Page 14 of Do Not Awaken Love (The Moroccan Empire #3)
I am appalled by such depravity but Aisha only shrugs.
They have all grown used to their master’s ways by now, know that they must bow their heads and ensure he is happy when he is here, that it is not their place to refuse him anything.
He travels a great deal, Aisha tells me, so that much of the time the household is relatively ungoverned, for there is no mistress.
“There was one, once, but after she had borne him two sons she died, and he never replaced her. He preferred to hire nursemaids for his sons and take his own pleasures where he wished. His sons are now grown men, both traders of Aghmat in their own rights, one deals in silks, one in gemstones. We do not often see them; they have their own households.”
“Why would he choose me?”
“He said you were a religious woman, he had never seen one for sale before, he would have found that interesting.”
I shake my head at the kind of man who would even think that. “Where are the other women?” I ask.
“Most are sold on, if they are worth selling. One ran away. A few of us he could not sell on, so we are still here.”
I stop what I am doing and think about what she has said.
By now I know that the household is made up of six women: myself, elderly Maadah, tiny Aisha, a very young girl named Ranya, barely out of childhood, who stays in the shadows of giantess Dalia.
And Faiza, whose skin is mottled, half brown and half white, in patches like a leopard.
And now I see what we are. A household of discarded playthings, a house of women who are too odd to be resold, kept only to carry out domestic chores, ready for the Master’s rare visits.
Aisha watches me at my work. When she sees me pause when watering a plant to touch its leaves and smell it, she brings me a little potted plant of my own, though I have no idea where she got it from.
It is mint, the mint they use here in their tea, which they drink copious amounts of, laced with honey.
I take it in my hands and look at her. She indicates that it is mine, and reluctantly I nod my head to her and give her something approaching a smile.
She beams back at me as though I have embraced her and she must say something to Maadah, who then seeks me out.
“You know plants?” she says.
“Yes,” says Aisha, standing beside her.
“Be quiet,” she says. She looks more directly at me, shapes her words carefully and clearly. “You know plants?”
“Yes,” I say without adding anything more.
She nods her head, as though confirming what Aisha has told her. She asks something else, but I do not understand.
I shake my head.
“Can you heal sick people?” she asks.
I nod my head.
She calls for young Ranya, who has a bad cough. She makes her stand in front of me and then asks her to cough, which she does, a thick hacking sound. Maadah looks at me. “Can you help?” she asks.
I turn away from her and walk to where the lavender flowers are growing.
I pick a few, then make my way to the kitchen, where I take honey and water and mix all of them into a little pot, which I set on the fire.
Maadah, Aisha and Ranya watch me, curious.
When the mixture has bubbled for a little while I pour it carefully into a cup, straining out the flowers as I do so.
I hand the cup to Ranya and say, in my awkward accent, “Drink this, every day. It will drive out the stuffiness in your chest.” Privately, I also think that it will drive out malign spirits and that perhaps this girl, who has been through such hardships here, may suffer from them also.
I make the mixture every day for four days and by the fourth day Ranya is smiling at me, and Maadah nods her head as she can hear for herself that the cough is abating, becoming lighter.
Now I have a function in the household. I am given the care of all the plants in the courtyard, and I rearrange them to my liking, placing the ones who enjoy the sun in the centre and those that prefer a cooler, shadier location at the edges, where they are sheltered from the blazing rays of the midday sun.
The various members of the household come to me with their ailments and Maadah lets me have a pestle and mortar of my own, along with a few other little implements and pots that I may use when creating my remedies.
When I ask for ingredients that I do not grow myself in the courtyard, at first, she tries to give instructions to Aisha, who shops in the market for the household.
But after a little while this becomes difficult, I cannot adequately explain everything I need.
And so, one day I am given leave to go with Aisha to the marketplace and told that I may select my own herbs and other ingredients.
I am nervous. Since the first day I arrived in Aghmat, I have not left this house, its courtyard, its walls.
I have looked out over the rooftops, and seen the wide stretch of the city, but I have never ventured outside of the closed courtyard gate.
But now I want to see more of this world in which I live, and so, tentatively, I follow Aisha out.
I remember the narrow street in which I am standing, the street that brought me here and where I tried to run away.
As we walk on, I see the narrow side street where I tried to jump from the window and fell.
I will remember that street forever, I think bitterly.
I will limp forever because of that one moment, my leg twisted and broken, the pain of it and the knowledge that it saved only my chastity.
It did not release me from slavery; it did not return me home.
I wonder briefly if the price I paid was too high, but by now we are joining the main street towards the market square and my thoughts are distracted by the world around us.
The marketplace is very large. Aghmat is a rich city and it displays its riches here, in a wide-open square, entirely surrounded by market stalls, and further behind it, dark warrens, tiny side streets making up the maze of further shops.
There is a large mosque, where the people of the city pray.
The stalls and shops offer everything one might wish for.
From luxurious carpets, laid out on vast racks to show their beauty, down to tiny vials of rose perfume, so rich and sweet a scent that it makes your head spin.
There are food stalls where merchants call their wares, offering stuffed dates, roasted meats, fresh breads, tiny sweetmeats and juices freshly squeezed to take away the day’s heat.
I can hear the metalworkers, the constant clang-clang-clang of their work, metal against metal as spoons and jugs and platters are created in their burnished hands.
No doubt there are other metalworkers, those who make weapons, but they are needed less than daily utensils.
Everywhere we walk our paths are blocked by beasts of burden, camels, mules, donkeys, horses, carrying everything from water jars to fruits and vegetables, even struggling livestock bound for slaughter.
We have to start and stop with every step, allowing the traders to make their way towards stalls and the souks through narrow streets, pausing at the houses of well-known customers.
There is every kind of person here. Little children run past us, shrieking as they play games, occasionally I spot one clasping stolen fruit or sweetmeats, a stallholder raising their voice behind them in indignation.
There are old traders, sucking on pipes, swilling back sweet teas as they call out to passers-by, inviting them to look more closely at their goods: carpets, blankets, woven hangings.
They promise shade and tea in return for a customer’s attention.
There are those who make other kinds of promises.
Whilst most of the women here dress in long robes, with little flesh on show, the colours of their fabrics bright but not gaudy, there are other women.
These wear golden beads strung into their hair, their lips are painted bright shades of red, their arms are full of jangling bangles which they make sure to shake as they move, their robes, while long, seem somehow to offer glimpses of an arm, a leg, to gape open for a tantalising glimpse of their necklines.
They laugh and joke amongst themselves, they call out to the men who pass by, something about sweetness, about honey, although they have nothing for sale but themselves.
There are jewellers, leather workers, and a slave trading block, which I move away from as soon as I recognise what it is, as though the trader might suddenly grab me and sell me onwards.
Aisha winks at me and puts one finger to her lips, indicating a secret, before using a small coin to pay for fresh oranges, cut and sprinkled with cinnamon and rosewater.
After we have enjoyed their sweet taste, she busies herself buying fresh butter and cheese.
She points to a lamb and a pair of chickens and they are slaughtered for us there and then, the blood spilling on the ground while a blessing of sorts is spoken over them.
Behind the butcher sits an old man, his father perhaps, now too old for such a violent trade, whittling away at a wooden spoon he is creating.
He nods and smiles to me and says something, but I do not understand and so I only nod and move away, once the meat has been parcelled up for us.
Our baskets have grown heavy by the time we reach a small store to which Aisha nods and points, smiling.