Page 20 of Do Not Awaken Love (The Moroccan Empire #3)

But we find out soon enough that Aisha is right. A new city is to be built, a fortified garrison city, where the army will be based. But a city cannot be built without food, water, labourers, and their families.

“Gather the household,” Yusuf says to me.

When we are all grouped before him in the courtyard, he looks at our expectant faces.

“Aghmat is finished as a city,” he says.

“It will become smaller and less important once Murakush is built. Henceforth I will need only two slaves to serve me.” His finger briefly indicates Aisha and me.

“The rest of you will be given to new masters.” He looks at the other women’s worried faces.

“I will choose your new masters myself,” he adds. “And I will do so with care.”

The women choose to stay in Aghmat. By now it is their city.

They cannot believe that its glory will fade as Yusuf suggests.

They cannot ally themselves to this invisible city, this Murakush that exists in name only, as a thought, an idea.

They need walls and streets, they need the stalls of the traders they have frequented, they need one another.

Yusuf tells us that this house, and the women, will be given to an older officer in his army, one who wishes to take up a quieter administrative position in charge of Aghmat, while the army continues on its way to greater conquests.

“He is a good man,” he says. “He will treat you well. He has a wife and family; he is not one to mistreat nor take advantage of his slaves.”

He surprises us by setting Maadah free.

“I think perhaps you have served as a slave long enough,” he says, looking at her wrinkled face. “I have agreed a paid position for you here, as a cook. I am sure your cooking is better than I have allowed it to be.”

She kneels at his feet and blesses him, promises to pray for him and for his glory in coming battles.

“So, I am left with only two slaves,” he says, looking at Aisha and me. “I daresay that will be enough. I am a man of few needs.”

The two of us stare at each other, wondering what our new life will be like.

The army is sent ahead; Aisha and I are told to join Yusuf in a few days’ time. In the meantime, we are charged with clearing the house, giving anything not yet donated to the poor to them now. The officer will bring his own family goods to fill the house, we are told.

“What do we do with your plants?” asks Aisha.

“I don’t know,” I confess. I hate to leave them behind, but I am a slave, they are not mine. It is not for me to request that they come with us, to a strange and rough new life.

But Aisha is bolder. She goes to Yusuf and tells him, rather than asks him, that I must keep my herbs, that they are important.

“I told him he may well have need of a slave who is also a healer,” she says to me, her face beaming when he gives permission to take the plants with us and gives her coins so that she can hire a man and his beasts to carry them.

“He says it is your business to find water for them, the new city will not have a proper irrigation system for a long time,” she adds.

“He says you may have to work hard to carry enough for them.”

We all cry when it is time to leave. Maadah, Dalia, Ranya, Faiza and Nilah stand in the narrow street, watching as Aisha and I climb awkwardly onto two old mules, followed by several more loaded down with crates of plants.

Their owner looks surprised at the cargo he is to carry, but he knows we serve the second-in command of the new rulers and so he only nods brusquely, clicks his tongue to start the beasts walking, ignoring our endless waving and last words called out to one another.

When we reach the plain after a jolting ride, I forget to dismount, astonished at the sight before us.

It is a city of tents, laid out as though around a central square, with streets marked out between them.

There are huge tents, fit for a large family, there are smaller tents.

Then there are tents so tiny they seem to be made of nothing more than a blanket and some poles.

All around the edge of this cloth city are soldiers, currently engaged in digging, building, carrying, lifting.

Water must be brought from nearby, there must be places to relieve ourselves, there must be firmly trodden paths so that traders may visit this sudden city that has appeared almost overnight.

No trader worth the name would miss the opportunity to serve such an army.

I had never realised the true scale of Yusuf’s troops, there are thousands, tens of thousands of men of every hue and size, both battle-scarred and still fresh, creating this new garrison camp for their leaders to call home.

“Come,” Aisha exhorts me. “We must find Yusuf’s tent.”

I could have described his tent before even seeing it, it is as plain as he is.

A dirty brown in colour, ragged at the edges, yet large enough to comfortably hold the three of us.

I hesitate a little at the idea that we will sleep so close to him, fearing perhaps that his demeanour so far may not hold true for ever.

But I swallow my fears, unpack the plants, which I place around the borders of the tent’s outer walls as though creating a tiny garden in circular form, and busy myself, with Aisha’s help, in making the interior comfortable.

We find a source of water, order large water jars to keep our supply cool, create a little campfire outside where we can cook evening meals.

We have brought some basic provisions, but we will need to find traders.

We walk around the camp, finding our way in this new home.

There are people here from all over the Maghreb and beyond.

I see men and women with hair the colour of the yellow Norsemen, who make me nervous despite myself.

I see men with skin so black they all but disappear into their black robes.

I even see a woman with hair like fire, who knows full well the value of her scarcity.

She has decked herself out with cheap jewellery and robes which leave nothing to be imagined. I turn my face away.

It turns out to be easy enough to find stallholders, even if their stalls are no longer as elaborate or permanent as they might have been in Aghmat.

Here, they make do with displaying their goods in woven baskets on the ground, squatting beside them in the open space at the centre of the tents.

It does not take long for vendors of food to arrive when there is an army to feed.

There is need of grain, legumes, meat, vegetables and fruit.

Yusuf has been generous with the money we are given to care for him, considering how basic his own tastes are.

We buy what we have need of and carry it back towards his tent.

In the centre of the camp, not far away from Yusuf’s, stands a tent like no other. Larger than any family tent, it looks newly made and is black, a deep strong black. It towers over the other tents, a tall man could stand within it and keep his head high, indeed, raise his arms above his head.

“Queen Zaynab’s tent,” whispers Aisha as we pass it. “She had it built specially.”

“Why does she not share Abu Bakr’s tent?” I ask.

Aisha shrugs. “He is used to a rough life,” she says. “She is used to a palace.”

I wonder if we will see her, but the only person standing nearby is an older woman, with dark eyes, who watches us pass, her gaze lingering on the plants around Yusuf’s tent.

“Who is she?” I ask.

“Hela,” whispers Aisha. “Queen Zaynab’s handmaiden.”

“Why is she staring at the plants?”

“They say she is a healer,” says Aisha. “Like you. Perhaps you could work together.”

We have reached Yusuf’s tent with our purchases. “I doubt it,” I say, looking back at the woman’s dark eyes, her unsmiling face even when she meets my eye. “Besides, I am not a healer. I am a slave.”

I begin to wish I was indeed able to practice as a healer, for Yusuf certainly does not keep us busy enough.

He has no need of two slaves, for he barely eats anything requiring much work.

We bake flatbreads and sometimes roast a little meat; he will eat a few dates or nuts and consider it a meal.

He drinks water, there is no need to prepare fresh juices.

Aisha and I eat well enough, indeed sometimes I think we eat better than our master.

We keep the tent clean and fresh; we wash his clothes when he gives them to us, we water the plants and watch the world go by.

But after a little while a change comes over Aisha. She spends time on the outer edges of the city of tents, watching the soldiers practice their war skills. She dresses with more care; she offers to do all the purchases from the market. At last, I ask her what is going on and she confesses.

“He is such a man,” she breathes. “So kind. So strong. He says he will buy my freedom.”

I think that Yusuf will refuse, but to my amazement it turns out that Aisha has caught the eye of one of his bodyguards, a special troop of men, all from the Dark Kingdom, chosen to match one another in height and breadth, in their black skin.

Deliberately clad in matching armour, they make a fearsome force around Yusuf when he is in battle.

Imari is a man who would dwarf a woman twice Aisha’s height.

When Yusuf hears of his desire to marry Aisha, he gives Aisha her freedom as a wedding gift.

Suddenly she is a free woman with a husband, all within a few days.

I gather herbs for her, herbs that will bring her the child that she so dearly wishes for and tell her how to prepare them.

I embrace her and watch her as she says her vows, as she is promised to this man forever.

“I am going nowhere, though,” she tells me. “Else how will you know all the camp gossip?”

“It is a sin to gossip,” I say. “But I will miss you.”