Page 41 of None Such as She (The Moroccan Empire #2)
We have come to the last of our battles, or so it seems. Yusuf sends his troops out to capture the Northern port of Tangier, from where Al-Andalus itself can be glimpsed across the sea.
Its ruler Suqut fights for two days but then the sky grows dark and he dies as the sun hides its face in fear at Yusuf’s coming.
His spoilt son Diya’ al-Dawla flees to Ceuta, a tiny outpost of land nearby, jutting into the sea and is promptly cut off from the Maghreb by our army.
Meanwhile we take Algiers, just as we once dreamt of.
Poring over maps together Yusuf and I divide up the whole of the Maghreb into four great provinces, two in North and two in the South. Each is placed under the command and care of a governor and every leader and tribal commander is brought to us to pledge loyalty.
We have created peace and prosperity, in a kingdom larger than was thought possible, a kingdom beyond what anyone could have dreamt of, with wealthy cities set as jewels within a crown across it.
The tents of Murakush are long gone. Now it is a wealthy city.
Fes is restored and grown ever greater. We command the trade routes, especially those of salt, slaves and gold.
We have great riches at our disposal. I laugh when I think of the miserly treasure I once showed to Abu Bakr, enhancing it with mirrors in the darkness to hide its paltry amount.
Now we could fill that storage room a hundred times over and still have gold to spare.
Yusuf, of course, still wishes to live as though we were in the desert.
There are nights when he leaves my side and I find him the next morning lying in our courtyard gardens, wrapped only in a blanket, as though to turn away from all that he has at his command and return to the simple life he once led.
At banquets for our allies he still waves away the rich spiced stews and honeyed sweets, eating only plain roast meats and bread, perhaps accepting some fruit.
Our children sit with us, many of them grown tall now, our sons ready to take their places leading men into battle, our daughters beautiful, their hands already sought by suitors.
“There is not much for you to do,” Yusuf jokes with our sons. “You have only a peaceful kingdom to govern. You will grow fat and soft like the Taifa kings of Al-Andalus.”
Still, I ensure that all of our sons train with the soldiers and sit in council, so that they will learn to rule.
Our eldest sons are given small regions to govern, so that they may see what it takes to lead our people.
Our daughters will marry allies, to further strengthen our bonds.
They are taught to read maps, to run a city.
They take their places in council, for no-one will raise an eyebrow at a woman sitting in government, knowing what I have done for this kingdom.
I will see to it myself that none of our children will be like the Taifa kings of Al-Andalus.
Princelings only, each holding tiny regions of Al-Andalus and thinking themselves great rulers.
If they had banded together they might have taken over all of Spain but they have grown fat and lazy living their lives of luxury.
They squabble amongst themselves and therefore have ended up with the humiliation of paying tribute to the Christian king of the North, Alphonso.
“They do not follow Allah’s way,” says Yusuf, frowning when we hear news of them. “They cannot call themselves true Muslims when they tax their people so harshly.”
“They are none of our business,” I say. “They are fools. They have accomplished nothing but a comfortable life for themselves.”
***
But a letter arrives from Al-Mu’tamid, the amir of Seville,.
“He did what?” I ask, appalled.
“Killed Alphonso’s messenger,” says the scribe who is reading the letter to our council.
Yusuf and I look at each other.
I shake my head. “Start from the beginning.”
It seems that Al-Mu’tamid was late in paying the annual tribute demanded by the Christian king, Alphonso the Sixth.
“Alphonso most unjustly and violently demanded not only tribute but also the delivery of many strong castles in my region, in punishment for the delay in payment, blaming me with many untrue accusations,” reads the scribe.
“And then Al-Mu’tamid killed Alphonso’s messenger?” I ask again.
The scribe nods.
“And now he wants my help?” asks Yusuf, eyebrows raised.
“He asks that you, as one Muslim king to another, do advance in support of him and fight off these unreasonable demands by the Christian king. His scholars and other scholars of Al-Andalus agree that this is righteous.”
Yusuf is silent for a while as the members of council murmur amongst themselves.
“We need to take Ceuta,” he reminds us at last. “It is the only part of the Maghreb not yet under our control. The late amir of Tlemcen’s son still lives there, they say he lives a dissolute life.
He is surrounded by our men but we cannot advance further for Ceuta juts into the sea and we have no sea-going ships. ”
I think of my spies, of the words they have brought from Al-Andalus, which until now seemed useless. But I listened to them anyway. One never knows when information will prove of use and now its time has come.
“Al-Mu’tamid is building a great ship,” I say. “Tell him that we need it for Ceuta. Only then can we come to his aid.”
Yusuf’s eyes brighten. “Yes,” he says. “Write to him and tell him that if Allah lets me take Ceuta, I will join him and gather my strength to attack the enemy with all my soul. But first we have need of his ship.”
***
The ship towers above us, the men on board look like insects. It is like a fort rocking on the water, it cannot be resisted. The young amir of Ceuta, soft from his luxurious lifestyle, protected only by the sea, suddenly finds himself captured and put to death.
But now the kings of Al-Andalus send word that Alphonso has grown more aggressive. He comes to the region around Seville, on Muslim territory and ravages the land and people. He captures Toledo and the Muslim kings, frightened by this new move, ask Al-Mu’tamid to write again to us.
“Alphonso has come to us demanding pulpits, minarets, mihrabs and mosques, so that crosses may be erected in them and monks may run them.”
The council members look appalled. I can see my sons tighten their grips on their swords, as though they are about to fight here and now.
“Allah has given us Ceuta,” says Yusuf. “We will cross the sea and stand by our brothers. Pray with me. Oh Allah! If you know that my passage will be beneficial for the Muslims, then make it easy for me. If it is the opposite, then make it difficult for me so that I do not cross over.”
“The Maghreb is quiet,” I tell Yusuf. “You are free to do battle wherever you wish.” I try not to smile at the eagerness of Yusuf and my sons to go into battle.
They are trained soldiers, eager for combat.
This kingdom we have created is too peaceful for the liking of warriors.
I will remain behind, the Maghreb held safe in my able hands while our army supports the Muslim kings.
“Remember not to be too trusting,” I remind them all before they depart.
“The kings of Al-Andalus are weak men, their lifestyles have made them soft. They do not remember what it is to truly fight, nor are they always honest with one another. They have paid tribute for years to a Christian king whom they could have dispatched if they had banded together, instead they have bowed to him. He has been their lord and master all this time. They may have called on you but you are new to them and they may quickly return to their old lives and the tribute if the change is too hard for them. Be on your guard.”
***
The crossing is blessed. The weather is perfect during the sailing and when Yusuf disembarks in Algeciras Al-Mu’tamid has sent splendid gifts, the inhabitants open their doors in welcome and the peasants of the region have been ordered to provide provisions.
But Yusuf remembers my words and he has the men repair the crumbling walls and watchtowers of the city.
After this they dig a deep trench around the city and fill it with weapons and provisions.
He takes his best solders and creates a garrison to support any future military needs before he sets out for Seville.
***
“The amir Al-Mu’tamid embraced him and gave him many gifts,” says the scribe.
“Gifts mean nothing,” I say. “Did the other amirs join their forces with us, as they promised?”
The scribe looks back down at the letter. “The amirs of Seville, Granada and Badajoz joined forces with Yusuf.”
I look down at the map laid out in front of me. “And the amir of Almeria?”
“He pleaded old age.”
I snort. “He wants to wait and see what will happen before he commits himself,” I say. “We will not forget his cowardice, nor his lack of loyalty.”
“Yusuf wrote to Alphonso to offer mercy,” reports the scribe.
I nod. This has always been our way, since we had an army large enough to command fear in the hearts of our enemies. We offer them the opportunity to avoid battles, to become our allies. “What did he offer?”
“He invited Alphonso to take one of three options. Convert to Islam, pay tribute, or fight.”
“And?”
“Alphonso was filled with rage. He responded, saying: ‘How can you send me such a letter when my father and I have imposed tribute on the people of your religion for the past eighty years. Advance towards me: it will not please me to meet you near a city which may protect you, for it will delay me from seizing you, killing you and assuaging my hatred of you.’”