Page 42 of None Such as She (The Moroccan Empire #2)

I shrug. “A king who cannot control his temper,” I say.

“More fool him. He will find out what we are made of. He has only done battle with the kings there and they are not like us. He will realise it soon enough.” I think that he has no idea what he is about to face.

Our army is without equal, led by Yusuf who has more experience of battles than any man I know and supported by our sons, eager for glory.

Our army is backed by a vast kingdom of huge wealth and power.

While Yusuf heads up the army, I stand behind him with supplies, with more soldiers to call on.

Alphonso cannot win.

***

The two armies come together and as I predicted Alphonso is not ready for us.

His camp is burned to the ground by a small party of our men while he is engaged with the rest of the army.

Alphonso is grievously wounded in his knee and finds his troops enveloped by our own, a move the men have practiced time and again. He is forced to retreat.

Yusuf returns to us covered in glory but doubtful of how long this victory will last. “I have told the amirs that they must band together. It is their infighting and soft lives that has brought about their own ruin and weakness. They must unite, they must face Alphonso as one.”

“And will they?”

He sighs. “I doubt it. Of course they swore to do so, but that was after a successful battle, when any man will swear to anything in his pride and exhilaration. It will be a different matter when they return to their palaces. They will go back to their old ways soon enough. And Alphonso has been lamed for life, he will not forget this humiliation.”

“I too have news,” I say. “Sad news. Your cousin, our Commander Abu Bakr, has died. He fell to a poisoned arrow in battle. A warrior to the end. ”

Yusuf is sorrowful. “He was a good man,” he says. “And he did great things for this kingdom.”

“And kept his word to us,” I say. “He did not go back on our agreement.”

We praise his name and his deeds: the quelling of the tribes in the South, the re-opening of the salt route towards Aulil, the strengthening of the commercial trade routes.

And above all, most recently, the conquest of Kumbi in Ghana, from where vast amounts of gold make their way to our mint, where dirhams are moulded and accepted as coinage not only across our own lands but far beyond, known for their quality.

Now it is Yusuf’s name that is pressed into each coin at our mint. He is given a new title: Amir of the Muslims. His new title brings Al-Mu’tamid himself to our shores. He crosses the Strait and stands before us in council, full of words of praise and fine gifts. I do not trust him.

“We ask that you join us again, Yusuf,” he says. “We will gather together as one under your command.”

“As one?” I ask.

Al-Mu’tamid looks somewhat taken aback by my seat of honour in council but he knows better than to show it too much. “As one, oh Queen Zaynab,” he says smiling. “I will even set aside my differences with Bin Rashiq of Murcia, who will join with us.”

***

But of course the reality is not as smooth as the amir’s words.

Once the armies join together Bin Rashiq of Murcia tries to woo Yusuf with gifts so as to push out Al-Mu’tamid as our closest ally.

In turn Al-Mu’tamid accuses him of favouring the Christians, which proves true.

Bin Rashiq ends up loaded down with chains while his kingdom of Murcia is given to Seville, much to Al-Mu’tamid’s pleasure.

But the inhabitants of Murcia stubbornly refuse to provision the troops and at last Yusuf, disillusioned and weary of the infighting, returns to the Maghreb.

At once Alphonso forces ‘Abdullah of Granada to not only resume paying him tribute but also to sign a treaty declaring Granada against Yusuf and Seville.

Council is taken over with scholars, who argue that the amirs of Al-Andalus have been shown to be libertines and impious.

“They have corrupted their own people by their bad example and forgotten their religious duties,” says one.

“And commanded illegal taxes, against the law of the Qu’ran,” says another.

“I made it clear they were no longer to levy such taxes,” says Yusuf.

“They have continued, regardless of what they agreed to when you saw them,” I say. “They are nothing but liars.”

“More than one is in alliance with Alphonso,” reminds a scholar. “They prefer to bind themselves to a Christian king than their own Muslim brothers. It cannot be bourne.”

Yusuf is wary. He dislikes the infighting, the disloyalties, the effort of trying to command poorly-trained troops, so different from his own. “How can I be certain this is the will of Allah?” he asks. “Perhaps it goes against His will. In which case I will not take action.”

The eldest scholar stands. “We have sought assurance from the great scholars of Islam as far away as Egypt and Asia and all of them confirm our ruling on this matter. We take it on ourselves to answer for this action before Allah. If we are in error, we agree to pay the penalty for our conduct in the next world. We declare that you, Yusuf, Amir of the Muslims, are not responsible. But we firmly believe that if you leave the Andalusian kings in peace, they will deliver our country to the unbelievers and if that is the case, then you will have to render an account to Allah of your lack of action.”

“Leave us,” says Yusuf.

Alone, we sit tracing the contours of the map showing Al-Andalus, the kingdoms of the amirs, the kingdoms held by Alphonso.

“I am seventy years’ old,” says Yusuf. “I am too old for this.”

I laugh. “You are still a greater warrior and leader than the amirs of Al-Andalus,” I say. “They are like children. Squabbling and telling tales to their mothers.”

“They are impossible to help,” he says. “They go behind my back, they switch loyalty. I cannot trust their word, nor even their men in battle, for they are weak and poorly trained.”

“Then do not help them,” I say. “Command them. Rule over them.”

“Do you not think the kingdom we have created is great enough?” he asks.

“Create an empire,” I say.

“Go there without being summoned?”

“Yes,” I say. “The fight is between you and Alphonso now. The petty kings must submit to you now, for they have been proven unfit to rule. Your greatest scholars have declared them so. Remember: do not trust them. Their lips speak honeyed words but they come only from the sweetmeats they fill their mouths with, not from their hearts.”

***

Yusuf crosses the Strait again with his scholars’ blessings but without being summoned.

Once in Algeciras he leads his men towards Cordoba to begin a siege.

As they pass Granada its king, ‘Abdullah, meets with them and humbles himself before Yusuf, begging his pardon for displeasing him.

But Yusuf is wise to their ways now. He replies that he has forgotten any grievance and invites him to enter his tent, where he will be honoured as an ally.

***

I sit in council and look down at ‘Abdullah kneeling before me. I can barely keep from laughing.

“And so you entered the tent?”

“Yes,” he mutters.

“And?”

“I was taken and bound in chains.”

“You deserved it for your lying ways,” I say. “Granada has been taken by Yusuf. Your people praised his name when he abolished all your unlawful taxes. They were not allowed by the Qu’ran. Are you not a good Muslim?”

He mutters something.

“You and your family have been sent to me in chains,” I say. “And I am sending you to Aghmat. It is a poor city now, a humble city loyal only to Yusuf and I. You will live there for the rest of your days.”

He looks at me with angry eyes as he is made to rise.

“You bow,” I inform him. “You bow to me as your queen and you give thanks to Allah that I am merciful.”

He has no choice but to do as I say.

Only a month passes before Yusuf sends me the king of Malaga, whom I dispatch in a similar manner, to live out his days as a prisoner: a luxurious life, perhaps, but still a prisoner, watched and held at our will.

I feel the vast power I wield as I dispose of these fallen kings and it gives me pleasure.

Yusuf and I created a kingdom together. Now, we will create an empire.

***

Tarifa falls, then Cordoba’s siege breaks when its inhabitants open the gates to us. Seville’s fleet is burnt and Seville falls, swiftly followed by Almeria and Badajoz.

The once proud ruler of Seville, Al-Mu’tamid, kneels before me in council, sent here in chains like all the others.

“Welcome back to the Maghreb,” I say. “You must regret the day you asked for Yusuf’s help. You will not be leaving us again. You may join your old allies in Aghmat. Do not plot against us, for your life will not be spared a second time. Believe me when I say that you will be watched.”

“Gracious Queen Zaynab,” he begins, obsequiously.

“Go,” I tell him. “I have no stomach for honeyed words, only loyalty and strong deeds, neither of which, it seems, you are capable of.”

***

Yusuf leaves the army in the hands of his generals. Only Valencia is not yet fully ours and must be held. But the army struggles without Yusuf at its helm.

“Alphonso has a champion,” says Yusuf. “A true warrior, by all accounts.”

“What is his name?” I ask.

“Rodrigo Diaz de Vivas,” he says. “They call him El Cid.”

The infighting between the kings goes on, infuriating Yusuf.

Behind our backs the ruler of Valencia, Al-Qadir, sends for El Cid to support him, pledging allegiance to Alphonso.

But a Muslim judge lets our army into the city, causing Al-Qadir to flee, dressed as a woman along with his wives.

They take shelter in a poor house but are found quickly enough and he is sentenced to death.

The judge is made ruler but then double-crosses us, agreeing to pay tribute to El Cid, who agrees that he can be ruler if he will stand against us.

Yusuf sends more troops but his general is poorly prepared and El Cid not only calls on Alphonso for help but makes a sortie at night when the men are unprepared.

“Why were they unprepared?” rages Yusuf, pacing the room.

I frown. “Continue,” I say to the scribe reading us the report.

“El Cid pretended to retreat towards Valencia but hidden soldiers came out and attacked our camp,” he reads. “El Cid took a great victory and claimed much booty.”

There are many pages of explanations and justifications, apologies and humbling from the generals, none of which soothes Yusuf, especially when we receive word again and again about battles fought, all of which El Cid wins.

“It is not acceptable,” he declares. “Al-Andalus is ours except for Valencia and Valencia will be ours.”

“You had better go yourself,” I suggest and he nods.

“I will defeat this El Cid,” he says. “He will fall before my sword.”

I nod. I do not doubt it will be so.

***

“El Cid’s son Diego was killed first,” reads the scribe. “In the battle for Consuegra.”

I think of Abu Tahir, of the grief I would feel if I saw my son fall in battle. “And El Cid himself?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Died shortly after,” says the scribe.

Of a broken heart, I think. I had heard great things of this warrior but it seems he was not invincible after all, for Yusuf broke him.

Now that their hero is gone the spirit goes out of the Christians.

Valencia falls to us. All of Al-Andalus is now Yusuf’s.

The Christian king Alphonso has been whipped like a dog, creeping back to his Northern lands, to face the cold and fury of his people, outraged that an old Moor has beaten them, that their attempt to claim back the lands of the past has failed.

One set of Muslims or another, it is the same humiliation to them.

At least with the old Taifa kings they received tribute and could fool themselves that they ruled over them.

Now they cannot pretend. They huddle in the North and we claim the South as our own, our kingdom grown to an empire for our sons and daughters to rule over after us.

My eldest son Abu Tahir kneels before me and I touch his head in blessing. He is a fully-grown man now, scarred in battle, his body made hard by war. He has a gravity to him, he knows that one day he will follow Yusuf and become Amir of the Muslims.

“You must study Al-Andalus,” I tell him. “We must know it as we know our own people, as well as we know the Maghreb.”

“It is a rich land, full of good and beautiful things,” he tells me. “Now it is ours.”

“One day it will be yours,” I tell him.