Page 22 of Do Not Awaken Love (The Moroccan Empire #3)

The flowers appear on the earth…

T he camp continues to grow, as more soldiers join the army and their families, if they have them, follow them. More and more tents continue to be erected, on the outskirts of the tents already here. This strange cloth city grows day by day.

“I think you must be bored,” says Yusuf to me one night.

“Why do you say that?” I ask.

“Your garden of plants is growing,” he says. “It is almost a field.”

“Does it bother you?” I ask.

“Not at all, why should it?” he asks. “They are useful, both for our meals,” he gestures at the food I have laid out, rich with herbs and seasonings, “and for healing, in battle. One never knows when one may need such skills.”

“Do you wish me to move them?”

“I think perhaps you need a bigger space,” he says, still eating.

“We would not use all the herbs I could grow in a larger space,” I say.

“You may sell them, if you wish,” he says. “This is still a new city, there is need for fresh grown food.”

“Sell them?”

He shrugs. “You may keep the money,” he says. “Use it as you wish,” he adds.

I stare at him, but he is drinking a cup of water, and then he leaves me, muttering something about needing to speak with Abu Bakr.

I take him at his word. I find a small piece of land on the outskirts of the camp and claim it for my own, murmuring Yusuf’s name to the only person who queries what I am doing.

It has an immediate effect. I move many of my plants to the space and let them grow more vigorously, especially the mint, which grows wild and rampant, popping up here and there where least expected in vibrant clumps.

Even though I must haul water to keep the plants green, I grow so fond of my little garden that sometimes I forget the passing of time and have to run back to Yusuf’s tent to prepare a meal.

The plants grow well and soon I can make up little bunches of parsley, coriander, sage, cumin, fennel tops and other herbs and vegetables.

Yusuf was right, the people of our cloth city long for freshness.

The traders come often but they bring food that can be stored, not the bright green tendrils that bring flavour and freshness to a dish.

The women reach out eagerly for what I can give them, and my bundles of herbs are used up every day well before the midday sun strikes.

With the first coins I begin to accumulate, I buy a hoe, so that I can work the ground more easily.

The rest of the money, I put into a little stitched bag, kept under my blanket.

I do not know what it is for, yet, whether I might one day be able to buy my freedom, or whether that will never be allowed.

Aisha comes to watch me at work sometimes, helps me to thin out seedlings.

One day she tells me, her smile lighting up her face, that she is with child.

I embrace her, truly happy for my friend.

Occasionally I see a beggar woman making her way around the camp, her feet bare, her long dark hair dirty and lank.

Despite her appearance, I think she is still young, perhaps barely twenty.

Sometimes she is given a little work to do by a trader or one of the women, perhaps carrying water or washing clothes and I see that she does it well, she is a hard worker but somehow has found herself here, lost and alone, with no one to protect her.

I notice she has no shoes and give her a coin so that she can buy simple shoes to protect her feet from the rough ground.

“May God bless you,” she says.

Her accent is odd. “What is your name?” I ask.

“Rebecca,” she says.

“Are you a Christian?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“A Jew?” I ask, a little disappointed.

“I was born and raised Jewish, in Al-Andalus,” she says, looking away.

“But I fell in love with a Muslim when I was very young, and my family disowned me when we married. I was his second wife and his first wife hated me. When my husband died, she threw me out of the house and my family would not take me back, they said I was dead to them.” She swallows.

“I offered myself as a slave, for I had no way to make a living. Then my master sold me to a man in the Maghreb and I ended up here. He died, so I suppose I am free, but still, I have no way to make a living. The camp allows me to scrape by; there is always someone who needs willing hands.”

I nod. Once I might have turned away, knowing her for a Jewess, but she has been turned away from often enough already in her young life.

There can be no harm in showing her a little charity, I decide.

I give her the odd bunch of herbs or greens and she always thanks and blesses me.

The law states a Jew cannot live in the city, they may trade here but must sleep beyond the city walls, so those Jews who do trade here often live at a little distance from Murakush and travel here each day to work.

Rebecca, I find out, sleeps just beyond the encampment.

The tent flaps are yanked aside so hard that I hear one of them rip at the top.

I look up in consternation, as Yusuf storms into the tent.

He does not sit down in his usual place, only stands, fuming, in the middle of the tent.

I had been seated, sewing. Now I am uncertain whether to stand or not, he looks so angry that I am a little afraid to come any closer to him. Staying low to the ground seems safer.

“Is all well?” I venture, finally.

“No,” he snaps.

He does not offer anything else and I do not enquire further.

I have never seen him so angry, he has never been so abrupt with me.

I continue my work, keeping a cautious eye on him, my stitches growing erratic with my lack of attention.

Some time goes by before I dare to look up at him directly again.

He’s still standing, staring at the tent walls, what I can see of his face somewhat flushed, his brows lowered.

“Tea,” he orders, in a manner he has never spoken to me before.

I stand, see to the fire outside, bring water to the boil and make tea. When I return, a cup in my hands, he is now seated, arms wrapped around his knees, his brows lowered. He takes the tea without a word of thanks and I retreat to my place and my sewing.

“It is madness!” he suddenly exclaims, startling me a little, for I had expected him to remain quiet.

“What is?” I venture carefully.

“Abu Bakr has decided to quell the rebels in the south himself, instead of sending one of the generals. It is absurd and unnecessary!”

I nod, not daring to speak. Then I think that he requires more comfort than this. “It does seem strange,” I say. “Surely there is no need for him to go himself?”

“Exactly! It is madness!”

He goes back to brooding for a while and I continue sewing, unpicking most of the stitches I have made since he entered the tent and starting again.

Although Yusuf is right, in that it seems odd that Abu Bakr himself should need to go to the south to quell what is, by all accounts, a fairly minor rebellion, I cannot help but wonder why Yusuf is so angry about it.

Perhaps he wished to go himself, though I have never heard him talk about any interest in going south.

His focus always seems to be on conquering more of the Maghreb rather than any southern kingdoms. “Did you wish to go yourself?” I ask, finally.

“Of course not! Neither of us should go. An officer can go, a minor general. There is no need to take such a step.”

“And he will not listen to reason?” I ask.

“Oh, he has lost his mind,” spits Yusuf. “There is no reasoning with him.”

I am surprised at both his insulting tone and words. Yusuf is usually very loyal to Abu Bakr; he speaks of him only in the highest tones of praise and respect. For some reason, this choice by Abu Bakr has riled him.

“And who is to manage the army while he is gone?” I ask finally, wondering if perhaps Abu Bakr has gone so far as to overlook Yusuf and give this role to a more minor general, which would certainly explain Yusuf’s current behaviour, although it seems a very unlikely proposition: Yusuf is known to all as Abu Bakr’s right-hand man, he would be the only possible choice of leader in Abu Bakr’s absence.

“I am, of course,” says Yusuf. There is a pause. “With the she-bitch at my side,” he adds in a half mutter.

“What?” I think I have misheard him; it is not like Yusuf to speak disrespectfully of a woman and besides I have no idea who he is talking about.

“Abu Bakr, in his infinite wisdom, has decided to divorce Zaynab.”

I stare at him.

“And he wishes me to marry her.”

It takes me a while to find my voice. “But – but you have a wife,” I manage at last.

He shrugs. “He wishes me to take another. Zaynab. Of all people.”

“Why?”

“He says Zaynab is not fit for a rough life in tents in the middle of the desert.”

“But she has been living in a tent all this time,” I object weakly. “And she does not complain of it, does she?”

“How would I know what she complains of? She is not my wife. Yet,” he adds grimly.

“But your first wife…”

He gestures impatiently. “That is not the issue. I may take more than one wife. And Kella will just have to accept it when she arrives. That is not the point. I would never have chosen Zaynab. Never. She is untrustworthy.”

“I thought she pleased Abu Bakr,” I say. “I heard she was allowed to sit in Council, that she had knowledge of the Maghreb, of the politics between the tribes.”

“Abu Bakr killed her husband,” snarls Yusuf. “Who is not to say she is biding her time, tricking us, waiting for Abu Bakr to trust her and then follow her lead into a trap?”

I think of her face, riding alongside her husband the amir, the sadness in it, the unhappiness. “Did she love Luqut?” I ask.

“How should I know? All I know is, our army defeated his, she was taken as a prisoner of war and then managed to worm her way into marrying Abu Bakr, thus becoming our queen. I don’t trust her. She is like a cat, landing on her feet after a fall.”