me, smiling broadly.

“Aghmat,” he says.

I frown and shake my head.

“Aghmat,” he says again, very clearly and carefully, as though this is a word I should know.

I shake my head again and he turns away, disappointed, his companions only shrugging their shoulders. I wonder what the word means, whether it is our destination, or his name perhaps, although he did not gesture to himself. There is nothing I can do but wait.

Later that day, on the horizon, we see the outline of the city. It is a large city, as large as the city the Norsemen sold me into.

The man who spoke to me earlier turns in his saddle and points to the horizon. “Aghmat,” he says, with insistence.

It is the name of the city, then, I suppose.

And, since no one has bothered to tell me the name of any other of our destinations along this route, I can only suppose it to be our final destination.

I feel my belly clench, wondering what fate has in store for me in this place, this Aghmat.

I say the name over and over quietly to myself, my tongue struggling with the sound, this, my first word in the language I will no doubt have to learn to speak, if I am to be kept here.

It has a guttural sound, like the rest of their tongue, like a patient bringing up phlegm from congested lungs.

Aghmat is a large city. The walls, when we reach them, tower high above us and from the many traders coming and going through the main gates, I can see that it is also wealthy.

Only a large and wealthy city has need of so many merchants visiting it along the trade routes.

There are gold merchants surrounded by guards, silk merchants whose wares must be packed with care, merchants whose trade includes herbs and spices, for I can smell them in their camels’ packs as we pass close by.

And there are all the smaller local traders, mostly farmers, bringing fruit and vegetables, livestock and the other goods needed to feed a city of this size.

The men know their way, they guide the camels down one street after another, until we come to a narrow street, where three of the men remove any camels without burdens and walk away with them.

Meanwhile the rest of the men and I, along with the six camels that carry packs, make our way further down the narrow street and one of the men hammers at a large gate set into the wall, which is opened promptly.

There is what sounds like jovial banter between the men and the person opening the door, a woman’s voice.

The camels have their burdens removed and passed from man to man until they disappear through the open gate and into whatever space lies beyond. I wait, high on my camel, uncertain if I, too, am to be passed through this gate.

It seems I am to be unpacked. The camel is ordered to kneel, and I hold on tightly as it lowers itself to the ground.

I have already learnt that camels possess no grace when preparing for dismount.

I dismount and stand up, grateful to be on my feet again, although my knees are weak, having sat in the same place for many hours.

Now I see the woman. It is her voice I heard speaking with the men, but now that she sees me, her chattering stops.

She looks me over, from my wrapped head to my bare feet, sliding over my crumpled robe.

I look her over in turn. She has very black skin and tightly curled hair, cut short.

She wears a faded yellow robe. But it is her height that is most noticeable.

She is a dwarf. I have not seen many in my lifetime.

There was one, when I was a child, servant to a local noble.

He was a man. And there was another, once, on a pilgrimage, who stayed overnight in our convent.

I have never seen a female dwarf. She carries herself with confidence, as though she is a person of some standing in the household, approaching me with frank curiosity.

She points at me and asks a question and when the men answer her face falls a little.

She looks at me and smiles, as though she pities me.

“Aisha,” she says, indicating herself to me.

I keep my face still. I do not know her well enough to respond and I do not know what she has been told to make her look at me with pity. Whatever it is, I will find out for myself before I return her smile.

She says other things, but I do not understand her, do not respond. She falls silent.

I stand still in the narrow street but when she gestures me to enter the doorway, I do so, following her slightly lurching, waddling, gait.

The house is built on three storeys around a courtyard, which is planted like a garden.

There are trees, reaching high into the sky, and a fountain with splashing water.

The whole of the floor is made up of tiny tiles, repeating over and over again a starred pattern in green and white.

This is a house of extraordinary decoration.

Everywhere are carved wooden doors, brightened with paint and featuring many artistic flourishes, such as fruits and flowers.

Each of the storeys above us has an open walkway, like a balcony, around it.

From the uppermost walkway, the faces of four women look down on us, curious and silent.

This must be the house of my new master, whoever he is.

I am, suddenly, more afraid than I have ever been, more afraid even than when the Norsemen took us and I thought that someone might rescue us before we reached the coast. Now I know that this is my destination, that someone is waiting for me in this house and I am so afraid that I forget to pray.

I turn and run.

I hear shouts behind me as I run out of the gate into the alleyway and then as fast as I can down first one street and then another, tiny narrow alleyways, with high walls on either side, closed gates and doors everywhere, no place to hide, no place to duck down and hope that my captors will pass me.

No, they are close behind me, shouting. I burst out into a wider street but now my appearance and the shouts of the men behind me only draw more attention to my flight.

I feel a sudden cramp in my leg, my limbs unused to movement after all these days sat atop a camel.

The cramp is so hard that I stumble and fall and as soon as I do so I feel a hand on my leg and know that my attempt at escape was futile, laughable.

They pull me back to the house, dragging me along.

I do not try to turn and run again, that would be useless.

But I resist, being taken back the same way I have come step-by-step, my reluctance clear.

When they get me back to the same doorway, I feel a hand between my shoulder blades before I am roughly shoved, falling forwards into the courtyard space again, landing this time on my hands and knees.

I look up and meet the gaze of the dwarf, who shakes her head and looks at the man who brought me back.

They talk between themselves and at last she nods, as though reluctantly.

I find myself forced to my feet and pushed down a small walkway and through a door.

Ahead are stairs, heading downwards. I baulk but am pushed forwards in no uncertain terms and make my way down the steps, which are shallow.

At the bottom of the steps is a door. The man with me pushes it open.

It is a small room and bare, it smells of stale air, having no window, only the door.

I hesitate but I am pushed forwards again and hear the door crash behind me.

The door, I now see, is made of a plain wood, no painted flourishes here.

In the centre, rather than a window, or plain wood, it has a small open space, fitted with bars, through which a small amount of light comes, although when I edge close to it and look out there is hardly anything to see, only the corridor I have just walked down.

This room is a form of prison; there is no doubt about that.

And I, in it, am a prisoner. The thought ought to frighten me, but there is something about the room, so silent, so empty, so without luxuries, that somehow reminds me of the convent.

Slowly, I kneel, feel the cold stone floor against my legs, my palms touching one another, and the words come unbidden, Our Fathers followed by Hail Marys, each prayer turning my prison into a holy sanctuary.

Some time passes before they bring me a pot for my bodily needs, a water jar and dipper.

I am given bread and a rough stew of some sort of beans mixed with vegetables, heavily spiced.

I eat all of it. Later, as the light fades from the door, it opens briefly, and a rough woollen blanket is thrown towards me.

Perhaps God has reached out his hand and blessed me, reminded me of my vows by meeting my simplest needs and putting me in this silent space.

This idea at least stops me thinking of the obvious question: what sort of a house needs a prison?