Page 24 of None Such as She (The Moroccan Empire #2)

Many of the men are encamped around the city.

There are guards, too, who control who may enter and leave the city.

They do not seek to halt trade, but naturally each merchant must pay them for the privilege of passing through what is now their own territory.

In this way their reserves of gold are growing, their plans for the future alongside their new wealth.

They can command more men, more camels and horses, more weapons.

The army grows stronger and better fed by the day.

The men are rested now, they have eaten well if not lavishly.

They have time to train, to sharpen and repair their weapons.

Their steeds, also, are better fed on our rich plains and running rivers.

This army can go on to far greater things than poor ruined Aghmat.

Already I have heard whispers that they may build a city of their own.

Murakush, they murmur, land of God. They want a city in His name, a city from which they can govern and show their might to the world, for what is more mighty than to raise up a city where there was none before?

Most conquerors would have been happy to build a bigger, better palace here in Aghmat and live in grandeur, but Abu Bakr and his commanders have bigger eyes for greater things.

They meet in the state chambers, but I am no longer required to be present. I am left to my own devices and to women’s work in preparing for the wedding.

***

Abu Bakr remains solicitous of me. He sends servants to ask if I have all I need, and occasionally he comes himself to my rooms. He does not enter, does not stay long.

When he visits me I offer sweetmeats and tea in my courtyard, by the fountain.

He refuses the stickiness of the freshly-made sweets but accepts tea and sits with me for a little while.

We do not talk much, sometimes he asks me about the crops that grow in this region or tells me about new arrivals – more men, more horses and camels and where they will be located within or without the city.

I answer his questions and nod when he tells me about his plans, but I do not question him.

I do not ask about the much-murmured new city, nor about how far into the Maghreb he wishes to proceed, how far he wants his message to be taken, his men to march.

I am almost afraid to hear the answer. To me it seems I am about to marry a man who will in truth rule all of the Maghreb and it makes me afraid.

That my false vision as a young girl, created in the heat of passion for a man who is now dead should come to life frightens me, as though I had unleashed a djinn from its hiding place and made a pact with it.

Now it whirls away from me and I stand helpless, watching its progress and unsure of its intentions towards me.

I think Abu Bakr is a good man, kindly and calm in his manner. I will be safe with him, of this I am sure, but I know that ours will not be a marriage of passion. He speaks to me once of his wife Aisha, and I hear a softness in his voice which I take for love.

“I have not seen her for a long time,” he says.

I do not know how to reply but let him continue.

“She is my first wife, of course, but she is of my own age and has borne me fine children. She will understand that the marriage between you and I is not a threat to her, nor to what has been between us in the past.”

I nod and smile but my eyes fill up with unexpected tears and I busy myself in serving more uneaten cakes, in calling a servant to bring fresh tea. My eyes clear so that I can look at him again.

“I will have nothing but respect and love for my older sister,” I say, for I know such a speech is expected of me.

He smiles sadly at me, seeing the slight redness of my eyes. “You will meet her one day and see that she is worthy of such feelings,” he says, “and she will care for you with gentleness, as she has cared for our children.”

My heart feels heavy. In truth I already knew this was how it was, how it will always be, but to hear it from his lips makes my eyes sting.

A child. This is how he sees me. How I will be to him.

He will care for me – and perform his marital duties of course – but nonetheless I will not be a true wife to him.

There will be no passion, no shared dreams. There might be children, old as he is, but I doubt he will visit me often enough for that.

I am a duty, not a pleasure to him. He longs for the familiarity of his first wife, a woman who has been by his side for many years and who can read his mind, who knows all of his history and understands his secrets.

To begin again with me – to tell me each and every part of his life…

the thought must only weary him. In truth, why bother?

What need is there to truly make me his wife in more than name?

We are unlikely to spend much time together.

He has much to do. His wife will join him eventually.

Besides, if he is to conquer more of the Maghreb I may well be left behind. Battles are no place for women.

***

I try to make light of these thoughts.

“I hope you have many tales to tell me, Hela,” I say to her.

She is immersed in plans. The wedding is not far away now, and although my clothes are prepared Hela has her mind on more than my appearance.

The servants have been cleaning for days.

The gardeners have received a telling-off because the flowers, coming to the end of their natural lives, look less than satisfying to her critical eye.

New ones must be planted. The pools must be emptied and their tiles scrubbed, then filled again so that they glisten in the sunshine.

The servants mutter behind her back but as usual no-one goes against Hela.

They are afraid of her dark eyes, her bent back, her closeness to power.

“What tales?” she asks impatiently, her back still turned to me as she surveys the gardens. She has already chastised me for showing little or no interest in this wedding. She says I should think of nothing else, for not until I am married will I be truly queen again.

“Oh, gossip and fairy tales, Hela. I do not think my husband will be here much.” I make my voice even lighter, amused.

“Why, it will be as it was before they came. Just you and I in my rooms and a husband I never see!” I almost laugh at the end, but do not have enough breath as I find I suddenly need to swallow at the picture that is forming in my mind as I speak.

Hela turns and looks at me. I avoid her gaze. She sighs. “What gossip do you want to know?”

I shrug, clear my eyes, breathe again and lean back on my cushions. “Oh, I don’t know. Tell me about my husband’s council.”

“Why?”

“It’s where he spends all his time.” I try not to sound like a whining child but I can see that Hela does not think I have succeeded.

She does not seem interested in the topic I have selected. “They all look the same under those veils. Rough manners. Smell of camel. No idea of how to dress – all that thick dark wool when they could wear anything they wanted. More interested in prayers and armoury than food or women.”

I laugh and pour myself a sweet pomegranate drink. “See, you can be amusing when you want to be. Tell me more. Who is his right-hand man?”

She looks at me as if I were stupid. “Don’t you know anything about them?”

“Not really. I only see Abu Bakr. The rest are always in the distance. They don’t come to my quarters.”

“His right-hand man is named Yusuf bin Tashfin.”

Now that she says the name I remember it. The name Yusuf still makes me think of my first husband and my stomach clenches. I drink more pomegranate. I cannot mourn him forever. “Tell me about him, then.”

Hela points out more unscrubbed tiles to a servant who sulkily returns to work.

“Makes Abu Bakr look like an unbeliever.”

I choke on my drink and splutter with laughter. “No-one can be more holy than Abu Bakr!”

“He is. Prays all the time. Always looks disapproving about everything.”

“Such as?”

“Pretty clothes. Women in pretty clothes. Festivities. Music. Dancing. Feasting. Any food that is not barley bread, camel meat, dates and water.”

I laugh harder.

Hela waves her hand at the beautiful palace gardens. “Decorated palaces. Fountains. Jewellery. Anyone who doesn’t pray, doesn’t fast, doesn’t do everything they ought to, when they ought to, how they ought to. He has no leniency, that’s for certain.”

“Is he a good fighter?”

“They say better than any man, better even than Abu Bakr. Trains harder and longer, rides for hours every day. Has no fear on the battlefield, doesn’t seem to care whether he lives or dies – but it is always the other man who dies, never him. Fearsome.”

“Is he married too?”

Hela nods. “Some tribal woman. Left her behind in some little village till he sends for her.”

“Children?”

Hela shakes her head. “She lost a baby, they said. Kicked by a camel.”

I picture her. An old tribeswoman like Abu Bakr’s wife.

A simple woman, surrounded by sands and camels.

Left behind to await her husband Yusuf’s summons or death, trusting only in Allah’s will.

Barren, probably, if he has no children by his age.

No doubt these wives will arrive soon and I will be surrounded by toothless old women who look on me with pity, too young to share their huddled gossip, too old to have a chance of bearing many – if any – children.

A not-woman, a child-queen, a figurehead and trophy of war.

No more. I finish my drink and leave Hela to her scoldings, burrow into my bed and sleep.

***

The wedding is upon us. The day passes slowly but I am deaf to its sounds, seeing only images as time passes.

The crowds. My jewels and heavy silken robes.

Abu Bakr and all his men, as ever in their rough woollen robes without adornment.

The prayers, rising and falling around me.

The blessing. The feast afterwards. Simpler than it was for Luqut and I but still plates and plates of food, the rich meats and sticky sweetness of cakes, the fresh cooling drinks.

As the evening wears on I am brought back to my rooms where there are servants everywhere, lighting lanterns and candles until my bedchamber is ablaze with light.

I stand amidst them all, unsure of what to do, how to be.

I see myself in the great mirror and I seem small even though my robes take up twice the size of my real body.

I try to stand straighter but this just seems to make me look wooden.

I allow my shoulders to relax and watch my figure decrease in height.

At last Abu Bakr comes to me and our servants leave us. Even Hela makes her bows and disappears. We are alone.

I do all that I should. I welcome him with sweet drinks and delicate fruits, which he accepts even though I know they are not greatly to his taste.

“It is very bright in here,” he says, smiling.

We make our way about the room, blowing on each tiny flame until the room grows dark, save for one lantern still lit by our bed.

I kneel before him to remove his shoes, rise again to help him disrobe.

I struggle with the long wool wrap that he wears about his face and we smile at one another as at last his face is unveiled before me.

I have not seen him fully unveiled before.

His beard is thick and grey, his face broad and square-jawed.

His eyes I know best, of course, a rich brown with many creases in the corners.

His forehead, also, is much creased. Much of the skin on his face is paler than his hands and arms, since it is always covered from the sun’s bright rays.

He in turn disrobes me. My rich silks fall to the ground and he looks over my body without shyness.

He reaches out, but only strokes my shoulder, as though I were still fully dressed, before indicating the bed behind me.

We make our separate ways to it and enter its luxurious covers.

Once covered, we turn to face one another.

I am no fool. It has been a long time but I remember what will be expected of me now.

I know, too, what I might offer in the way of delight to this man, but my courage fails me.

His gaze is too tender, too much speaking of duty and care rather than desire or passion.

I move closer to him and ensure our skin is touching, that my arms are neatly placed that he may embrace me with ease.

I will be a good and dutiful wife, for what else can I offer?

I had passion once and it was wasted by my foolishness.

I have waited too long in fear and trembling for love to grow now for this man who thinks of me as a child to be cared for.

But he is at least a kind man. I will be kind also.

Our marriage may be one of convenience but perhaps it will also have tenderness.

I have not had gentleness shown to me by a man for a long time.

To be held gently will be something good in my life at last. Perhaps it will be a marriage more suited to two old people but that will suffice me.

Perhaps he will not often come to my bed, but I will have some soft caresses and these will bring a longed-for warmth to my life.

Abu Bakr looks at me and cups my face in his hand. His gaze does not flicker from my face. “Now that we have a stronghold my wife Aisha will join us soon,” he says.

I blink at his unexpected reference to her, but summon up the correct words. “I will be her respectful sister,” I assure him.

He nods and strokes my face. I close my eyes. It has been a long time.

“Goodnight, Zaynab,” he says gently, and turns his back to me. He blows out the candle and all is darkness.

I place one hand tentatively on his back. His skin is old, but the muscles underneath are still strong.

“Husband,” I begin, tentatively.

“Goodnight, Zaynab,” he repeats.

I withdraw my hand. “Goodnight, husband,” I reply meekly.

I lie in the silent darkness.

***

I am a widow for a third time, in all but name.