Page 18 of Do Not Awaken Love (The Moroccan Empire #3)
We stay indoors for several more days, too afraid to venture out, too afraid to believe the Almoravids when they say the citizens of Aghmat should go about our business.
The fountain brings water to the house, so that we may drink and bathe, the kitchen has enough dried foodstuffs that we can eat, albeit plain fare.
None of us desires fresh fruit and vegetables enough to risk going into the unknown new world outside our gate.
The rooftops become our source of knowledge, of gossip, rumours and whispers. The men and women of the city gather on the rooftops before the curfew comes each day, exchanging sources of knowledge which may or may not be true.
The new regime allows us to leave the house by day, although the curfew by night still stands.
At last, the day comes when Aisha and I must leave the house, for we are without food and no one else in the household dares to venture out.
We wrap ourselves in winter cloaks, as though the heavy cloth might somehow protect us.
Clutching a basket, we creep out of the main gate and into the narrow street.
There should be children running, the clip clop of mules and donkeys, the huffing of camels.
But the city is quiet, our neighbours still afraid to venture out if they can avoid it.
“Let’s go back,” begs Aisha.
“We need food,” I remind her. “And we are allowed to go to market, so long as we do not defy the curfew.” Even so, I hold her hand tightly in mine as we come to the end of our street and make our way onto the wider road that leads to the market.
There are people about, here and there, although they walk quickly and quietly.
The men do not look about them, the women walk with their heads down.
No one chatters or stops to greet one another.
They go about their business quickly. Not all the market stalls that should be open are trading, only a few, here and there, those of which people have most need.
There is a stall selling vegetables and we make our way there and, in half whispers, make our purchases, not even daring to gossip.
Next to them is a dried goods stall, and we purchase dried fruit, lentils, chickpeas.
I find myself buying more than is necessary, more than we would usually buy, so that we will not need to venture out again in a hurry.
There is no meat for sale today, no spices, nor fresh cheese and butter. We will have to make do without.
We turn to leave and suddenly see our first Almoravid up close.
A tall man, wrapped in a long dark cloak, a spear in one hand, a sword at his belt.
His face is fully veiled, I can see only his eyes, and only his eyes follow our movement.
He does not move, only watches as we pass and then turns his attention back to the rest of the market square, no doubt searching for any signs of unrest. But this is a cowed city, a city that has recognised its defeat.
The days pass and there is no sign of disobedience, no sign of reprisals.
The merchants who escaped punishments pay the heavy taxes demanded of them and are grateful they are not higher.
The people begin to go out and about again, quietly at first and then more boldly, until the city chatters again and it is as though nothing had ever happened.
But there are stories emerging, which Aisha, of course, quickly finds out about.
“Queen Zaynab is to marry Abu Bakr!” she says.
Maadah stops what she’s doing, and all the women gather together to relish this gossip.
“Is this one of your nonsense stories, again, Aisha?” I ask.
“It is the truth!” she says. “May Allah strike me down if it is not true!”
“She is marrying him?” I say.
“Yes! They say that she met with him, and took him, blindfolded –”
“Aisha,” I say warningly.
“I swear! She took him blindfolded to a secret place, where she showed him untold riches. Gems and gold beyond counting. ‘All this is yours,’ she told him, and now they are to be married. She will be the queen of the Almoravids. And they wish to create a new city.”
“Not very loyal,” comments Maadah.
I think of the only time I have seen Queen Zaynab, how beautiful she was, but also how unhappy she looked.
I am not sure that she felt much loyalty towards Luqut, who took her from her first husband when she was still a young bride.
Perhaps she hopes for a better marriage with Abu Bakr.
Perhaps showing him whatever riches Luqut had in his treasury is her way of securing her future.
Aisha’s news is proven to be correct. Zaynab marries Abu Bakr with great pomp and ceremony and the people of our city repeat again the story of her vision, that she would marry the man who would rule the Maghreb.
“Her vision has come true. It was foretold that she would be wife to the man who would rule all of the Maghreb.”
“It was not Luqut’s destiny to rule. It was the Almoravids, her vision is coming true at last.”
“How ridiculous,” I say, when I hear this. “Did her vision require her to marry three times before it came true?”
“It was foretold,” says the stallholder, speaking with conviction while weighing out barley.
I roll my eyes. I do not believe in Zaynab’s so-called vision, it seems too convenient to me.
Too much like convincing a conquering warlord to spare her life and treat her with dignity rather than take her as a common prisoner of war or indeed simply end her life.
She has protected herself by creating a legend.
A young girl, her hand sought by so many.
Who chose to travel across the Maghreb, far, far away from her home and her family to her first husband.
A woman who had a great vision and was demanded as queen by the Amir of Aghmat.
Whose city was destroyed and yet who cast a spell over the commander of the conquering army, showing him riches such as are only dreamed of in this life.
Made queen again from the rubble of a ruined city, lifted once again to greatness.
Her vision coming true at last as the army prepares for domination.
The people begin to think that perhaps their amir’s fall was destined, that Allah always meant for the Almoravids to take over this city, that he guided them to this place, to marry their queen, and fulfil her holy vision.
No doubt this idea is welcomed and encouraged by the Almoravids.
I do not know what to think. But I give thanks to God that this army has not yet brought harm to myself and the other women of our household, as we once feared.
We are not sure how long we will be left alone in this household, or even if the small amount of money we have will last us more than a month or two, but for now, at least, what we were afraid of has not befallen us.
A new piety sweeps the city. The people dress with more sobriety, dance and flirt less, sacrifice more animals and say their prayers with renewed conviction.
It is a way to survive, I suppose, to believe that what has happened, the suffering caused by losing so many men of the city, was intended.
That Aghmat, rather than being humiliated, is part of a grander plan, one approved by Allah, who has guided the Almoravids this far.
The people choose to believe this. The metalworkers set to making new weapons, the merchants feed and clothe their conquerors, although the Almoravids take little pleasure in the riches and comforts that a city like this one might offer them.
They seem to disdain the luxuries of the world to a degree that surprises.
We hear that every room of the palace has been stripped bare, that generals and common foot soldiers alike lie on the bare floors, wrapped in coarse blankets to sleep, that the servants grow idle, not called upon to provide rich foods and sweet drinks, massages and bathing that were required by the former amir.
Now they need only bake bread and roast plain meets, serve dried dates without adornment and pour cold water to drink.
I wonder whether Queen Zaynab approves this new austerity in her life, or whether she is still served as she once was.
Perhaps for the first time since I came here, our household relaxes.
The conquerors have shown no interest in us.
The Master and his sons, who made all of us nervous, are gone.
Apparently, we have been forgotten. We eat, we pray, we sleep.
We clean the house and ourselves; we speak of small matters.
I gather leaves and roots from the plants in the courtyard and make remedies for such minor ailments as afflict us or our neighbours, which we barter for vegetables and grains to eke out our food stores, which are running low.
I begin to think that I have somehow found myself in a new convent, peopled with this strange array of women collected by our late master.
I wonder, even, if I might convert them, if somehow this household might become a nunnery, under my guidance.
It seems unlikely, for all of them cling to their own faith, as I do to mine and who could imagine a nunnery here of all places?
And yet the rhythm of the day seems familiar to me, and it brings me an unexpected peace.
There are days when I hope this time will last forever, that no one will come to disturb this fragile peace we have somehow made between us in this uncertain time.
But it seems God has other plans for me.
I am watering the plants in the courtyard, squatting down to remove dead flowers and leaves, touching the earth in each pot to see if it is dry or damp, when a shadow falls over me.
I look up, expecting Maadah or some other known person and find myself at the feet of an Almoravid soldier.
I freeze, waiting for a blow or worse, but the man only stands there, looking down on me.
“Stand,” he says. His voice is calm, unhurried, unconcerned.