Page 32 of None Such as She (The Moroccan Empire #2)

I make sure Yusuf drinks the potion Hela grudgingly prepares.

I slip a little into his drink during council and see him grow flushed with anger over a disagreement, he who is always so calm.

I mix it in his food and see him slip away in the early evening to his tent, where he lies restless.

I hear him toss and turn late at night, standing quiet by his tent in the darkness.

I hear him call out and moan in his sleep.

Traders from around the world provide bedding that shines like jewels within the darkness of the bed’s embrace.

There are blankets in wool so fine it is almost transparent.

Sheets of delicate silk that slip over the skin like a lover’s caress.

Cushions of thickly woven silk embroidered with thread beaten from gold coins.

In my tent now there is nothing of ostentation save this bed.

There are large chests of perfumed black wood carved with only the most simple of designs.

There are prayer mats displayed as though holy in their own right.

All is black or the colour of sand. Only the reds, yellows and oranges of the bed burn like hot coals.

The last of these covers arrives one day.

It is a fine wool in a vivid orange with tiny discs of silver.

I stand outside my tent and shake it out, turning the midday sky to a searing sunset.

Through the colour I see a dark figure and when the cloth falls I see Yusuf before me.

“Yusuf,” I say, bowing my head.

“Zaynab,” he replies. He has little to say to me when we are outside of council. He bows his head to me and walks on but as he does so I see he glances slightly to one side, the better to glimpse the glowing bed through the open folds of my tent.

His long stride falters and I smile as I watch him go.

***

That night after mixing the potion, now stronger despite Hela’s reluctance, into his food, I go back to the field outside the camp where I saw him that night and he is there again.

I stand and watch him and he does not speak nor turn his head but when I turn to go he speaks.

His voice is husky, I have not heard him speak like this before.

“That bed…”

I laugh softly. “There is nothing carved into it that I would not do when you are in my arms,” I whisper. “Nothing.”

He takes a deep breath and as he turns towards me I slip back behind the camp’s wall and leave him alone.

The next morning a servant stands outside my tent, holding out a small pouch. Inside is a simple string of black beads and silver discs, the engagement necklace of his people. I wear it under my robes where it cannot be seen, the cold silver warming my skin.

***

There are small battles from time to time.

Soon there will be greater ones but for now it is a matter of crushing small rebellions, challenging those tribal lands closest to Murakush, that its borders may grow piece by piece.

When men return to us wounded it is Hela who provides their care.

She walks from tent to tent, her healing salves and knowledgeable hands changing destinies.

There are men who do not lose their limbs because of her care and men who lose limbs rather than lives.

She is feared, for she has no gentleness in her manner or speech, but she is also revered.

There is no wounded man who would refuse her ministrations.

Meanwhile the stores in her tent grow every greater, with chests filled to brimming with bottles and measuring spoon, strange pouches and more mortars and pestles than any woman could use in a lifetime.

The council can re-calculate their possible losses because of the knowledge that she is waiting in the camp.

“Perhaps Abu Bakr was right,” Yusuf says as we leave the council tent.

“In what way?”

He looks across the camp, still growing larger but becoming more ordered under my guiding hand. It is no longer a random maze of tents, there are pathways which have been created, making it easier to move about. There are boundaries between what one day will be quarters.

“He said that if you were to read the maps and I was to lead the battles there was nothing that could not be done,” he says.

I lift one hand to my neck, touch the tiny necklace given for our engagement and through that quick glimpse between the folds of my robes he can see that I have spared this one jewel from my purge of sober dressing.

I do not reply and he does not speak again.

We gaze, side by side, at the camp bustling around us and then we walk away from one another.

I have done everything I can to bring Yusuf to me with desire in his heart.

I have thought of every thing that may make the warmth in him grow to a burning fire.

When he turns his head in council he knows that by his side he has a woman who is shaped to his every desire.

I am robed all in black, less adorned than a slave.

I am pious in my speech and ruthless in my strategies.

I rule the camp better than any man. He knows that in but a few days he will be my husband.

When the words are spoken he knows he will come to me in the magnificent black tent which stands at the centre of this camp and lie with me in a bed of shameless desire.

No man could hold the cool night air within him who has felt the flames of my desire lick at his skin for the past three months, growing hotter as our marriage day approaches.

His blood has been heated with Hela’s drink, day by day, drop by drop, growing stronger in its intensity as the marriage draws closer.

***

The words of the Holy Book are read out, the crowd murmurs and sacrifices are made.

I stand in my black clothes, unadorned. One would think me a slave rather than a queen coming to be wed, were it not for the fineness of my delicate leather slippers, my rich silk robes.

No jewels dress my hair or neck, nor jangle on my arms. I am still, and quiet.

I stand as tall as Yusuf and looking at us the crowd murmurs again.

They think we are alike, the two of us so still and dark, so sure of our rule.

They see in us the truth of my false vision and they are content.

I am in ecstasy, for by my side is the man I desire and within a few words he will be my husband.

His first wife has not yet arrived, her voice will not speak out against this union – or if it does, it will be too late.

This all makes me happy but what brings me the greatest joy is Yusuf’s hand on mine.

His skin is burning up, his grip on me is tight.

I slide my eyes to one side without moving my head and I see his gaze is fixed, not on the speaker of holy words, but on my lips.

I am desired, I think, and a wave of happiness rushes through me.

I have achieved what I had set out to do and only a few short hours hold me back from my reward.

I want to turn from that place as soon as the words are complete and run to my tent with Yusuf by my side.

I want to feel his body on mine but it has been otherwise decided.

It is still morning and there is a council to be held.

After that, as dusk falls, there will be a great feast and then, only then, will I be satisfied at last. I watch him bow to me and turn to leave.

I will not attend council today, for there is too much to do.

I stand to watch him walk away and when he reaches the council tent I see a hesitation.

He turns his head and looks to me, one glance, one quick look before he is gone.

I let out my breath and turn to prepare for the feast.

There is food everywhere. Every slave has toiled for this day, every woman has brought her finest food to celebrate my wedding day.

The ovens have been hot for many days and nights, blood has run freely as one animal after another has given up its life to feed this multitude.

Now rich smells waft through the air and children cannot listen to the storytellers who are gathering, for their noses are filled with food and their mouths drip with hunger for all those good things now prepared with such abundance.

There is hot bread in great baskets and sweet cakes that drip with rosewater and honey.

Cooking pots are filled to their brims with stews laden with every kind of spice.

Pale golden with saffron, thick red with heat, the sumptuous brown of meat juices, carried with care to the central space where the feast will be held.

The tents were moved back today, for fires the height of a man burned since dawn.

Now their molten coals are ready to receive the whole bodies of camels, goats, sheep, cattle.

The fat and herbs hiss and spit together to create a haze of taste in the air.

Rough rugs were laid out though those sitting are only the elderly and infirm for now, along with the children and the storytellers who are embroidering on my legend yet again.

Those strong enough to be pressed into service have too much to do yet to sit and listen, but they joke and laugh as they go about their work.

The women of pleasure are slowly emerging from their tents, hair oiled and curled, jewels tinkling, hips making a short journey a far more interesting one for those men who care to watch them pass.

I watch and smile. Many men will lie with a woman tonight, and one of them will be Yusuf.

A little boy comes running towards me through the crowd. I stand still, heart beating, when I see his speed, how he darts like a fish round the many people, rushing to my side. It cannot be. It cannot be.

“Lady Zaynab!” He is panting with excitement as much as with the speed of his feet.