Page 25 of None Such as She (The Moroccan Empire #2)

I know that the servants whisper. To have been married three times, even in such unusual circumstances as mine – it is not done.

They watch me when I pass, and their whispers are added to all the whispers of my life.

I know that the story of my life grows with the telling, that I am becoming a character from a legend rather than a real person.

When I hear the whispers I want to roll my eyes, but more often than not I shiver.

I was only a foolish girl who married a man I had a burning passion for without finding out about his own crazed passion for a woman no longer of this world.

I tried everything I could to bind him to me and in desperation made up a mighty vision, which only led to me being given in tribute to a monster.

A monster killed by a man who I then tricked with mirrors into marrying me, to save me from a dishonourable fate, only to find out that my marriage bed, yet again, was cursed.

Where is the glory, the fated destiny of my growing legend here?

There is no glory, there is no wondrous life, only a stumbling from one place to the next, from one error to another.

I cannot seem to find my feet, to stand strong, reach out my hands and take a joyful life.

When I reach out to grasp the pure gold of happiness it turns to sand between my fingers, blown away by a hot summer wind.

They can keep hoping for all I care. I shake when I think of my life.

I spoke of a vision and here it is, growing before me day by day.

I do not know how to stop it and I am afraid.

I am like the heroes of the old stories, who open up the great jars contained long-imprisoned djinns and find themselves with a towering giant before them of unimaginable power.

They reach out their puny hands to try to push back the stopper but it is too late and the djinn they created is free to wreak whatever havoc it wishes, leaving our heroes to watch, helpless before their unwitting creation.

I do not know where this destiny is leading me.

***

It does not take long before Abu Bakr discovers my true worth to him.

He is a clever man and nothing escapes his quick eyes.

I glance at a map of the Maghreb laid out on a table at which he has been sitting and he sees my eyebrows rise.

It is but a moment, but he is a man who must be alert to all moments, be they large or small.

“You are surprised by something, Zaynab?”

I look up. “It is nothing,” I say hastily. It is not a woman’s place to judge military strategies.

He smiles. “Tell me what you saw.”

I shrug awkwardly and make a vague gesture towards the map. “The amir of that city…” I stop.

“Yes?” He has come to stand by my side.

I back away slightly. “He is known to be in the pocket of that amir.” I point to a different part of the map.

He narrows his eyes. “And?”

I shrug again.

“And?”

“You would do better to attack that city first. The other will bow down to you as soon as the first city falls. The amir is a coward. He will not fight. He will gladly become your vassal if you will allow him to stay in his current position of power. He is a man of letters and has no taste for war. He will do whatever it takes to keep his scholarly life, so long as he does not need to fight.” I am caught up in my thoughts now.

The many, many hours of boredom spent in council as a figurehead for Luqut and his men are bearing fruit at last. I know every petty ruler and their strengths, interests, weaknesses.

I know who is a fighter and who is a coward, whose favourite wife is sister to another chief, whose loyalties lie to one side or another.

I point again and again. “This one, though, he is a fighter. You will need a strong army when you attack him. He needs to see all your might, all your power to realise that if he wishes to keep his honour he is better off making a treaty with you. If he thinks there is any chance of beating you in battle he will not stop fighting until he is dead and the ground strewn with the bodies of his men and yours. You will bear heavy losses if you do not overpower him quickly, for his men are as brave as he is. That one though – he is a fool. You can outwit him in battle, for his men are poorly trained. He is an idle man, too fond of eating and not fond enough of fighting. This one is old now, if you overpower him quickly by the time his son takes his throne you will be his masters and he will not question you.” I look up.

Abu Bakr is not watching my finger on the map.

He is looking at my face. My eyes are bright, I am speaking quickly and with assurance.

“I did not know you were a military tactician, Zaynab,” he says, grinning.

I try to back away from the table but he takes my hand and leads me forwards.

He settles himself on the cushions by the table and gestures for me to do the same.

We sit side by side, our heads close together, the map spread out in front of us, the names of rulers of every tribe and city laid out for us to consider.

“Tell me more,” he says, and I do.

***

Now I attend council again, seated in honour by Abu Bakr’s side.

Perhaps I am not his true wife when we lie in our bed, but here I am his beloved.

He praises my knowledge of the Maghreb to his men and although they are surprised they see quickly that he is right, my knowledge far surpasses theirs.

They listen to me with interest as I share more and more information.

As they file out that first day I see one of them gesture towards me and hear him mutter the name of Tin Hinan to another, who laughs.

I smile. To be compared to a legendary warrior queen is no bad thing. My heart lifts.

The men leave the room while Abu Bakr and I stand looking down at the map we have been poring over.

He is retracing various routes with his finger, considering first one plan, then another.

I see a slight movement and look up to see one man still seated, at the end of the room from us.

His dark robes and wrap cover most of his body and face. But his eyes are fixed on me.

Dark eyes, thick dark brows above them. The beginning of a sharp nose. Of the rest of his body I can see only his hands, which are hardened and calloused. He is playing with a dagger, this is the movement I saw.

We gaze at one another for a moment. I am curious, taking in what I can of him, face, hands, dagger, clothes. His gaze does not flicker. When I return to his eyes they are steady on mine.

Abu Bakr senses I am no longer following his muttered thoughts about the map and future conquests. He follows my gaze and smiles.

“Yusuf! I thought you had taken the men to training.”

The name Yusuf has its customary effect on me, drawing up images of that first man whose voice teased me in the darkness.

I clear away these thoughts. This, then is Yusuf bin Tashfin.

In the crowd of dark-robed and veiled men it was hard to spot Abu Bakr’s second-in-command.

He did not take a place of honour, nor speak louder than the others, allowing each man to have his say.

Yusuf does not reply. He stays seated, draws the dagger from its scabbard and then slides it back in with a hissing sound of metal on metal.

Abu Bakr does not seem to take this as an insult. He looks down at the map and then back up at Yusuf. “Will our very own Tin Hinan bring us luck in our battles, do you suppose?” he says smiling and waving towards me.

Yusuf stands. It is done in one fluid movement, with none of the grunts or stiffness of the other men’s movements after sitting in council while the sun moved across the sky.

He stands in the doorway, black robes sweeping the floor and looks me in the eye.

When he speak his voice is low and soft, but his words are hard.

“As I recall Tin Hinan fought back against her Muslim conquerors and killed many of their men. Are you sure you wish for another such woman to be your tactician? Are you sure she is on your side?”

I open my mouth to protest but he has left the room. I see a glimpse of his robes as he rounds a corner of the courtyard outside and is gone. I turn to Abu Bakr but he is laughing.

“Yusuf is a man of war,” he says. “A fighter. A true warrior in body and spirit. Now look again at this map, Zaynab, and tell me where we can most easily build a stronghold. Aghmat is not truly ours, here we are only conquerors. I want a great new garrison which in time will be our seat of government.”

I look down at the map and see only lines.

In my mind I see the dark eyes filled with suspicion of me.

I shake my head and look again. “There,” I say.

“Close to Aghmat that you may use this city to provision your garrison until it is of a size to fend for itself. On the plain so you may see enemies approaching, where the water runs from the mountains so you will not thirst.”

Abu Bakr nods. “It will be a great city,” he says with satisfaction. He gazes at the map and in his eyes I can see plans being drawn up for a garrison, a fortified stronghold, a place from which to conquer the Maghreb.

“I shall call it Murakush,” he murmurs. “God’s land.”

I smile and take his arm as we walk out to the gardens.

***