Page 43 of None Such as She (The Moroccan Empire #2)

I n my rooms I like to study the maps I keep spread out, my mind wandering, as it often does now, back to the past. I am more than sixty years’ old.

I have aches and pains but I do not care about them, for I am at peace for the first time in my life.

I can rest now. Our new-born empire is peaceful and prosperous.

Whatever false vision I spoke and the men in my life believed in, none of us could have foreseen this moment of utter triumph.

We hold an empire now, two lands spanning the sea.

I wonder at it sometimes, that such a thing should come to pass and yet I know that every step towards such greatness has come about because of how Yusuf and I have worked together.

He has led an army that made hardened warriors blench while I created first a rich and unified kingdom and then an empire from his conquered lands: managing a flourishing trade, the building of great cities, enacting good governance.

We have done great things together, he and I.

Our children will be worthy successors to us, for each of them has been raised to be the best: leaders, warriors, great queens.

I once thought I would never find peace but here I am, an old woman, contented with the life she has made.

I trace the lines of the maps once more, taking pleasure in their certainty for the future.

Yusuf stands in the doorway. He looks shaken.

“What is wrong?” I ask, unnerved. I have never seen him look like this.

“Is there unrest? A rebellion?” I am think quickly about who I must summon, which spies will be of greatest help to me, depending on what has happened.

I think of where our troops are stationed, how fast they can be moved, what supplies they will need.

“I have found Ali,” he says.

“Who?”

“Kella’s son,” Yusuf says.

I feel as though I have received a blow to the stomach. “His body?” I ask, reaching for hope.

“He is alive,” says Yusuf.

“That cannot be true,” I say. My heart is thudding. I have to sit on the edge of my bed.

“She gave him to a slave woman to bring up,” Yusuf says.

I think of the two slave girls who have given Yusuf children but I have seen their offspring for myself and they were born years after Kella left here. “Is that what the woman claims?”

“She has proved it,” he says.

“How?”

He holds up something in his hand. I have to peer at it. A necklace, the long silver beads of his people. He gave one to each of our children, saying it would make them tall and healthy. “Where did she get that?”

“Kella gave it to her, to make Ali’s claim when the time was right.”

I try to laugh, although it does not sound natural. “She could have got those from any jeweller.”

He shakes his head. “Kella’s name and mine are marked on the necklace,” he says and shows me.

“A jeweller can be paid for such work,” I say, but I know that he is not listening to me.

“He is my son,” says Yusuf. “And he has lived close at hand for all these years.” His voice trembles and he looks down at me. His eyes are filled with tears. “Did you know of this?”

I do not hesitate, not even for a breath. “No,” I say. “I believed Kella’s son was dead. She told us he was dead. Why would she lie to us? Why would she lie to you?”

Yusuf’s face is full of distress. “She must have thought him threatened,” he says.

“By whom?” I ask.

“I do not know,” he says. “But now he is found, he is safe. I will have him declared my son.”

I swallow. It is a bitter thing to accept. But so be it. The children of the slave girls have been acknowledged too but my own children have always been given pre-eminence over them. “I am sure he will be grateful for your generosity,” I say. “Not all men would trust such a claim.”

“I know it for the truth,” says Yusuf.

***

He stands before us, this lost son of Kella and Yusuf.

Ali. I look him over. He has a slender build, unlike my own sons, whose years upon years of training, first alongside and then in Yusuf’s army, have made them large of shoulder, their muscles rippling.

His eyes, as he looks about himself, are wide and trusting.

The shape of them reminds me of his mother.

This is a man who has not been lied to by supposed allies, who has not carried a sword on his hip all his life and a dagger hidden in his robes.

He speaks with the scholars at the far end of the room earnestly, as though what they have to say is more important than what the generals and governors speak of.

Yusuf stands. “I ask the council to welcome my son, Ali. Child to my first wife Kella, now no longer with us.”

The council chamber ripples with interest. They have heard such announcements before but those were babies, bastards born to slave girls.

They were of little importance. This is a full-grown man born to Yusuf’s first wife.

Where has he been all this time? Next to me, my son Abu Tahir shifts, a little discomforted by this disclosure.

I touch his shoulder gently and he settles again, resigned.

“The woman who raised him will vouch for his birth,” continues Yusuf. He waves towards the doorway, where a woman stands, her face half-hidden from me. “Isabella, join us.”

I blench at the sight of her, my hands clench without my knowledge. The Spanish healer stands before us, her eyes calm and steady, her head held high. One of our eldest and greatest scholars questions her.

“I swear that this man is Ali, son to Yusuf bin Tashfin and his wife Kella.”

“Do you know where Kella is now?”

“I do not.”

“Is she alive?”

“I do not know.”

“How did you come to have this child in your care?”

“His mother summoned me as a midwife when she birthed him. He was born into my hands.”

“Did she give him to you at once?”

“No. She came to me in great secrecy. She claimed that the boy’s life was in danger, that he must be raised by another. She begged me to take him. I did so.”

“From whom was he in danger?”

I wait for her to name me but she does not, she does not even glance my way although my breathing comes fast and shallow. I feel the room swirl about me and think I am about to faint but I dig my nails into the palms of my hands so hard that the pain brings me back to myself.

“Give me a name,” insists the scholar.

“I cannot.”

“Can you prove this story?”

She holds up the string of silver beads and says they were given to prove his lineage, she asks Yusuf if they are the same beads he gave to Kella and he agrees that they are.

I try to calm my breathing as Yusuf and Ali stand side by side before the council and the council welcomes Ali as Yusuf’s long-lost son and acknowledges Isabella’s righteous behaviour in having kept him safe from harm all these years.

“Has the boy been raised a Christian?” worries the scholar.

Isabella shakes her head. “He has been raised in his father’s religion. I thought it right,” she adds.

There is a murmur of approval. Yusuf declares that Isabella and Ali must accompany him to our palace, where a banquet of welcome will be served. I stand, legs shaking beneath my robes and keep my face still as I approach Isabella. Ali has already turned to me and is bowing.

“Lady Zaynab,” he says awkwardly. “I believe you knew my mother.”

I look at him, see something of her in him, a distant echo of her innocence.

“I did not know her well before she left,” I say and watch his face turn crimson at the reminder that his mother ran away in the night, leaving him behind as though she cared nothing for him, as well as her legally wed husband Yusuf, to whom she owed her loyalty.

“Come,” says Yusuf and he gestures to Ali to precede him out of the door.

Then he turns to Isabella, one hand extended.

“Join us,” is all he says but as he speaks I feel a heavy weight settle in my belly.

His hand takes hers with gentleness, pulling her closer to him so that their bodies touch as they move forwards together and the way he looks at her, the softness in his eyes…

“I beg you will excuse me,” I say to Yusuf and then I leave, quickly, before he can frown and ask me where I am going.

“Mother?”

“Attend your father,” I say to Abu Tahir and hurry away from him.

This time I do not disguise myself. I run through the streets, ignoring the surprised faces of those around me, the murmurs I leave behind, lady Zaynab running as though the very djinns of the air were after her.

I make my way back to the tiny alleyway, the poorly painted gate.

I have been here only once, so many years ago.

This time I do not knock, I do not wait for the ugly serving girl to come at my summons.

Instead I push hard against the fading paint.

The door gives way to me, it opens with the same creaking protest and I step inside, slamming it behind me.

Panting, I feel the great heat of the day turn cold as I turn on myself, slowly taking in what has been hidden from me all these years.

Behind the ill-painted, creaking door and the ill-favoured serving girl I once dismissed as unimportant lies a secret, a secret I would have seen many years ago had I looked beyond the narrow glimpse I caught over her shoulder, had I pushed at the door and opened it wide, stepped inside.

The courtyard in which I stand is large.

The tiles stretching across the floor are brightly coloured and arranged in pleasing patterns.

Above me stretch not two but three storeys, set out in carved woods and exquisite plasterwork.

On each level I can see doors to hidden rooms, each painted by craftsmen.

By my side a large and well-made fountain splashes cool water in the sun’s bright rays.

There are climbing plants and even a palm tree, which reaches up towards the clear blue sky.

This hidden home is a small palace deliberately concealed behind an ugly exterior, a dwelling fit for any one of Yusuf’s family members.

Fit even for a wife.