Page 23 of Do Not Awaken Love (The Moroccan Empire #3)

I realise something about myself, something which I can only regard as a sin.

That I am pleased that Yusuf does not wish to marry Zaynab, when whether he marries or not should be of no regard to me.

I am finding myself pleased that he does not desire her, that he does not love her.

I am pleased that he is reluctant to take her as a wife, that he has so far not even summoned his first wife.

I know that this is a sin on my part, that there is something in me that wishes Yusuf to remain, to all intents and purposes, unwed.

That for now, for these past months, I have been the only woman in his life, in his tent, by his bed.

I have enjoyed the intimacy of our evening conversations.

I bow my head to my sewing, resolving to no longer take part in this conversation, to pray on my sins and ask for God’s forgiveness later, when Yusuf is gone.

We sit in silence for some time before he speaks again.

“And he has the audacity to tell me that we will be an excellent team together, she and I! He said something ridiculous about her reading the maps and me leading the men, that together we would be unstoppable. I have no desire to be allied to that woman.”

“You could refuse,” I say and immediately bite my tongue.

Why am I trying to encourage Yusuf not to marry Zaynab?

There is no reason why he should not marry her, if his leader so wishes it and believes that together they would make a good match.

Abu Bakr, after all, has been married to Zaynab for these past months and must know her better than any of us.

If he admires her and believes her a suitable match for Yusuf, then who am I to speak for or against her?

It should be no concern of mine, and yet the words keep coming out of my mouth.

“You could say that you do not wish to marry her, that she should marry someone else.”

“My leader commands it,” he says, but I can still hear the anger in his voice at the path he is being set on.

He leaves the tent then, and I do not see him for the rest of the day.

As soon as he leaves, I kneel and spend many hours in prayer, asking forgiveness for the feelings springing up in me, the absurd jealousy over Zaynab.

I ask for greater guidance, to be set on a righteous path, to be reminded daily of my vows.

He returns later on but is still restless during the evening meal, which he eats angrily, stuffing the food into his face, with no remark on whether it is good or not, nor any conversation.

I realise that I have grown used to our evenings together, talking about this and that, about nothing in particular, perhaps the day’s events.

Now we sit in tense silence and I am not sure if there is any topic I can broach that will put him in a better mood.

“Is the army’s training going well?” I ask at last. Usually, talk of his men and their training puts him in a good mood, he will talk for hours about this or that training strategy, about which men seem to be proving themselves as possible future leaders, the most reliable warriors. Now he only grunts.

I return to silence. If this, his favourite topic, has only brought out of him a grunt, then I am wasting my time trying to think of any other conversation.

After dinner, he sits hunched, his face stuck in a scowl. I tidy the tent, clean away the food, and still he sits there.

“Perhaps a walk in the night air will refresh you after your difficult day,” I say at last. It is all I can do not to tell him to stop being so sulky, as though he were a small child. At any rate, he nods, then gets up and leaves. I hope that he will come back in a better mood.

He is gone a long time. I lie down to sleep, but sleep will not come.

I lie first on one side and then the other, neither of which feels comfortable.

I try to think of calming things, such as listing the names of herbs, or the uses for one root or another.

But this does not work. At last, I give up, and lie awake, wondering where Yusuf is, for he has been gone a long time.

Sometime very late, he returns. And instead of taking to his bed, he kneels and prays. I have never seen him do this before, so late at night. I wonder whether I have always been asleep when he has prayed at this time, but I doubt it. There is something still preying on his mind.

Both of us sleep poorly that night. I hear him toss and turn even as I lie sleepless till the dawn.

The notion of a marriage to Zaynab seems to have deeply affected him.

Something in me, a voice I do not wish to answer, nor hear, asks whether in fact, despite his protestations, he already has feelings for her.

“Marry Yusuf? That would be her fourth marriage!” exclaims Aisha, as we make our way round the market together.

“First, she was a concubine, they say she married for love. Then after her vision, Luqut took her as his queen. Then Abu Bakr after she was their prisoner of war and now, he intends to turn her over to Yusuf? I have never heard of a woman being married so many times.”

“Is she pleased, do you think?” I ask. The thought of Zaynab desiring Yusuf still unsettles me, despite my prayers.

“Who knows? I would have thought she would be grateful of a younger husband than Abu Bakr, at any rate,” says Aisha.

“He is old enough to be her grandfather. Perhaps they will make a good team,” she adds, turning her attention to the vegetables she is purchasing, prodding them to see if they are fresh.

“Yusuf will be the leader of our army while Abu Bakr is away, and she is a great beauty, whatever her character is like. Perhaps she will bear some children.”

The thought of children only brings to mind what must be done to create them, and I shy away from the thought, hastily smelling one fruit after another, touching more items than I need to, confused and failing to select what I need to buy.

“Surely not,” I say. “She has been married three times and borne none. She must be barren.” The thought gives me comfort and I chastise myself for it.

My list of penances is growing longer by the moment.

“Perhaps she has never been married to the right man,” says Aisha with a broad wink.

“Don’t be vulgar,” I say.

But it seems that Zaynab does indeed intend for Yusuf to desire her, not merely marry her to please his leader.

“Have you seen what she is doing?” asks Aisha, standing in the doorway of the tent.

I look up at her, framed in the light, her belly broadening before her. “Who?”

“Zaynab.”

“What about her?”

“Have you seen it?”

“Seen what?”

“You have to see it for yourself,” says Aisha, half giggling. “Come with me,” she adds, holding out her hand.

“I am busy,” I say.

“Not busy enough to miss seeing this,” says Aisha firmly.

She will not accept my refusal. I get up and follow her, expecting some foolishness, uncomfortable with seeking out Zaynab.

Outside of Zaynab’s vast black tent there is a little crowd gathered, mostly made up of children, two known prostitutes and a couple of young men, who seem to be blushing furiously.

“Look!” hisses Aisha, as we approach.

There is a carpenter at work, on a wooden bed. The bed is very large, and the man is currently carving its headboard. I frown at what I’m seeing, then take a step backwards. Beside me, Aisha giggles.

The bed is obscene. The man is carving a series of images, of couples consorting.

There is no detail left to the imagination.

The bodies writhe together as though alive, the most intimate parts of male and female bodies rising out of the wood as though desiring to be touched.

I turn my face away, and one of the prostitutes laughs.

“I told you!” says Aisha, still giggling.

I walk away, my feet too fast for my head, which is still whirling. I nearly trip twice. “What is she thinking, making something like that?”

“Oh, I think she is thinking that if she is to marry him, she must make Yusuf a little more interested in her,” says Aisha.

“He has been commanded to marry her,” I say, my voice sharp. “She does not need to woo him, as though she were a harlot. It has been arranged; it is a marriage of convenience.”

“It may be convenient for Abu Bakr,” says Aisha. “But I think our queen wants there to be more than just convenience in her marriage bed.”

I look down at her and she gives me a broad wink. I look away and continue walking, aware that Aisha can barely keep up with my pace and not caring. I am tired of her prattling.

“She has changed the way she dresses, too,” comments Aisha, panting a little behind me.

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, have you not seen her since the marriage was announced?”

“No.”

“She has got rid of all her jewellery. And all her bright silks. And her face is no longer painted. Not that that makes much difference,” Aisha adds generously. “I’ve never seen a woman so beautiful, even without paint.”

I think of how Zaynab usually dresses, the vibrant silks draped becomingly about her, the heavy strings of gems, the golden headdresses. Her painted lips, her dark-ringed eyes. “What is she wearing, then?” I ask, slowing down despite myself.

“Black,” says Aisha.

I stop and turn to look at her. “Black?”

Aisha nods, catching her breath. “Black all over. Clothes, shoes. No jewellery. Of course,” she adds, smirking slightly, “it’s still the best silk and leather money can buy.

She is hardly dressed in rags. But I’d say she had an eye to pleasing Yusuf, he’s the one that doesn’t like ostentation, Abu Bakr never complained about how she was dressed. ”

Again, something in me turns over at the thought of Zaynab deliberately wooing Yusuf, shaping herself to his desires, seeking to please him. “You always did like to gossip,” I say. “What do we care how she dresses?”

Aisha put her head on one side, regarding me without answering.

“Well?”

“He is your master,” she reminds me. “When he marries her, she will be your mistress. I thought you would like to know how she is treating this marriage.”

I give an exaggerated shrug. “I am a slave,” I say, my tone bitter. “I have no say in who my master marries, nor who my mistress is. I certainly have no views on whether their marriage will be a good one or not. It has been commanded, so it will be.”

Aisha nods, but it is as though she is nodding herself, rather than at my words, as though she has confirmed something she thought about me.

“What?” I snap at her.

She smiles more broadly. “Perhaps Yusuf might let you serve elsewhere, when he marries her,” she says. “If you do not wish to serve her.”

“I doubt I will be given the choice.”

“There are always choices,” says Aisha. “It is just that we do not always know what we wish for.”

“I do not know what you are talking about,” I say. “And now I must tend the plants.”

“Your plants are always a good refuge,” says Aisha. “I will bid you farewell then, until we next speak.”

“Farewell,” I say, already turning my shoulders to her. I do not know why I spend so much time with her; she is nothing but a busybody.