Page 36 of None Such as She (The Moroccan Empire #2)

She looks at me, her eyes settling on my robes where there should be fullness and there is not. “I would do nothing to harm a child,” she says. She raises her eyes back to my gaze. “And nor would its mother,” she adds.

“Leave me,” I say.

***

I am so sick I think I will die.

“I cannot even hold down water,” I tell Hela. “This baby will die within me.”

She shakes her head. “The nausea will pass,” she assures me.

“When?”

“Soon.”

I watch Kella and see that she is well. She looks at me apprehensively if we pass, as well she might if she knew my thoughts towards her, but otherwise she is well.

I see her eat without flinching, I see her touch her belly and know that beneath her robes it is beginning to change shape, that soon she will show.

My own belly is flat, I am afraid that perhaps there is no child, that I am only sick, that I may die of something unknown.

“You are with child,” Hela reassures me.

“How can you be sure?”

“I feel life within you,” she says.

I make her touch me every morning, I press her hand to my belly and look fearfully into her face. Each morning she nods and I feel my shoulders drop with relief.

But the sickness begins to take its toll on me. “I feel as though I can barely stand.”

“So rest,” says Hela. “Rest. Leave Yusuf to rule. Rest and you will feel better.”

“I cannot,” I say. “Abu Bakr is returning.”

She shrugs. “Let him return.”

I shake my head. “Yusuf wishes to be Commander. The men are loyal to him. Abu Bakr is old, he does not have Yusuf’s vision.”

“Yusuf wishes to be Commander, or you wish it for him?”

“It is the same thing.”

“If he challenges Abu Bakr for the leadership and fails, he will be executed for treason.”

I nod.

“Still worth it?”

“I will not allow Yusuf’s rule to come to an end. I will make him Commander.”

“How?”

***

Yusuf is uncomfortable, he believes my plan may fail and he is all too aware of the consequences if it does. Besides, I am asking him to challenge his own cousin for leadership, his own kin. But I know that underneath his reluctance he desires what I desire.

“You are making your own prophecy come true,” he half-jokes.

I think of the moment when I realised what I had done with my false vision, of my first husband’s eyes the day he took me to Aghmat, the pain I had unwittingly put there.

The pain that came after that. Something good must come from that pain.

I tighten my lips. He needs the lie to give him resolve.

It seems this lie is irresistible to men.

“It is my destiny,” I say. “You are my husband and you will rule all of the Maghreb. But first you must deal with Abu Bakr.”

***

The planning takes many days. Our only chance is to make enough of a show of strength to make it clear to Abu Bakr where the power now lies. Yet we cannot overtly threaten him. We must loudly offer honour and praise while silently warning what may happen if he does not accept what we want.

I inspect every part of the plan as it comes together.

A personal guard for Yusuf, made up entirely of black-skinned warriors from the Dark Kingdom.

I have them dressed in identical armour, their giant shields matching.

The armourers work day and night to my command.

Meanwhile the craftsmen build vast chests of carved wood and each is filled with treasures: weapons, silver, gold, robes of honour, jewellery, the finest skins and woven cloths.

These are kept locked and ready. Meanwhile the carpenters are set to work, building the sections of a platform that can be quickly assembled.

“You are doing too much,” says Hela.

“I am doing what has to be done,” I tell her.

“You are not even eating,” she says.

I look down at my robes. They are covered in dust. I know that they smell of sweat.

My hands are bony, as is the rest of me.

I still do not see any sign of my belly growing and yet I can swallow nothing but tiny sips of water and unleavened bread, one mouthful at a time.

I stride by Yusuf’s side so that all can see that we are as one and yet I think I may fall at any moment.

Often my vision fills with a swirling darkness and I have to fight not to faint away.

“When will this sickness end?” I ask Hela.

She shakes her head. “There are women for whom it does not end until the baby is born,” she admits reluctantly.

I gape at her. “I will die! Or the baby will.”

“Most women survive,” she says. “But it would be better if you rested, Zaynab.”

“I will rest when this is over,” I say.

“And when will that be?” she asks.

“I do not know,” I say.

We wait.

***

When the children spot riders on the plain and soon after the sentries confirm that Abu Bakr’s men are on their way, I give the signal and at once my plan is put into place.

I watch as the platform is erected, the guard of honour takes its place, the great fires are lit and servants carry vast trays of food to be cooked.

“Be strong but kind,” I whisper to Yusuf, and then I hurry to my own tent where Hela waits with fresh robes.

“Make me beautiful,” I say.

“You said not to use makeup,” she says. “You said Yusuf did not like it.”

“I need it now,” I say.

She uses rich creams and powders on my face, she tints my lips and cheeks.

“Drink this,” she says and holds out the cup.

I turn it in my hands. “What is it?”

“It will give you energy,” she says.

I drink it and leave her, almost running to the platform to take my place before Abu Bakr’s advance guard arrives.

The platform has been covered with rich rugs, it is surrounded by Yusuf’s guard of honour. Yusuf himself is already seated. He looks uncomfortable.

“Show that you are their Commander in all but name,” I hiss.

“Abu Bakr,” he begins.

“Is not with them. This is an advance party. He already knows that there may be a claim for leadership and he is not making his claim. He knows his time has come. These are your men. They will be loyal to you, if you can show them a ruler they can follow.”

Crowds are flocking into the central square. I see Kella among them, her face turned up towards the platform in surprise. How little you know of what must be done for a man like Yusuf, I think. You think bearing an heir is enough but that is worth nothing if his command is undermined.

She is helped up onto the platform and takes up a place a little behind Yusuf and I. Now we see Abu Bakr’s men arrive, a smallish party: a few high-ranking generals and then their officers, a handful of common men behind them.

They make their way through the crowd, then stand before the platform, their faces showing their shock.

These are Yusuf’s men, they have fought under his command for many years.

When they left Murakush it was nothing but a city of tents, a garrison.

Now they see city walls rising, the first buildings springing up.

They see Yusuf sat side by side with a consort queen, surrounded by a fearsome personal guard.

He looks like an amir. I lift my chin as high as it will go and look down on the men. There is a silence. Then Yusuf stands.

“In the name of Allah, I welcome you back to Murakush, my brave and noble warriors.”

I smile down on them as though they were each and every one my own beloved and see them swallow. Yusuf has spoken to them as if they are his men, not Abu Bakr’s, while I, his beautiful queen, have welcomed them with warmth.

“Come, eat with us, my brothers, for you must be tired and hungry,” continues Yusuf.

He claps his hands and slaves step forwards with jugs of scented water.

The men, dazed, allow their hands to be washed.

The more senior join Yusuf and I on the platform while their common soldiers gather close by.

Slaves bring huge platters of rich meats and fresh breads, spiced stews, piled-up fruits and other good things to eat and the men, unused to such food after many months away in harsh fighting conditions, eat heartily.

Yusuf speaks with them as though they have returned from a mission he himself has commanded, praising their bravery and prowess without ever naming Abu Bakr.

I watch as their shoulders relax, as they settle more comfortably, eat and drink well, smile at Yusuf and bow their heads to me.

The common soldiers are given gold coins while their superiors are led to our own tent and offered gifts of honour.

I stand by Yusuf. There is more than one man who glances at the lustfulness of my bed and blushes, whose eyes slip over my body in desire.

They will remember the prophecy and believe they are witnessing it coming to pass at last.

“Now send back only a handful of the men,” I tell Yusuf afterwards. “Only mid-ranked men and commoners may return to Abu Bakr to report back, and only a few of them. He must see that their numbers and loyalty are much diminished.”

And so the smaller party of men returns to Abu Bakr and we wait again.

***

The messenger who arrives brings us good news. Abu Bakr agrees to our request to meet away from Murakush, at a place midway between here and the humbled Aghmat.

“He is no fool,” I tell Yusuf. “He knows what is coming. We have only to play our part.”

We ride out at dawn, Yusuf and I at the head of an army of several thousand.

Just behind us, clearly visible, are the senior men Abu Bakr sent out.

Also behind us somewhere is Kella, part of a group of people of importance: the tribal leaders who have sworn allegiance to Yusuf, generals.

His guard surround us. Behind them, thousands upon thousands of men in full battle armour, a show of absolute power, of unbeatable strength.

“And if he has brought all of his army?” asks Yusuf. “You expect us to begin a battle? Cousin against cousin?”

“He will not have his army,” I say.

“How do you know?”

I think back to Abu Bakr’s kindly gruffness, his good nature, his growing weariness when more battles were spoken of. “He will be alone,” I say.

I am right. On the plain is a tiny shelter, a simple thing made of a few poles and cloths.

As we draw closer I can see less than twenty men around it, armoured but with their weapons sheathed.

Beneath the shelter, protected from the heat, sits Abu Bakr himself.

A little greyer, a little wearier, but otherwise the same.

For a moment I think of his gentleness to me, how he treated me like a daughter, how he praised my intelligence and knowledge, gave me a voice in council.

I think of calling off my plan, but we have gone too far now and anyway I can see that Abu Bakr is already resigned to what is about to happen.

We halt before him and there is a long silence.

As his military subordinate and younger relative, Yusuf should dismount, should embrace Abu Bakr.

Instead I make a tiny gesture and the guards step forward with the great chests of treasures.

They unlock them, the turning metal keys loud in the silence.

The lids are thrown back to display the treasures.

It is the completion of our show of wealth and power, of transferred loyalty.

Abu Bakr looks out across the plain, filled with thousands of men in tight fighting formations.

He looks at the chests of treasure and then, instead of looking at Yusuf, he looks at me.

His eyes crinkle in a wry smile, an acknowledgement of what has happened and at whose command.

Then he holds out a hand to Yusuf and speaks clearly, for all to hear.

“Will you join me, cousin?”

Yusuf waits just a moment longer, as I instructed him to.

Then he dismounts and makes his way to Abu Bakr, sits down at his side.

The men tighten their grips on their weapons but already Abu Bakr is speaking again.

The words are smooth enough that I can tell he has already rehearsed them, knowing what was to come.

“My cousin Yusuf. My true brother before Allah. There can be no man more worthy than you to command this army of holy warriors and to undertake a holy war in the name of Allah.”

I feel the tension lower, hear the tiny sound of every man loosening his grip on the hilt of his sword, magnified many thousands of times over. I meet Abu Bakr’s gaze and he nods. I nod back, an acknowledgement of his good grace. He speaks again.

“I am a simple man, one who loves the desert, home of our families and seat of our power. I wish to return there with a small force of my own men. There we will continue our work, fighting back the rebel tribes and securing the trade routes for our own needs. Brother, I ask you to assume command in my name. I will return to the desert with all speed, for this is no longer my place.”

Documents are to hand to be agreed on, already worded to my order.

The transfer of power was over long before now.

By the time Abu Bakr remounts his horse and gathers his men about him many of the soldiers have already been sent back, some with instructions from me.

We turn our horses back towards Murakush, but not before Abu Bakr speaks with me.

“Aisha sends you her greetings.”

I smile at the thought of her. “Send her mine,” I say.

“Are you happy?” he asks.

I think of Kella’s swelling belly. “I try to be,” I say.

“You have a brilliant mind, Zaynab,” he says. “You should have been a man, the world would have recognised your greatness.”

“It still may,” I say.

“I do not doubt it,” he says. “I thought it before and I know it now.”

“I have a warrior at my side,” I say.

He smiles. “It is the superior warrior who wins without bloodshed,” he says. “Goodbye, Zaynab.”

“Goodbye,” I say. Our hands touch for a moment before we turn away from each other. I look back over my shoulder before I join Yusuf at the head of the army again and see Abu Bakr’s party, small on the vast plain, heading away from us.

I have won.