Page 23 of None Such as She (The Moroccan Empire #2)
It is the moment that Hela has prepared for me. It is this or no other. I turn and walk away from him, head held high. As I reach the door his voice catches me.
“Stop.” His voice commands, it does not request.
I ignore him. I put both hands against the door and push, hard. It opens and the bright light of the morning blinds me.
Behind me I hear quick steps and a strong hand comes down on my shoulder. “I ordered you to stop. Stop.”
He is angry now. He was kindly before but this man expects to be obeyed.
I am no longer behaving as I ought. I turn to face him and before he can speak I take a strip of silk from my robes.
It is golden, this silk, thickly woven. I take it and lift my hands behind his neck as though to embrace him.
He steps back, surprised, but it is too late, I have blindfolded him.
He makes to rip off the blindfold but I place my hands over his and lower my voice to a silken whisper, carried through the golden fabric to his ears.
“I will give you your answer, Abu Bakr, if you will trust me.”
He hesitates. Trust the queen of a ruined captive city?
Whose husband has been killed at his command?
It is unwise, but his curiosity is roused.
I know as soon as he hesitates that he will go with me, that he will step into the story I am telling him, take his place among the characters that I am bringing to life.
I take his hand. It is hard, calloused, and a little wrinkled. But strong and he clasps my hand with force. He must be a little afraid, I think. How long since he trusted someone like this, how long since he let himself be led somewhere unknown, at the whim of a woman?
We walk through the gardens, back the way I came a short while ago.
Our robes brush against scented herbs and servants stare, but Abu Bakr does not know they see him, for he sees nothing.
He walks gently, tentatively, but he does not stumble, for I guide him with care and he walks where I set his feet.
We do not speak. I had thought he would ask for answers, that he would demand our destination more than once, but he does not. We walk together, in the soft sunshine, hands clasped. We would look like lovers, were it not for the blindfold.
Hela is waiting, but as neither she nor I speak, and as her feet are shod with soft-soled sandals, Abu Bakr does not know another has joined us.
If he thought about it he would think it was strange that we walk through doors that open with little effort on my part.
But the world is strange to a newly-blinded man and he does not speak, does not acknowledge her presence.
We walk down stairs and through doors, then through winding passageways and down again.
I am as lost as if I too were blindfolded, but Hela knows the way and I follow her as Abu Bakr follows me.
When we come to a small door set in a rough mud wall Hela stops and indicates it.
Then she turns and walks away. I want to call out to her, for I am afraid.
I do not call out. I push the small door and it opens a small crack. I have to push it harder to make it fully open and dust floats about us from the crumbling doorway.
We stoop to enter and when we are fully inside I close the door behind us.
It is very dark now, and I keep one hand to the wall while the other clasps Abu Bakr tighter.
He must know we are somewhere old and strange, for there is the smell of dust everywhere and it is very cold and silent.
No perfume of sun-warmed flowers here, no trickling water. Only silence.
There is a soft glow but a few steps from us, and I lead him there.
I push at the splintered wooden door, which opens silently, and I guide Abu Bakr through it ahead of me.
Then I step through and close the door behind us.
I swallow the gasp that rose to my lips as I entered.
That would not be a part of the story I am telling.
I steady myself and then I speak. My voice is strong. It is the voice of the djinn in the tales told at night, commanding a mere mortal to behold a great wonder. Each word echoes.
“Remove your blindfold, Abu Bakr bin Umar.”
His rough hands fumble with the fine silk and the blindfold drops to the floor. He makes to pick it up but stops. His eyes, so long denied the light, are glittering now as the room is reflected in them.
The walls are crumbling mud, the door is decaying wood. But the hundreds of lanterns which light the room are not there to light the walls or door. Their soft shining lights fall on the treasure held here.
There is gold and silver. There are rubies and pearls.
There are gemstones of every hue, coins and ingots pouring out from chests, spilling onto the floor as though they were nothing but trinkets.
They shine from every part of the room. The riches here are beyond any tale or conjuring of a djinn.
They are boundless. Abu Bakr turns away from this sight and his eyes question me.
I speak again. “All that you see is yours. It is given from me to you, by the will of Allah. As he gave you Taroundannt and Aghmat, so he gives you as a wife Zaynab, whose husband will be blessed with greatness. Who will rule over the whole of the Maghreb. You need gold for your holy army. And Zaynab gives you this.”
We gaze at one another and then he stoops.
I think he will pick up a gem or a coin, for there are many scattered at our feet, but he does not.
Instead he takes up the golden silk and hands it to me.
I take it, and lift my arms around his neck once again.
My robes fall back on my arms and my skin brushes his cheeks as I tie the silk around his eyes once again, and then he takes my hand.
As we leave I take one last look back at the room, at the many tiny mirrors, hidden here and there amongst the treasures, reflecting their glory a thousandfold to those who do not know how little wealth this room truly holds. Luqut was a spendthrift.
***
Afterwards it is easy. When we are far enough away from the room I remove the blindfold one more time. Our hands clasped, he returns me to my rooms in silence and there he leaves me with a courteous bow. Later I hear the whispers, here and there in the gardens and the streets.
“Abu Bakr is smitten with the lady Zaynab.”
“She took him into an underground cavern full of treasures such as cannot be imagined.”
“‘All this is yours,’ she told him.”
“Now he is to take her as his wife and she will be queen once again, she who was a widow.”
I am queen again and safe. Hela smiles and goes about the preparations for my wedding.
***
Even in this ruined city there must be a wedding.
The people have been terrified, have lost loved ones, have seen their homes ruined but they must know that life goes on.
That one thing, at least, has stayed the same in their newly-uncertain world.
Zaynab is still queen of Aghmat. The people of the city cling to this one thought.
If they ever doubted my vision, now they revere it.
“It was foretold,” they say. Now they believe it was His plan, that I was always meant for Abu Bakr’s wife as the commander of this terrible army.
My vision explains their suffering. It explains the new faith that has swept the city.
Prayers are said with more conviction, there is more sobriety in dress, in behaviour.
There is less dancing and flirting, more talk of war and conquest. The city that ran with water fountains and echoed with laughter now runs with the blood of animals to feed sacrifices and the army.
It echoes with the beating of hammers on metal as new weapons are forged.
The people of Aghmat can rail against the horrors they have seen or they can believe that this is His will, that a new era is coming and they will be placed at the centre of its power. They choose to believe.
I keep to my rooms. I look out of the palace only through the openings in walls; windows, small nooks and crannies, through the veils provided by elaborately worked gates.
I cannot look the people of Aghmat in the eye.
The servants know their place again and are reassured.
I am queen, as always, and so palace life can resume, albeit with less grandeur.
How strange are these conquerors! Rough men, battle-scarred and pious all in one.
They pray with a fevered devotion, all together, bodies swaying in rhythm.
I have heard that Abu Bakr and his lieutenants pray with them, as common soldiers.
Their clothes are lacking in any decoration.
Made of thick coarse cloth, they cover their faces as do many of the men from local tribes, leaving them unknown, even to those of us who see them every day.
They take no delight in the riches and comforts that are now available to them.
They make little use of the servants, who grow idle.
They do not call for rich foods prepared by our skilled cooks.
They do not lie on the soft cushions of the palace state rooms. Instead every room is stripped bare and even foot soldiers lie there to sleep at night, on the bare cold tiles, wrapped in coarse blankets.
Perhaps to them this is luxury enough after their former life.
They were trained for war in the desert, in the burning days and freezing nights, with little in the way of food but camel meat and dates, perhaps rough barley bread.
Now, associating past hardship with their victory, they do not seek out the luxuries of city living.