Page 17 of Do Not Awaken Love (The Moroccan Empire #3)

The moon is fully high in the sky before we dare to leave the room.

It takes all of us to lift the furniture fully off the ground before we can move it, to minimise the sounds we make.

At last, we edge the door open, creep out onto the balcony and look down into the courtyard below.

There is no one there, the gate is still closed, as we left it.

It seems that the curfew is indeed a peaceful one.

We tiptoe down the stairs, bare feet on cold tiles and creep into the kitchen, where we gulp cold water and share stale bread, dried dates, handfuls of nuts.

We cram our fasting bellies with as much food as we can, not knowing what tomorrow will bring.

We empty our waste, clean ourselves a little.

We are free to sit in the courtyard of course, but we find ourselves retreating back to the room we have spent the past few days in, it feels like a place of safety.

We pull blankets and rugs over ourselves and sleep fitfully, every little creak or too-loud snore jolting us awake in fear.

Dawn brings the sound we have not heard for three days, the call to prayer has been reinstated.

We can only assume that the Almoravids have ordered the holy men of the city to take up their usual routines.

The women pray and for once, I do not turn away or find something else to do.

I kneel and clasp my hands, pray alongside them, only with my own words.

I am not sure what to pray for, only that we be spared whatever harm the Almoravids intend to do to us.

Once again, loud voices from the street tell us that we are free to go about our daily business. The Almoravids now rule the city, we are told, but mean us no harm, if we treat them as our new masters. The night-time curfew will stay in place, otherwise, our lives may go on as they did before.

“As if we could go about our daily business as though nothing happened,” sniffs Maadah.

“We should at least eat and bathe,” says Aisha, ever practical. “We cannot know what will happen from one day to the next. If we are safe within these walls, then let us make the most of it for now.”

We spend the day in silence, as though I were back in the convent. There is nothing to say, nor anything much to do. We eat, we bathe, we sit in the quiet courtyard and listen, our ears ever ready for sound, our feet ever ready to run.

While there is still light, before the curfew takes place, I gesture to Aisha and point to the stairs leading to the roof. The others shake their heads, but she nods and together we climbed the stairs, reaching the rooftops step-by-step, crouched down in fear.

We are almost surprised to see the city’s rooftops still there, as though nothing has happened.

But that is not quite true. We can see a part of the city walls that is damaged, we can see fires here and there, sullen smoke still rising after the flames have been put out.

The streets are too quiet, the odd animal wanders, lost without a master, harnesses trailing.

We see two bodies, lying in the street at the back of the house, daggers still in hand and no one come to collect them, men too eager to protect their city when it was already too late to do so.

I cross myself and utter words of blessing, wondering if they are any use to a Muslim, although Aisha nods at what I am doing and mutters some words of her own.

“You are safe then,” comes a hiss.

We jump and clutch at each other, but it is only a woman from the next house, on the rooftop of her own house, barely a jump away.

“Thanks be to Allah, we are safe,” says Aisha. “And you?”

The woman gives a quick nod. “My husband was fighting,” she says. “But he escaped, came back here. Allah be praised.”

“Has he been injured?” I ask.

“No, praise be,” she says. “But he said it was terrible.”

“What happened? asks Aisha.

“He said that they had barely left the city walls when the amir became confused, as though ill, that his sword arm grew weak. He fell almost at once. The generals soon afterwards, they lost their courage with Luqut gone. He said the Almoravids were like no army he has ever seen, and his father fought them last time, he saw them as a boy. He said that they have changed beyond recognition. He said they arrange themselves into line upon line, stretching to the horizon. They beat their drums without stopping, hour after hour, day after day as the men advance. They do not stop, they do not break rank, they only advance, one step at a time, side-by-side, no gaps between them. He said the drums made our men feel dizzy and sick, that they could find no gap in the lines through which to attack. The Almoravids would not retreat, only advance so slowly it seemed imperceptible and then our soldiers found themselves backed up against the city walls and it was too late. They must die or submit. Many men died, until it became clear that the only thing left to do was surrender. The remaining nobles and officers laid down their weapons and told the men to do the same. My husband said he was filled with shame, but what else could he do? He knew he would not return to me and to his children if he did not. The nobles swore loyalty to Abu Bakr and ordered the city gates to be opened, so that the city might not be further damaged. The army was too terrible, there was no chance of winning, they were lucky to escape with only a third of the men killed. There will be families grieving all over Aghmat, but at least some men have been saved.”

There is a heavy hammering at the outer gate, the sound we have been waiting for. We look to one another, even look to the woman as though we might leap to safety, from one rooftop to another, but it is too far for me, let alone Aisha.

“Hide,” says the woman and retreats into the safety of her own house.

Aisha and I make our way back down the stairs, cautious, slow, before Aisha suddenly clutches my arm.

“It is the Master!” she says.

I stare at her, but her ears are better than mine, more accustomed to his voice, for she is right, I can hear him now.

“Open this accursed gate or I will have you all strangled!”

We run down the second flight of stairs, across the courtyard, pull back the gate to see the Master with six of his bodyguards, all of them pale with fear, pushing too hard to get through the tight gateway.

“I should have you all beaten,” he blusters. “What is the meaning of this, barricading the gate against me, eh?”

“We were afraid of the Almoravids, Master,” cringes Aisha, ducking out of the way of his flailing hands as he attempts to strike us. I am not so quick, he ends up half-smacking my cheek, a glancing blow that hardly satisfies him.

“Well close it again now we are in!” he yells at his bodyguards, who move quickly to do his bidding. I hear fear in the Master’s voice now, feel it in his shouts and blows. He is unnerved by what has happened to this city in his absence, what it may mean for him, for his business, his family.

We women are commanded to bring water to wash, food at once, no matter that we have few supplies. Later his two sons arrive, slipping through the streets with hooded robes borrowed from servants rather than their usual finery.

We all, even the Master, peep from closed windows, watching the dark shadows patrolling the streets, tall men, their faces fully veiled, long spears and vast shields held at their sides. We hear the clatter of horses’ hooves and brace ourselves for what is to come.

The Master, and no doubt others from amongst the richest merchants, have been summoned to visit the amir’s palace, now the stronghold of our conquerors. He sets out alone, without the safety and comfort of his bodyguards. We wait for his return.

He returns shaking, his usual arrogant demeanour broken. It seems the conquerors have stripped the palace of its decorations and finery. We huddle in the corners of the courtyard and staircases, eavesdrop on him speaking with his sons.

“They claim to disdain luxury,” he says. “Their leader looks like a common soldier. You would not be able to tell him from his men.”

“What did they want with you?” asks one of his sons.

“They want gold,” says the Master, shoulders drooping. “They want more gold than can be imagined.”

“For what?”

“For men, for armour, for horses. For a kingdom. They intend to control all the trade routes; they will tax us to get what they need.”

The three men sit in silence for a while, digesting the news, trying to foresee their future in all of this.

On the one hand, as merchants, their trade is needed.

On the other hand, there is a risk that they will be taxed so harshly that their trading will barely be worthwhile.

They cannot tell yet, they can only wait and discover how these, their new masters, will treat them.

They are cowed by the news, wary of their futures, afraid to put a foot wrong, not knowing how this new regime will treat any failure to comply.

I have never seen the Master so shrunken, so defeated.

The hammering we were afraid of comes again and this time at night.

The Master is dragged from his bed by the dark-robed men, spluttering and cursing them as he goes, leaving us alone, untouched, the house unstripped of its goods.

It seems he tried to hide the extent of his wealth from our new rulers, that he did not pay what was promised and they, in turn, have shown that they will not be defied.

We are uncertain whether he has been killed, but it seems likely when he does not return.

Our household falls empty and silent. We wait to know our fate, expecting one of his sons to take his place, to command us.

But they do not come. Eventually we hear whispers that they, too, defied the Almoravids and paid the price.