Page 42 of Do Not Awaken Love (The Moroccan Empire #3)
I pull the string of silver beads from my robes and explain that Kella gave them to me to prove Ali’s lineage.
I look to Yusuf and ask if they are the same beads that he gave to his first wife and he agrees that they are.
He adds that he confirms my story, that he believes the truth of what I say, that he himself accepts Ali as his son, his firstborn son.
The council cannot gainsay a father’s word, nor the evidence I have provided.
Besides, they do not need this proof. Ali may look like a scholar rather than a warrior, but no one could doubt him for Yusuf’s son, the eyes are the same, even the way he turns his head from one side to another is the same.
There is no argument. Only the elderly scholar wonders worriedly whether Ali, under my influence, has been raised a Christian, but I shake my head and tell them that he has been raised a Muslim, in deference to his lineage.
There is a murmur of approval and the scholar himself presses my hand and declares me a blessed woman for having protected Ali all these years and having delivered him back to his father.
The rest of the Council welcomes Ali as Yusuf’s son and I feel my shoulders drop with relief.
Even Zaynab gives a long slow nod, her face stony, but the nod has been given.
“There will be a banquet of welcome for my son,” declares Yusuf. “You will all accompany us to give thanks and celebrate on this joyful day.”
I try to steady myself at the thought of sitting at the same table as Zaynab. She is already approaching me.
Ali turns to her and bows deeply. “Lady Zaynab,” he says, “I believe you knew my mother.”
She looks him over and her eyes do not flicker; her mouth does not curve into a smile.
“I did not know her well before she left,” she says.
Her smile comes as she watches Ali’s face flush at the deliberate reminder that his mother abandoned him.
I want to step forward, but I remind myself that if all she is going to do is make pointed barbs about his mother, then he is still safe.
“Come,” says Yusuf, gesturing to Ali to precede him out of the door.
As Ali does so, Yusuf turns to me, ignoring Zaynab, who is waiting for his hand.
Instead, he extends his hand to me. “Join us,” he says, his voice soft, pulling me towards him with his fingertips, my body brushing against his as we move forwards together.
I should look behind me. I should be wary, but I cannot help it.
I look up at Yusuf and he looks down at me with infinite tenderness.
For one moment I am his queen and we are celebrating our son.
Zaynab is far away and we can be happy. Behind me, I hear her voice say something, very low, but then she brushes past us and moves away, followed by her son Abu Tahir, whom she waves away as though he were unimportant.
She is not headed towards the palace, rather back into some other part of the city.
But I am swept away in this moment of happiness and I do not watch to see where she goes.
She does not attend the banquet, and because I have Ali with me, I do not wonder where she has gone, I am only grateful that I do not have to sit near her, that I can celebrate with a full heart.
No doubt, she cannot bear to attend such a celebration, and for this I do not blame her.
She will hide away in her rooms and emerge later, when I have gone, and Ali is no longer being toasted.
We are sent a messenger the very next day.
Yusuf does not wish to wait. He will announce his heir today, in the Council chambers.
Again, we set out, again I am overcome with nerves but must smile for Ali, have to nod at his happy talk of what is to come.
When we arrive, Ali is seated amongst Yusuf’s sons and daughters, as is now his right.
He takes his place happily and his half siblings nod graciously, well versed enough in court etiquette to know that it would be unseemly to scowl and turn their faces away, especially when Yusuf’s eyes are upon them.
Abu Tahir has not yet joined his siblings.
Instead, he stands with Zaynab while the council members arrive, and I feel myself grow cold as I see all of them, scholars, warriors, governors, major and minor officials, bowing deeply to the pair of them.
It is clear that the Council expects Abu Tahir to be named as Yusuf’s heir today.
I take a seat far at the back of the chamber, afraid of what is to come.
I wonder if fighting will break out, or whether Yusuf’s authority will keep them all in check.
Yusuf himself looks excited, rejuvenated.
When he stands, the Council falls silent and everyone leans forward, their faces beaming, expectant, their eyes half on Yusuf, half on Abu Tahir.
Zaynab, sat by her son, lifts her chin high, waiting for the moment that will acknowledge everything she has done for this empire.
Yusuf stands. “Today I will declare my heir,” he says, loudly and clearly. “Now that I command an empire, it must have a named heir, so that there can be no doubt over its future, nor any disruption nor disputation when my time to leave this world comes.”
Zaynab is openly smiling. Her beauty is still exquisite despite her advancing years; she is every inch a queen.
“Ali will be my heir,” says Yusuf.
There is utter silence. Mouths open, eyes widen. Abu Tahir’s face drains white; his hand tightens on the hilt of his sword.
Quickly, the Council members gather themselves. They nod and smile, they make comments to indicate that they knew this all along, that they accept Yusuf’s word. There is movement and chatter, there are loud voices.
Zaynab stays absolutely still. She is frozen, made of stone.
She does not speak to her son; she does not look at Yusuf.
She stares only ahead, as Ali kneels for his father’s blessing, makes a speech about loyalty and peace, turns to greet the most senior Council members who offer him their fealty.
His half siblings reluctantly swear the same, even Abu Tahir, unable to do otherwise under his father’s watchful eyes, although he then strides from the council chambers, hand still on his sword, people hastily making way for him.
Through all of this, Zaynab sits still, her face empty of emotion.
“There will be a ceremony of allegiance,” says Yusuf. “Here and in Cordoba. Each governor will make a pledge of loyalty to Ali.”
I know that this location has already been agreed upon with Ali, who thinks of Cordoba as a sort of holy land, a city that encompasses a past that he wishes to resurrect.
Yusuf and Ali embrace, then leave the room, as do all the Council members.
I join them, trying to hide in the crowd, aware that all of us are filing past Zaynab as though she were not there, pretending not to see her upright body, her set face, waiting for us to leave so that she can release the rage and grief inside of her.
I hardly dare look at her, but when I do, I see that her eyes do not even follow any of us, she looks only straight ahead, as though seeing something we do not, perhaps her empire crumbling.
Aisha comes to my house, her face white.
“What is it?” I ask. “Has something happened to Ali? To Yusuf?”
“Let me in,” she says in a half whisper.
I stand aside, and she pushes past me, pulling her hood back from her face as she does so. She refuses to speak until we are fully inside the house, sitting at my table.
“Well?”
“Zaynab is dead.”
“That is not possible,” I say. “I saw her yesterday. She was well. I saw her at the naming ceremony for Ali.” I stop speaking, aware of what I have just said, of where I saw her, of what had happened.
I meet Aisha’s gaze. “Did she –” I cannot complete the sentence, do not want to complete the thought.
“They think so,” whispers Aisha, as though we were surrounded by listeners. “They found her with a cup in her hand.”
I think at once of Hela’s cup, but that broke long ago, this would have been another cup, nothing magic about it, but containing something that ended Zaynab’s life.
She would have known what to make, she would have known what to put together, which ingredients to mix.
The mixture would have smelt strong and unpleasant, even fetid, but she would have drunk it anyway, she would have set the cup to her lips and swallowed, knowing full well what she did.
I shiver, knowing that she did this, took this action, because of Ali, because of Yusuf’s choice to make him his heir, and I know that he did this in part because he loves me.
It is a choice of emotion and love, not the choice he should have made.
I know full well that Zaynab’s son would have been a better choice, he has been raised as a warrior, has been raised as a future ruler.
I think of Zaynab’s face as Yusuf spoke the words that crowned Ali as his successor.
I was too grateful for her absence to wonder where she had gone, to think of how she felt, having her empire given to a child she had long thought dead, son of the mother she managed to get rid of, raised by a woman whose relationship with Yusuf she never knew existed.
But she knew before she died, I would swear to it.
She knew in the very moment that Yusuf touched my arm, in the deepness and softness of his voice when he spoke to me.
She was a clever woman; she could not fail to see.
I sit in silence while Aisha stares at me.
“I must pray,” I say.